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           Icannotwelldescribetheblowthisdealttomyillusions.Themoreindistincttheaccusationswere,thelessIlikedthem,fortheyleftthewiderfieldtofancy.Whatkindofagreathousewasthis,thatalltheparishshouldstartandstaretobeaskedthewaytoit?orwhatsortofagentleman,thathisill-fameshouldbethuscurrentonthewayside?Ifanhour’swalkingwouldhavebroughtmebacktoEssendean,Ihadleftmyadventurethenandthere,andreturnedtoMr.Campbell’s.ButwhenIhadcomesofarawayalready,mereshamewouldnotsuffermetodesisttillIhadputthemattertothetouchofproof;Iwasbound,outofmereself-respect,tocarryitthrough;andlittleasIlikedthesoundofwhatIheard,andslowasIbegantotravel,Istillkeptaskingmywayandstillkeptadvancing.

           ItwasdrawingontosundownwhenImetastout,dark,sour-lookingwomancomingtrudgingdownahill;andshe,whenIhadputmyusualquestion,turnedsharpabout,accompaniedmebacktothesummitshehadjustleft,andpointedtoagreatbulkofbuildingstandingverybareuponagreeninthebottomofthenextvalley.Thecountrywaspleasantroundabout,runninginlowhills,pleasantlywateredandwooded,andthecrops,tomyeyes,wonderfullygood;butthehouseitselfappearedtobeakindofruin;noroadleduptoit;nosmokearosefromanyofthechimneys;norwasthereanysemblanceofagarden.Myheartsank.“That!”Icried.

           Thewoman’sfacelitupwithamalignantanger.“ThatisthehouseofShaws!”shecried.