To the last he was what he had always been, formal and ceremonious, more gracious to those beneath him than to equals; strict in the performance of his duties, living with extreme frugality and giving freely to those in want, and very regular in his attendance at church, where he would sit facing the tombs and memorials of his ancestors, among the people but not of them--a man alone and apart, respected by all but loved by none.
Finally he died and was buried with the others, and one more memorial with the old name, which he bore last was placed on the wall.

That was the story as it was told me, and as it was all about a man who was without charm and had no love interest it did not greatly interest me, and I soon dismissed it from my thoughts.

Then one day coming through a grove in the park and finding myself standing before the ancient, empty, desolate house--for on the squire's death everything had been sold and taken away--I remembered that the caretaker had begged me to let him show me over the place.

I had not felt inclined to gratify him, as I had found him a young man of a too active mind whose only desire was to capture some person to talk to and unfold his original ideas and schemes, but now having come to the house I thought I would suffer him, and soon found him at work in the vast old walled garden.

He joyfully threw down his spade and let me in and then up to the top floor, determined that I should see everything.