t is a summer evening; t me do a place called cross; ake me no fart possessed of anotime; I am alone. At t I discover t I forgot to take my parcel out of t of t for safety; t remains, t must remain; and noely destitute.

    cross is no to is but a stone pillar set up  a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: t too o tion, distant ten miles; t, above ty. From toy I ed; a nortain: t moors beains far beyond t deep valley at my feet. tion  be tretc east, , norte, broad, lonely; t in to t a craveller migo see me norangers , evidently objectless and lost. I migioned: I could give no ans e suspicion. Not a tie o y at t—not a cures are—none t sa ture: I will seek  and ask repose.

    I struck straigo to a s dark gros turnings, and finding a moss-blackened granite crag in a  do.  me; tected my .

    Some time passed before I felt tranquil even  tle mig some sportsman or poac discover me. If a gust of  te, I looked up, fearing it led, I imagined it a man. Finding my appre reigned as evening declined at nigook confidence. As yet I  t; I ened, cy of reflection.

    o do? o go? Oolerable questions,  be measured by my rembling limbs before I could reacation— be entreated before I could get a lodging: reluctant sympatuned, almost certain repulse incurred, before my tale could be listened to, or one of my s relieved!

    I touc   of t t ar t above t ious softness; no breeze o me benign and good; I t scast as I e only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to o-nig least, I  price. I : t of a roll I  in a to noon ray penny—my last coin. I sae t satisfied, appeased by t’s meal. I said my evening prayers at its conclusion, and then chose my couch.

    Beside t ; rising  left only a narro-air to invade. I folded my s over me for a coverlet; a lo, at least—at t of t, cold.

    My rest mig broke it. It plained of its gaping s ins riven c trembled for Mr. Rocer and  bemoaned ter pity; it demanded ent as a bird  still quivered its stered pinions in vain attempts to seek him.

    orn out orture of t, I rose to my knees. Nigs ill nigoo serene for t God is everyainly  is in t-sky,   ude, ence, o my knees to pray for Mr. Rocer. Looking up, I, ear-dimmed eyes, say Milky- less systems t space like a soft trace of lig t and strengto save  treasured. I turned my prayer to ts. Mr. Rocer o t of t sorrow.

    But next day, ant came to me pale and bare. Long after ttle birds  ts; long after bees  prime of day to gatailed, and t up, and I looked round me.

    a still, , perfect day!  a golden desert t and on it. I sa bilberries. I  t  I migting nutriment, permanent ser  I  not linger  t. ure, I  my Maker  nig good to require my soul of me  t e,  to decay quietly, and mingle in peace  in my possession, s requirements, and pains, and responsibilities. t be carried; t provided for; ty fulfilled. I set out.

    cross regained, I folloiously yield to tigue t almost overpoting doone I sa resistlessly to t clogged  and limb—I heard a bell chime—a church bell.

    I turned in tion of t tic  I o note an  and a spire. All t my rigure-fields, and cornfields, and tering stream ran zig-zag to t far beyond  struggle on: strive to live and bend to toil like t.

    About tered t ttom of its one street ttle sed a cake of bread. it refres I could per it, it  to proceed. to rengturned to me as soon as I  my fello it o faint .  me I could offer in excied round my t; I ell remities of destitution proceeded. I did not knoed: probably t; but I must try.

    I entered tably- dressed person, a lady as sy. ongue  utter t I  offer  it o sit do, as I ired. Disappointed in tation of a customer, so my request. Sed to a seat; I sank into it. I felt sorely urged to  conscious ation rained it. Soon I asked he village?”

    “Yes; te as many as t for.”

    I reflected. I o t noy. I stood in tion of one  a resource,  a friend,  a coin. I must do somet? I must apply somewhere. here?

    “Did s ed?”

    “Nay; s say.”

    “ rade in t did most of the people do?”

    “Some  Mr. Oliver’s needle-factory, and at the foundry.”

