However, I was too glad to get back my things, to stand asking questions of a person, who, if it hadn’t been for his civility in sharing his umbrella with me, I certainly should have given into custody on the spot. Though when I looked over my box, I declare if the brute hadn’t so tossed about and tumbled all my clean things, and so torn and ruined my beautiful Barège, that as soon as I had sufficiently recovered myself, and put on some dry things, I packed up my box again and made the best of my way back to town; for I saw that it was useless to think of spending a fortnight in Guildford, with nothing but a morning-wrapper to put on--especially as by so doing there could be no chance of Edward’s knowing a word about the occurrence, which I felt convinced he would be certain to say was entirely my fault. Directly I set foot in my own house again, I had Miss Emma into the parlour, and showing her the state that my gown was in, all through her abominable stupidity, I told her that she really was so dangerous a blockhead to have near one, that although I wouldn’t thrust her into the wide world without a place to put her head in that night, still she would be pleased to quit my service first thing in the morning--which I took very good care she did. And thus ended my acquaintance with Miss Emma, and I very naturally made a vow that the next woman I had in my service should have some little learning in her head, at least. Though positively, it was only jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire, for when the other creature came in she was, if possible, harder to put up with than the good-for-nothing hussey that I had just turned out of the house. Bless us and save us! if her head wasn’t crammed brim full of trumpery penny novels and rubbishing romantic melo-dramas. Was there ever such a woman--a great big, fat thing, with a currant-jelly complexion, and always marching about the house with a broom in her hand, either fancying herself “ADA THE BETRAYED,” or “AMY,” in “LOVE AND MADNESS”--or else sitting for hours, after the parlour dinner was over, all among the dirty plates and dishes, with her feet on the fender, crying her eyes out, over “THE MURDER AT THE OLD SMITHY,” or “THE HEADS OF THE HEADLESS,” just, for all the world, as you see her in the picture,--which I will tell the gentle reader all about in the next chapter--and a pretty chapter of accidents it will be--for, of all the plagues of servants I ever had anything to do with, that woman certainly was the greatest, and she got me into _one_ scrape, that I’m sure I shall never forget to my dying hour--but more of this hereafter. CHAPTER XIII. I SHA’N’T SAY ANYTHING AT ALL ABOUT WHAT’S COMING IN THE PRESENT CHAPTER. ALL I KNOW IS, THAT IT NEARLY DROVE ME STARK STARING MAD, AND OFTEN AND OFTEN I HAVE IN MY AGONY OF MIND BEEN FORCED TO EXCLAIM, IN THE WORDS OF THAT SWEET SINGER, MR. BRAHAM, AS FOLLOWS:--