“I hope so.  Well —­ you know the best way will be for me —­ not knowing your opinions —­ to avoid everything of a religious kind.”

“Ah! but it should be line upon line, you know; here a little, and there a little, sir.  As the bow is bent, you know —­ the —­ hoop is made, you know, sir.”

Here Mr. Appleditch stepped to the door suddenly, and peeped out, as if he feared he was wanted; but presently returning, he continued: 

“But time’s a precious gift, sir, and we must not waste it.  So, if you’ll do us the honour, sir, to dine with us next Lord’s day —­ we may call it a work of necessity, you know —­ you will see the little Samuel, and —­ and —­ Mrs. Appleditch.”

“I shall be very happy.  What is your address, Mr. Appleditch?”

“You had better come to Salem Chapel, Dervish town, and we can go home together.  Service commences at eleven.  Mrs. Appleditch will be glad to see you.  Ask for Mr. Appleditch’s pew.  Goo-ood morning, sir.”

Hugh took his leave, half inclined to send an excuse before the day arrived, and decline the connection.  But his principle was, to take whatever offered, and thus make way for the next thing.  Besides, he thus avoided the responsibility of choice, from which he always shrunk.

He returned to his novel; but, alas! the inventive faculty point-blank refused to work under the weight of such a Sunday in prospect.  He wandered out, quite dispirited; but, before long, to take his revenge upon circumstances, resolved at least to have a dinner out of them.  So he went to a chop house, had a chop and a glass of ale, and was astonished to find how much he enjoyed them.  In fact, abstinence gave his very plain dinner more than all the charms of a feast —­ a fact of which Hugh has not been the only discoverer.  He studied Punch all the time he ate, and rose with his spirits perfectly restored.

“Now I am in for it,” said he, “I will be extravagant for once.”  So he went and bought a cigar, which he spun out into three miles of smoke, as he wandered through Shoreditch, and Houndsditch, and Petticoat-lane, gazing at the faces of his brothers and sisters; which faces having been so many years wrapt in a fog both moral and physical, now looked out of it as if they were only the condensed nuclei of the same fog and filth.

As he was returning through Whitechapel, he passed a man on the pavement, whose appearance was so remarkable that he could not help looking back after him.  When he reflected about it, he thought that it must have been a certain indescribable resemblance to David Elginbrod that had so attracted him.  The man was very tall.  Six-foot.  Hugh felt dwarfed beside him; for he had to look right up, as he passed, to see his face.  He was dressed in loose, shabby black.  He had high and otherwise very marked features, and a dark complexion.  A general carelessness of demeanour was strangely combined with an expression of reposeful strength and quiet concentration of will.  At how much of this conclusion Hugh arrived after knowing more of him, I cannot tell; but such was the description he gave of him as he saw him first:  and it was thoroughly correct.  His countenance always seemed to me (for I knew him well) to represent a nature ever bent in one direction, but never in haste, because never in doubt.