The sheriff was a man of kindly feelings, and lifting his hat reverentially, he said:
“We did not know of this, or we would not have come,” and motioning to his companion, he left the room, walking with subdued footsteps down the stairs, and out into the open air; and when the sun went down not an article had been disturbed in Hugo Warren’s home, for sheriff, creditors, lawyers—all stood back in awe of the mighty potentate who had entered before them, and levied upon its choicest treasure—the white-haired blind man’s wife.
CHAPTER III.
THE BROWN HOUSE IN THE HOLLOW.
Nearly a year has passed by since we left the blind man weeping over his unburied dead, and our story leads us now to the handsome rural town of Oakland, which is nestled among the New England hills, and owes much of its prosperity and rapid growth to the untiring energy of its wealthiest citizen—its one “aristocrat,” as the villagers persisted in calling Richard Howland, the gentleman from Boston, who came to Oakland a few years ago, giving to business a new impetus, and infusing new life into its quiet, matter-of-fact people, who respected him as few men have ever been respected, and looked upon him as the founder of their good fortune. He it was who built the factory, bought the mills and owned the largest store and shoe shop in the town, furnishing employment to hundreds of the poor, many of whom had moved into the village, and rented of him the comfortable tenements which he had erected for that purpose.
Richard Howland’s home was very beautiful, overlooking, as it did, the town and the surrounding country, and the passers-by often stopped to admire its winding walks, its fountains, its grassy plats, graceful evergreens, and wealth of flowers, the latter of which were the especial pride of the stately Miss Elinor, the maiden sister, who was mistress of the house, for Richard Howland had no wife, and on the night when we first introduce him to our readers, he was seated in his pleasant sitting-room, with his sister at his side, and every possible comfort and luxury around him. The chill December wind which howled among the naked branches of the maples, or sighed through the drooping cedar boughs, could not find entrance there. The blinds were closely shut—the heavy curtains swept the floor—the fire burned brightly in the grate, casting fantastic shadows on the wall, and with his favorite paper in his hand, he almost forgot that in the world without there were such evils as poverty or pain. Neither did he see the fragile form toiling through the darkness up the street, and pausing at his gate. But he heard the ringing of the door-bell, and his ear caught the sound of some one in the hall, asking to see him.
“I wish I could be alone for one evening,” he said, and with a slight frown of impatience upon his brow, he awaited the approach of his visitor.
It was a delicate young girl, and her dress of black showed that sorrow had thus early come to her.
“Are you Mr. Howland?” she asked, and her eyes of blue timidly sought the face of the young man, who involuntarily arose and offered her a seat.
Her errand was soon told. She had come to rent his cheapest tenement—the brown house in the hollow, which she had heard was vacant, and she wished him to furnish her with work—she could make both shirts and vests tolerably well, and she would try hard to pay the rent!