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the little school, and the unexpected sight of the poor chil-
dren outside waving their hats and bonnets to me, and of
a grey-haired gentleman and lady whose daughter I had
helped to teach and at whose house I had visited (who were
said to be the proudest people in all that country), caring
for nothing but calling out, ‘Good-bye, Esther. May you be
very happy!’—could I help it if I was quite bowed down in
the coach by myself and said ‘Oh, I am so thankful, I am so
thankful!’ many times over!
But of course I soon considered that I must not take
tears where I was going after all that had been done for me.
Therefore, of course, I made myself sob less and persuaded
myself to be quiet by saying very often, ‘Esther, now you re-
ally must! This WILL NOT do!’ I cheered myself up pretty
well at last, though I am afraid I was longer about it than I
ought to have been; and when I had cooled my eyes with lav-
ender water, it was time to watch for London.
I was quite persuaded that we were there when we were
ten miles off, and when we really were there, that we should
never get there. However, when we began to jolt upon a stone
pavement, and particularly when every other conveyance
seemed to be running into us, and we seemed to be run-
ning into every other conveyance, I began to believe that we
really were approaching the end of our journey. Very soon
afterwards we stopped.
A young gentleman who had inked himself by acci-
dent addressed me from the pavement and said, ‘I am from
Kenge and Carboy’s, miss, of Lincoln’s Inn.’
‘If you please, sir,’ said I.

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