explain me naturally. I thought she wished me to believe she could
have no infirmity in common with me--no temptations, no errors--that
she must repress all the doubts and longings of her heart for
example's sake.

There was a weight upon me all that day, a dreary sense of
imperfection.

When father came home he asked me if I would like to go to Rosville.
I answered, "Yes." Mother must travel with me, for he could not leave
home. The sooner I went the better. He also thought Veronica should
go. She was called and consulted, and, provided Temperance would
accompany us to take care of her, she consented. It was all arranged
that evening. Temperance said we must wait a week at least, for her
corns to be cured, and the plum-colored silk made, which had been shut
up in a band-box for three years.

We started on our journey one bright morning in June, to go to Boston
in a stagecoach, a hundred miles from Surrey, and thence to Rosville,
forty miles further, by railroad. We stopped a night on the way
to Boston at a country inn, which stood before an egg-shaped
pond. Temperance remade our beds, declaiming the while against the
unwholesome situation of the house; the idea of anybody's living in
the vicinity of fresh water astonished her; to impose upon travelers'
health that way was too much. She went to the kitchen to learn whether
the landlady cooked, or hired a cook. She sat up all night with our
luggage in sight, to keep off what she called "prowlers"--she did
not like to say robbers, for fear of exciting our imaginations--and
frightened us by falling out of her chair toward morning. Veronica
insisted upon her going to bed, but she refused, till Veronica