_[Edinburgh, November 1874], Sunday._
I was never more sorry to leave you, but I never left you with a better
heart, than last night. I had a long journey and a cold one; but never
was sick nor sorry the whole way. It was a long one because when we got
to Berwick, we had to go round through the hills by Kelso, as there was
a block on the main line. I knew nothing of this, and you may imagine my
bewilderment when I came to myself, the train standing and whistling
dismally in the black morning, before a little vacant half-lit station,
with a name up that I had never heard before. My fellow-traveller woke
up and wanted to know what was wrong. "O, it's nothing," I said,
"nothing at all, it's an evil dream." However we had the thing explained
to us at the end of ends, and trailed on in the dark among the snowy
hills, stopping every now and again and whistling in an appealing kind
of way, as much as to say, "God knows where we are, for God's sake don't
run into us"; until at last we came to a dead standstill and remained so
for perhaps an hour and a quarter. This wakened us up for a little; and
we managed, at last, to attract the attention of one of the officials
whom we could see picking their way about the snow with lanterns. This
man (very wide awake, and hale, and lusty) informed us we were waiting
for another conductor, as our own guard did not know the line. "Where
is the new guard coming from?" we ask. "O, close by; only--he, he--he
was married last night." And immediately we heard much hoarse laughter
in the dark about us; and the moving lanterns were shaken to and fro, as
if in a wind. This poor conductor! However, I recomposed myself for
slumber, and did not re-awake much before Edinburgh, where I was
discharged three hours too late and found my father waiting for me in
the snow, with a very long face.--Ever your faithful friend,