He was haunted by the fear that he should find her changed, that she would be cold and distant with him.

He worked himself up into such a fever at last, that half-way up the Staplegrove Hill he stopped the fly and told the driver that he wished to walk, and directed him to take his bag to the Wood House.
The walk certainly refreshed him, and by the time he reached the Crow's Nest he felt more ready for the ordeal.

When he came to the gate that led to the Wood House, he hesitated, and then crossed the road and stood for a few moments looking down the little woodland path he remembered so well.

No other place was so associated with Elizabeth.
How often he had met her at this little gate, or waited for her when he knew she was coming back from Rotherwood! That day, for example, when she wore her white sun-bonnet, and came along swinging her arms like an imperial milkmaid, a "very queen of curds and cream." At that moment a little sharp clang of a distant gate made his heart beat suddenly.
There were footsteps--yes, without doubt, there were footsteps--it was no fancy.

Then at the bend of the road he could see distinctly a tall black figure, walking rather slowly and wearily along, and though he could not see her face he knew it was Elizabeth.
The next minute he unlatched the gate a little noisily; he would not steal a march on her--she believed herself alone; then she looked up and quickened her pace, and when he came up to her, there was actually a smile on her face.
"You are fond of surprises," she said, looking at him as she gave him her hand.