Adam walked much faster, and any one coming along the Oakbourne road at sunrise that morning must have had a pleasant sight in this tall broad-chested man, striding along with a carriage as upright and firm as any soldier’s, glancing with keen glad eyes at the dark-blue hills as they began to show themselves on his way.  Seldom in Adam’s life had his face been so free from any cloud of anxiety as it was this morning; and this freedom from care, as is usual with constructive practical minds like his, made him all the more observant of the objects round him and all the more ready to gather suggestions from them towards his own favourite plans and ingenious contrivances.  His happy love—­the knowledge that his steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty, who was so soon to be his—­was to his thoughts what the sweet morning air was to his sensations:  it gave him a consciousness of well-being that made activity delightful.  Every now and then there was a rush of more intense feeling towards her, which chased away other images than Hetty; and along with that would come a wondering thankfulness that all this happiness was given to him—­that this life of ours had such sweetness in it.  For Adam had a devout mind, though he was perhaps rather impatient of devout words, and his tenderness lay very close to his reverence, so that the one could hardly be stirred without the other.  But after feeling had welled up and poured itself out in this way, busy thought would come back with the greater vigour; and this morning it was intent on schemes by which the roads might be improved that were so imperfect all through the country, and on picturing all the benefits that might come from the exertions of a single country gentleman, if he would set himself to getting the roads made good in his own district.

It seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, that pretty town within sight of the blue hills, where he break-fasted.  After this, the country grew barer and barer:  no more rolling woods, no more wide-branching trees near frequent homesteads, no more bushy hedgerows, but greystone walls intersecting the meagre pastures, and dismal wide-scattered greystone houses on broken lands where mines had been and were no longer.  “A hungry land,” said Adam to himself.  “I’d rather go south’ard, where they say it’s as flat as a table, than come to live here; though if Dinah likes to live in a country where she can be the most comfort to folks, she’s i’ the right to live o’ this side; for she must look as if she’d come straight from heaven, like th’ angels in the desert, to strengthen them as ha’ got nothing t’ eat.”  And when at last he came in sight of Snowfield, he thought it looked like a town that was “fellow to the country,” though the stream through the valley where the great mill stood gave a pleasant greenness to the lower fields.  The town lay, grim, stony, and unsheltered, up the side of a steep hill, and Adam did not go forward to it at present, for Seth had told him where to find