“I know it now,” said Morris, “but I could not get rid of my horror of the gallows and of Bill Buckley’s hate. I had a new and passionate love for life, and longed to get to some distant place, where, unknown, unnoted, I could begin a new and better career. I struck across the country, and found myself at last by a little solitary inn on the turnpike road to Hull. The landlady regarded me with a good deal of suspicion, but as I paid for some refreshment, and told her I had fallen into some water, and should pass on after I had dried my clothes, she did not further interfere. At last I found myself in Hull, and got a job at some oil mills, and both there and at my lodgings, in a quiet street, I felt that I was comparatively safe from observation and pursuit; but, somehow or other, my peace of mind was gone; all my new hatred of self and sin was as great as ever, but still I had lost the joy and comfort which came to me in Waverdale Park. Then I thought about my mother, and I began to feel that I had done wrong to go away. Somebody seemed to say, ‘What doest thou here?’ I tried to pray, but could not, until one night after I had got to bed, I tossed and sighed and grew so wretched that I got out of bed, and falling on my knees, I said, ‘Oh! my God! tell me what to do?’ ‘Go home!’ was the instant and powerful impression on my mind. ‘That’s God’s orders,’ I said, and went to bed again with the settled resolve to start for Nestleton as soon as Saturday came. As I was returning to work after the dinner hour next day, I was walking along Silver-street when I heard a well-known voice shout, ‘Black Morris!’ and I saw Old Adam Olliver standing with his hands uplifted and both eyes and mouth open, in unmistakable surprise. He stared and looked so thoroughly thunderstricken as to attract the attention of the passers-by. When I advanced to meet him, the old man drew back a few paces, but said never a word. “‘Hallo! Adam Olliver!’ said I. ’Is that you?’ “‘The Lord hae massy on us! Black Morris! are ye alive?’ and again the old man started back in undisguised astonishment. ‘Why, all Nestleton thinks ’at you’er layd at t’ bottom o’ Thurston Beck!’ “I felt half inclined to be thankful that this was so, because it put any search for me on Old Crabtree’s account out of the question, and with that feeling came one of sorrow that he had found me out. The thought of my mother’s bitter grief, however, soon dissipated that idea, and I felt how wrong it had been of me to go away. All this passed through my mind in a moment. I said, ‘How is my mother, Adam?’ “The old man smiled, as he answered,-- “‘Just middlin’. Ah’s glad ’at you’ve ax’d efther hor. Ye’r heart’s somewhere’s i’ t’ right spot; an’ t’ best thing yo can deea is te gan streyt away yam an’ see ’er. Bud, bless my sowl, Black Morris! are yo’ alive?’