Finally he died and was buried with the others, and one more
memorial with the old name, which he bore last was placed on
the wall. That was the story as it was told me, and as it was
all about a man who was without charm and had no love interest
it did not greatly interest me, and I soon dismissed it from
my thoughts. Then one day coming through a grove in the park
and finding myself standing before the ancient, empty,
desolate house--for on the squire's death everything had been
sold and taken away--I remembered that the caretaker had
begged me to let him show me over the place. I had not felt
inclined to gratify him, as I had found him a young man of a
too active mind whose only desire was to capture some person
to talk to and unfold his original ideas and schemes, but now
having come to the house I thought I would suffer him, and
soon found him at work in the vast old walled garden. He
joyfully threw down his spade and let me in and then up to the
top floor, determined that I should see everything. By the
time we got down to the ground floor I was pretty tired of
empty rooms, oak panelled, and passages and oak staircases,
and of talk, and impatient to get away. But no, I had not
seen the housekeeper's room--I must see that!--and so into
another great vacant room I was dragged, and to keep me as
long as possible in that last room he began unlocking and
flinging open all the old oak cupboards and presses.
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