The door stood ajar, and I glanced in, only to find the room empty, the pots and pans used the night before still unwashed.
There was nothing there to interest me, and I crossed a narrow space of grass to where a broken picket fence was visible amid a fringe of weeds.

No description can fitly picture the gloomy desolation surrounding that ramshackle place.

It got upon the nerves, the decay, the neglect apparent on every side.

The very silence seemed depressing.

Evidently this fence, now a mere ruin, had once served to protect a garden plot.