dry stone wall, where the moor gave
over in earnest, and the partridges whisked from it into the corn lands,
and called that their supper was ready, and looked at our house and the
ricks as they ran, and would wait for that comfort till winter.

And there I saw--but let me go--Annie was too much for me. She nearly
pulled me off my horse, and kissed the very mouth of the carbine.

"I knew you would come. Oh John! Oh John! I have waited here every
Saturday night; and I saw you for the last mile or more, but I would not
come round the corner, for fear that I should cry, John, and then not
cry when I got you. Now I may cry as much as I like, and you need
not try to stop me, John, because I am so happy. But you mustn't cry
yourself, John; what will mother think of you? She will be so jealous of
me."

What mother thought I cannot tell; and indeed I doubt if she thought at
all for more than half an hour, but only managed to hold me tight, and
cry, and thank God now and then, but with some fear of His taking me,
if she should be too grateful. Moreover she thought it was my own
doing, and I ought to have the credit of it, and she even came down very
sharply upon John's wife, Mrs. Fry, for saying that we must not be too
proud, for all of it was the Lord's doing. However, dear mother was
ashamed of that afterwards, and asked Mrs. Fry's humble pardon; and
perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it.

Old Smiler had told them that I was coming--all the rest, I mean, except
Annie--for having escaped from his halter-ring, he was come out to graze
in the lane a bit; when what should he see but a strange horse coming
with young master and mistress upon him, for Annie must needs get up
behind me, there being only sheep to look at her. Then Smiler gave us
a stare and a neigh, with his tail quite stiff with amazement, and then
(whether in joy or through indignation) he flung up his hind feet and
galloped straight home, and set every dog wild with barking.

Now, methinks, quite enough has been said concerning this mighty return
of the young John Ridd (which was known up at Cosgate that evening), and
feeling that I cannot describe it, how can I hope that any one else will
labour to imagine it, even of the few who are able? For very few can
have travelled so far, unless indeed they whose trade it is, or very
unsettled people. And even of those who have done so, not one in a
hundred can have such a home as I had to come home to.

Mother we