A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers and dairymen had driven off to their homesteads in the country, he came downstairs, took a biscuit and one glass of wine, and walked out into the town, where the radiance from the shop-windows had grown so in volume of late years as to flood with cheerfulness every standing cart, barrow, stall, and idler that occupied the wayside, whether shabby or genteel. His chief interest at present seemed to lie in the names painted over the shop-fronts and on door-ways, as far as they were visible; these now differed to an ominous extent from what they had been one-and-twenty years before. The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller’s, where he looked in through the glass door. A fresh-faced young man was standing behind the counter, otherwise the shop was empty. The gray-haired observer entered, asked for some periodical by way of paying for admission, and with his elbow on the counter began to turn over the pages he had bought, though that he read nothing was obvious. At length he said, ‘Is old Mr. Watkins still alive?’ in a voice which had a curious youthful cadence in it even now. ‘My father is dead, sir,’ said the young man. ‘Ah, I am sorry to hear it,’ said the stranger. ‘But it is so many years since I last visited this town that I could hardly expect it should be otherwise.’ After a short silence he continued—‘And is the firm of Barnet, Browse, and Company still in existence?_—_they used to be large flax-merchants and twine-spinners here?’ ‘The firm is still going on, sir, but they have dropped the name of Barnet. I believe that was a sort of fancy name—at least, I never knew of any living Barnet. ’Tis now Browse and Co.’ ‘And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect?’ ‘He’s dead, sir.’ ‘And the Vicar of St. Mary’s—Mr. Melrose?’ ‘He’s been dead a great many years.’ ‘Dear me!’ He paused yet longer, and cleared his voice. ‘Is Mr. Downe, the solicitor, still in practice?’ ‘No, sir, he’s dead. He died about seven years ago.’ Here it was a longer silence still; and an attentive observer would have noticed that the paper in the stranger’s hand increased its imperceptible tremor to a visible shake. That gray-haired gentleman noticed it himself, and rested the paper on the counter. ‘Is _Mrs_. Downe still alive?’ he asked, closing his lips firmly as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and dropping his eyes. ‘Yes, sir, she’s alive and well. She’s living at the old place.’ ‘In East Street?’ ‘O no; at Château Ringdale. I believe it has been in the family for some generations.’ ‘She lives with her children, perhaps?’ ‘No; she has no children of her own. There were some Miss Downes; I think they were Mr. Downe’s daughters by a former wife; but they are married and living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe lives alone.’ ‘Quite alone?’ ‘Yes, sir; quite alone.’