Toddrington lies--but for Wrestham, you take the road to market."

It was some time before our hero could persuade the old woman to stick
to Little Wrestham, or to Toddrington, and not to mix the directions
for the different roads together--he took patience, for his impatience
only confused his director the more. In process of time he made out,
and wrote down, the various turns that he was to follow, to reach
Little Wrestham; but no human power could get her from Little Wrestham
to Toddrington, though she knew the road perfectly well; but she had,
for the seventeen last years, been used to go "the other road," and
all the carriers went that way, and passed the door, and that was all
she could certify.

Little Wrestham, after turning to the left and right as often as his
directory required, our hero happily reached: but, unhappily, he
found no Mr. Reynolds there; only a steward, who gave nearly the same
account of his master as had been given by the old woman, and could
not guess even where the gentleman might now be. Toddrington was as
likely as any place--but he could not say.

"Perseverance against fortune." To Toddrington our hero proceeded,
through cross country roads--such roads!--very different from the
Irish roads. Waggon ruts, into which the carriage wheels sunk nearly
to the nave--and, from time to time, "sloughs of despond," through
which it seemed impossible to drag, walk, wade, or swim, and all the
time with a sulky postilion. "Oh, how unlike my Larry!" thought Lord
Colambre.

At length, in a very narrow lane, going up a hill, said to be two
miles of ascent, they overtook a heavy laden waggon, and they were