The dull, red glow of a wood fire — for no lamp or candle burnt within the room — showed him a figure, seated on the hearth¹ with its back towards him, bending over the fitful light. The attitude was that of one who sought the heat. It was, and yet was not. The stooping posture² and the cowering³ form were there, but no hands were stretched out to meet the grateful warmth, no shrug⁴ or shiver compared its luxury with the piercing cold outside. With limbs huddled⁵ together, head bowed down, arms crossed upon the breast, and fingers tightly clenched⁶, it rocked to and fro upon its seat without a moment’s pause, accompanying the action with the mournful sound he had heard.

The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a crash that made him start. The figure neither spoke⁷, nor turned to look, nor gave in any other way the faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form was that of an old man, his white head akin⁸ in colour to the mouldering⁹ embers upon which he gazed. He, and the failing light and dying fire, the time-worn room, the solitude¹⁰, the wasted life, and gloom, were all in fellowship. Ashes, and dust, and ruin!

Kit¹¹ tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, though what they were he scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low cry went on — still the same rocking in the chair — the same stricken figure was there, unchanged and heedless of his presence.

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