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THE loud shriek that rent the air as Paul Ritter passed through the great gates of the Euston Square Station, was wilder than an Indian war-whoop, though it occasioned no great alarm, being nothing more than the shrill whistle of the steam-engine which announced the safe arrival of the London North-Western train. Paul, who expected his father by the train, on his return from the Lakes of Cumberland and Westmoreland, hurried on, and soon saw him step out of a first-class carriage. In ten minutes after this, with a leathern trunk and a carpet-bag on the opposite seat, Paul was rattling over the stones in a cab on his way home, trying to persuade his father, who sat beside him, to enter at once on the history of every thing he had seen since he had left London.
But though Paul did not succeed in coaxing his father to begin a regular narrative then, he failed not
such a narrative should In the meantime, too, he
to obtain a promise that be begun on an early day. contrived to get his father into a conversation about the scenes he had visited that much delighted him. He could not hear of places with such odd names as Stock Gill Force, Angle Tarn, Blackcomb Hill and Eagle Crag-Thrangslate Quarry, Whinfell Beacon, Gunnerskeld Bottom, and Scarf Gap Pass-Harrison Stickle, Swirrell Edge, Knab Scar, and Kidsay Pike, without having his curiosity greatly excited.
Paul's father had made a tour for the relief which a little leisure and the bracing air of Cumberland and Westmoreland would afford him from a too close attention to his ordinary pursuits; and few men could be better qualified than he was to speak of the attractions of the counties he had visited, inasmuch as he had loitered by every lake from Windermere to Bassenthwaite, and mused at the foot of almost every mountain from Great Barrock to Blackcomb. Being one of those ardent characters who throw their hearts into their undertakings, and get something from everything around them, he had rambled and mused among the meres and mountains, observing, reflecting, and making