That evening, missing my mother in the house, I sought her in the
garden and found her, as I had expected, on her favourite seat under
the great lime tree; but to my surprise there were tears in her eyes.

"But I thought you were glad we were going," I said.

"So I am," answered my mother, drying her eyes only to make room for
fresh tears.

"Then why are you crying?"

"Because I'm sorry to leave here."

Grown-up folks with their contradictory ways were a continual puzzle
to me in those days; I am not sure I quite understand them even now,
myself included.

We were up and off next day before the dawn. The sun rose as the
wagon reached the top of the hill; and there we paused and took our
farewell look at Old Jacob's Tower. My mother cried a little behind
her veil; but my aunt only said, "I never did care for earwigs in my
tea;" and as for myself I was too excited and expectant to feel much
sentiment about anything.

On the journey I sat next to an exceptionally large and heavy man, who
in his sleep--and he slept often--imagined me to be a piece of
stuffing out of place. Then, grunting and wriggling, he would
endeavour to rub me out, until the continued irritation of my head
between the window and his back would cause him to awake, when he