The strangeness of his conduct and of his looks occasioned much
speculation and remark. For a long time he was suspected of being
crazy, and then every body pitied him; at length it began to be
suspected that he was poor, and then every body avoided him.
The rich old burghers of his acquaintance met him, outside of the door
when he called, entertained him hospitably on the threshold, pressed
him warmly by the hand on parting, shook their heads as he walked away,
with the kind-hearted expression of "poor Wolfert," and turned a corner
nimbly, if by chance they saw him approaching as they walked the
streets. Even the barber and cobbler of the neighborhood, and a
tattered tailor in an alley hard by, three of the poorest and merriest
rogues in the world, eyed him with that abundant sympathy which usually
attends a lack of means, and there is not a doubt but their pockets
would have been at his command, only that they happened to be empty.
Thus every body deserted the Webber mansion, as if poverty were
contagious, like the plague; every body but honest Dirk Waldron, who
still kept up his stolen visits to the daughter, and indeed seemed to
wax more affectionate as the fortunes of his mistress were on the wane.
Many months had elapsed since Wolfert had frequented his old resort,
the rural inn. He was taking a long lonely walk one Saturday afternoon,
musing over his wants and disappointments, when his feet took
instinctively their wonted direction, and on awaking out of a reverie,
he found himself before the door of the inn.
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