Timothy agreed with me.  “I have seen you so unhappy of late—­I may say, so miserable—­that I have neither eaten nor slept.  Indeed, Japhet, I have laid in bed and wept, for my happiness depends upon yours.  Go where you will, I am ready to follow and to serve you, and as long as I see you comfortable, I care for nothing else.”

These words of Timothy almost shook my resolution, and I was near telling him all; but when I recollected, I refrained.  “My dear Timothy,” said I, “in this world we must expect to meet with a chequered existence; we may laugh at one time, but we must cry at others.  I owe my life to you, and I never shall forget you, wherever I may be.”

“No,” replied Timothy, “you are not likely to forget one who is hardly an hour out of your sight.”

“Very true, Timothy; but circumstances may occur which may separate us.”

“I cannot imagine such circumstances, nor do I believe, that bad as things may turn out, that they will ever be so bad as that.  You have your money and your house; if you leave London, you will be able to add to your income by letting your own apartments furnished, so we never shall want; and we may be very happy running about the world, seeking what we wish to find.”

My heart smote me when Timothy said this, for I felt, by his devotion and fidelity, he had almost the same claim to the property I possessed, as myself.  He had been my partner, playing the inferior game, for the mutual benefit.  “But the time may come, Timothy, when we may find ourselves without money, as we were when we first commenced our career, and shared three-pence halfpenny each, by selling the old woman the embrocation.”

“Well, sir, and let it come.  I should be sorry for you, but not for myself, for then Tim would be of more importance, and more useful, than as valet with little or nothing to do.”

I mentally exclaimed, ’I have, I think I have, been a fool, a great fool, but the die is cast.  I will sow in sorrow, and may I reap a harvest in joy.  I feel,’ thought I (and I did feel), ’I feel a delightful conviction, that we shall meet again, and all this misery of parting will be but a subject of future garrulity.’  “Yes, Tim,” said I, in a loud voice, “all is right.”

“All’s right, sir; I never thought anything was wrong, except your annoyance at people not paying you the attention which they used to do, when they supposed you a man of fortune.”

“Very true; and Tim, recollect that if Mr Masterton speaks to you about me, which he may after I am gone to Richmond, you tell him that before I left, I paid that old scoundrel Emmanuel every farthing that I had borrowed of him, and you know (and in fact so does Mr Masterton), how it was borrowed.”

“Well, sir, I will, if he does talk to me, but he seldom says much to me.”

“But he may, perhaps, Tim; and I wish him to know that I have paid every debt I owe in the world.”