There might be several conveniences attending this
course: the weaver had possibly got a lantern, and Dunstan was tired
of feeling his way. He was still nearly three-quarters of a mile
from home, and the lane was becoming unpleasantly slippery, for the
mist was passing into rain. He turned up the bank, not without some
fear lest he might miss the right way, since he was not certain
whether the light were in front or on the side of the cottage. But
he felt the ground before him cautiously with his whip-handle, and
at last arrived safely at the door. He knocked loudly, rather enjoying
the idea that the old fellow would be frightened at the sudden
noise. He heard no movement in reply: all was silence in the
cottage. Was the weaver gone to bed, then? If so, why had he left a
light? That was a strange forgetfulness in a miser. Dunstan knocked
still more loudly, and, without pausing for a reply, pushed his
fingers through the latch-hole, intending to shake the door and pull
the latch-string up and down, not doubting that the door was fastened.
But, to his surprise, at this double motion the door opened, and he
found himself in front of a bright fire, which lit up every corner
of the cottage- the bed, the loom, the three chairs, and the table-
and showed him that Marner was not there.
Nothing at that moment could be much more inviting to Dunsey than
the bright fire on the brick hearth: he walked in and seated himself
by it at once.
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