We had all been invited to see the launch of Mr.
Tyrrel's new yacht from the builder's yard at Wivenhoe, in Essex. When
the launch was over, the rest of the company returned to Colchester to
dine. Miss Garth and I contrived to get into the same carriage together,
with nobody but my two little pupils for our companions. We gave the
coachman his orders, and drove round by St. Crux. The moment Miss Garth
mentioned her name we were let in, and shown all over the house. I don't
know how to describe it to you. It is the most bewildering place I ever
saw in my life--"
"Don't attempt to describe it, Norah. Go on with your story instead."
"Very well. My story takes me straight into one of the rooms at St.
Crux--a room about as long as your street here--so dreary, so dirty, and
so dreadfully cold that I shiver at the bare recollection of it. Miss
Garth was for getting out of it again as speedily as possible, and so
was I. But the housekeeper declined to let us off without first looking
at a singular piece of furniture, the only piece of furniture in the
comfortless place. She called it a tripod, I think. (There is nothing
to be alarmed at, Magdalen; I assure you there is nothing to be alarmed
at!) At any rate, it was a strange, three-legged thing, which supported
a great panful of charcoal ashes at the top.
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