“Now, a credulous man,” said Ralph Cranfield, carelessly, to himself, “might suppose that the treasure which I have sought round the world lies buried, after all, at the very door of my mother’s dwelling.  That would be a jest indeed.”

More he thought not about the matter, for now the door was opened and an elderly woman appeared on the threshold, peering into the dusk to discover who it might be that had intruded on her premises and was standing in the shadow of her tree.  It was Ralph Cranfield’s mother.  Pass we over their greeting, and leave the one to her joy and the other to his rest—­if quiet rest he found.

But when morning broke, he arose with a troubled brow, for his sleep and his wakefulness had alike been full of dreams.  All the fervor was rekindled with which he had burned of yore to unravel the threefold mystery of his fate.  The crowd of his early visions seemed to have awaited him beneath his mother’s roof and thronged riotously around to welcome his return.  In the well-remembered chamber, on the pillow where his infancy had slumbered, he had passed a wilder night than ever in an Arab tent or when he had reposed his head in the ghastly shades of a haunted forest.  A shadowy maid had stolen to his bedside and laid her finger on the scintillating heart; a hand of flame had glowed amid the darkness, pointing downward to a mystery within the earth; a hoary sage had waved his prophetic wand and beckoned the dreamer onward to a chair of state.  The same phantoms, though fainter in the daylight, still flitted about, the cottage and mingled among the crowd of familiar faces that were drawn thither by the news of Ralph Cranfield’s return to bid him welcome for his mother’s sake.  There they found him, a tall, dark, stately man of foreign aspect, courteous in demeanor and mild of speech, yet with an abstracted eye which seemed often to snatch a glance at the invisible.

Meantime, the widow Cranfield went bustling about the house full of joy that she again had somebody to love and be careful of, and for whom she might vex and tease herself with the petty troubles of daily life.  It was nearly noon when she looked forth from the door and descried three personages of note coming along the street through the hot sunshine and the masses of elm-tree shade.  At length they reached her gate and undid the latch.

“See, Ralph!” exclaimed she, with maternal pride; “here is Squire Hawkwood and the two other selectmen coming on purpose to see you.  Now, do tell them a good long story about what you have seen in foreign parts.”

The foremost of the three visitors, Squire Hawkwood, was a very pompous but excellent old gentleman, the head and prime-mover in all the affairs of the village, and universally acknowledged to be one of the sagest men on earth.  He wore, according to a fashion even then becoming antiquated, a three-cornered hat, and carried a silver-headed cane the use of which seemed to be rather for flourishing in the air than for assisting the progress of his legs.  His two companions were elderly and respectable yeomen who, retaining an ante-Revolutionary reverence for rank and hereditary wealth, kept a little in the squire’s rear.