punishment outweighed even her fears for me. Though Mr. Bradbury had convinced her that he would insure for me a safe journey and a safe return.

p. 47But at the time of parting,—ere the dawn was come,—her hardness passed from her. I saw, as I had never seen, since the day of my father’s disappearance, tears falling from her eyes. She clasped me to her, as if she would never loose me from her arms. Not my first separation from her—I believed then it would be brief, and that, when Mr. Bradbury had made me known to my grandfather, I would return to her; and all would be as before,—alone affected her. I understood now, indeed, she feared for me, and that her terrors surging up almost induced her thus late to break her word to Mr. Bradbury. Looking back, ere I passed out of sight from the cottage, I saw her standing as a grey shadow in the doorway; I waved my hat back to her; and so I left her.

p. 47

And then the spirit of adventure and new experience took me, and I swung out on to the highway. I had put on my best black clothes, and the fine frilled shirt my mother had stitched and starched for me. I carried only a little knapsack containing such few articles as I should need on my journey up to London with Mr. Bradbury; there, my mother had told me, I would be fitted out with garments more suitable to my condition than she could fashion for me. At the first milestone from the village I stood to wait by p. 48the highway for the coming of Mr. Bradbury in his coach; it was his wish and my mother’s that my departure with him should not become a matter of village gossip. I had parted regretfully from my friend Tony; giving him only to understand that I journeyed up to London with Mr. Bradbury to be made known to my father’s folk, assuring him that I would soon return, and binding him to secrecy.

p. 48

The morn came chill and grey. A drear wind was abroad; the pale dust whirled down the highway. I waited in the cold for a good half-hour—the sun was up, and the countryside leaping in its light from blackness and greyness into the rich green of spring—ere the coach and pair bearing Mr. Bradbury approached, driven rapidly from Chelton. As the driver pulled up for me, Mr. Bradbury’s gloved hand let down the glass; nodding his head to me in welcome, he hastened to admit me into the coach. It had been repaired from the damages of its overthrow; it was cushioned luxuriously; my body sank into its warm depth, and Mr. Bradbury, with all politeness, hastened to wrap a robe of furs about me for the chill of the morning. He embarrassed me 

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