InaboutanhourIcametoawildmoor；themoorextendedformilesandmiles。Itwasboundedontheeastandsouthbyimmensehillsandmoels。OnIwalkedataroundpace，thesunscorchingmesore，alongadusty，hillyroad，nowup，nowdown。Nothingcouldbeconceivedmorecheerlessthanthesceneryaround。Thegroundoneachsideoftheroadwasmossyandrushy—nohouses—insteadofthemwereneatstacks，hereandthere，standingintheirblackness。
Nothinglivingtobeseenexceptafewmiserablesheeppickingthewretchedherbage，orlyingpantingontheshadysideofthepeatclumps。AtlengthIsawsomethingwhichappearedtobeasheetofwateratthebottomofalowgroundonmyright。Itlookedfaroff—\"ShallIgoandseewhatitis？\"thoughtItomyself。\"No，\"
thoughtI。\"Itistoofaroff\"—soonIwalkedtillIlostsightofit，whenIrepentedandthoughtIwouldgoandseewhatitwas。
SoIdasheddownthemooryslopeonmyright，andpresentlysawtheobjectagain—andnowIsawthatitwaswater。Ispedtowardsitthroughgorseandheather，occasionallyleapingadeepdrain。AtlastIreachedit。Itwasasmalllake。WeariedandpantingI
flungmyselfonitsbankandgazeduponit。