For eight and forty hours, it was my good fortune to believe myself happy, and thereby to be so; though I went to church twice on Sunday, without seeing any one except the parson, who was very pleasant. But suddenly on Monday a few words were uttered; and I became no better than a groan. “Her be gan’,” were the words of Mrs. Tapscott. “Tabby, what the Devil do you mean?” I asked, though not at all accustomed to strong language. “I tull ’e, her be gan’. Thee never zee her no more. Step-moother ’a been down, and vetched her.” Tabby herself looked fit to cry; although there was a vile kind of triumph in her eyes, because she had prophesied it. “Do you mean to tell me,” I asked slowly, and as if I were preparing to destroy her, “that Miss Fairthorn has been taken away, without even saying ‘Good-bye’ to me?” “Can’t tull nort about no Good-bais. Her maight ’a left ’un for ’e. Her be gan to Lunnon town, and no mistake. Zeed the girt coach myzell, and the maid a-crying in her.” Without thinking properly what I was about, I clapped on a hat, and laid hold of a big stick, and set forth upon the London road; not the Hampton road which runs along the river, but the upper road from Halliford, which takes a shorter course through Twickenham. Tabby ran after me, shouting—“Be ’e mazed? If ’e could vlai, ’e could never overget her. Be gan’ dree hour, or more, I tull ’e.” But in spite of that fearful news, I strode on. And I might have gone steadily on till I got to London—for there was the track of the wheels quite plain, the wheels of Miss Coldpepper’s heavy carriage—if I had not met our “Selsey Bill,” the Bill Tompkins whom I may have mentioned. My Uncle had sent him to Twickenham, I think, to see about some bushel-baskets; and he was swinging home with a dozen on his head, which made his columnar height some fifteen feet; for he was six and three quarters, without his hat. In reply to my fervid inquiries, he proceeded, in a most leisurely yet impressive manner, to explain that he had not met the carriage, because it had passed him on his way to Twickenham, and might be expected back by now; as Miss Coldpepper never allowed her horses to go beyond Notting-Hill Gate, whence her guests must go on other wheels into London. I took half of his baskets (for he was too long to be strong) and so returned to my uncle’s gate with half a dozen “empties” on my head, and a heart more empty than the whole of them.