Her long and late walks lay always, as has been said, on lonely roads; but in whatever direction she had rambled--whether along the drear skirts of Stilbro' Moor or over the sunny stretch of Nunnely Common--her homeward path was still so contrived as to lead her near the Hollow. She rarely descended the den, but she visited its brink at twilight almost as regularly as the stars rose over the hillcrests. Her resting-place was at a certain stile under a certain old thorn. Thence she could look down on the cottage, the mill, the dewy garden-ground, the still, deep dam; thence was visible the well-known counting-house window, from whose panes at a fixed hour shot, suddenly bright, the ray of the well-known lamp. Her errand was to watch for this ray, her reward to catch it, sometimes sparkling bright in clear air, sometimes shimmering dim through mist, and anon flashing broken between slant lines of rain--for she came in all weathers.

Her long walks lay on lonely roads; but in whatever direction she had rambled, her homeward path always led her near the Hollow. She regularly visited its brink at twilight, and rested at a certain stile. From there she could look down on the cottage, the mill, the dewy garden: from there was visible the counting-house window, from whose panes at a fixed hour shone the ray of the lamp. Her errand was to watch for this ray, her reward to catch it.
