Five o’clock ruck on t a candle into my closet and found me already up and nearly dressed. I rance, and  on my clot of a  setting, o leave Gates day by a coaces at six a.m. Bessie  risen; s a fire in to make my breakfast. Fes of a journey; nor could I. Bessie, o take a fes in a paper and put to my bag; t, and he nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, “ill you go in and bid Missis good-bye?”

    “No, Bessie: so my crib last nigo supper, and said I need not disturb old me to remember t s friend, and to speak of eful to her accordingly.”

    “ did you say, Miss?”

    “Noturned from o the wall.”

    “t was wrong, Miss Jane.”

    “It e rig been my friend: she has been my foe.”

    “O Miss Jane! don’t say so!”

    “Good-bye to Gates out at t door.

    t, and it ern,  steps and gravel road sodden by a recent ter morning: my teettered as I ened do in ter’s lodge: er’s  kindling runk,  t ed but a fees of six, and sly after t ruck, tant roll of o tcs lamps approache gloom.

    “Is ser’s wife.

    “Yes.”

    “And ?”

    “Fifty miles.”

    “ a long  afraid to trust her so far alone.”

    t  tes s four s top laden e; my trunk aken from Bessie’s neck, to wh kisses.

    “Be sure and take good care of o ted me into the inside.

    “Ay, ay!” o, a voice exclaimed “All rigeso unknoe and mysterious regions.

    I remember but little of t to me of a preternatural lengt o travel over oopped; taken out, and ted to dine. I o an inn