hired for the day had cautioned Mrs. M.
respecting it before they started; and that he
had lent it reluctantly, being the only pony to
match he had in the stable at the time, and
would not have lent it at all had he not known
Mrs. M. to be a remarkably good whip. On
reaching Goodwood, it seems, the gentlemen
of the party had got out, leaving the ladies to
take a drive round the park in the phaeton.
One or both of the ponies must then have taken
fright at something in the road, for Mrs. M.
had scarcely taken the reins when the ponies
shied. Had there been plenty of room she
would readily have mastered the difficulty, but
it was in a narrow road where a gate obstructed
the way. Some men rushed to open the gate;
too late. The three other ladies jumped out at
the beginning of the accident, but Mrs. M. still
held on to the reins, seeking to control her
ponies, until, finding it was impossible for the
men to get the gate open in time, she, too,
sprang forward; at the same instant the ponies
came smash on to the gate. She had made
her spring too late, and fell heavily to the
ground on her head. The heavy, old-fashioned
comb of the period, with which her hair was
looped up, was driven into her skull by the
force of the fall. The Duke of Richmond, a
witness to the accident, ran to her assistance,
lifted her up, and rested her head upon his
knees. The only words Mrs. M. had spoken
were uttered at that time — "Good God, my
children!" By direction of the duke, she was
immediately conveyed to a neighbouring inn,
where every assistance, medical and otherwise,
that forethought or kindness could suggest was
afforded her.

At six o'clock in the evening, the time at
which my wife had gone into the stable and
seen what we both now knew had been her
spirit, Mrs. M., in her sole interval of returning
consciousness, had made a violent but unsuccessful
attempt to speak. From her glance having
wandered round the room, in solemn, awful
wistfulness, it had been conjectured she wished
to see some relative or friend not then present.

I went to Goodwood in the gig with Mr.
Pinnock, and arrived in time to see my sister-
in-law die at two o'clock in the morning. Her
only conscious moments had been those in
which she laboured unsuccessfully to speak,
which had occurred at six. o'clock. She wore
a black silk dress.

When we came to dispose of her business,
and to wind up her affairs, there was scarcely
anything left for the two orphan girls. Mrs.
M.'s father, however, being well to do, took
them to bring them up. At his death, which
happened soon afterwards, his property went
to his eldest son, who speedily dissipated the
inheritance. During a space of two years the
children were taken as visitors by various
relations in turn, and lived an unhappy life with no
settled home.

For some time I had been debating with
myself how to help these children, having many
boys and girls of my own to provide for. I had
almost settled to take them myself, bad as
trade was with me at the time, and bring them
up with my own family, when one day business
called me to Brighton. The business was so
urgent that it necessitated my travelling at
night.

I set out from Bognor in a close-headed gig
on a beautiful moonlight winter's night, when
the crisp frozen snow lay deep over the earth,
and its fine glistening dust was whirled about
in little eddies on the bleak night-wind — driven
now and then in stinging powder against my
tingling cheek, warm and glowing in the sharp
air. I had taken my great dog "Bose" (short
for "Boatswain") for company. He lay, blinking
wakefully, sprawled out on the spare seat of
the gig beneath a mass of warm rugs.

Between Little Hampton and Worthing is a
lonely piece of road, long and dreary, through
bleak and bare open country, where the snow
lay knee-deep, sparkling in the moonlight. It
was so cheerless that I turned round to speak
to my dog, more for the sake of hearing the
sound of a voice than anything else. "Good
Bose," I said, patting him; "there's a good
dog!" Then suddenly I noticed he shivered,
and slunk underneath the wraps. Then the
horse required my attention, for he gave a start
and was going wrong, and had nearly taken me
into the ditch.

Then I looked up. Walking at my horse's
head, dressed in a sweeping robe, so white that
it shone dazzling against the white snow, I saw
a lady, her back turned to me, her head bare;
her hair dishevelled and strayed, showing sharp
and black against her white dress.

I was at first so much surprised at seeing a
lady, so dressed, exposed to the open night, and
such a night as this, that I scarcely knew what
to do. Recovering myself, I called out to know
if I could render assistance — if she wished to
ride? No answer. I drove faster, the horse
blinking, and shying, and trembling the while,
his ears laid back in abject terror. Still the
figure maintained its position close to my
horse's head. Then I thought that what I saw
was no woman, but perchance a man disguised
for the purpose of robbing me, seeking an
opportunity to seize the bridle and stop the horse.
Filled with this idea, I said, "Good Bose! hi!
look at it, boy!" but the dog only shivered, as
if in fright. Then we came to a place where
four cross-roads met.

Determined to know the worst, I pulled up
the horse. I fetched Bose, unwilling, out by
the ears. He was a good dog at anything from
a rat to a man, but he slunk away that night
into the hedge, and lay there, his head between
his paws, whining and howling. I walked
straight up to the figure, still standing by the
horse's head. As I walked, the figure turned,
and I saw Harriet's face as plainly as I see you
now — white and calm — placid, as idealised and
beautified by death. I must own that, though
not a nervous man, in that instant I felt sick
and faint. Harriet looked me full in the face
with a long, eager, silent look. I knew then it