And yet I am glad my Sheldon's business takes me to the woods and wolds of that wide northern shire.
Huxter's Cross--some Heaven-forgotten spot, no doubt.

I bought a railway time-table on my way home to-night, and have carefully studied the bearings of the place amongst whose mouldy records I am to discover the history of Christian Meynell's daughter and heiress.
I find that Huxter's Cross lies off the railroad, and is to be approached by an obscure little station--as I divine from the ignominious type in which its name appears--about sixty miles northward of Hull.

The station is called Hidling; and at Hidling there seems to be a coach which plies between the station and Huxter's Cross.
Figure to yourself again, my dear, the heir-at-law to a hundred thousand pounds vegetating in the unknown regions of Huxter's Cross cum Hidling, unconscious of his heritage! Shall I find him at the plough-tail, I wonder, this mute inglorious heir-at-law?
or shall I find an heiress with brawny arms meekly churning butter?
or shall I discover the last of the Meynells taking his rest in some lonely churchyard, not to be awakened by earthly voice proclaiming the tidings of earthly good fortune?
I am going to Yorkshire--that is enough for me.

I languish for the starting of the train which shall convey me thither.

I begin to understand the nostalgia of the mountain herdsman: I pine for that northern air, those fresh pure breezes blowing over moor and wold--though I am not quite clear, by the bye, as to the exact nature of a wold.