bled on another account too, viz., that my spouse and I
too had resolved to do very handsomely for Amy, without considering what
she might have got another way at all; but we had said nothing of it to
her, and so I thought, as she had not known what was likely to fall in
her way, she had not the influence of that expectation to make her come
back.

Upon the whole, the perplexity of this girl, who hunted me as if, like a
hound, she had had a hot scent, but was now at a fault, I say, that
perplexity, and this other part of Amy being gone, issued in this--I
resolved to be gone, and go over to Holland; there, I believed, I should
be at rest. So I took occasion one day to tell my spouse that I was
afraid he might take it ill that I had amused him thus long, and that at
last I doubted I was not with child; and that since it was so, our
things being packed up, and all in order for going to Holland, I would
go away now when he pleased.

My spouse, who was perfectly easy whether in going or staying, left it
all entirely to me; so I considered of it, and began to prepare again
for my voyage. But, alas! I was irresolute to the last degree. I was,
for want of Amy, destitute; I had lost my right hand; she was my
steward, gathered in my rents (I mean my interest money) and kept my
accounts, and, in a word, did all my business; and without her, indeed,
I knew not how to go away nor how to stay. But an accident thrust itself
in here, and that even in Amy's conduct too, which frighted me away, and
without her too, in the utmost horror and confusion.

I have related how my faithful friend the Quaker was come to me, and
what account she gave me of her being continually haunted by my
daughter; and that, as she said, she watched her very door night and
day. The truth was, she had set a spy to watch so effectually that she
(the Quaker) neither went in or out but she had notice of it.

This was too evident when, the next morning after she came to me (for I
kept her all night), to my unspeakable surprise I saw a hackney-coach
stop at the door where I lodged, and saw her (my daughter) in the coach
all alone. It was a very good chance, in the middle of a bad one, that
my husband had taken out the coach that very morning, and was gone to
London. As for me, I had neither life or soul left in me; I was so
confounded I knew not what to do or to say.

My happy visitor had more presence of mind than I, and asked me if I had
made no acquaintance a