I must acknowledge that I now walked proudly through the streets of Greenwich.  I was no longer Poor Jack, but I was earning my livelihood in my profession.  I had reason to be still prouder when, two days afterward, Mr. Wilson came to my mother’s with the newspaper in his hand in which there was a long account of the capture of the privateer, and the conduct of Bramble and of me spoken of in the highest terms.  This he read aloud to my mother and Virginia.  I watched my sister.  The tears filled her eyes as she listened, and when Mr. Wilson had done her arms were round my neck, and her smiles were mixed with her tears, and sometimes she would laugh as she cried.  Oh! how I loved her then, for I felt how dearly she loved me; even my mother appeared gratified, although she said nothing, but continued to repair the lace veil upon which she had been employed.  That evening I went with Virginia to call upon Mrs, St. Felix, taking with me the presents I had laid aside for her.  She welcomed me as usual, and accepted what I brought for her without hesitation and with many thanks.

“Well, Mr. Tom,” said she, “I’ll just put away all your nice little remembrances, and then I’ll tell you that I’ve heard all about your behavior in the fight with the privateer, and I’ve no doubt but that, if you continue to go on as you have begun, you will one day have a leg the less, as your father has before you.”

“I hope not,” replied I; “two legs are better than one.”

“Yes, when you want to run away, that’s true.  I see now why you’re so anxious to save your legs.”

“But, Mrs. St. Felix, if it had not been for that good spy-glass you gave me, I never should have discovered the privateer, and we should not have been prepared for her.”

“Well, that’s fortunate; it didn’t prove a glass too much, anyhow, or you’d have seen double.  I suppose, then, all these pretty things are my share of the prize-money.”

“No, they are no value, except to prove to you that Poor Jack has not forgotten your kindness, and never will.”

“That I believe; and, believing that, I suppose you have not forgotten old Nanny.”

“No; but I have not seen her yet.  I intend to go to-morrow; but I have something for the doctor.  He is not at home; will you give it to him?”

“Certainly; you know I am as good as a mother to him.”

“I think the doctor would rather you’d be a wife to him.”

“That’s a foolish idea that’s in many people’s heads, Tom, which I’ll thank you to contradict.  I never intend to change my name.”

“Don’t make too sure,” replied I; and I added at a venture (why, I know not, but I had formed the idea in my mind that St. Felix was not her proper name), “you may change it yet for your real name.”

“Tom, Tom,” cried the widow, “what do you mean?” “Nothing,” replied I, “I was only joking.”  “Well, then, don’t talk such nonsense, or I shall send you out of the shop.”