“Well, I can’t rightly say.  Windsor must be pretty nigh London, for it’s where the king lives,” was the answer.  “Anyhow, you’d best go t’ Ashby next—­that’s south’ard.  But there’s as many places from here to London as there’s houses in Stoniton, by what I can make out.  I’ve never been no traveller myself.  But how comes a lone young woman like you to be thinking o’ taking such a journey as that?”

“I’m going to my brother—­he’s a soldier at Windsor,” said Hetty, frightened at the landlord’s questioning look.  “I can’t afford to go by the coach; do you think there’s a cart goes toward Ashby in the morning?”

“Yes, there may be carts if anybody knowed where they started from; but you might run over the town before you found out.  You’d best set off and walk, and trust to summat overtaking you.”

Every word sank like lead on Hetty’s spirits; she saw the journey stretch bit by bit before her now.  Even to get to Ashby seemed a hard thing:  it might take the day, for what she knew, and that was nothing to the rest of the journey.  But it must be done—­she must get to Arthur.  Oh, how she yearned to be again with somebody who would care for her!  She who had never got up in the morning without the certainty of seeing familiar faces, people on whom she had an acknowledged claim; whose farthest journey had been to Rosseter on the pillion with her uncle; whose thoughts had always been taking holiday in dreams of pleasure, because all the business of her life was managed for her—­this kittenlike Hetty, who till a few months ago had never felt any other grief than that of envying Mary Burge a new ribbon, or being girded at by her aunt for neglecting Totty, must now make her toilsome way in loneliness, her peaceful home left behind for ever, and nothing but a tremulous hope of distant refuge before her.  Now for the first time, as she lay down to-night in the strange hard bed, she felt that her home had been a happy one, that her uncle had been very good to her, that her quiet lot at Hayslope among the things and people she knew, with her little pride in her one best gown and bonnet, and nothing to hide from any one, was what she would like to wake up to as a reality, and find that all the feverish life she had known besides was a short nightmare.  She thought of all she had left behind with yearning regret for her own sake.  Her own misery filled her heart—­there was no room in it for other people’s sorrow.  And yet, before the cruel letter, Arthur had been so tender and loving.  The memory of that had still a charm for her, though it was no more than a soothing draught that just made pain bearable.  For Hetty could conceive no other existence for herself in future than a hidden one, and a hidden life, even with love, would have had no delights for her; still less a life mingled with shame.  She knew no romances, and had only a feeble share in the feelings which are the source of romance, so that well-read ladies may find