I stepped under the arch and found myself in an apartment somewhat similar to the one below, but higher.

There was an object at the farther end.
An old woman, at least eighty, was seated on a stone, cowering over a few sticks burning feebly on what had once been a right noble and cheerful hearth; her side-glance was towards the doorway as I entered, for she had heard my footsteps.

I stood suddenly still, and her haggard glance rested on my face.
"Is this your house, mother ?" I at length demanded, in the language which I thought she would best understand.
"Yes, my house, my own house; the house of the broken-hearted." "Any other person's house ?" I demanded.
"My own house, the beggar's house--the accursed house of Cromwell!".