Patty was fifteen when she left home for the first time to pay a visit to her Aunt Martha in London. Patty's home was in the country (for her father was a farmer), so she was very eager to see all the wonders of London. Her father drove her into the market-town very early on the morning of her departure, and as it was a very busy day with him, he was obliged to leave her in the coach office all by herself, as the London coach was not expected to start for half an hour. Patty kissed her father with tears in her eyes, and he blessed her; and telling her to be a good girl and "not learn silly town ways," he strode off, whip in hand, towards the market-place, leaving Patty alone with her possessions.

They were not many—a leathern trunk that held all her wardrobe, a basket of flowers that hid a dozen of the largest and freshest eggs from her mother's poultry-yard, and last—to Patty's extreme annoyance—a doll that her mother had insisted on making and sending to little Betsy, Aunt Martha's youngest child. Patty herself had not long passed the age for loving dolls, and was, therefore, all the more sensitive on the subject; so when the coach came thundering into the yard, and she was called to take her place by a man who addressed her as "Little Missy," she was ready to shed tears of vexation. Patty had to remember her mother's words, to "take great care of the doll, as it had been a lot of trouble to make," otherwise she might have been tempted to leave it behind, or let it drop out of the coach window.

Windsor was passed after a time, then Staines, and as the twilight came on the coach was going at a good pace, with the last rays of sunset to the left behind it, and the dark stretch of Hounslow Heath, with its dismal gallows, in front. Suddenly the coach stopped, and was surrounded by three men on horseback, armed with pistols, their faces hidden behind black crape masks. The ladies screamed, the men turned pale and trembled, the guard made a faint show of resistance, but was at once overpowered; the driver looked on with apparent indifference while the coach was ransacked.

Patty had nothing worth taking—neither watch, jewels, nor money; but when asked by one of the men what she had, she held out the doll, almost hoping that he might take it, but he only laughed loudly. In a short time the coach was allowed to proceed on its way, Patty being the only traveller who had not been robbed.

Very glad was Patty to see her uncle's kind face when the coach stopped in London at the end of its journey, and great was the excitement when it became known that they had been attacked by the way. When Patty told the story of the highwaymen to her aunt, and how she had offered them her doll, Aunt Martha gave a cry of horror.

"La, child; you were nearer the truth than you knew!" she said; and taking a pair of scissors, she cut the stitches that held together the rag body of the doll, and there fell out some golden guineas on the table, that the farmer had sent to his sister to pay for his Patty while she was in London.

Patty enjoyed her visit to London, and came home again quite safely, as did the doll, which Patty asked if she might keep in remembrance of that eventful journey.