an umbrella, cloak, cane, hat-box or band-box remained.
And my portmanteau, with my few clothes and little pocket-book enclasping the remnant of my fifteen pounds, where were they?
I ask this question now, but I could not ask it then. I could say nothing whatever; not possessing a phrase of speaking French: and it was French, and French only, the whole world seemed now gabbling round me. What should I do? Approaching the conductor, I just laid my hand on his arm, pointed to a trunk, then to the diligence-roof, and tried to express a question with my eyes. He misunderstood me, seized the trunk indicated, and was about to hoist it on the vehicle.
"Let that alone—will you?" said a voice in good English; then, in correction, "Qu' est ce que vous faites done? Cette malle est a, moi."
But I had heard the Fatherland accents; they rejoiced my heart; I turned:
"Sir," said I, appealing to the stranger, without in my distress noticing what he was like, "I cannot speak French. May I entreat you to ask this man what he has done with my trunk?"
Without discriminating, for the moment, what
