My aunt, who was perfectly indifferent to public opinion, drove the grey pony through Dover in a masterly manner; sitting high and stiff like a state coachman, keeping a steady eye upon him wherever he went, and making a point of not letting him have his own way in any respect. When we came into the country road, she permitted him to relax a little, however; and looking at me down in a valley of cushion by her side, asked me whether I was happy?

“Very happy indeed, thank you, aunt,” I said.

She was much gratified; and both her hands being occupied, patted me on the head with her whip.

“Is it a large school, aunt?” I asked.

“Why, I don’t know,” said my aunt. “We are going to Mr. Wickfield’s first.”

“Does he keep a school?” I asked.