TWO days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has set me down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for the sum I had given，and I was not possessed of another shilling in the world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At this moment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of the coach，where I had placed it for safety; there it remains，there it must remain; and now，I am absolutely destitute.

Whitcross is no town，nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet: whitewashed，I suppose，to be more obvious at a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: the nearest town to which these point is，according to the inscription，distant ten miles; the farthest，above twenty. From the well-known names of these towns I learn in what county I have lighted; a north-midland shire，dusk with moorland，ridged with mountain: this I see. There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet. The population here must be thin，and I see no passengers on these roads: they stretch out east，west，north，and south-white，broad，lonely; they are all cut in the moor，and the heather grows deep and wild to their very verge. Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and I wish no eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing，lingering here at the sign-post，evidently objectless and lost. I might be questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible and excite suspicion. Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment- not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are- none that saw me would have a kind thought or a good wish for me.

I have no relative but the universal mother，Nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose.