It is a power to
be thankful for, or, at least, I often think so. Look at my husband! He
has outlived and outlasted more trouble than any one but myself could
reckon up to him; and yet he is as brisk, as full of life, as ready
to begin a new thing to-morrow--when, at our age, there may be no
to-morrow, except in that better world, my dear, of which it is high
time for him and me to think, as I truly hope we may spare the time to
do."

"Oh, don't talk like that," I cried. "Please, Mrs. Hockin, to talk of
your hens and chicks--at least there will be chicks by-and-by. I am
almost sure there will, if you only persevere. It seems unfair to set
our minds on any other world till justice has been done in this."

"You are very young, my child, or you would know that in that case
we never should think of it at all. But I don't want to preach you a
sermon, Erema, even if I could do so. I only just want you to tell me
what you think, what good you imagine that you can do."

"It is no imagination. I am sure that I can right my father's wrongs.
And I never shall rest till I do so."

"Are you sure that there is any wrong to right?" she asked, in the
warmth of the moment; and then, seeing perhaps how my color changed, she
looked at me sadly, and kissed my forehead.

"Oh, if you had only once seen him," I said; "without any exaggeration,
you would have been satisfied at once. That he could ever have done any
harm was impossible--utterly impossible. I am not as I was. I can listen
to almost any thing now quite calmly. But never let me hear such a
wicked thing again."

"You must not go on like that, Erema, unless you wish to lose all your
friends. No one can help being sorry for you. Very few girls have been
placed as you are. I am sure when I think of my own daughters I can
never be too thankful. But the very first thing you have to learn, above
all things, is to control yourself."

"I know it--I know it, of course," I said; "and I keep on trying my very
best. I am thoroughly ashamed of what I said, and I hope you will try to
forgive me."

"A very slight exertion is enough for that. But now, my dear, what I
want to know is this--and you will excuse me if I ask too much--what
good do you expect to get by going thus to London? Have you any friend
there, any body to trust, any thing settled as to what you are to do?"

"Yes, every thing is settled in my own mind," I answered, very bravely:
"I have the address of a very good woman