Some fifteen years after the date of the foregoing incidents, a man who had dwelt in far countries, and viewed many cities, arrived at Roy-Town, a roadside hamlet on the old western turnpike road, not five miles from Froom-Everard, and put up at the Buck’s Head, an isolated¹ inn at that spot.  He was still barely of middle age, but it could be seen that a haze² of grey was settling upon the locks of his hair, and that his face had lost colour and curve, as if by exposure to bleaching³ climates and strange atmospheres, or from ailments⁴ incidental thereto.  He seemed to observe little around him, by reason of the intrusion of his musings upon the scene.  In truth Nicholas Long was just now the creature of old hopes and fears consequent upon his arrival—this man who once had not cared if his name were blotted⁵ out from that district.  The evening light showed wistful lines which he could not smooth away by the worldling’s gloss⁶ of nonchalance⁷ that he had learnt to fling over his face.