“What part of the country did you live in when you were young, mother?”

“In the north part.  But never ask questions.”

“Yes, but, mother, I wish to ask questions.  I wish you to tell me your whole history.  I will not tell it again to any one, I promise you.”

“But why should you wish to know the history of a poor old thing like me?”

“Because, mother, I am sure you must have seen better days.”

“And if I have, Jack, is it kind to ask me to bring up to memory the days when I was fair and rich, when the world smiled upon me, and I was fool enough to think that it would always smile?  Is it kind to recall what was to an old, miserable, deserted wretch like me, struggling to keep out of the workhouse?  Look at me now, Jack, and see what I now am.  Is it not cruel to bring to my mind what I once was?  Go to, Jack, you’re a selfish boy, and I don’t love you.”

“Indeed, mother, if I thought it would have given you pain, I never would have asked you; but you cannot wonder at me.  Recollect that you have ever been my best friend; you trusted me when nobody else would; and can you be surprised at my feeling an interest about you?  Why, mother, I don’t even know your name.”

“Well, Jack, you have put things in a better light.  I do believe that you care for me, and who else does?  But, Jack, my name you never shall know, even if I am to tell you all the rest.”

“Were you ever married, mother?”

“Yes, child, I was married.  Now, what’s the next question?” continued she, impatiently.

“Had you any children?”

“Yes, boy, I had one—­one that was a source of misery and shame to his doting mother.”  Old Nanny pressed her eyeballs with her knuckles as if in agony.

“I won’t ask you any more questions,” said I mournfully.

“Not now, Jack, that’s a good boy; some other day, perhaps, I’ll tell you all.  There’s a lesson in every life, and a warning in too many.  You’ll come again, Jack—­yes, I know you’ll come to hear my story, so I shall see you once more before you leave.  Go now.”  Old Nanny rose and went indoors, taking her stool in her hand, and leaving the presents where they lay, outside—­a proof that she was in great agitation.  I put them inside the threshold, and then went homeward.

I could riot help remarking, as I walked home, that old Nanny’s language and manner appeared very superior when she broke out in these reminiscences of the past, and I felt more interest in her than I ever had before.  On my return, I found Bramble, who had come down sooner than he was expected, sitting in the parlor with Peter Anderson and my father, all smoking, with porter on the table.

“Well, Tom,” said Bramble, “here I am two days before my time, but that’s better than being two days after it, and, what’s more, I’ve got the money, both yours and mine.  They told me I should not get it for three months at least; but I sent up my name to the Board, and explained to them that a pilot could not wait like a purser while they were passing accounts, so the gentlemen laughed, and gave me an order for it; and I’ve got all my pilotage, too, so I’m a rich man just now.  Come, I’ll give you yours at once, and I hope it may not be the last hundred pounds that you’ll pick up.”