The word “coach-passenger” brought to Mr Primrose’s recollection the melancholy look and sorrowful tone of the poor woman who mentioned the young lady who seemed almost dying of a broken heart. His curiosity was roused, his nerves were agitated. He kept thinking of his poor Penelope. He recollected with an almost painful vividness the features and voice of the pretty little innocent he had left behind him when he quitted England. He recollected and painted with imagination’s strongest lines and most glowing colours that distracting and heart-rending scene, when after listening with tearful silence to the kind admonitions of his brother-in-law, he snatched up in his arms his dear little laughing Penelope, and he saw again as pungently as in reality, the little arms that clasped him with an eagerness of joy, and he recollected how his poor dear child in the simplicity of her heart mistook the agitations and tremblings of grief for the frolicsome wantonness of joy, and he saw again that indescribably exquisite expression with which she first caught sight of his tears; and then there came over his mind the impression produced by the artless manner in which the poor thing said, “Good night, papa, perhaps you won’t cry to-morrow.” Now he thought of that Penelope as grown up to woman’s estate, and he felt that he should be proud of his daughter: but oh what fears and misgivings came upon him, and he kept muttering to himself the words of the woman who had talked of the young lady almost dying of a broken heart. It was well for the patient that the doctor soon fulfilled his word and sent a composing draught. But the very moment that his attentive nurse gently tapped at the door of his room, he called out: “Come in, come in, I am not asleep. Oh, what you have brought me a composing draught! Nonsense, nonsense, keep it for the next coach-passenger that is overturned, and give it to him with my compliments. Well, but I say, good woman, you were telling me something about a poor young lady who was almost dying with a broken heart. Who is she? Where is she? What is her name? Where is she gone to? Where did she come from? Who broke her heart? Was she married, or was she single? Now tell me all about her.” “Oh dear, sir, I am sure you had better take this physic what the doctor has sent you, that will do you more good than a mallancolly story. Indeed you’d better, sir; shall I pour it out into a cup?” “Ay, ay, pour it out. But I say, good woman, tell me where did this poor young lady come from?” “Lord, sir, I never saw such a curious gentleman in my life. Why, then if you must know, she came from a long way off, from a village of the name of Smatterton, a little village where my Lord Smatterton has a fine castle.”