Why was I so sorry to leave Huxter's Cross?
What subtle instinct of the brain or heart made me aware that the desert region amongst the hills held earth's highest felicity for me?
The next morning was bright and clear.

I heard the guns of sportsmen popping merrily in the still air as I breakfasted before an open window, while a noble sea-coal fire blazed on the hearth opposite me.
There is no stint of fuel at the Magpie.

Everything in Yorkshire seems to be done with a lavish hand.

I have heard Yorkshiremen called mean.
As if meanness could exist in the hearts of my Charlotte's countrymen! My own experience of the county is brief; but I can only say that my friends of the Magpie are liberality itself, and that a Yorkshire tea is the very acme of unsophisticated bliss in the way of eating and drinking.

I have dined at Philippe's; I know every dish in the _menu_ of the Maison Doree; but if I am to make my life a burden beneath the dark sway of the demon dyspepsia, let my destruction arrive in the shape of the ham and eggs, the crisp golden-brown cakes, and undefiled honey, of this northern Arcadia.
I told my friendly hostess that I was going to leave her, and she was sorry.