As his mind rambled thus, he came to the outskirts of a long, wooded tract, which—­for the map, as he had seen it at the railway-station, was clearly marked out in his memory, from the beginning to the end of his route—­he knew was upward of ten miles from his starting-point; and, as near as he could judge (his watch, lying at the bottom of the fountain-basin in the Parsonage-garden, had never been replaced), it must be rather more than half-past nine o’clock.  He maintained the same long, swinging trot, as unfalteringly as ever, though, perhaps, a trifle less springily than at first.  The footing was deep and heavy, the thick fir-trees having kept the snow from being blown off the road, as in more exposed situations.  Bressant was wet to his skin, for the temperature had risen, and the flakes melted as fast as they fell.  Most of his glow and vigor remained, however, and he was no whit disheartened or doubtful.  But the sky bent darkly over him, and the tall trees shut out all but a strip even of the scanty light that came thence.  The moon would not rise for hours yet.

Another hour passed on over the toiling man.  He had now begun to get among hills, and his course was always either up or down.  This was in some degree a relief, affording change of movement to his muscles; but it probably lost him some little time, and certainly gave plenty of exercise to his lungs.  Something of the superabundant warmth was leaving his body.  He replaced his cap and buttoned up his jacket.  What would not half a dozen biscuits have been worth to him now!

On and on.  The hills opened, and in the inclosure they made lay a small village, with its white meeting-house and clustering dwellings.  The windows were many of them alight:  the people were sitting up for the new year.  Bressant wondered whether it would dawn for any of them so strangely as for him!  As he hurried along the empty street, a sign over one of the doors, barely discernible in the darkness, attracted his attention.  He paused close to it, and made out the words, “West India goods and groceries;” and at once his fancy reveled in the savory eatables stored beyond his reach.  What cheese and butter, what hams, biscuits, and apples; what salted codfish and strings of sausages, were there!  Had the store been open, he would have been tempted to rush in, knock the salesman senseless, and make off with whatever he could carry.  Strange thoughts these for a man bound on an errand of life and death!  But hunger is no respecter of occasions, however inopportune, or of emotions, however incongruous.  Bressant passed on.  He was now twenty-five miles on his way, and as he came beneath the meeting-house clock, it struck twelve:  the new year had come!  To Bressant it brought only the knowledge that he was seven miles ahead of his time; and this served in some measure to counteract the depression caused by his hunger.  But on—­on!  There were still fifty miles to go!