I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my bedchamber.

I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood--I felt like a child--I prayed like one--it seemed as though old times were to return again--I looked round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew--but all was naked and mute.

The bed was gone.

My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass.
I visited, by turns, every chamber--they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold--I touched the keys--I played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child.

Past associations revived with the music--blended with a sense of _unreality_, which at last became too powerful--I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings.
I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands at the back of the house--we called it the _Wilderness_.