’I plunged into the Scotch mist unsuspected and unpursued.  The visible ebullition of discontent had so much disgusted me that I must needs see whether anything could be done with it, and fairly face the matter, as I can only do in a walk.  Pillow counsel is feverish and tumultuous; one is hardly master of oneself.  The soft, cool, mist-laden air, heavy but incense-breathing, was a far more friendly adjunct in the quiet decay of nature—­mournful, but not foul nor corrupt, because man had not spoilt it.  It suited me better than a sunny, glaring day, such as I used to revel in, and the brightness of which, last spring, made me pine to be in the free air.  Such days are past with me; I had better know that they are, and not strive after them.  Personal happiness is the lure, not the object, in this world.  I have my Northwold home, and I am beginning to see that my father’s comfort depends on me as I little imagined, and sufficiently to sweeten any sacrifice.  So I have written to refuse Scarborough, for there is no use in trying to combine two things, pleasing my father and myself.  I wish the determination may last; but mine have never been good for much, and you must help me.

’Neither thinking nor fog conduced to seeing where I was going; and when my ankle began to give out, and I was going to turn, I ran into a hedge, which, looming through the mist, I had been taking for a fine range of distant mountains—­rather my way of dealing with other objects.  Being without a horse on whose neck to lay the reins, I could only coast the hedge, hoping it might lead me back to Oakstead Park, which I had abandoned in my craving for space and dread of being dogged by the Ensign.  But the treacherous hedge led me nowhere but to a horsepond; and when I had struggled out of the adjacent mire, and attained a rising ground, I could only see about four yards square of bare down, all the rest being grey fog.  Altogether, the scene was worth something.  I heard what I thought the tinkling of a sheep bell through the cloud, which dulled the sound like cotton wool; I pursued the call, when anon, the veil began to grow thin, and revealed, looking just like a transparency, a glimpse of a little village in a valley almost under my feet, trees, river, church-spire and all, and the bell became clearer, and showed me what kind of flock it was meant for.  I turned that way, and had just found a path leading down the steep, when down closed the cloud—­a natural dissolving view—­leaving me wondering whether it had been mirage or imagination, till presently, the curtain drew up in earnest.  Out came, not merely form, but colour, as I have seen a camera clear itself—­blue sky, purple hills, russet and orange woods, a great elm green picked out with yellow, a mass of brown oaks, a scarlet maple, a beech grove, skirting a brilliant water meadow, with a most reflective stream running through it, and giving occasion for a single arched bridge, and a water mill, with a wheel