I was riding along one autumn day through a certain wooded portion
of New York State, when I came suddenly upon an old stone house in
which the marks of age were in such startling contrast to its
unfinished condition that I involun-tarily stopped my horse and
took a long survey of the lonesome structure. Embowered in a forest
which had so grown in thickness and height since the erection of
this building that the boughs of some of the tallest trees almost
met across its decayed roof, it presented even at first view an
appearance of picturesque solitude almost approaching to
desolation. But when my eye had time to note that the moss was
clinging to eaves from under which the scaffolding had never been
taken, and that of the ten large windows in the blackened front of
the house only two had ever been furnished with frames, the awe of
some tragic mystery began to creep over me, and I sat and wondered
at the sight till my increasing interest compelled me to alight and
take a nearer view of the place.
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