Relieved from the constant strain of fear and anxiety, my health was quickly improving, and the improvement became more rapid after I went down with my mother to Folkestone.  The hearty welcome offered to me there was extended with equal warmth to little Mabel, who soon arrived, a most forlorn little maiden.  She was only three years old, and she had not seen me for some weeks; her passion of delight was pitiful; she clung to me, in literal fashion, for weeks afterwards, and screamed if she lost sight of me for a moment; it was long before she got over the separation and the terror of her lonely journey from Sibsey and London in charge only of the guard.  But she was a “winsome wee thing”, and danced into everyone’s heart; after “mamma”, “granny” was the prime favorite, and my dear mother worshipped her first grand-daughter; never was prettier picture than the red-golden hair nestled against the white, the baby-grace contrasting with the worn stateliness of her tender nurse.  From that time forward—­ with the exception of a few weeks of which I shall speak presently and of the yearly stay of a month with her father—­little Mabel was my constant companion, until Sir George Jessel’s brutality robbed me of my child.  She would play contentedly while I was working, a word now and again enough to make her happy; when I had to go out without her she would run to the door with me, and the “good-bye” came from down-curved lips, and she was ever watching at the window for my return, and the sunny face was always the first to welcome me home.  Many and many a time have I been coming home, weary and heart-sick, and the glimpse of the little face watching has reminded me that I must not carry in a grave face to sadden my darling, and the effort to throw off the dreariness for her sake shook it off altogether, and brought back the sunshine.  I have never forgiven Sir George Jessel, and I never shall, though his death has left me only his memory to hate.

At Folkestone, I continued my search for “something to do”, and for some weeks sought for pupils, thinking I might thus turn my heresy to account.  But pupils are not readily attainable by a heretic woman, away from her natural home, and with a young child as “encumbrance”.  It chanced, however, that the vicar of Folkestone, Mr. Woodward, was then without a governess, and his wife was in very delicate health.  My people knew him well, and as I had plenty of spare time, I offered to teach the children for a few hours a day.  The offer was gladly accepted, and I soon arranged to go and stay at the house for awhile, until he could find a regular governess.  I thought that at least I could save my small income while I was there, and Mabel and I were to be boarded and lodged in exchange for my work.  This work was fairly heavy, but I did not mind that; it soon became heavier.  Some serious fault on the part of one or both servants led to their sudden retirement, and I became head cook as well as governess and nurse.  On the whole,