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"Is it, then, a bonfire just kindled?" I questioned.

I watched to see whether it would spread: but no; as it did not diminish, so it did not enlarge.

"It may be a candle in a house," I then conjectured; "but if so, I can never reach it.

It is much too far away: and were it within a yard of me, what would it avail? I should but knock at the door to have it shut in my face."

And I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against the ground.

I lay still a while: the night-wind swept over the hill and over me, and died moaning in the distance; the rain fell fast, wetting me afresh to the skin.

Could I but have stiffened to the still frost-the friendly numbness of death-it might have pelted on; I should not have felt it; but my yet living flesh shuddered at its chilling influence.

I rose ere long.

The light was yet there, shining dim but constant through the rain.

I tried to walk again: I dragged my exhausted limbs slowly towards it.

It led me aslant over the hill, through a wide bog, which would have been impassable in winter, and was splashy and shaking even now, in the height of summer.

Here I fell twice; but as often I rose and rallied my faculties.

This light was my forlorn hope: I must gain it.

Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over the moor.

I approached it; it was a road or a track: it led straight up to the light, which now beamed from a sort of knoll, amidst a clump of trees-firs, apparently, from what I could distinguish of the character of their forms and foliage through the gloom.

My star vanished as I drew near: some obstacle had intervened between me and it.

I put out my hand to feel the dark mass before me: I discriminated the rough stones of a low wall-above it, something like palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge.

I groped on.

Again a whitish object gleamed before me: it was a gate-a wicket; it moved on its hinges as I touched it.

On each side stood a sable bush-holly or yew.

Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the silhouette of a house rose to view, black, low, and rather long; but the guiding light shone nowhere.

All was obscurity.

Were the inmates retired to rest? I feared it must be so.

In seeking the door, I turned an angle: there shot out the friendly gleam again, from the lozenged panes of a very small latticed window, within a foot of the ground, made still smaller by the growth of ivy or some other creeping plant, whose leaves clustered thick over the portion of the house wall in which it was set.

The aperture was so screened and narrow, that curtain or shutter had been deemed unnecessary; and when I stooped down and put aside the spray of foliage shooting over it, I could see all within.

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