OUR little journey was arranged by Aunt Milly in the most comfortable way she could think of for us. Harry would not consent to let her send the carriage all the way. The railway was close to us, and it passed about two miles from the Park, where there was a little station; and the carriage was to meet us there. It was a very short journey, certainly; but I remember when we were all in the train,—all—every one of us,—a family entire and close together,—and especially at the moment when we were passing through the tunnel, and felt in the darkness more entirely separated from the world,—a sudden thought seized upon me: “Oh, if we were only going on, anywhere, anywhere to the end of the world!” Plunging through the darkness, with Harry sitting close by me, and baby on my knee, and nobody able to approach or stop us—going on all together! All sorts of people have their fancies, no doubt. I daresay mine were very homely ones; but I shall never forget the strange thrill that came upon my heart as this wild possibility seized me. When we came slowly into the daylight, and the train stopped, and the door of the carriage flew open, and dear Aunt Milly herself appeared to welcome us, I woke up with a little shiver into real life again. Ah me! one cannot dart into the bowels of the earth and hide one’s self. But life and duty somehow looked cold at me with their piercing daylight eyes after that thought.

Everything familiar stopped short and broke off when we got into the carriage. Aunt Milly was not a great lady. I don’t think anything could ever have made her a great lady; but it was clear she had been a person of consideration for many a year. I never had been in such a carriage before; indeed, I don’t think I had ever been in any carriage but a public one, for, of course, Aunt Connor was not rich enough to have a carriage of her own. But when I sat down by Aunt Milly’s side, I could not help feeling immediately that it all belonged to me. It was a strange feeling, and indeed, if nobody will be shocked, it was a very pleasing feeling. Instead of making me discontented, somehow it quite reconciled me to{274} being poor. My own opinion is, that people of good family, or whatever is equivalent to good family,—people that know they belong to a higher class, whether other people know it or not,—always bear poverty best. It does not humiliate them as it does people who have always been poor. I think I could have stood any remarks upon my bonnet, or even baby’s pelisse, with great equanimity after my visit to the Park; being poor looked so much more like an accidental circumstance after that. Perhaps I don’t explain very well what I mean, so I will just state it plainly, and then you may understand, or disagree with it, just as you choose. The higher one’s rank is, the better one can bear being poor. There! it is not the common opinion, but I believe it all the same for that.

And here was the Park, the very same great modern house that stood (leaning on the trees) in poor papa’s drawing, with two wings drawn out from the main body of the building, and a curious archway and a little paved court at the side before you came to the great door. We went to the great door as we were strangers, and I could see the grave face of my omnibus acquaintance peeping through a round bow-window close to the door before he admitted us, very solemnly and with profoundest abstract air. I wonder if he could remember us. His face looked as blankly respectful as if any idea on any subject whatever would somehow be unbecoming the dignity of the Park. Aunt Milly, who had gradually become fidgety, now took hold of my hand and drew me forward quickly. I went with her, a little astonished, but with no clear idea where I was going. She took me into a very long, very large room, with a great many tall windows on one side, a room so big as to look a perfect maze of furniture to me. I saw nobody in it, and did not think of it as being a room in common use. She had brought me to see some picture, no doubt. But Aunt Milly hurried me up this long room, with her hand upon my wrist, to a screen that seemed drawn so as to shelter one side of the fireplace. When we came in front of this, I was greatly startled to see a lady, with large knitting-pins in her hands, rise slowly from an arm-chair. There was nothing extraordinary in her look; she had fine features, I suppose,—I don’t think I know, very well, what fine features are,—she had white hair, and a pretty cap with soft-coloured ribbons, and a strange, studied, soft-coloured dre............