While the present century was in its teens, and on one sunshinymorning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of MissPinkerton’s academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a largefamily coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, driven by afat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate of fourmiles an hour. A black servant, who reposed on the box beside thefat coachman, uncurled his bandy legs as soon as the equipage drewup opposite Miss Pinkerton’s shining brass plate, and as he pulledthe bell at least a score of young heads were seen peering out ofthe narrow windows of the stately old brick house. Nay, the acuteobserver might have recognized the little red nose of good-naturedMiss Jemima Pinkerton herself, rising over some geranium pots in thewindow of that lady’s own drawing-room.
Miss Jemima is the nice younger sister of the nasty Miss Pinkerton, and I decided she should have a school of her own. Hence my Miss Pinkerton is Miss Jemima Pinkerton (not that she’ll have a big part in either story, but still!).