she dropped into the grave by any
fair way, as I may call it, I mean, had she died by any ordinary
distemper, I should have shed but very few tears for her. But I was not
arrived to such a pitch of obstinate wickedness as to commit murder,
especially such as to murder my own child, or so much as to harbour a
thought so barbarous in my mind. But, as I said, Amy effected all
afterwards without my knowledge, for which I gave her my hearty curse,
though I could do little more; for to have fallen upon Amy had been to
have murdered myself. But this tragedy requires a longer story than I
have room for here. I return to my journey.

My dear friend the Quaker was kind, and yet honest, and would do
anything that was just and upright to serve me, but nothing wicked or
dishonourable. That she might be able to say boldly to the creature, if
she came, she did not know where I was gone, she desired I would not let
her know; and to make her ignorance the more absolutely safe to herself,
and likewise to me, I allowed her to say that she heard us talk of going
to Newmarket, &c. She liked that part, and I left all the rest to her,
to act as she thought fit; only charged her, that if the girl entered
into the story of the Pall Mall, she should not entertain much talk
about it, but let her understand that we all thought she spoke of it a
little too particularly; and that the lady (meaning me) took it a
little ill to be so likened to a public mistress, or a stage-player, and
the like; and so to bring her, if possible, to say no more of it.
However, though I did not tell my friend the Quaker how to write to me,
or where I was, yet I left a sealed paper with her maid to give her, in
which I gave her a direction how to write to Amy, and so, in effect, to
myself.

It was but a few days after I was gone, but the impatient girl came to
my lodgings on pretence to see how I did, and to hear if I intended to
go the voyage, and the like. My trusty agent was at home, and received
her coldly at the door; but told her that the lady, which she supposed
she meant, was gone from her house.

This was a full stop to all she could say for a good while; but as she
stood musing some time at the door, considering what to begin a talk
upon, she perceived my friend the Quaker looked a little uneasy, as if
she wanted to go in and shut the door, which stung her to the quick; and
the wary Quaker had not so much as asked her to come in; for seeing her
alone she exp