Well, but Jane absolutely refuses to take me there. After we pass
Belvern churchyard we approach two roads: the one to the right
leads to the Holy Well; the one to the left leads to Shady Dell
Farm, where Jane lived when she was a girl. At the critical moment
I pull the right rein with all my force. In vain: Jane is always
overcome by sentiment when she sees that left-hand road. She bears
to the left like a whirlwind, and nothing can stop her mad career
until she is again amid the scenes so dear to her recollection, the
beloved pastures where the mother still lives at whose feet she
brayed in early youth!

Now this is all very pretty and touching. Her action has, in truth,
its springs in a most commendable sentiment that I should be the
last to underrate. Shady Dell Farm is interesting, too, for once,
if one can swallow one's wrath and dudgeon at being taken there
against one's will; and one feels that Jane's parents and Jane's
early surroundings must be worth a single visit, if they could
produce a donkey of such unusual capacity. Still, she must know, if
she knows anything, that a person does not come from America and pay
one and fourpence the hour (or thereabouts) merely in order to visit
the home of her girlhood, which is neither mentioned in Baedeker nor
set down in the local guide-books as a feature of interest.

Whether, in addition to her affection for Shady Dell Farm, she has
an objection to St. Bridget's Well, and thus is strengthened by a
double motive, I do not know. She may consider it a relic of popish
superstition; she may be a Protestant donkey; she is a Dissenter,--
there's no doubt about that.

But, you ask, have you tried various methods of bringing her to