.,andsoonafterfourIstoodatthefootofthesign-postofWhitcross,waitingthearrivalofthecoachwhichwastotakemetodistantThornfield.Amidstthesilehosesolitaryroadsahills,Ihearditapproaagreatdistawasthesamevehiclewhence,ayearago,Ihadalightedonesummereveningonthisveryspot—howdesolate,andhopeless,andobjectless!ItstoppedasIbeed.Ientered—notnowobligedtopartwithmywholefortuhepriceofitsaodation.OncemoreontheroadtoThornfield,Ifeltlikethemessenger-pigeonflyinghome.

    Itwasajourneyofsix-and-thirtyhours.IhadsetoutfromWhitcrossonaTuesdayafternoon,andearlyonthesucceedingThursdaymthecoachstoppedtowaterthehorsesatawaysideinn,situatedinthemidstofserywhosegreenhedgesandlargefieldsandlowpastoralhills(howmildoffeatureandverdantofhueparedwiththesternNorth-MidlandmoorsofMortomyeyelikethelisofaoncefamiliarface.Yes,Ikhecharacterofthislandscape:Iwassurewewerenearmybourne.

    “HowfarisThornfieldHallfromhere?”Iaskedoftheostler.

    “Justtwomiles,ma’am,acrossthefields.”

    “Myjourneyisclosed,”Ithoughttomyself.Igotoutofthecoach,gaveaboxIhadintotheostler’scharge,tobekepttillIcalledforit;paidmyfare;satisfiedthean,andwasgoing:thebrighteningdaygleamedonthesignoftheinn,andIreadingiltletters,“TheRochesterArms.”Myheartleaptup:Iwasalreadyonmymaster’sverylands.Itfellagaihoughtstruckit:—

    “Yourmasterhimselfmaybebeyoishel,fhtyouknow:andthen,ifheisatThornfieldHall,towardswhichyouhasten,whobesideshimisthere?Hislunaticwife:andyouhavenothingtodowithhim:youdarenotspeaktohimorseekhispresence.Youhavelostyourla