Winterborne's house had been pulled down. On this account his face had
been seen but fitfully in Hintock; and he would probably have
disappeared from the place altogether but for his slight business
connection with Melbury, on whose premises Giles kept his cider-making
apparatus, now that he had no place of his own to stow it in. Coming
here one evening on his way to a hut beyond the wood where he now
slept, he noticed that the familiar brown-thatched pinion of his
paternal roof had vanished from its site, and that the walls were
levelled. In present circumstances he had a feeling for the spot that
might have been called morbid, and when he had supped in the hut
aforesaid he made use of the spare hour before bedtime to return to
Little Hintock in the twilight and ramble over the patch of ground on
which he had first seen the day.

He repeated this evening visit on several like occasions. Even in the
gloom he could trace where the different rooms had stood; could mark
the shape of the kitchen chimney-corner, in which he had roasted apples
and potatoes in his boyhood, cast his bullets, and burned his initials
on articles that did and did not belong to him. The apple-trees still
remained to show where the garden had been, the oldest of them even now
retaining the crippled slant to north-east given them by the great
November gale of 1824, which carried a brig bodily over the Chesil
Bank. They were at present bent to still greater obliquity by the
heaviness of their produce. Apples bobbed against his head, and in the
grass beneath he crunched scores of them as he walked. There was
nobody to gather them now.