off any other way. Of course, the night was one of great agony; but
I thought often, as I paced the room, how much better it was to have a
blazing fire to cheer me up, and some delicious tea to put my lips to
"when so dispoged" (like the immortal Mrs. Gamp), than to be lying on
the open plain in a hard frost, wondering when F---- and his cart would
arrive.

The next day we returned home, much against our host's wish; and I
walked all the way, some six miles of mountain road, for I could not
bear the idea of riding. F---- led the horses, and we arrived quite
safely. His first idea was to take me down to a doctor, but the motion
of driving was greater agony than riding, as the road was rough; so
after the first mile, I entreated to be taken back, and we turned the
horses' heads towards home again; and when we reached it, I got out all
my little books on surgery, medicine, etc., and from them made out how
to set my shoulder in some sort of fashion, with F----'s help. Of course
it is still useless to me, but I think it is mending itself; and after
a week I could do everything with my left hand, even to writing, after a
fashion. The only thing I could _not_ do was to arrange my hair, or
even to brush it; and though F---- was "willing," he was so exceedingly
awkward, that at last, after going through great anguish and having it
pulled out by handfuls, I got him to cut it off, and it is now cropped
like a small boy's. He cuts up my dinner, etc. for me; but it is a very
trying process, and I don't wonder at children often leaving the nasty
cold mess half eaten. I shall be very glad to be able to use my own
knife again.

Letter XXV: How We lost our horses and had to walk home.

Broomielaw, November 1868. This will actually be my last letter from the
Malvern Hills; and, in spite of the joy I feel at the hope of seeing
all my beloved ones in England, I am _so_ sorry to leave my dear little
happy valley. We have done nothing but pay farewell visits lately; and I
turn for a final look at each station or cottage as we ride away with a
great tightness at my heart, and moisture in my eyes, to think I shall
never see them again. You must not be jealous at the lingering regrets I
feel, for unless you had been with me here you can never understand how
kind and friendly all our neighbours, high and low, have been to us from
the very first, or how dearly I have grown to love them. I don't at all
know how I am to say good-bye to my