Every foot of that road was rich in memories to Ishmael. Over it he had ridden, in Mr. Middleton's carriage, on that fateful day of his first meeting with Claudia.
Over it he had traveled, weary and footsore, through the snow, to sell his precious book to buy tea for Hannah.
And over it he had again flashed in Mr. Middleton's sleigh, happy in the possession of his recovered treasure.
Twilight was deepening into dark when he reached that point in the road where the little footpath diverged from it and led up to the Hill Hut.
No! he could not pass this by. The path was wide enough to admit the passage of a horse. He turned up it, and rode on until he came in sight of the hut.
It was but little changed. It is astonishing how long these little lonely dilapidated houses hold on if let alone.
He alighted, tied his horse to a tree, and walked up behind the house, where, under the old elm, he saw the low headstone gleaming dimly in the starlight.
He knelt and bowed his head over it for a little while. Then he arose and stood with folded arms, gazing thoughtfully down upon it. Finally he murmured to himself: "Not here, but risen;" and turned and left the spot.
He went to the tree where he had tied his horse, remounted, and rode on his way.
Again he passed down the narrow path leading back to the broad turnpike road that wound around the brow of the hills to Brudenell Hall.