It was dark night when I set out; and when day broke, dim and dreary, I was soaked thoroughly through, and not more than one-fifth of the way. There was, however, that in the exercise, and in the spirit it called forth, to rally me out of my depression; and I plodded along through mud and mire, breasting the swooping rain in a far cheerier frame than I could have thought possible. It was closing into darkness as I reached the little inn where the cottage stood, and I was by this time fairly beat between fatigue and hunger.
“Here's a go!” cried my uncle, who opened the door for me. “Here's Paul Gosslett, just as we're going to dinner.”
“The very time to suit him,” said I, trying to be jocular.
“Yes, lad, but will it suit us? We 've only an Irish stew, and not too much of it, either.”
“How are you, Paul?” said my aunt, offering her hand. “You seem wet through. Won't you dry your coat?”
“Oh, it's no matter,” said I. “I never mind wet.”
“Of course he does n't,” said my uncle. “What would he do if he was up at the 'diggins'? What would he do if he had to pick rags as I have, ten, twelve hours at a stretch, under heavier rain than this?”
“Just so, sir,” said I, concurring with all he said.
“And what brought you down, lad?” asked he.
“I think, sir, it was to see you and my aunt. I haven't been very well of late, and I fancied a day in the country might rally me.”