notion of its magnitude and crowded streets,
but he did not doubt that if Annie were really
there, he should find her at length, by
continually walking about, and observing all he
met. So, after a moment's reflection, he rose
and walked away in the direction of Slough.
Keeping along the College walls, he soon passed
the last oil-lamp, and was walking alone on
the open road. He stopped, after awhile, to
look back. The way that he had come looked
so dreary that he felt as if he would not go
back for any inducement. Dark as it was, he
saw still the black walls of the College chapel,
and the round towers of the Castle on the
height. With a stronger determination to
pursue his object, he turned and walked again,
without looking back, till he got to Slough.
He passed through the quiet street, without
meeting even the watchman, and was again
on the open road. The night became still
darker; for, a long bank of cloud in the
horizon driven upward by the wind, had shut
out a strip of sky in which the stars were
shining. Darkness brooded on the fields on
either side of the road, hiding everything
beyond, except the black edges of a fir-
plantation or a long row of naked elms
against the sky. It was a relief to him when
he came to the gate, or the road-side public-
house, at which, though he knew it was past
midnight, he could see lights, and hear the
noise of voices. One or two gipsies' encampments
he passed by the way; but keeping in
the middle of the road, he went past them
unmolested. A long time had elapsed without
passing through any town, when he met the
Windsor coach, coming at full gallop—the
lamp at each side sending a stream of light far
down the road, and showing its four horses,
steaming from the nostrils. Standing aside
for a moment till it had passed, he went
on his way, and arrived at some straggling
cottages, and finally at the main street of a
town—still ignorant of where he was till he
read by the light of a lamp, at its farther
extremity, the name " Colnbrook," painted upon
a narrow board. Not staying to rest—for
every moment of delay would have seemed
to him a culpable falling-off from his purpose
—he left the town behind, and found himself
again on the lonely highway. Once he
found a milestone by the road, but there
was not sufficient light to read the inscription.
He leant down, and felt the surface
with his hand; but the letters were evidently
cut in, instead of being raised, and perhaps
worn, for he could not trace them.
Pursuing his way for a mile or two further,
he was surprised to find no other town or
village. Looking across the country from a
hedge-bank, he could see no lights in any
direction; and, after awhile, the roadway
became narrower and seemed dwindling into
a lane with ditch and hedge at each side.
Much fearing that he had missed his way,
and turned from the highway at some junction
of roads without perceiving it, he would have
returned; but seeing something like a habitation
a little lower down, he went on in the hope
of getting information. It was a small white
toll-house connected with a bar across the
lane, and he knocked at the door. A voice
answered instantly.

"What road is this?" he inquired.

"Why, you know as well as I do," replied
the voice.

"I do not. indeed," rejoined Chester. " I
was on the London road an hour since, and
I 'm afraid I have turned off, accidentally."

"I know you," cried the voice; " you want
a horsewhip, you do. Be off! I 'm getting
up to talk to you. Dom you!"

Not hoping for any information from the
surly owner of the voice, the basket-maker
turned back; and, after some time, perceived
that he had come again into the high road, at
the point where he must have quitted it.
Looking backward in the direction of
Colnbrook, he saw some horses, as he thought,
drawing a wagon; for he could see a lanthorn
hanging high above them, and he heard the
tinkling of bells. It was some time before
they came up to him,—for the six horses
crawled leisurely on; the driver beside them.
The basket-maker accosted the man, and
seemed thereby to rouse him from a deep
slumber, although he was upon his feet and
walking. Having ascertained that he was
going to London, he agreed with him to give
him a place in the wagon; and, with much
difficulty, he climbed to a little nest under
the top of the arched tarpawling, where the
lanthorn was hanging. The place was well
lined with straw and cloths, and contained
half-a-dozen persons. An old soldier was
smoking, with a child on his lap. A
sunburnt and freckled young woman, whose face
was seen under the lanthorn, slept. The
rest were men in the dress of farm-labourers.
They scrutinised the new-comer, till he
volunteered an account of his walk, and told
them his destination; after which he looked
out in silence, watching the horizon.
Although he was tired, and much in need of
rest, he frequently repented that he had
not pursued his way on foot. Hour after
hour seemed to pass, as the great team
moved on by the slow strides of the horses,
with the endless accompaniment of bells and
jingling chains. At length he saw many
lights in the distance, and, appealing to his
companions, to know whether that was
London, was told that he saw the lamps of
Hounslow. They passed through the town, and
creeping again along the highway, beheld at
last the red glare of London, hovering between
the city and the dark sky. Day dawned,
however, before they reached it, and the road,
as they drew nearer, became more busy, till
at length they were fairly in the midst of the
traffic. Yet, even then, it seemed to him an
endless time consumed before they turned
down a narrow lane, and entered the
gateway of an ancient inn.