While these reflections were passing through his mind, he observed a light in the window of the old house; but he could not well tell whether it was merely the reflection of a moonbeam on the glass, or a candle in the interior.  He walked forward out of curiosity; but the scene, as he approached the building, was so gloomy, and the air so chill, that he wished to turn back; however, he walked on till he reached the door, and there, sure enough, his brother was waiting on the threshold to receive him.  They shook hands in silence, for William’s heart was too full to speak, and he followed John into the house; and an ill-cared-for house it was.  He stumbled among heaps of rubbish in the dark passage; and, as he groped along the wall, his hand brought down patches of old lime, and was caught in spiders’ webs almost as strong as if the spinner had meant to go a-fowling.  When they had got into the parlour, he saw that the building was indeed a ruin; there was not a whole pane of glass in the window, nor a plank of wood in the damp floor; and the fireplace, without fire, or grate to hold it, looked like the entrance to a burying-vault.  John, however, walked quietly in, and sat down on a heap of rubbish by the ingleside; and William, following his example, sat down over-against him.  His heart now began to quake, and he was afraid, without knowing what he had to fear.  He ran over in his mind the transactions of the evening—­his walk, his reflections, his anxieties—­embracing the whole, as if in one rapid and yet detailed glance of the soul, and then turned his eyes upon his brother both in fear and curiosity.  What fearful secret could John have to communicate in a place like this?  Could he not have spoken as well in the open air, where it was so much warmer, and in the blessed light of the moon?  No one was dead, or likely to die, that he cared for; his dearest and almost only friends were at this moment talking and laughing round their social table, and near a bright fire, expecting his arrival, and John and he were—­here!  At length, repressing by a strong effort the undefined and undefinable feelings that were crowding upon him, he broke the silence, which was now beginning to seem strange and embarrassing.

“And how have you been, John?” said he, in the usual form of friendly inquiries; “and how have you got on in the world since we parted?”

“I have been well.” replied John; “and I have got on as well as mortal man could desire.”

“Yet you cannot be happy; you must have something to say—­something I am almost afraid to hear.  Out with it, in God’s name! and let us go home.”

“Yes,” said John, “I have something to say; but it will not take long to hear, and then we shall both go home.  I was apprenticed to the boat-building four years ago.”  “I know it,” replied William; “you wrote to me about it yourself, John.”

“I was made foreman before my time was out.”

“I know that, too,” said William; “Fanny gave me the whole particulars in a letter I received at Smyrna;—­surely that cannot be all.”