hand of the housemaid who attended on me. Useless! The vigilance
of my guardian was not to be evaded. The woman was suspected and
followed, and the letter was taken from her. My father tore it up
with his own hands.

Later in the day, my mother was permitted to see me.

She was quite unfit, poor soul, to intercede for me, or to serve
my interests in any way. My father had completely overwhelmed her
by announcing that his wife and his son were to accompany him,
when he returned to America.

"Every farthing he has in the world," said my mother, "is to be
thrown into that hateful speculation. He has raised money in
London; he has let the house to some rich tradesman for seven
years; he has sold the plate, and the jewels that came to me from
his mother. The land in America swallows it all up. We have no
home, George, and no choice but to go with him."

An hour afterward the post-chaise was at the door.

My father himself took me to the carriage. I broke away from him,
with a desperation which not even his resolution could resist. I
ran, I flew, along the path that led to Dermody's cottage. The
door stood open; the parlor was empty. I went into the kitchen; I
went into the upper rooms. Solitude everywhere. The bailiff had
left the place; and his mother and his daughter had gone with
him. No friend or neighbor lingered near with a message; no
letter lay waiting for me; no hint was left to tell me in what
direction they had taken their departure. After the insulting