IleftMoorHouseatthreeo\'clockP。M。，andsoonafterfourI
stoodatthefootofthesign—postofWhitcross，waitingthearrivalofthecoachwhichwastotakemetodistantThornfield。Amidstthesilenceofthosesolitaryroadsanddeserthills，Ihearditapproachfromagreatdistance。Itwasthesamevehiclewhence，ayearago，Ihadalightedonesummereveningonthisveryspot—howdesolate，andhopeless，andobjectless！ItstoppedasIbeckoned。I
entered—notnowobligedtopartwithmywholefortuneasthepriceofitsaccommodation。OncemoreontheroadtoThornfield，Ifeltlikethemessenger—pigeonflyinghome。
Itwasajourneyofsix—and—thirtyhours。IhadsetoutfromWhitcrossonaTuesdayafternoon，andearlyonthesucceedingThursdaymorningthecoachstoppedtowaterthehorsesatawaysideinn，situatedinthemidstofscenerywhosegreenhedgesandlargefieldsandlowpastoralhills（howmildoffeatureandverdantofhuecomparedwiththesternNorth—MidlandmoorsofMorton！）metmyeyelikethelineamentsofaoncefamiliarface。Yes，Iknewthecharacterofthislandscape:Iwassurewewerenearmybourne。
\'HowfarisThornfieldHallfromhere？\'Iaskedoftheostler。