painting idea

'Good-bye to Gateshead!' cried I, as we passed through the hall and
went out at the front door.
The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern,
whose light glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent
thaw. Raw and chill was the winter morning: my teeth chattered as I
hastened down the drive. There was a light in the porter's lodge: when
we reached it, we found the porter's wife just kindling her fire: my
the door. It wanted but a few minutes of six, and shortly after that
hour had struck, the distant roll of wheels announced the coming
coach; I went to the door and watched its lamps approach rapidly
through the gloom.
'Is she going by herself?' asked the porter's wife.
'Yes.'
'And how far is it?'
'Fifty miles.'
'What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to trust her
so far alone.'
The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses