IleftMoorHouseatthreeo’clockp。m。，andsoonafterfourIstoodatthefootofthesign—postofWhitcross，waitingthearrivalofthecoachwhichwastotakemetodistantThornfield。Amidstthesilenceofthosesolitaryroadsanddeserthills，Ihearditapproachfromagreatdistance。Itwasthesamevehiclewhence，ayearago，Ihadalightedonesummereveningonthisveryspot—howdesolate，andhopeless，andobjectless！ItstoppedasIbeckoned。Ientered—notnowobligedtopartwithmywholefortuneasthepriceofitsaccommodation。OncemoreontheroadtoThornfield，Ifeltlikethemessenger—pigeonflyinghome。
Itwasajourneyofsix—and—thirtyhours。IhadsetoutfromWhitcrossonaTuesdayafternoon，andearlyonthesucceedingThursdaymorningthecoachstoppedtowaterthehorsesatawaysideinn，situatedinthemidstofscenerywhosegreenhedgesandlargefieldsandlowpastoralhills（howmildoffeatureandverdantofhuecomparedwiththesternNorth—MidlandmoorsofMorton！）metmyeyelikethelineamentsofaoncefamiliarface。Yes，Iknewthecharacterofthislandscape:Iwassurewewerenearmybourne。
“HowfarisThornfieldHallfromhere？”Iaskedoftheostler。
“Justtwomiles，ma’am，acrossthefields。”
“Myjourneyisclosed，”Ithoughttomyself。Igotoutofthecoach，gaveaboxIhadintotheostler’scharge，tobekepttillIcalledforit;paidmyfare;satisfiedthecoachman，andwasgoing:thebrighteningdaygleamedonthesignoftheinn，andIreadingiltletters，“TheRochesterArms。”Myheartleaptup:Iwasalreadyonmymaster’sverylands。Itfellagain:thethoughtstruckit:—