park with her, and they walked above two hours there in the farthest and remotest walks; which Amy did because, as they talked with great heat, it was apparent they were quarrelling, and the people took notice of it.

They walked till they came almost to the wilderness at the south side of the park; but the girl perceiving Amy offered to go in there among the woods and trees, stopped short there, and would go no farther; but said she would not go in there.

Amy smiled, and asked her what was the matter? She replied short, she did not know where she was, nor where she was going to carry her, and she would go no farther; and without any more ceremony, turns back, and walks apace away from her. Amy owned she was surprised, and came back too, and called to her, upon which the girl stopped, and Amy coming up to her, asked her what she meant?

The girl boldly replied she did not know but she might murder her; and that, in short, she would not trust herself with her, and never would come into her company again alone.

It was very provoking, but, however, Amy kept her temper, with much difficulty, and bore it, knowing that much might depend upon it; so she mocked her foolish jealousy, and told her she need not be uneasy for her, she would do her no harm, and would have done her good, if she would have let her; but since she was of such a refractory humour, she should not trouble herself, for she should never come into her company again; and that neither she, or her brother, or sister, should ever hear from her or see her any more; and so she should have the satisfaction of being the ruin of her brother and sister, as well as of herself.

The girl seemed a little mollified at that, and said that for herself, she knew the worst of it, she could seek her fortune; but it was hard her brother and sister should suffer on her score; and said something that was tender and well enough, on that account. But Amy told her it was for her to take that into consideration; for she would let her see that it was all her own; that she would have done them all good, but that having been used thus, she would do no more for any of them; and that she should not need to be afraid to come into her company again, for she would never give her occasion for it any more. This, by the way, was false in the girl, too; for she did venture into Amy's company again, after that, once too much, as I shall relate by itself.

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They grew cooler, however, afterwards, and Amy carried her into a house at Greenwich, where she was acquainted, and took an occasion to leave the girl in a room awhile, to speak to the people in the house, and so prepare them to own her as a lodger in the house; and then going in to her again, told her, there she lodged, if she had a mind to find her out, or if anybody else had anything to say to her. And so Amy dismissed her, and got rid of her again; and finding an empty hackney-coach in the town, came away by land to London, and the girl, going down to the water side, came by boat.

This conversation did not answer Amy's end at all, because it did not secure the girl from pursuing her design of hunting me out; and though my indefatigable friend the Quaker amused her three or four days, yet I had such notice of it at last, that I thought fit to come away from Tunbridge upon it; and where to go I knew not: but, in short, I went to a little village upon Epping Forest, called Woodford, and took lodgings in a private house, where I lived retired about six weeks, till I thought she might be tired of her search, and have given me over.

Here I received an account from my trusty Quaker that the wench had really been at Tunbridge, had found out my lodgings, and had told her tale there in a most dismal tone; that she had followed us, as she thought, to London; but the Quaker had answered her, that she knew nothing of it, which was indeed true; and had admonished her to be easy, and not hunt after people of such fashion as we were, as if we were thieves; that she might be assured, that since I was not willing to see her, I would not be forced to it; and treating me thus would effectually disoblige me. And with such discourses as these she quieted her; and she (the Quaker) added, that she hoped I should not be troubled much more with her.

It was in this time that Amy gave me the history of her Greenwich voyage, when she spoke of drowning and killing the girl in so serious a manner, and with such an apparent resolution of doing it, that, as I said, put me in a rage with her, so that I effectually turned her away from me, as I have said above, and she was gone; nor did she so much as tell me whither, or which way she was gone; on the other hand, when I came to reflect on it, that now I had neither assistant

or confidant to speak to, or receive the least information from, my friend the Quaker excepted, it made me very uneasy.

I waited, and expected, and wondered, from day to day, still thinking Amy would one time or other think a little, and come again, or at least let me hear of her; but for ten days together I heard nothing of her. I was so impatient, that I got neither rest by day or sleep by night, and what to do I knew not. I durst not go to town to the Quaker's, for fear of meeting that vexatious creature, my girl, and I could get no intelligence where I was; so I got my spouse, upon pretence of wanting her company, to take the coach one day and fetch my good Quaker to me.

When I had her, I durst ask her no questions, nor hardly knew which end of the business to begin to talk of; but of her own accord, she told me that the girl had been three or four times haunting her for news from me; and that she had been so troublesome, that she had been obliged to show herself a little angry with her; and at last, told her plainly that she need give herself no trouble in searching after me by her means, for she (the Quaker) would not tell her, if she knew; upon which she refrained awhile. But on the other hand, she told me it was not safe for me to send my own coach for her to come in, for she had some reason to believe that she (my daughter) watched her door night and day; nay, and watched her, too, every time she went in and out; for she was so bent upon a discovery, that she spared no pains, and she believed she had taken a lodging very near their house for that purpose.

