Few seemed to be the changes here. The drooping elms，indeed， had a more majestic spread， the weather-blackenedhouses were adorned with a denser thatch of verdantmoss， and doubtless there were a few more gravestonesin the burial-ground inscribed with names that had oncebeen familiar in the village street； yet， summing up all themischief that ten years had wrought， it seemed scarcelymore than if Ralph Cranfield had gone forth that verymorning and dreamed a day-dream till the twilight， andthen turned back again. But his heart grew cold becausethe village did not remember him as he remembered thevillage.
“Here is the change，” sighed he， striking his hand uponhis breast. “Who is this man of thought and care， wearywith world-wandering and heavy with disappointed hopes？
The youth returns not who went forth so joyously.”
And now Ralph Cranfield was at his mother’s gate， infront of the small house where the old lady， with slenderbut sufficient means， had kept herself comfortable duringher son’s long absence. Admitting himself within theenclosure， he leaned against a great old tree， trifling withhis own impatience as people often do in those intervalswhen years are summed into a moment. He took a minutesurvey of the dwelling—its windows brightened with thesky-gleam， its doorway with the half of a millstone fora step， and the faintly-traced path waving thence to thegate. He made friends again with his childhood’s friend—the old tree against which he leaned—and， glancing hiseye down its trunk， beheld something that excited amelancholy smile. It was a half-obliterated inscription—the Latin word “Effode” —which he remembered to havecarved in the bark of the tree with a whole day’s toil whenhe had first begun to muse about his exalted destiny. Itmight be accounted a rather singular coincidence thatthe bark just above the inscription had put forth anexcrescence shaped not unlike a hand， with the forefingerpointing obliquely at the word of fate. Such， at least， wasits appearance in the dusky light.
“Now， a credulous man，” said Ralph Cranfield， carelessly，to himself， “might suppose that the treasure which Ihave sought round the world lies buried， after all， at thevery door of my mother’s dwelling. That would be a jestindeed.”
More he thought not about the matter， for now thedoor was opened and an elderly woman appeared on thethreshold， peering into the dusk to discover who it mightbe that had intruded on her premises and was standing inthe shadow of her tree. It was Ralph Cranfield’s mother.
Pass we over their greeting， and leave the one to her joyand the other to his rest—if quiet rest he found.
But when morning broke， he arose with a troubled brow，for his sleep and his wakefulness had alike been full ofdreams. All the fervor was rekindled with which he hadburned of yore to unravel the threefold mystery of his fate.
The crowd of his early visions seemed to have awaitedhim beneath his mother’s roof and thronged riotouslyaround to welcome his return. In the well-rememberedchamber， on the pillow where his infancy had slumbered，he had passed a wilder night than ever in an Arab tent orwhen he had reposed his head in the ghastly shades of ahaunted forest. A shadowy maid had stolen to his bedsideand laid her finger on the scintillating heart； a hand offlame had glowed amid the darkness， pointing downwardto a mystery within the earth； a hoary sage had waved hisprophetic wand and beckoned the dreamer onward to achair of state. The same phantoms， though fainter in thedaylight， still flitted about， the cottage and mingled amongthe crowd of familiar faces that were drawn thither bythe news of Ralph Cranfield’s return to bid him welcomefor his mother’s sake. There they found him， a tall， dark，stately man of foreign aspect， courteous in demeanor andmild of speech， yet with an abstracted eye which seemedoften to snatch a glance at the invisible.
Meantime， the widow Cranfield went bustling aboutthe house full of joy that she again had somebody to loveand be careful of， and for whom she might vex and teaseherself with the petty troubles of daily life. It was nearlynoon when she looked forth from the door and descriedthree personages of note coming along the street throughthe hot sunshine and the masses of elm-tree shade. Atlength they reached her gate and undid the latch.
“See， Ralph！” exclaimed she， with maternal pride； “hereis Squire Hawkwood and the two other selectmen comingon purpose to see you. Now， do tell them a good long storyabout what you have seen in foreign parts.”
The foremost of the three visitors， Squire Hawkwood，was a very pompous but excellent old gentleman， thehead and prime-mover in all the affairs of the village，and universally acknowledged to be one of the sagestmen on earth. He wore， according to a fashion even thenbecoming antiquated， a three-cornered hat， and carried asilver-headed cane the use of which seemed to be ratherfor flourishing in the air than for assisting the progress ofhis legs. His two companions were elderly and respectableyeomen who， retaining an ante-Revolutionary reverence forrank and hereditary wealth， kept a little in the squire’s rear.
As they approached along the pathway Ralph Cranfieldsat in an oaken elbow-chair half unconsciously gazing atthe three visitors and enveloping their homely figures inthe misty romance that pervaded his mental world. “Here，”
thought he， smiling at the conceit— “here come threeelderly personages， and the first of the three is a venerablesage with a staff. What if this embassy should bring methe message of my fate？”
