The door stood partly open;
but the locksmith's hammer was unheard; the cat sat moping on the ashy
forge; all was deserted, dark, and silent.
On the threshold of this door, Mr Haredale and Edward Chester met. The
younger man gave place; and both passing in with a familiar air, which
seemed to denote that they were tarrying there, or were well-accustomed
to go to and fro unquestioned, shut it behind them.
Entering the old back-parlour, and ascending the flight of stairs,
abrupt and steep, and quaintly fashioned as of old, they turned into
the best room; the pride of Mrs Varden's heart, and erst the scene of
Miggs's household labours.
'Varden brought the mother here last evening, he told me?' said Mr
Haredale.
'She is above-stairs now--in the room over here,' Edward rejoined. 'Her
grief, they say, is past all telling. I needn't add--for that you know
beforehand, sir--that the care, humanity, and sympathy of these good
people have no bounds.'
'I am sure of that. Heaven repay them for it, and for much more! Varden
is out?'
'He returned with your messenger, who arrived almost at the moment of
his coming home himself. He was out the whole night--but that of course
you know.
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