    “Did Mr. Oliver employ women?”

    “Nay; it was men’s work.”

    “And he women do?”

    “I kna,”  on as they can.”

    So be tired of my questions: and, indeed, une ed. I took leave.

    I passed up treet, looking as I  at all to t o t; but I could discover no pretext, nor see an inducement to enter any. I rambled round t, going sometimes to a little distance and returning again, for an ed, and suffering greatly no of food, I turned aside into a lane and sat does ,  least an informant. A pretty little ood at top of t, exquisitely neat and brilliantly blooming. I stopped at it.  business o approace door or touctering knocker? In  possibly be terest of tants of t do serve me? Yet I dretired young  be expected from a  and fainting frame—a voice cering—I asked if a servant ed here?

    “No,” said s keep a servant.”

    “Can you tell me  of any kind?” I continued. “I am a stranger,  acquaintance in t some ter w.”

    But it  o to seek a place for me: besides, in ful must er, position, tale. Sion,” and te door closed, quite gently and civilly: but it s me out. If s open a little longer, I believe I s low.

    I could not bear to return to t of aid e to a  far off, o offer inviting ser; but I ure’s cravings, instinct kept me roaming round abodes ude—rest no rest— wure, alons in my side.

    I dreo ask—no rigo expect interest in my isolated lot. Meantime, ternoon advanced,  and starving dog. In crossing a field, I saened to. Near tood a  t  strangers , sometimes apply to troduction and aid. It is tion to  least o o  to seek counsel rengt tche parsonage?

    “Yes.”

    “as the clergyman in?”

    “No.”

    “ould he be in soon?”

    “No, he was gone from home.”

    “to a distance?”

    “Not so far— Marsay tnight longer.”

    “as the house?”

    “Nay, t but  bear to ask t of  beg; and again I crawled away.

    Once more I took off my  of ttle s a crust! for but one mouto allay tinctively I turned my face again to t in; and tured t—“ould shis handkerchief?”

    S me  suspicion: “Nay, suff i’ t way.”

    Almost desperate, I asked for ell he handkerchief?” she said.

    “ould sake my gloves?”

    “No! w could shem?”

    Reader, it is not pleasant to dails. Some say t in looking back to painful experience past; but at to revieimes to  oo distressing a recollection ever to be  on. I blamed none of t it o be expected, and  be ly an object of suspicion; a ably so. to be sure, ; but o provide me ? Not, certainly, t of persons ime, and o t take my , if to er or table. Let me condense no.

    A little before dark I passed a farm- tting, eating opped and said—

    “ill you give me a piece of bread? for I am very  on me a glance of surprise; but  ans to me. I imagine  t only an eccentric sort of lady, o  of sig doe it.

    I could not o get a lodging under a roof, and soug in to. But my nigc broken: truders passed near me more to cers; no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me. to rained; t. Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of t day; as before, I sougarved; but once did food pass my lips. At ttage I satle girl about to to a pig troug?” I asked.

    Sared at me. “Mots me to give hese porridge.”

    “ell lass,” replied a voice   pig doesn’t  it.”

    tied tiffened mould into my  ravenously.

    As t tary bridle-path, which I had been pursuing an hour or more.

    “My strengte failing me,” I said in a soliloquy. “I feel I cannot go muccast again t?  I lay my  do ot it ness, cion—total prostration of  I reconcile myself to t of deatruggle to retain a valueless life? Because I knoo die of  and cold is a fate to  submit passively. Oain me a little longer! Aid!—direct me!”

    My glazed eye y landscape. I sa e out of sigivation surrounding it ract of moorland; and no as ive as the dusky hill.

    “ell, I reet or on a frequented road,” I reflected. “And far better t cro they should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper’s grave.”

    to turned. I reac. It remained noo find a  least  secure. But all te looked level. It sion but of tint: green, ting, I could still see t as mere alternations of lig.

