This had been a house of a witty host, a merry girl, junketting guests; a house of hilarious thunders, lightnings of fun and fancy.

Death never seemed more voiceful than in that wagging of the bell.
For conscience' sake, as became a trusty emissary, he walked round to the back of the house, to verify the total emptiness.

His apprehensive despondency had said that it was absolutely empty, but upon consideration he supposed the house must have some guardian: likely enough, an old gardener and his wife, lost in deafness double-shotted by sleep! There was no sign of them.

The night air waxed sensibly crisper.
He thumped the backdoors.

Blank hollowness retorted on the blow.