I had seen nothing so fair as those English fields and copses since I left the pine-clad hills of Foretdechene.

An idiotic boy directed me across some fields to Dewsdale.

He sent me a mile out of the way; but I forgave and blest him, for I think the walk did me good.
I felt as if all manner of vicious vapours were being blown out of my head as the soft wind lifted my hair.
And so to Dewsdale.

Strolling leisurely through those quiet meadows, I fell to thinking of many things that seldom came into my mind in London.

I thought of my dead mother--a poor gentle creature--too frail to carry heroically the burden laid upon her, and so a little soured by chronic debt and difficulty.