34 Ldle Days in Patagonia. 
when they were with me. That break in the tenor 
of their lives; the enforced change of habits; the 
conflict between two opposite emotions—the ties of 
place that held them back, seen and guessed in their 
actions, and the voice that called them away, speak- 
ing ever more imperatively, which so wrought in 
them that at moments they were beside themselves — 
noting all this, hearing and seeing it at all hours of 
the day, I seemed to be nearer to the discovery of 
some hidden truth than when they were no longer 
in sight. But now they were gone, and with their 
departure had vanished my last excuse for resting 
longer inactive—at that spot, at all events. 
I started afresh on my up-river journey, and paid 
a long visit to an English estancia about sixty miles 
from the town. I spent much of my time there in 
solitary rambles, tasting once more of the “sweet 
and bitter cup of wild Nature.’’ Her colour was 
grey, her mood pensive as winter deepened, and 
there was nothing in the cup to inflame the fancy. 
But it was tonic. My rides were often to the hills, 
or terraced uplands, outside of the level valley ; but 
my description of that grey desolate solitude and 
its effects on me must be reserved for a later 
chapter, when I shall have dropped once for all this 
thread of narrative, slight and loosely held as it is. 
In the present chapter and the succeeding one I 
shall treat of the aspects of nature in the valley 
itself. For I did not remain too long at any one 
point, but during the autumn, winter, and spring 
months I resided at various points, and visited the 
