When she had passed out of sight I hurried back to the coach, where I found the men taking out the valuables. My parents and sisters had gone back to Stratton, imagining that I had preceded them; so I hastened along the road and soon reached the ‘Bull and Butcher,’ which we had left only an hour before. In the inn-yard a set of mountebanks was playing ‘The Merriments of the Men of Gotham’; but though I loved these shows, I did not pause till I entered the presence of my mother, who was in high unrest at my absence. My father stood conversing with the innkeeper, a comely, well-proportioned dame, who put me in mind of the portrait of Anne Bullen at Amnest. ‘’Twas more than strange--’twas wicked,’ I heard him say, ‘the lass to have no choice!’ Mistress Nappy-ale replied, ‘A sweet child if ever there was any!’ My mother’s curiosity conquered. I was sitting on her knee--all fears were allayed. ‘Pray, husband, what is the purport of your long conversation?’ He took her hand lightly. ‘A pitiful story, indeed!’ he said. ‘Mistress here is telling me of Lord Dorel’s mad freak about his daughter’s marriage. Will you not repeat it to my wife? Dorel’s Park was where the sling broke.’ Our hostess then began an account of how the Earl of Dorel, who had lost much of his fortune at the court of Elizabeth, had slightly retrieved his position by selling his child as wife to Humphreville Campion, a lad of thirteen: his father, Sir Withers Campion, being desirous for him to interwed with one of the purest stock in England. The Earl was old and profligate: he desired to shine amongst the gallants of Scottish James. Lady Millicent was seven years old at the time: her mother, a simple creature, so browbeaten that she dared not oppose any wish of her lord. After the ceremony, which was performed by the Bishop of Exeter, Sir Withers took Humphreville away to dwell at Campion Court until both parties attained ripe years. The act had made Lord Dorel very unpopular in the country, and since that day, now eight months ago, he had not once appeared at Dorel’s Park. This story made a deep impression on me. I remember that I was silent about my meeting with the baby-wife, not even telling the truth to my mother. When the coach was repaired and we went on to Aunt Bargrave’s, my quietness was construed by my sisters into a sense of shame because of my escapade. For some weeks I was dull and heavy: I desired a companionship that was not attainable, and was regarded for a time as wasting. Nature, however, took mistress-ship, and before midsummer the subtle influence of Millicent seemed to have worn away.