“Well, Jack,” said she, “you are just come in time to help me.  I was just a-saying if Jack was to call now he’d be of some use, for I can’t well reach so high as the shelf where I put the bottles on, and when I get on a stool my old head swims.”

“Mother,” said I, “suppose you put down the bottles for a little while, as I have that to say to you which must not be delayed.”

“Why, what’s the matter, boy?  And how pale you look!  What has happened?  You don’t want money, do you?”

“No, mother, I want no money; I only want you to listen to matters important, which I must disclose to you.”

“Well, well, what is it? about the fellow who tried to rob me, I suppose.  I told you before, Jack, I won’t hurt him, for my poor boy’s sake.”

“It is about your poor boy I would speak, mother,” replied I, hardly knowing how to begin.  “Now, mother, did you not tell me that he was hanged at Port Royal?”

“Yes, yes; but why come and talk about it again?”

“Because, mother, you seem to feel the disgrace of his being hanged so much.”

“Well, to be sure I do—­then why do you remind me of it, you bad boy?  It’s cruel of you, Jack; I thought you kinder.”

“Mother, it is because you do feel it so much that I have come to tell you that you have been deceived.  Your son was not hanged.”

“Not hanged!  Why, Jack, are you sure?”

“Yes, mother, quite sure.”

“Not hanged, quite sure—­”

Here old Nanny burst out into a wild laugh, which ended in sobbing and tears.  I was obliged to wait some minutes before she was composed enough to listen to me; at last I said, “Mother, I have more to say, and there is no time to be lost.”

“Why no time to be lost, my dear boy?” said she.  “Oh! now that you have told me this, I could dwell for hours—­ay, days—­more.  I shall dwell my whole life upon this kind news.”

“But listen to me, mother, for I must tell you how I discovered this.”

“Yes, yes, Jack—­do, that’s a good boy.  I am quite calm now,” said Nanny, wiping her eyes with her apron.

I then acquainted her with what Spicer had told me relative to his inducing the man to take his name, and continued the history of Spicer’s life until I left him on board of a man-of-war.

“But where is he now?  And who told you all this?”

“He told me so himself,” replied I.  “He has been in the hospital some time, and living here close to you, without either of you being aware of it.  But, mother, he is now ill—­very ill in the hospital; he would not have confessed all this if he had not felt how ill he was.”

“Deary, deary me!” replied old Nanny, wringing her hands; “I must go see him.”

“Nay, mother, I fear you cannot.  The fact is that he is dying, and he has sent me to ask your forgiveness for his conduct to you.”

“Deary, deary me!” continued old Nanny, seemingly half out of her wits; “in the hospital, so near to his poor mother—­and dying.  Dear Jemmy!”