“Why, sir, ’tisn’t much as I know: only, about two months ago, that coach what you came by was going up to town, and it stopped, as it always does, at our gate, and the coachman says to my husband, says he, ‘Here’s a poor young lady in the coach so ill that she cannot travel any farther; can you take her in for a day or two?’ And so I went and handed the poor thing out of the coach, and I put her to bed; and sure enough, poor thing, she was very ill. Then, sir, I sent for the doctor; but, dear me, he could do her no good: and so then I used to go and talk to the poor cretter, and all she would say to me was, ‘Pray, let me die.’ But in a few days she grew a little better, and began to talk about continuing her journey, and I found out, sir, that the poor dear lady was broken-hearted.” Here the narrator paused. But hitherto no definite information had been conveyed to Mr Primrose, and he almost repented that he had taken the trouble to swallow the medicine for such a meagre narrative. “And is that all you know, good woman? Did not you learn her name?” “Yes,” replied the informant: “her name was Fitzpatrick: and after she was gone, I asked the coachman who brought her, and he told me that that wicked young nobleman, Lord Spoonbill, had taken the poor thing away from her friends, and had promised to make a fine lady of her, but afterwards deserted her and sent her about her business. And all because my lord was mighty sweet upon another young lady what lives at Smatterton.” Now came the truth into Mr Primrose’s mind, and he readily knew that this other young lady was his Penelope. This corroborated the letter which Mr Darnley had written to him on the decease of Dr Greendale. Happy was it for the father of Penelope that he had no suspicion of unworthy intentions towards his daughter on the part of Lord Spoonbill; and well was it for the traveller that he had swallowed the composing draught. He received the information with tolerable calmness, and thanking the poor woman for indulging his curiosity, he very quietly dismissed her. And as soon as she was gone he muttered to himself: “My child shall never marry a villain, though he may be a nobleman.” CHAPTER XVI. Whether it was that the medicine which Mr Primrose had taken possessed extraordinary composing powers, or whether his mind had been quieted by its own outrageous agitations, we cannot say; but to whatever cause it might be owing, it is a fact that, on the following morning he was much more composed, and the medical attendant pronounced that he might without any danger proceed on his journey.