But the sooner I fled from London again the better, now that I knew my husband was somewhere in it and might be upon my track.  I unfolded the paper on which was written the name of the lady to whom I was to apply.  Mrs. Wilkinson. 19 Bellringer Street.  I ran down to the sitting-room, to ask my landlady where it was, and told her, in my new hopefulness, that I had heard of a situation in France.  Bellringer Street was less than a mile away, she said.  I could be there before seven o’clock, not too late perhaps for Mrs. Wilkinson to give me an interview.

A thick yellow fog had come in with nightfall—­a fog that could almost be tasted and smelt—­but it did not deter me from my object.  I inquired my way of every policeman I met, and at length entered the street.  The fog hid the houses from my view, but I could see that some of the lower windows were filled with articles for sale, as if they were shops struggling into existence.  It was not a fashionable street, and Mrs. Wilkinson could not be a very aristocratic person.

No. 19 was not difficult to find, and I pulled the bell-handle with a gentle and quiet pull, befitting my errand.  I repeated this several times without being admitted, when it struck me that the wire might be broken.  Upon that I knocked as loudly as I could upon the panels of the broad old door; a handsome, heavy door, such as are to be found in the old streets of London, from which the tide of fashion has ebbed away.  A slight, thin child in rusty mourning opened it, with the chain across, and asked who I was in a timid voice.

“Does Mrs. Wilkinson live here?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the child.

“Who is there?” I heard a voice calling shrilly from within; not an English voice, I felt sure, for each word was uttered distinctly and slowly.

“I am come about a school in France,” I said to the child.

“Oh!  I’ll let you in,” she answered, eagerly; “she will see you about that, I’m sure.  I’m to go with you, if you go.”

She let down the chain, and opened the door.  There was a dim light burning in the hall, which looked shabby and poverty-stricken.  There was no carpet upon the broad staircase, and nothing but worn-out oil-cloth on the floor.  I had only time to take in a vague general impression, before the little girl conducted me to a room on the ground-floor.  That too was uncarpeted and barely furnished; but the light was low, and I could see nothing distinctly, except the face of the child looking wistfully at me with shy curiosity.

“I’m to go if you go,” she said again; “and, oh!  I do so hope you will agree to go.”

“I think I shall,” I answered.

“I daren’t be sure,” she replied, nodding her head with an air of sagacity; “there have been four or five governesses here, and none of them would go.  You’d have to take me with you; and, oh! it is such a lovely, beautiful place.  See! here is a picture of it.”