id. Aye, there it was,
slowly winding up the steep white road, on which it seemed to move at
a snail's pace.

She might overtake him--she might--she might speak one farewell word
to him, print his face on her heart with a last look--nay, when
he saw her he might retract, and not utterly, for ever, leave her.
Thus she thought; and she flew back to her room, and snatching up
her bonnet, ran, tying the strings with her trembling hands as she
went down the stairs, out at the nearest door, little heeding the
angry words of Mrs Morgan; for the hostess, more irritated at Mrs
Bellingham's severe upbraiding at parting, than mollified by her
ample payment, was offended by the circumstance of Ruth, in her wild
haste, passing through the prohibited front door.

But Ruth was away before Mrs Morgan had finished her speech, out
and away, scudding along the road, thought-lost in the breathless
rapidity of her motion. Though her heart and head beat almost to
bursting, what did it signify if she could but overtake the carriage?
It was a nightmare, constantly evading the most passionate wishes and
endeavours, and constantly gaining ground. Every time it was visible
it was in fact more distant, but Ruth would not believe it. If she
could but gain the summit of that weary, everlasting hill, she
believed that she could run again, and would soon be nigh upon the
carriage. As she ran, she prayed with wild eagerness; she prayed that
she might see his face once more, even if she died on the spot before
him. It was one of those prayers which God is too merciful to grant;
but despairing and wild as it was, Ruth put her soul into it, and
prayed it again, and yet again.

Wave above wave of the ever-rising hills were gained, were crossed,
and at last Ruth struggled up to the very top and stood on the bare
table of moor, brown and purple, stretching far away till it was lost
in the haze of the summer afternoon; and the white road was all flat
before her, but the carriage she sought and the figure she sought had
disappeared. There was no human being there; a few wild, black-faced
mountain sheep quietly grazing near the road, as if it were long
since they had been disturbed by the passing of any vehicle, was all
the life she saw on the bleak moorland.

She threw herself down on the ling by the side of the road in
despair. Her only hope was to die, and she believed she was dying.
She could not think; she could believe anything. Surely life was a
ho