“Yes, mother, I have.”

“Well, now, don’t you think you could watch without burning a candle?  You ain’t afraid?”

“No, mother, I’m not afraid; but if I do, I shall fall asleep; and, besides, if you wake and want anything, I shall not be able to find it.  I should break the jug and other things, and they would cost more than a candle.”

“Very true, Jack.  I feel sleepy already”—­and old Nanny was soon in a loud snore.

I had stopped at my mother’s to say that I intended to stay with old Nanny, so that they might not sit up for me; and now all that I had to do was to keep myself awake.  I had forgotten to bring a book with me, so I looked about the room for something to read; but I could find nothing.  At last I ventured to open a drawer—­it creaked, and old Nanny was roused.  “Who’s that?” cried she, but she did not wake up, the opiate was too powerful.  I went to her; she was in a perspiration, which I knew was what the doctor wished.  I put the clothes close up to her head, and left her.  I then took the candle and looked into the drawer, and found a book lying in a corner with one side of the cover off.  It was very dirty and stained.  I took it out, and went again to my chair and opened it.  It was Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress,” and full of plates.  I had never heard of the book, and did not know what the title meant.  I first looked at all the plates, and then I turned to the opening of the book.  On the blank leaf at the commencement, in very neat and lawyer-like handwriting, was “Anna James, on her marriage, from her dear friend Mary Farquhar, Tynemouth, June the 19th, 1738.”  By this I discovered, as I thought, the married but not the maiden name of old Nanny; and very probably, also, that Tynemouth was her native place.  She was married, too, in 1738, that was more than sixty years back—­and her age was, therefore, in all likelihood, nearly eighty years.  I pondered over this for some time, and then I commenced reading; and so interested was I with the contents that I did not raise my head until the candle had burned to the socket:  as I was about to light another, I perceived daylight through the chinks of the window shutter.  So I laid down the book, and walking softly out of the room, unlocked the shop door to get a little fresh air; for the room that old Nanny was sleeping in was, from dirt and neglect, very close.  I could not, however, unlock the door without waking up Nanny who screamed out “Thieves!—­murder! thieves!” until she was wide awake.

[Illustration:  JACK IN NANNY’S ROOM.—­Marryat, Vol.  X., p. 151.]

“Oh! it is you, Jack?” said she at last.  “I dreamed there were thieves breaking in.”

“Nothing but day breaking in, mother,” said I.  “How do you feel this morning?”

“Better, Jack, better; I’ve not so much pain, but I’m very thirsty; give me some water.”

“No, mother; the doctor said you must not drink cold water.  If you’ll wait a little, I’ll run and fetch you something warm.  I won’t be gone long, so try to go to sleep again.”