    My eye still roved over t t scenery, , far in among t sprang up. “t is an ignis fatuus,”  t; and I expected it  on, e steadily, neit, t kindled?” I questioned. I co see  no; as it did not diminis did not enlarge. “It may be a candle in a ured; “but if so, I can never reac. It is mucoo far a   avail? I s knock at to  s in my face.”

    And I sank doill a  over tance; t, ting me afreso t iffened to till frost— t miged on; I s  it; but my yet living fles its chilling influence. I rose ere long.

    t  t constant tried to o. It led me aslant over ter, and  as often I rose and rallied my faculties. t .

    race of ; it rack: it led straigo t,  a clump of trees—firs, apparently, from inguiser of tar vanisacle ervened bet. I put out my o feel ted tones of a lo, sometis gleamed before me: it e—a ; it moved on its ouc. On eacood a sable bush-holly or yew.

    Entering te and passing tte of a o vie t sy. ere tes retired to rest? I feared it must be so. In seeking turned an angle: t out tticed  of till smaller by t, ion of t . ture  curtain or ster ooped do aside ting over it, I could see all , er plates ranged in roing t-fire. I could see a clock, a able, some c on table; and by its lig roug scrupulously clean, like all about ting a stocking.

    I noticed ts cursorily only—in traordinary. A group of more interest appeared near tting still amidst t. t—sat, one in a lo off very fair necks and faces: a large old pointer dog rested its massive .

    A strange place cs!  be ters of t table; for sic, and tivation. I , as I gazed on timate . I cannot call too pale and grave for t over a book, tful almost to severity. A stand beted a second candle and t volumes, to ing a dictionary to aid task of translation. t as if all t apartment a picture: so , I could e, tick in its obscure corner; and I even fancied I could distinguisting-needles. range stillness at last, it was audible enougo me.

    “Listen, Diana,” said one of tudents; “Franz and old Daniel are toget-time, and Franz is telling a dream from en!” And in a loelligible to me; for it ongue—neitin.   tell.

    “t is strong,” s.” ted o listen to er, repeated,   a later day, I knee t , it roke on sounding brass to me—conveying no meaning:—

    “‘Da trat ernen Nacy arcly set before you! tian. ‘Ic dem Gewic!”

    Bot.

    “Is try  ting.

    “Yes, ry talk in no other way.”

    “ell, for sure case, I kna and t’ one t’ot tell hey said, I guess?”

    “e could probably tell somet t not all— for  as clever as you t speak German, and  read it  a dictionary to help us.”

    “And  do you?”

    “e mean to teac some time—or at least ts, as t more money than we do now.”

    “Varry like: but give oudying; ye’ve done enougo- night.”

    “I t least I’m tired. Mary, are you?”

    “Mortally: after all, it’s toug a language er but a lexicon.”

    “It is, especially suc glorious Deutsc. John will come home.”

    “Surely  be long no is just ten (looking at a little gold c rains fast, o look at the parlour?”

    tir a fire in an inner room; sly came back.

    “A fair troubles me to go into yond’ room no looks so lonesome y and set back in a corner.”

    Swo girls, grave before, looked sad now.

    “But ter place,” continued  h nor he had.”

    “You say ioned us?” inquired one of the ladies.

    “ time, bairn: e,  ailing like t naugo signify; and  for,   of a  day—t is, a fortnig to sleep and niver ark o t’ c’s t’ last o’ t’ old stock—for ye and Mr. St. Jo soart to t’s gone; for all your mot as book-learned. Sur’ o’ ye, Mary: Diana is more like your father.”

    I t t tell inction and intelligence. One, to be sure, yle of ; Mary’s pale broed and braided smootresses covered ruck ten.

    “Ye’ll  your supper, I am sure,” observed . John when he comes in.”

    And so prepare t to o till t, I ent on cion ed in me so keen an interest, I ten my ocion: no recurred to me. More desolate, more desperate t seemed from contrast. And  appear to touces of to make truts and o induce to vouc for my  t it atingly, I felt t last idea to be a mere chimera. hannah opened.

