Myself.—Yes, I am English. What part of England do you come from?
Woman.—Shropshire, sir.
Myself.—Is that little child yours?
Woman.—Yes, sir, it is my husband’s child and mine.
Myself.—I suppose your husband is Welsh?
Woman.—O no, sir, we are all English.
Myself.—And what is your husband?
Woman.—A little farmer, sir; he farms about forty acres under Mrs. —.
Myself.—Well, are you comfortable here?
Woman.—O dear me, no, sir! we are anything but comfortable. Here we are three poor lone creatures in a strange land, without a soul to speak to but one another. Every day of our lives we wish we had never left Shropshire.