Abouthalf-wayontheirjourneytheycrossedamainroadrunningdueeastandwest-theoldroadfromLondontoLand’sEnd。Theypaused，andlookedupanddownitforamoment，andremarkeduponthedesolationwhichhadcomeoverthisoncelivelythoroughfare，whilethewinddippedtoearthandscoopedstrawsandhay-stemsfromtheground。
Theycrossedtheroadandpassedon，butduringthenexthalf-mileSueseemedtogrowtired，andJudebegantobedistressedforher。Theyhadwalkedagooddistancealtogether，andiftheycouldnotreachtheotherstationitwouldberatherawkward。Foralongtimetherewasnocottagevisibleonthewideexpanseofdownandturnip-land；butpresentlytheycametoasheepfold，andnexttotheshepherd，pitchinghurdles。Hetoldthemthattheonlyhousenearwashismother’sandhis，pointingtoalittledipaheadfromwhichafaintbluesmokearose，andrecommendedthemtogoonandrestthere。
Thistheydid，andenteredthehouse，admittedbyanoldwomanwithoutasingletooth，towhomtheywereascivilasstrangerscanbewhentheironlychanceofrestandshelterliesinthefavourofthehouseholder。
`Anicelittlecottage，’saidJude。
`Oh，Idon’tknowabouttheniceness。Ishallhavetothatchitsoon，andwherethethatchistocomefromIcan’ttell，forstrawdogetthatdear，that’twillsoonbecheapertocoveryourhousewi’chaineyplatesthanthatch。’