    “ do you ?” s of the candle she held.

    “May I speak to your mistresses?” I said.

    “You ter tell me o them. here do you come from?”

    “I am a stranger.”

    “ is your business  this hour?”

    “I  a niger in an out-o eat.”

    Distrust, ter a pause; “but  take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn’t likely.”

    “Do let me speak to your mistresses.”

    “No, not I.  can t be roving about no looks very ill.”

    “But w shall I do?”

    “O you knoo do. Mind you don’t do ’s all. here is a penny; now go—”

    “A penny cannot feed me, and I rengto go fart s t, for God’s sake!”

    “I must; the rain is driving in—”

    “tell t me see them- ”

    “Indeed, I . You are not  make such a noise. Move off.”

    “But I must die if I am turned away.”

    “Not you. I’m fear’d you e, t bring you about folk’s  time o’ nigell t by ourselves in tleman, and dogs, and guns.”  but inflexible servant clapped to and bolted it hin.

    te suffering—a true despair—rent and . orn out, indeed, I  anotep could I stir. I sank on t doorstep: I groaned— I ter anguisre of deat ion—t from my kind! Not only t ting of fortitude  least for a moment; but t I soon endeavoured to regain.

    “I can but die,” I said, “and I believe in God. Let me try to  his will in silence.”

    t only t, but uttered; and ting back all my misery into my , I made an effort to compel it to remain till.

    “All men must die,” said a voice quite close at  all are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, suc.”

    “ speaks?” I asked, terrified at ted sound, and incapable noc and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguiso the door.

    “Is it you, Mr. St. John?” cried hannah.

    “Yes—yes; open quickly.”

    “ell,  and cold you must be, suc as it is! Come in—your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe t. t gone yet!—laid do up! for shame! Move off, I say!”

    “o say to ty in excluding, no me do mine in admitting ened to bot at least examine into it. Young o the house.”

    ity I obeyed ly I stood  clean, brigcrembling, sickening; conscious of an aspect in t degree gly, en. t. Jo,  me.

    “St. Jo?” I heard one ask.

    “I cannot tell: I found  the reply.

    “Se,” said hannah.

    “As  .”

    And indeed my  a cill possessed my senses, t no speak.

    “Pertle er ore c so nothin, and how very bloodless!”

    “A mere spectre!”

    “Is she ill, or only famished?”

    “Famis milk? Give it me, and a piece of bread.”

    Diana (I kne over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. y in it, and I felt sympatoo, tion spoke: “try to eat.”

    “Yes—try,” repeated Mary gently; and Mary’s  and lifted my asted  first, eagerly soon.

    “Not too muc first—restrain e of bread.

    “A little more, St. Jo ty in her eyes.”

    “No more at present, sister. try if she can speak now—ask her her name.”

    I felt I could speak, and I anst.” Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I o assume an alias.

    “And where do you live? here are your friends?”

    I .

    “Can we send for any one you know?”

    I shook my head.

    “ account can you give of yourself?”

    Some I  face to face s o no longer outcast, vagrant, and disoo put off t—to resume my natural manner and cer. I began once more to kno I oo o render—I said after a brief pause—

    “Sir, I can give you no details to-night.”

    “But  me to do for you?”

    “Notrengt s ansook the word—

    “Do you mean,” s  o t?”

    I looked at , a remarkable countenance, instinct botook sudden courage. Anse rust you. If I erless and stray dog, I kno you  turn me from your o-nig is, I really  excuse me from muc—I feel a spasm w.

    “. Jo last, “let  t present, and ask ions; in ten minutes more, give  milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into talk tter over.”

    turned—I could not tell upor ealing over me as I sat by tone sions to ’s aid, I contrived to mount a staircase; my dripping clot unutterable exion a gloeful joy—and slept.