in for a short stage only; for, when I look up
after an uneasy snatch of sleep, I find that
they have departed, and that I am alone in
the blue-cushioned chamber, under the sickly
lamp. By this time day is breaking, with a
cold grey that brings out the dark trees
flying by; and, looking out, I find the ground
all whitened, and that it has been snowing
hard, north-westerly. It lightens and lightens
and gradually the cold grey fades off. There
are long canals below us, ice-bound and
unnavigable. There are stray houses of a rude
sandstone common to these parts, and we roll
into a great red town: a city of factories and
tall chimneys, all in broad daylight, just as
the hands are going to work. With weary
eyes and stiffened limbs I descend, leaving
behind me the sickly lamp burning still. A halt
here for some hours in a busy inn; thence
northward by another railway. Journeying
steadily from noon until close on the stroke
of four, we slacken speed; moving across a
deep valley on a great viaduct of the rough
sandstone. I recognise something familiar in
the look of that valley: in the great heavy
mountain far off on the right: in the swell
and fall of the ground; dim, indistinct
memories of boy years, confused by the new
staring viaduct that runs so rudely across the
smiling valley. A grey mossy tower—part
of old abbey ruins—glides slowly by, and I
begin to feel that here is something not
altogether strange to me.

A lonely wooden station perched high on
the arches; with a lonely man in charge,
who came out to wonder what business could
bring the stranger into this solitary region,
and, presently the train had passed on out of
the valley, leaving me with the lonely man on
his lonely platform. It was nearly dark, and
a light or two twinkling below, showed
where there was still an inn of the old
pattern not yet departed; whither the lonely
porter went off silently to order up a chaise for
Mytton Grange, distant some six miles. But I
found that the old inn was gone long since;
and, in its stead, there had risen a cold
public-house, with a new sign, and a new proprietor.
The only chaise and the only horse were being
got out hastily; and, in a few seconds, I was
on the road to my old home.

With a tremulous feeling at my heart, I
looked from the window for such old
landmarks and tokens, as ought to be familiar
to me; for the old bridge just clear of the
village where we used to fish (standing under
its arches on the mossy bank where the trees
stretched over, making a bower and giving a
pleasant shelter); but the road had taken a
sweep, and I was now crossing a fresh rough-
hewn structure, and yonder were the relics
of the old bridge—three grey broken arches,
all stripped and jagged. But other lesser
things were left us. A good mile further on,
the great stone-trough, up the steep hill,
where the wagon horses used to halt and
drink; the stone-cross over the old quarry,
marking where one dark November night
old Joe Bradly, the keeper, was cast down
and dashed to pieces; the wooden stile
leading to the short cut over the fields to
Mytton. Strange memories of those days,
kept crowding on me as the way shortened,
as the darkness gathered. How would the
old place look? Had it kept the grey reverend
aspect it bore on the day I drove from
the door just thirty years before; friends,
relatives, retainers, all gathered on the steps
under its shadowy porch, watching me
speeding away down the long avenue. Never
did it seem so beautiful. Its square central
tower, broken into stories, each with its
mullioned window and supporting pillars,
flanked with great wings, and other square
towers; its two open cupolas, each capped
with a stone eagle, rising high in the centre,
all of a grey reverend stone. How was it
now with its broad court inside?  its broad
flight of steps seen through the porch, leading
up straight to the great banqueting
hall? Did the grass grow there now, and
were its grey stones disturbed? How was
it with its quaint old English gardens, laid
out in long lines of yew-tree hedges, shaven
smooth and straight as a wall? its broad
walks and terraces, its round Dutch ponds
and white leaden gods rising from the water,
its grotesque sun-dials and devices, and dark
cavernous aisle of ancient yews meeting
overhead, through which the sun's rays
never penetrated? How was it with all
these? Overgrown with weeds and gone to
ruin? Question soon to be resolved, for we
were now struggling up the east hill, over a
little valley all sunk in darkness, where
were lights twinkling, and where lay the
manor village of Hurst Mytton, now all
wrapped in darkness. I could hear the little
stream that coursed through the valley,
turning a few rude mills, rippling noisily as
of old, just as we swept sharply round a
corner and entered the broad open avenue,
a good mile long, leading straight down to
Mytton. With beating heart I could see
afar off the dark mass, standing out shadowy
with the two cupolas outlined on bluish
grey ground. Lights were twinkling up and
down, and a red glow came through crimson
curtains drawn close before the windows of
the picture gallery.

In a few seconds more the great pile was
looming out over my head, and the driver
was on the ground pulling at a bell. It rang
out hoarsely, scaring some shrill birds that
had their nest overhead. I was standing
under shelter of the grey porch looking into
the court. From open windows of that
picture gallery on the right, was pouring a
flood of genial light through a crimson
transparency; prospect ineffably comforting
to a lone wanderer's heart! I was
walking round, looking up with a strange
feeling over me, at the great clock fixed in
one of the towers, which used to chime tunes