Havingbroughtmyeventidemusingstothispoint，Irose，wenttomydoor，andlookedatthesunsetoftheharvest—day，andatthequietfieldsbeforemycottage，which，withtheschool，wasdistanthalfamilefromthevillage。Thebirdsweresingingtheirlaststrains—
\'Theairwasmild，thedewwasbalm。\'
WhileIlooked，Ithoughtmyselfhappy，andwassurprisedtofindmyselferelongweeping—andwhy？Forthedoomwhichhadreftmefromadhesiontomymaster:forhimIwasnomoretosee;forthedesperategriefandfatalfury—consequencesofmydeparture—whichmightnow，perhaps，bedragginghimfromthepathofright，toofartoleavehopeofultimaterestorationthither。Atthisthought，I
turnedmyfaceasidefromthelovelyskyofeveandlonelyvaleofMorton—Isaylonely，forinthatbendofitvisibletometherewasnobuildingapparentsavethechurchandtheparsonage，half—hidintrees，and，quiteattheextremity，theroofofValeHall，wheretherichMr。Oliverandhisdaughterlived。Ihidmyeyes，andleantmyheadagainstthestoneframeofmydoor;butsoonaslightnoisenearthewicketwhichshutinmytinygardenfromthemeadowbeyonditmademelookup。Adog—oldCarlo，Mr。Rivers\'pointer，asIsawinamoment—waspushingthegatewithhisnose，andSt。Johnhimselfleantuponitwithfoldedarms;hisbrowknit，hisgaze，gravealmosttodispleasure，fixedonme。Iaskedhimtocomein。
\'No，Icannotstay;IhaveonlybroughtyoualittleparcelMysistersleftforyou。Ithinkitcontainsacolour—box，pencils，andpaper。\'