CHAPTER VII WHICH NARRATES A SOMEWHAT REMARKABLE CONVERSATION
To find a man in Cambourne Woods, even so big a man as Black George, would seem as hard a matter as to find the needle in the proverbial "bottle of hay;" the sun crept westward, the day declined into evening, yet, hungry though I was, I persevered in my search, not so much in the hope of finding him (in the which I knew I must be guided altogether by chance), as from a disinclination to return, just yet, to the cottage. "It would be miserable there at this hour," I told myself, "miserable and lonely."
Yet why should I be lonely; I, who had gloried in my solitude hitherto?
Whence then had come this change?
While I stood thus, seeking an answer to this self-imposed question and finding none, I heard some one approach, whist
