In the morning I took Euphemia to the hotel, about a mile away--and
arranged for the storage of our furniture there, until we could
find another habitation. This habitation, we determined, was to be
in a substantial house, or part of a house, which should not be
affected by the tides.
During the morning the removal of our effects was successfully
accomplished, and our boarder went to town to look for a furnished
room. He had nothing but his trunk to take to it.
In the afternoon I left Euphemia at the hotel, where she was taking
a nap (she certainly needed it, for she had spent the night in a
wooden rocking-chair at the milk-woman's), and I strolled down to
the river to take a last look at the remains of old Rudder Grange.
I felt sadly enough as I walked along the well-worn path to the
canal-boat, and thought how it had been worn by my feet more than
any other's, and how gladly I had walked that way, so often during
that delightful summer. I forgot all that had been disagreeable,
and thought only of the happy times we had had.
It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, and the wind had entirely died
away. When I came within sight of our old home, it presented a
doleful appearance. The bow had drifted out into the river, and
was almost entirely under water. The stern stuck up in a mournful
and ridiculous manner, with its keel, instead of its broadside,
presented to the view of persons on the shore. As I neared the
boat I heard a voice.
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