He was ever loath to leave that cherished home for his long absences on the Chester and North Welsh Circuit, and ever joyful when the day came that he might return thither. Even the heavy sand that clogged his horse's feet could hardly make him check his pace. The sands of Morecambe Bay are perilous at times, especially to strangers, for the tide flows in with such swiftness that even a galloping horse may not escape it. But the Judge and his companions knew the dangers well enough to avoid them. Their trained eyes instinctively marked the slight depressions in the sand and the line of brogs, or half-hidden trees, that guide travellers across by what is really the safest route, although it may seem to take unnecessary loops and curves.[11] At a little distance lay the lonely Chapel Island, surrounded by the sea even at low tide, where in olden days lived a community of monks, who tolled a bell to guide pilgrims across the shifting sands, or said masses for the souls of those who perished. As his horse picked its way carefully, the Judge raised his eyes often towards the high plateau on the horizon to which he was steadily drawing nearer with every tedious step. Beloved Swarthmoor! The house itself was hidden, but he could plainly discern the belt of trees in which it stood. He thought of each of the inmates of that hidden home. George, his only son, how straight and tall he was growing, how gallant a rider, and how skilful a sportsman even now, though hasty in temper and over apt to take offence. His gay maidens, were they at this moment singing over some new madrigal prepared to greet him on his return? In an hour or two he should see them all running down the garden path to welcome him, from stately 'young Margrett' to little toddling Susanna. His wife, his own Margaret, well he knew where she would be! watching for him from the lattice of their chamber, where she was ever the first to catch sight of him on his return, as she had been the last to bid him farewell on his departure. At this point the good Judge's meditations were suddenly interrupted by his groom, who, spurring his horse on a level with his Master's, pointed respectfully, with upraised whip, towards several moving specks that were hastening across the estuary. The softest bit of sand was over now, the travellers were reaching firmer ground, where it was possible to go at a quicker pace. Setting spurs to his horse the Judge hastened forward, his face flushing with an anxiety he took no pains to conceal. In those days, when posts were rare and letters difficult to get or to send, an absence of many weeks always meant the possibility of finding bad news at home on the return from a journey.