. Miss Chinfeather's white and
solemn face, as seen in her coffin, haunted my memory, but even of her I
thought only with a sort of chastened regret. She had never touched my
heart. There had been about her a bleakness of nature that effectually
chilled any tender buds of liking or affection that might in the
ordinary course of events have grown up and blossomed round her life.
Therefore, in my child's heart there was no lasting sorrow for her
death, no gracious memories of her that would stay with me, and smell
sweet, long after she herself should be dust.

My eight miles' ride by coach was soon over. It ended at the railway
station of the county town. The guard of the coach had, I suppose,
received his secret instructions. Almost before I knew what had
happened, I found myself in a first-class carriage, with a ticket for
Eastbury in my hand, and committed to the care of another guard, he of
the railway this time--a fiery-faced man, with immense red whiskers, who
came and surveyed me as though I were some contraband article, but
finished by nodding his head and saying with a smile, "I dessay we shall
be good friends, miss, before we get to the end of our journey."

It was my first journey by rail, and the novelty of it filled me with
wonder and delight. The train by which I travelled was a fast one, and
after my first feeling of fright at the rapidity of the motion had
merged into one of intense pleasure and exhilaration of mind, I could
afford to look back on my recent coach experience with a sort of pitying
superiority, as on a something that was altogether _rococo_ and out of
date. Already the rash of new ideas into my mind was so powerful that
the old landmarks of my life seemed in danger of being swept clean away.
Already it seemed days instead of only a brief hour or two since I had
bidden Mrs. Whitehead farewell, and had taken my last look at Park Hill
Seminary.

The red-faced guard was as good as his word; he and I became famous
friends before I reached the end of my journey. At every station at
which we stopped he came to the window to see how I was getting on, and
whether I was in want of anything, and was altogether so kind to me that
I was quite sorry to part from him when the train reached Eastbury, and
left me, a minute later, standing, a solitary waif, on the little
platform.

The one solitary fly of which the station could boast was laid under
contribution. My little box was tossed on to its roof; I