Two days are passed. It is a summer evening; the an has set me down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for the sum I had given, and I was not possessed of another shilling in the world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alo this moment I discover that I fot to take my parcel out of the pocket of the coach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains, there it must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute.
Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be more obvious at a distand in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: the own to which these point is, acc to the inscription, distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the well-known names of these towns I learn in what ty I have lighted; a north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain: this I see. There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet. The population here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south—white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows deep and wild to their very verge. Yet a ce traveller might pass by; and I wish o see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing, lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I might be questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible ae suspi. Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment—not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are—hat saw me would have a kind thought ood wish for me. I have ive but the universal mother, Nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose.
I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw deeply furrowing the brown moorside; I waded knee-deep in its dark growth; I turned with its turnings, and finding a moss-blaed granite crag in a hidden angle, I sat down u. High banks of moor were about me; the crag protected my head: the sky was over that.
Some time passed before I felt tranquil even here: I had a vague dread that wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman or poacher might discover me. If a gust of wind swept the waste, I looked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull; if a plover whistled, I imagi a man. Finding my apprehensions unfounded, however, and calmed by the deep silehat reigned as evening deed at nightfall, I took fidence. As yet I had not thought; I had only listened, watched, dreaded; now I regaihe faculty of refle.
What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, when I could do nothing and go nowhere!—when a long way must yet be measured by my weary, trembling limbs before I could reach human habitation—when cold charity must be eed before I could get a lodging: relut sympathy importuned, almost certain repulse incurred, before my tale could be listeo, or one of my wants relieved!
I touched the heath, it was dry, a warm with the beat of the summer day. I looked at the sky; it ure: a kindly star twinkled just above the chasm ridge. The dew fell, but with propitious softness; no breeze whispered. Nature seemed to me benign and good; I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from man could anticipate only mistrust, reje, insult, g to her with filial fondness. To-night, at least, I would be her guest, as I was her child: my mother would lodge me without money and witho