About once in a fortnight I contrived to go to London for a couple of days on some pretext of business, and best part of this time I spent with Dawson.  And the first visit I paid him after the return of Moll and her husband, telling him of their complete happiness, Moll’s increasing womanly beauty, and the prosperous aspect of our affairs (for I had that day positive assurance our seal would be obtained within a month), I concluded by asking if his mast might not now be stepped, and he be in a position to come to Chislehurst and see her as he had before.

“No, Kit, thanking ye kindly,” says he, after fighting it out with himself in silence a minute or two, “better not.  I am getting in a manner used to this solitude, and bar two or three days a week when I feel a bit hangdog and hipped a-thinking there’s not much in this world for an old fellow to live for when he’s lost his child, I am pretty well content.  It would only undo me.  If you had a child—­your own flesh and blood—­part of your life—­a child that had been to you what my sweet Moll hath been to me, you would comprehend better how I feel.  To pretend indifference when you’re longing to hug her to your heart, to talk of fair weather and foul when you’re thinking of old times, and then to bow and scrape and go away without a single desire of your aching heart satisfied,—­’tis more than a man with a spark of warmth in his soul can bear.”  And then he proceeded to give a dozen other reasons for declining the tempting bait,—­the sum of all proving to my conviction that he was dying to see Moll, and I feared he would soon be doing by stealth that which it were much safer he should do openly.

About a week after this I got a letter from him, asking me to come again as soon as I might, he having cut his hand with a chisel, “so that I cannot work my lathe, and having nothing to occupy my mind, do plague myself beyond endurance.”

Much concerned for my old friend, I lose no time in repairing to Greenwich, where I find him sitting idle before his lathe, with an arm hanging in a handkerchief, and his face very yellow; but this, I think, was of drinking too much ale.  And here he fell speedily discoursing of Moll, saying he could not sleep of nights for thinking of the pranks she used to play us, our merry vagabond life together in Spain ere we got to Elche, etc., and how he missed her now more than ever he did before.  After that, as I anticipated, he came in a shuffling, roundabout way (as one ashamed to own his weakness) to hinting at seeing Moll by stealth, declaring he would rather see her for two minutes now and again peering through a bush, though she should never cast a glance his way, than have her treat him as if she were not his child and ceased to feel any love for him.  But seeing the peril of such ways, I would by no means consent to his hanging about the Court like a thief, and told him plainly that unless he would undo us all and ruin Moll, he must come openly as before or not at all.