‘Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then.’

’Do you take me for a thief?

’Nay, dear! don’t make use of bad language; we never calls them thieves here, but prigs and fakers:  to tell you the truth, dear, seeing you spring at that railing put me in mind of my own dear son, who is now at Bot’ny:  when he had bad luck, he always used to talk of flinging himself over the bridge; and, sure enough, when the traps were after him, he did fling himself into the river, but that was off the bank; nevertheless, the traps pulled him out, and he is now suffering his sentence; so you see you may speak out, if you have done anything in the harmless line, for I am my son’s own mother, I assure you.’

‘So you think there’s no harm in stealing?’

’No harm in the world, dear!  Do you think my own child would have been transported for it, if there had been any harm in it? and, what’s more, would the blessed woman in the book here have written her life as she has done, and given it to the world, if there had been any harm in faking?  She, too, was what they call a thief and a cut-purse; ay, and was transported for it, like my dear son; and do you think she would have told the world so, if there had been any harm in the thing?  Oh, it is a comfort to me that the blessed woman was transported, and came back—­for come back she did, and rich too—­for it is an assurance to me that my dear son, who was transported too, will come back like her.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Her name, blessed Mary Flanders.’

‘Will you let me look at the book?’

‘Yes, dear, that I will, if you promise me not to run away with it.’

I took the book from her hand; a short thick volume, at least a century old, bound with greasy black leather.  I turned the yellow and dog’s-eared pages, reading here and there a sentence.  Yes, and no mistake! His pen, his style, his spirit might be observed in every line of the uncouth-looking old volume—­the air, the style, the spirit of the writer of the book which first taught me to read.  I covered my face with my hand, and thought of my childhood. . . .

‘This is a singular book,’ said I at last; ’but it does not appear to have been written to prove that thieving is no harm, but rather to show the terrible consequences of crime:  it contains a deep moral.’

‘A deep what, dear?’

‘A—­but no matter, I will give you a crown for this volume.’

‘No, dear, I will not sell the volume for a crown.’

‘I am poor,’ said I; ’but I will give you two silver crowns for your volume.’