"He walked along in the same direction that he had at that time pursued, and soon found that he reached the turnpike-road to Lancaster. He turned off, and went by the cross-road that leads to the wild and dreary plains that form the coast. The inner range of picturesque hills, on the declivity of which Dromore is situated, is not more than five miles from the sea; but the shore itself is singularly blank and uninteresting, varied only by sand-hills thrown up to the height of thirty or forty feet, intersected by rivers, which at low water are fordable even on foot; but which, when the tide is up, are dangerous to those who do not know the right track, from the holes and ruts which render the bed of the river uneven. In winter, indeed, at the period of spring tides, or in stormy weather, with a west wind which drives the ocean towards the shore, the passage is often exceedingly dangerous, and, except under the direction of an experienced guide, fatal accidents occur. "Gerard reached the borders of the ocean near one of these streams; behind him rose his native mountains, range above range, divided by tremendous gulfs, varied by the shadows of the clouds, and the gleams of sunlight; close to him was the waste seashore; the ebbing tide gave a dreary sluggish appearance to the ocean, and the river--a shallow, rapid stream--emptied its slender pittance of mountain water noiselessly into the lazy deep. It was a scene of singular desolation. On the other side of the river, not far from the mouth, was a rude hut, unroofed, and fallen to decay--erected, perhaps, as the abode of a guide; near it grew a stunted tree, withered, moss-covered, spectre-like--the sand-hills lay scattered around--the seagull screamed above, and skimmed over the waste. Gerard sat down and wept--motherless--escaped from his angry father; even to his young imagination, his fate seemed as drear and gloomy as the scene around." CHAPTER XX "I do not know why I have dwelt on these circumstances so long. Let me hasten to finish. For two months Gerard wandered in the neighbourhood of Dromore. If he saw a lone cottage, imbowered in trees, hidden in some green recess of the hills, sequestered and peaceful, he thought, Perhaps my mother is there! and he clambered towards it, finding it at last, probably, a mere shepherd's hut, poverty-stricken, and tenanted by a noisy family. His money was exhausted--he made a journey to Lancaster to sell his watch, and then returned to Cumberland--his clothes, his shoes were worn out--often he slept in the open air--ewes' milk cheese and black bread were his fare--his hope was to find his mother--his fear to fall again into his father's hands. But as the first sentiment failed, his friendless condition grew more sad; he began to feel that he was indeed a feeble, helpless boy--abandoned by all--he thought nothing was left for him but to lie down and die.