“I see how it is,” said the female, bridling up, while the coachman, out of patience, prepared to do quite the reverse; “some people are very civil, while some people are setting beside ’em in dickies; but give me the paper again, and I’ll find my own ways.”
“It’s chucked away,” said the guard as the coach got into motion; “but just ask the first man you meet—anybody will tell you.”
“But I don’t know who or where to ask for,” screamed the lost woman after the flying Rocket; “I can’t read; but it was all down in the paper as is chucked away.”
A loud flourish of the bugle to the tune of “My Lodging is on the Cold Ground” was the only reply: and as long as the road remained straight, I could see “the Bewildered Maid” standing in the midst of her baggage, as forlorn as Eve, when, according to Milton,
“The world was all before her, where to choose
Her place—”
THE OPENING OF MILTON’S PARADISE LOST.