asked me if I ravel. I looked very pale, s noty of mind, e.

    It o make my furts; for I roubled o t I could not no about my plans, to me tion I sances hem.

    I left Moor  ter four I stood at t of t of cross, ing to take me to distant t tary roads and desert  approac distance. It ed one summer evening on t—e, and less! It stopped as I beckoned. I entered—not noo part une as ts accommodation. Once more on to t like the messenger-pigeon flying home.

    It y  out from cross on a tuesday afternoon, and early on topped to er t a uated in t of scenery  of ern Norton!) met my eye like ts of a once familiar face. Yes, I kneer of this landscape: I was sure we were near my bourne.

    “ler.

    “Just the fields.”

    “My journey is closed,” I t to myself. I got out of to tler’s co be kept till I called for it; paid my fare; satisfied tening day gleamed on t letters, “ter Arms.” My  leapt up: I er’s very lands. It fell again: t struck it:—

    “Your master is you kno to speak to  your labour—you ter go no fartor. “Ask information of t ts at once. Go up to t man, and inquire if Mr. Rocer be at home.”

    tion  I could not force myself to act on it. I so dreaded a reply t  o prolong  yet once more see tar. tile before me—tracted racking and scourging me, on t course I o take, I  of t I c vie feelings I rees I knehem!

    At last tered dark; a loud caillness. Strange deligened. Anotyard self, till  vie s,” I determined, “tlements rike t once, and er’s very  i