I don’t know whether it has ever struck the reader, but it seems to me that it never rains but when you’re going out upon pleasure. No matter if it has been fine for a month previously, only just put on your things for a trip into the country, or down the river, or for a fête at Vauxhall, or even go out in a new bonnet and leave your umbrella at home, and of course down it _must_ pour in torrents, just because you don’t want it; and positively as if the clerk of the weather had got a spite against you. When my peas were coming up, of course there wasn’t a drop of rain for six weeks, and now that I had set my heart upon a beautiful excursion, a few miles out of town, it must begin to spit the very moment the train left Nine Elms, and come down in perfect cataracts by the time we got to Wandsworth. Talk about subscriptions for the damage done to market-gardeners and florists, by a heavy shower, I’m sure I never see it begin to rain but what my bosom bleeds to think of the dreadful destruction that must then be going on among the artificial flowers in the ladies’ bonnets; and, goodness gracious! if mine didn’t hang down and look as pappy as if they had been boiled. To be sure, there was a young man next to me who was also going to Guildford, and who, being a perfect gentleman, was kind enough to offer me a part of his umbrella, for he couldn’t help seeing that my parasol was of no more use to me than an extinguisher, and I declare even then--for what is one umbrella between two, especially when it’s only a small German as his was--even then I say, the rain kept dripping down my neck and all over my shoulders, until my black silk Polka was so wet that it looked as shiny as a policeman’s oil-skin cape, and I was so drenched to the skin, that upon my word I was quite glad to get out of the bothering train, and take shelter even in the little poking lonely railway hotel, where at least I said to myself, I shall be able to change my soaking things, and get dry and comfortable before going on to Guildford. When I got into the station, I told a porter to look after my luggage, adding that it was merely one box, with “Mrs. Sk--n--st--n, passenger, Guildford,” written on a card, attached to the handle; and presently back he came, saying that the only box in the office was a hair trunk, without any name at all on it. “Is it a brown hair trunk?” I asked, quite alarmed. “Yes, mum,” he answered, “a brown hair trunk, with brass nails.” On going and looking at it, I said, “Yes, that’s mine, and the card has got torn off, just as I expected.”