s
if uncertain on whom to visit this extraordinary behaviour; but Mr
Mantalini happening by ill-luck to thrust his nose from under the
bedclothes, in his anxiety to ascertain whether the visitors were gone,
she suddenly, and with a dexterity which could only have been acquired
by long practice, flung a pretty heavy clothes-basket at him, with so
good an aim that he kicked more violently than before, though without
venturing to make any effort to disengage his head, which was quite
extinguished. Thinking this a favourable opportunity for departing
before any of the torrent of her wrath discharged itself upon him,
Nicholas hurried Kate off, and left the unfortunate subject of this
unexpected recognition to explain his conduct as he best could.

The next morning he began his journey. It was now cold, winter weather:
forcibly recalling to his mind under what circumstances he had first
travelled that road, and how many vicissitudes and changes he had
since undergone. He was alone inside the greater part of the way, and
sometimes, when he had fallen into a doze, and, rousing himself, looked
out of the window, and recognised some place which he well remembered as
having passed, either on his journey down, or in the long walk back
with poor Smike, he could hardly believe but that all which had since
happened had been a dream, and that they were still plodding wearily on
towards London, with the world before them.

To render these recollections the more vivid, it came on to snow as
night set in; and, passing through Stamford and Grantham, and by the
little alehouse where he had heard the story of the bold Baron of
Grogzwig, everything looked as if he had seen it but yesterday, and
not even a flake of the white crust on the roofs had melted away.
Encouraging the train of ideas which flocked upon him, he could almost
persuade himself that he sat again outside the coach, with Squeers and
the boys; that he heard their voices in the air; and that he felt again,
but with a mingled sensation of pain and pleasure now, that old sinking
of the heart, and longing after home. While he was yet yielding himself
up to these fancies he fell asleep, and, dreaming of Madeline, forgot
them.

He slept at the inn at Greta Bridge on the night of his arrival, and,
rising at a very early hour next morning, walked to the market town, and
inquired for John Browdie's house. John lived in the outskirts, now he
was a family man; and as everbody knew him,