to Rosville,
forty miles further, by railroad. We stopped a night on the way
to Boston at a country inn, which stood before an egg-shaped
pond. Temperance remade our beds, declaiming the while against the
unwholesome situation of the house; the idea of anybody's living in
the vicinity of fresh water astonished her; to impose upon travelers'
health that way was too much. She went to the kitchen to learn whether
the landlady cooked, or hired a cook. She sat up all night with our
luggage in sight, to keep off what she called "prowlers"--she did
not like to say robbers, for fear of exciting our imaginations--and
frightened us by falling out of her chair toward morning. Veronica
insisted upon her going to bed, but she refused, till Veronica
threatened to sit up herself, when she carried her own carpet-bag to
bed with her.

We arrived in Boston the next day and went to the Bromfield House in
Bromfield Street, whither father had directed us. We were ushered to
the parlor by a waiter, who seemed struck by Temperance, and who was
treated by her with respect. "Mr. Shepherd, the landlord, himself, I
guess," she whispered.

Three cadaverous children were there eating bread and butter from a
black tray on the center-table.

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Temperance, "what bread those children are
eating! It is made of sawdust."

"It's good, you old cat," screamed the little girl.

Veronica sat down by her, and offered her some sugar-plums, which the
child snatched from her hand.

"We are missionaries," said the oldest boy, "and we are going to
Bombay next week in the _Cabot_. I'll make the natives gee, I tell
ye."

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed Temperance, "did you ever?"

Presently a sickly, gentle-looking man entered, in a suit of black
camlet, and carrying an umbrella; he took a seat by the children, and
ran his fingers through his hair, which already stood upright.

"That girl gave Sis some sugar-plums," remarked the boy.

"I hope you thanked her, Clarissa," said the father.

"No; she didn't give me enough," the child answered.

"They have no mother," the poor man said apologetically to Veronica,
looking up at her, and, as he caught her eye, blushing deeply. She
bowed, and moved away. Mother rang the bell, and when the waiter came
gave him a note for Mr. Shepherd, which father had written, bespeaking
his attention. Mr. Shepherd soon appeared, and conveyed us to two
pleasant rooms with an unmitigated view of the wall of the n