There was one gratification which Susan felt was needed for the
restoration of her mind to its more healthy state, after she had
passed through the whirling fever, when duty was as nothing, and
anarchy reigned; a gratification that, somehow, was to be her last
burst of unreasonableness; of which she knew and recognised pain as
the sure consequence. She must see him once more,--herself unseen.

The week before the Christmas of this memorable year, she went out in
the dusk of the early winter evening, wrapped close in shawl and
cloak. She wore her dark shawl under her cloak, putting it over her
head in lieu of a bonnet; for she knew that she might have to wait
long in concealment. Then she tramped over the wet fell-path, shut
in by misty rain for miles and miles, till she came to the place
where he was lodging; a farm-house in Langdale, with a steep, stony
lane leading up to it: this lane was entered by a gate out of the
main road, and by the gate were a few bushes--thorns; but of them the
leaves had fallen, and they offered no concealment: an old wreck of
a yew-tree grew among them, however, and underneath that Susan
cowered down, shrouding her face, of which the colour might betray
her, with a corner of her shawl. Long did she wait; cold and cramped
she became, too damp and stiff to change her posture readily. And
after all, he might never come! But, she would wait till daylight,
if need were; and she pulled out a crust, with which she had
providently supplied herself. The rain had ceased,--a dull, still,
brooding weather had succeeded; it was a night to hear distant
sounds. She heard horses' hoofs striking and splashing in the
stones, and in the pools of the road at her back. Two horses; not
well-ridden, or evenly guided, as she could tell.

Michael Hurst and a companion drew near: not tipsy, but not sober.