George MacDonald

Adela Cathcart George MacDonald

It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve, sinking towards the night. All day long the wintrylight had been diluted with fog, and now the vanguard of the darkness coming to aid themist, the dying day was well nigh smothered between them. When I looked through thewindow, it was into a vague and dim solidification of space, a mysterious region in whichawful things might be going on, and out of which anything might come; but out of whichnothing came in the meantime, except small sparkles of snow, or rather ice, which as weswept rapidly onwards, and the darkness deepened, struck faster and faster against theweather-windows. For we, that is, myself and a fellow-passenger, of whom I knew nothingyet but the waistcoat and neckcloth, having caught a glimpse of them as he searched for anobstinate railway-ticket, were in a railway-carriage, darting along, at an all but frightfulrate, northwards from London. Being, the sole occupants of the carriage, we had made the most of it, like Englishmen, bytaking seats diagonally opposite to each other, laying our heads in the corners, and tryingto go to sleep. But for me it was of no use to try any longer. Not that I had anythingparticular on my mind or spirits; but a man cannot always go to sleep at spare moments. Ifanyone can, let him consider it a great gift, and make good use of it accordingly; that is, bygoing to sleep on every such opportunity.