Punctual to the time, at the half-hour’s end the carriage came rumbling under the gateway, and they took me down, warmed, refreshed, comforted by kindness, and safe (I assured them) not to faint any more.  After I had got in and had taken a grateful leave of them all, the youngest daughter—­a blooming girl of nineteen, who was to be the first married, they had told me—­got upon the carriage step, reached in, and kissed me.  I have never seen her, from that hour, but I think of her to this hour as my friend.

The transparent windows with the fire and light, looking so bright and warm from the cold darkness out of doors, were soon gone, and again we were crushing and churning the loose snow.  We went on with toil enough, but the dismal roads were not much worse than they had been, and the stage was only nine miles.  My companion smoking on the box—­I had thought at the last inn of begging him to do so when I saw him standing at a great fire in a comfortable cloud of tobacco—­was as vigilant as ever and as quickly down and up again when we came to any human abode or any human creature.  He had lighted his little dark lantern, which seemed to be a favourite with him, for we had lamps to the carriage; and every now and then he turned it upon me to see that I was doing well.  There was a folding-window to the carriage-head, but I never closed it, for it seemed like shutting out hope.

We came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was not recovered.  I looked at him anxiously when we stopped to change, but I knew by his yet graver face as he stood watching the ostlers that he had heard nothing.  Almost in an instant afterwards, as I leaned back in my seat, he looked in, with his lighted lantern in his hand, an excited and quite different man.

“What is it?” said I, starting.  “Is she here?”

“No, no.  Don’t deceive yourself, my dear.  Nobody’s here.  But I’ve got it!”

The crystallized snow was in his eyelashes, in his hair, lying in ridges on his dress.  He had to shake it from his face and get his breath before he spoke to me.

“Now, Miss Summerson,” said he, beating his finger on the apron, “don’t you be disappointed at what I’m a-going to do.  You know me.  I’m Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me.  We’ve come a long way; never mind.  Four horses out there for the next stage up!  Quick!”

There was a commotion in the yard, and a man came running out of the stables to know if he meant up or down.

“Up, I tell you!  Up!  Ain’t it English?  Up!”

“Up?” said I, astonished.  “To London!  Are we going back?”

“Miss Summerson,” he answered, “back.  Straight back as a die.  You know me.  Don’t be afraid.  I’ll follow the other, by G—­”

“The other?” I repeated.  “Who?”

“You called her Jenny, didn’t you?  I’ll follow her.  Bring those two pair out here for a crown a man.  Wake up, some of you!”