Spicer.
Eager to communicate the joyous news, glad in the prospect of seeing his
simple-hearted friend, he went at a great pace up the ascending road. There
were the three houses, looking drearier than ever in a faint gleam of
winter sunshine. There were his old windows. But--what had happened to the
roof? He stood in astonishment and apprehension, for, just above the room
where he had dwelt, the roof was an utter wreck, showing a great hole, as
if something had fallen upon it with crushing weight. As indeed was the
case; evidently the chimney-stack had come down, and doubtless in the
recent gale. Seized with anxiety on Mr. Spicer's account, he ran round to
the back of the garden and tried the door; but it was locked as usual. He
strained to peer over the garden wall, but could discover nothing that
threw light on his friend's fate; he noticed, however, a great grove of
dead, brown artichoke stems, seven or eight feet high. Looking up at the
back windows, he shouted Mr. Spicer's name; it was useless. Then, in
serious alarm, he betook himself to the house on the other side of the
passage, knocked at the door, and asked of the woman who presented herself
whether anything was known of a gentleman who dwelt where the chimney-stack
had just fallen.
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