I could hardly give her a hearing of all this, for my eager ness to ask for Amy; but I was confounded when she told me she had heard nothing of her. It is impossible to express the anxious thoughts that rolled about in my mind, and continually perplexed me about her; particularly, I reproached myself with my rashness in turning away so faithful a creature, that for so many years had not only been a servant but an agent; and not only an agent, but a friend, and a faithful friend too.

Then I considered, too, that Amy knew all the secret history of my life; had been in all the intrigues of it, and been a party in both evil and good; and at best, there was no policy in it; that as it was very ungenerous and unkind to run things to such an extremity with her, and for an

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occasion, too, in which all the fault she was guilty of was owing to her excessive care for my safety, so it must be only her steady kindness to me, and an excess of generous friend ship for me, that should keep her from ill-using me in return for it; which ill-using me was enough in her power, and might be my utter undoing.

These thoughts perplexed me exceedingly, and what course to take I really did not know. I began indeed to give Amy quite over, for she had now been gone above a fortnight; and as she had taken away all her clothes, and her money too, which was not a little, and so had no occasion of that kind to come any more, so she had not left any word where she was gone, or to which part of the world I might send to hear of her.

And I was troubled on another account too, viz., that my spouse and I too had resolved to do very handsomely for Amy, without considering what she might have got another way at all; but we had said nothing of it to her, and so I thought, as she had not known what was likely to fall in her way, she had not the influence of that expectation to make her come back.

Upon the whole, the perplexity of this girl, who hunted me as if, like a hound, she had had a hot scent, but was now at a fault; I say, that perplexity, and this other part, of Amy being gone, issued in this, I resolved to be gone, and go over to Holland; there, I believed, I should be at rest. So I took occasion one day to tell my spouse, that I was afraid he might take it ill that I had amused him thus long, and that, at last, I doubted I was not with child; and that, since it was so, our things being packed up, and all in order for going to Holland, I would go away now, when he pleased.

My spouse, who was perfectly easy, whether in going or staying, left it all entirely to me; so I considered of it, and began to prepare again for my voyage. But alas! I was irresolute to the last degree. I was, for want of Amy, destitute; I had lost my right hand; she was my steward, gathered in my rents (I mean my interest money), and kept my accounts; and, in a word, did all my business; and without her, indeed, I knew not how to go away, nor how to stay. But an accident thrust itself in here, and that even in Amy's conduct, too, which frighted me away, and without her, too, in the utmost horror and confusion.

I have related how my faithful friend the Quaker was come to me, and what account she gave me of her being continually haunted by my daughter; and that, as she said, she watched her very door night and day. The truth was, she had set a spy to watch so effectually, that she (the Quaker) neither went in or out but she had notice of it.

This was too evident, when the next morning after she came to me (for I kept her all night), to my unspeakable surprise, I saw a hackney-coach stop at the door where I lodged, and saw her (my daughter) in the coach all alone. It was a very good chance, in the middle of a bad one, that husband had taken out the coach that very morning, and was gone to London. As for me, I had neither life or soul left in me; I was so confounded, I knew not what to do or to say.

my

My happy visitor had more presence of mind than I, and asked me if I had made no acquaintance among the neighbours. I told her yes, there was a lady lodged two doors off that I was very intimate with. But hast thou no way out backward to go to her? says she. Now it happened there was a back-door in the garden, by which we usually went and came to and from the house, so I told her of it. Well, well, says she, go out and make a visit then, and leave the rest to me. Away I run, told the lady (for I was very free there) that I was a widow to-day, my spouse being gone to London, so I came not to visit her, but to dwell with her that day; because, also, our landlady had got strangers come from London. So having framed this orderly lie, I pulled some work out of my pocket, and added, I did not come to be idle.

As I went out one way, my friend the Quaker went the other to receive this unwelcome guest. The girl made but little ceremony, but having bid the coachman ring at the gate, gets down out of the coach, and comes to the door; a country girl going to the door (belonging to the house), for the Quaker forbid any of my maids going. Madam asked for my Quaker by name, and the girl asked her to walk in.

Upon this, my Quaker, seeing there was no hanging back, goes to her immediately, but put all the gravity upon her countenance that she was mistress of, and that was not a little indeed.

When she (the Quaker) came into the room (for they had showed my daughter into a little parlour) she kept her grave