Chapter 11

           Sometimes,whilemeditatingonthesethingsinsolitude,I’vegotupinasuddenterror,andputonmybonnettogoseehowallwasatthefarm.I’vepersuadedmyconsciencethatitwasadutytowarnhimhowpeopletalkedregardinghisways;andthenI’verecollectedhisconfirmedbadhabits,and,hopelessofbenefitinghim,haveflinchedfromre-enteringthedismalhouse,doubtingifIcouldbeartobetakenatmyword.

           OnetimeIpassedtheoldgate,goingoutofmyway,onajourneytoGimmerton.Itwasabouttheperiodthatmynarrativehasreached:abrightfrostyafternoon;thegroundbare,andtheroadhardanddry.Icametoastonewherethehighwaybranchesoffontothemooratyourlefthand;aroughsand-pillar,withthelettersWH.cutonitsnorthside,ontheeast,G.,andonthesouth-west,T.G.ItservesasaguideposttotheGrange,theHeights,andvillage.Thesunshoneyellowonitsgreyhead,remindingmeofsummer;andIcannotsaywhy,butallatonce,agushofchild’ssensationsflowedintomyheart.HindleyandIhelditafavouritespottwentyyearsbefore.Igazedlongattheweather-wornblock,and,stoopingdown,perceivedaholenearthebottomstillfullofsnail-shellsandpebbles,whichwewerefondofstoringtherewithmoreperishablethings;and,asfreshasreality,itappearedthatIbeheldmyearlyplaymateseatedonthewitheredturf:hisdark,squareheadbentforward,andhislittlehandscoopingouttheearthwithapieceofslate."PoorHindley!"Iexclaimedinvoluntarily.