"Am I in Brookdale? No--it cannot be. There is some strange error.
Yes--yes--it is Brookdale, for here is the old church. I cannot
mistake that. Hark! Yes--yes--it is the early bell! I would know its
sound amid a thousand!"
On I moved, passing the ancient building whose architect had long
since been called to sleep with his fathers, and over whose walls
and spire time had cast a duller hue. I was eager to reach the old
homestead. The mill lay between--or, once it did. Only a shapeless
ruin now remained. The broken wheel, the crumbling walls, and empty
forebay were all that my eyes rested upon, and I paused sadly to
mark the wreck which time had made. The race was dry, and overgrown
with elder and rank weeds. A quarter of a mile distant stood out
sharply, against the clear sky, a large factory, newly built and
thither the stream in which I had once sailed my tiny boat, or
dropped my line, had been turned, and the old mill left to silence
and decay. Ah me! I cannot make words obedient to my thoughts in
giving utterance to the disappointment I then felt. A brief space I
stood, mourning over the ruins, and then moved on again, a painful
presentiment fast arising in my heart that all would not be, as I
had left, it in the white cottage I was seeking.
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