What a merry trio we were under the tilt; how we laughed, and chattered, and sang! and only a dozen years ago! Lord! what a change a dozen years can make amongst the liveliest of us! It was, I cannot deny it, a cold and tedious journey. Before one-half of it was accomplished the pale sunshine had faded from the snow, and the gray twilight was coming down upon the hills under a leaden vault of sky which promised another storm before the morning. Long Tom plodded patiently on at the leader’s head, now cracking his whip, now cheering his horses forward with a gruff encouragement, but never vouchsafing a word to anybody else. Foreman was more sociably disposed; he took brief rides on the shafts and the front of the wagon, and from time to time put his broad brown face in at the opening of the tilt, and inquired how we were getting on. Before it grew dark, there was a pretty long stoppage for a consultation, and Anne and Sophy were taken into council. John was spokesman, and addressed himself to Sophy, who was the imperative mood of the Preston family, and ruled many things both in-doors and out at Ripstone Farm, though she was only the younger daughter. “We’ve split, Long Tom and me, Miss Sophy, and I want to know what you says, and Miss Anne. There’s two ways to Rookwood, and Tom’s for going by t’ Scaur, but I votes for Binks’ Wold:—it’s a stiffish pull, but it’s safest. Now, if we goes by t’ Scaur, an’ we finds a drift across t’ hollow, as most likelings we should, turn back we must; we couldn’t haul through it nohow—an’ there’s Dimple Quarries—I never likes passing them quarries after dark.” “Binks’ Wold, John,” pronounced Sophy, imperially; “we’ll have nothing to say to the Scaur or the Quarries after daylight. We should not be worth picking up, Tom, if you drove us over the cliff.” Long Tom did not attempt to argue the point, but cracked his whip sharply, and again the horses moved on; more slowly now than before, for the road, such as it was, wound circuitously up-hill for nearly half a mile. Four times during the ascent we stopped to breathe the horses, but at last John, looking in on us, announced in mysterious terms that “we had brokken t’ neck o’ t’ journey, an’ should be at the Grange i’ no time.” I could not resist the temptation to crawl to the opening, and look out; Anne and Sophy joining me. There we were on the crest of Binks’ Wold: far as eye could see, one undulation of snow; the black horses, with their heads a little turned from the road, smoking in the frosty air, like four masked furnaces. Long Tom, with his lantern, stood at the leader’s head, throwing a grotesque shadow across the whitened road, and John clumped up and down, with his pipe in his mouth, to warm his nose, as he said.