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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 478 pages of information about Uncle Silas.

Good Mary Quince, like myself, had quite dried her tears by this time, and we were both highly interested, and I a little nervous, too, about our arrival and reception at Bartram.  Some time, of course, was lost in this pleasant little parlour, before we found ourselves once more pursuing our way.

The slowest part of our journey was the pull up the long mountain road, ascending zig-zag, as sailors make way against a head-wind, by tacking.  I forget the name of the pretty little group of houses—­it did not amount to a village—­buried in trees, where we got our four horses and two postilions, for the work was severe.  I can only designate it as the place where Mary Quince and I had our tea, very comfortably, and bought some gingerbread, very curious to look upon, but quite uneatable.

The greater portion of the ascent, when we were fairly upon the mountain, was accomplished at a walk, and at some particularly steep points we had to get out and go on foot.  But this to me was quite delightful.  I had never scaled a mountain before, and the ferns and heath, the pure boisterous air, and above all the magnificent view of the rich country we were leaving behind, now gorgeous and misty in sunset tints, stretching in gentle undulations far beneath us, quite enchanted me.

We had just reached the summit when the sun went down.  The low grounds at the other side were already lying in cold grey shadow, and I got the man who sat behind to point out as well as he could the site of Bartram-Haugh.  But mist was gathering over all by this time.  The filmy disk of the moon which was to light us on, so soon as twilight faded into night, hung high in air.  I tried to see the sable mass of wood which he described.  But it was vain, and to acquire a clear idea of the place, as of its master, I must only wait that nearer view which an hour or two more would afford me.

And now we rapidly descended the mountain side.  The scenery was wilder and bolder than I was accustomed to.  Our road skirted the edge of a great heathy moor.  The silvery light of the moon began to glimmer, and we passed a gipsy bivouac with fires alight and caldrons hanging over them.  It was the first I had seen.  Two or three low tents; a couple of dark, withered crones, veritable witches; a graceful girl standing behind, gazing after us; and men in odd-shaped hats, with gaudy waistcoats and bright-coloured neck-handkerchiefs and gaitered legs, stood lazily in front.  They had all a wild tawdry display of colour; and a group of alders in the rear made a background of shade for tents, fires, and figures.

I opened a front window of the chariot, and called to the postboys to stop.  The groom from behind came to the window.

‘Are not those gipsies?’ I enquired.

‘Yes, please’m, them’s gipsies, sure, Miss,’ he answered, glancing with that odd smile, half contemptuous, half superstitious, with which I have since often observed the peasants of Derbyshire eyeing those thievish and uncanny neighbours.

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