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words it was that I bade her get out of my sight and out of my house; and it went so far, that Amy packed up her alls, and marched off, and was gone for almost good and all. But of that in its order; I must go back to her relation of the voyage which they made to Greenwich together.

They held on the wrangle all the way by water; the girl insisted upon her knowing that I was her mother, and told her all the history of my life in the Pall Mall, as well after her being turned away as before, and of my marriage since; and, which was worse, not only who my present husband was, but where he had lived, viz. at Rouen in France. She knew nothing of Paris, or of where we was going to live, namely, at Nimeguen; but told her in so many words that if she could not find me here, she would go to Holland after me.

They landed at Greenwich, and Amy carried her into the 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 further; 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 sisters 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.

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