CHAPTER XXXII.
1802 .-- This September I was invited to devastate the moors of a friend in the north, and on my journey to his abode, I unexpectedly came within fifteen miles of Gimmerton.

The ostler at a roadside public-house was holding a pail of water to refresh my horses, when a cart of very green oats, newly reaped, passed by, and he remarked,--'Yon's frough Gimmerton, nah! They're allas three wick' after other folk wi' ther harvest.' 'Gimmerton ?' I repeated--my residence in that locality had already grown dim and dreamy.

'Ah! I know.

How far is it from this ?' 'Happen fourteen mile o'er th' hills; and a rough road,' he answered.
A sudden impulse seized me to visit Thrushcross Grange.

It was scarcely noon, and I conceived that I might as well pass the night under my own roof as in an inn.