The father said just enough and not too much by way of thanks, and promised that he would go to see Lady Jemima next day. Just as we were about going, madame sailed into the room, having evidently been busy attiring herself in the remains of her old waiting-gentlewoman's finery. She was loud in her thanks and praise of the gowns, and equally loud in her lamentations over the state of her own wardrobe, a hint of which Theo took no notice. "I little thought I should live to receive charity," said the foolish woman; "but when one weds beneath one's station, there is no knowing what one will come to." "As to that, I dare say your husband was so much in love as to think you capable of filling any station," returned Theo, wilfully misunderstanding her; whereat she tossed her head, and looked ready to bite, but made no reply. "I dare say she will make up the gowns for herself," said Theo, when we had taken leave. "It is a wonderful thing to see what sort of people little children are sent to, is it not?" I agreed with her. I may as well say that the woman flatly refused at first to let Sally go to Lady Jemima, declaring that her lameness was more than half a pretence to get rid of work. But the father had his way for once, and poor Sally, if she did not recover, at least spent her last days in peace. In a day or two we went up to London, in the dean's coach, with outriders, and spare saddle horses for one of us to ride now and then. It was a toilsome journey—worse by far than it is now, and that is saying a great deal. More than once the coach was fairly stuck, and we had to borrow oxen from the neighboring farmers to drag it out of the mire, and once we just missed an attack from highwaymen. They thought our party too strong, it seems, and let us pass, but a gentleman with whom we had spent the evening before at an inn, was stripped of all his own and his wife's valuables and received a severe wound in the arm. However, in spite of dangers and detentions, we arrived safely in London at last, and I was left at my uncle's new house in Covent Garden, whither he had removed at the death of my Aunt Jean's father, who had left her quite a fortune. My uncle and aunt were not at home, but I received every attention from my aunt's waiting-gentlewoman, and was installed in a pleasant room and treated to a cup of chocolate. I was glad to go to rest early, as I was very tired with the journey, and Mrs. Mercer said her lady would not be at home till quite late. It was long before I could fall asleep, there was such a noise in the street, but weariness overcame me at last.