The Silent Woman by Eliza Margaret Jane Humphreys

The cold was bitter up on the Peak heights. In no place more bitter than in that barren region where the grey-stoned Inn swung its ill-omened sign to the fierce winds that seemed to blow from every quarter. The sky was steely grey above, and heavy banks of cloud, ominous of snow, lay piled on the horizon line. Nothing more dreary or less inviting could be imagined. Molly Udale toiled wearily along the well-known footpath, and saw once again the familiar places to which she had said farewell so gladly scarce two months before. In the diminishing daylight the place seemed smaller, darker, more desolate than it had lived in her remembrance. Perhaps it was the change from the fertile valley that give these swarthy and abrupt slopes so menacing an aspect. She bent her head to the fury of the blast, and climbed yet another point of steepness. A round red disc of light shone from the Inn window. It brought a sense of home and nearness, though she expected no welcome.

"He'll be at home," she said to herself, stopping for a moment to regain breath, and fasten the strap of her bundle more securely. She had slung it across her shoulders to have her arms free. Miss Lavinia had sent her to Endcliff Dale in a spring cart, but there Molly had dismissed the driver and walked the remaining seven miles.