on the alert for the Uxbridge family carriage that she could have
had little enjoyment of the ride. Rocks never were a passion with
her, she said, nor promontories, chasms, or sand. She came to
Newport to be washed with salt-water; when she had washed up to the
doctor's prescription she should leave, as ignorant of the peculiar
pleasures of Newport as when she arrived. She had no fancy for its
conglomerate societies, its literary cottages, its parvenue suits
of rooms, its saloon habits, and its bathing herds.

I considered the rides a part of the contract of what was
expected in my two months' performance. I did not dream that I was
enjoying them, any more than I supposed myself to be enjoying a
sea-bath while pulling Aunt Eliza to and fro in the surf. Nothing
in the life around me stirred me, nothing in nature attracted me.
I liked the fog; somehow it seemed to emanate from me instead of
rolling up from the ocean, and to represent me. Whether I went
alone or not, the coachman was ordered to drive a certain round;
after that I could extend the ride in whatever direction I pleased,
but I always said, "Anywhere, William." One afternoon, which
happened to be a bright one, I was riding on the road which led to
the glen, when I heard the screaming of a flock of geese which were
waddling across the path in front of the horses. I started, for I
was asleep probably, and, looking forward, saw the Uxbridge
carriage, filled with ladies and children, coming toward me; and by
it rode a gentleman on horseback. His horse was rearing among the
hissing geese, but neither horse nor geese appeared to engage him;
his eyes were fixed upon me. The horse swerved so near that its
long mane almost brushed against me. By an irresistible impulse I
laid my ungloved hand upon it, but did not look at the rider.
Carriage and horseman passed on, and William resumed his pace. A