He heard no movement in reply: all was silence in the cottage.

Was the weaver gone to bed, then?
If so, why had he left a light?
That was a strange forgetfulness in a miser.
Dunstan knocked still more loudly, and, without pausing for a reply, pushed his fingers through the latch-hole, intending to shake the door and pull the latch-string up and down, not doubting that the door was fastened.

But, to his surprise, at this double motion the door opened, and he found himself in front of a bright fire which lit up every corner of the cottage--the bed, the loom, the three chairs, and the table--and showed him that Marner was not there.
Nothing at that moment could be much more inviting to Dunsey than the bright fire on the brick hearth: he walked in and seated himself by it at once.

There was something in front of the fire, too, that would have been inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in a different stage of cooking.

It was a small bit of pork suspended from the kettle-hanger by a string passed through a large door-key, in a way known to primitive housekeepers unpossessed of jacks.