arms was following close behind and a dog close to her. It was a wild and melancholy sight. Wm. rubbed his tables after candles were lighted, and we sate a long time with the windows unclosed, and almost finished writing The Pedlar; but poor Wm. wore himself out, and me out, with labour. We had an affecting conversation. Went to bed at 12 o'clock.
Saturday, 13th.—It snowed a little this morning. Still at work at The Pedlar, altering and refitting. We did not walk, though it was a very fine day. We received a present of eggs and milk from Janet Dockeray, and just before she went, the little boy from the Hill brought us a letter from Sara H., and one from the Frenchman in London. I wrote to Sara after tea, and Wm. took out his old newspapers, and the new ones came in soon after. We sate, after I had finished the letter, talking; and Wm. read parts of his Recluse aloud to me. . . .
Sunday, 14th February.—A fine morning. The sun shines out, but it has been a hard frost in the night. There are some little snowdrops that are afraid to put their white heads quite out, and a few blossoms of hepatica that are half-starved. Wm. left me at work altering some passages of The Pedlar, and went into the orchard. The fine day pushed him on to resolve, and as soon as I had read a letter to him, which I had just received from Mrs. Clarkson, he said he would go to Penrith, so Molly was despatched for the horse. I worked hard, got the writing finished, and all quite trim. I wrote to Mrs. Clarkson, and put up some letters for Mary H., and off he went in his blue spencer, and a pair of new pantaloons fresh from London. . . . I then sate over the fire, reading Ben Jonson's Penshurst, and other things. Before sunset, I put on my shawl and walked out. The snow-covered mountains were spotted with rich sunlight, a palish buffish colour. . . . I stood at the wishing-gate, and when I came in view of Rydale, I cast a long look upon the mountains beyond. They were
