I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then passed over to the other side with an intention of returning home; just half-way over the bridge, in a booth immediately opposite to the one in which I had formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up behind her stall.

‘Well, mother,’ said I, ‘how are you?’ The old woman lifted her head with a startled look.

‘Don’t you know me?’ said I.

‘Yes, I think I do.  Ah, yes,’ said she, as her features beamed with recollection, ’I know you, dear; you are the young lad that gave me the tanner.  Well, child, got anything to sell?’

‘Nothing at all,’ said I.

‘Bad luck?’

‘Yes,’ said I, ‘bad enough, and ill usage.’

’Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next time; I am glad to see you.’

‘Thank you,’ said I, sitting down on the stone bench; ’I thought you had left the bridge—­why have you changed your side?’

The old woman shook.

‘What is the matter with you,’ said I; ‘are you ill?’

‘No, child, no; only—­’

‘Only what?  Any bad news of your son?’

’No, child, no; nothing about my son.  Only low, child—­every heart has its bitters.’

‘That’s true,’ said I; ’well, I don’t want to know your sorrows; come, where’s the book?’

The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before.  ’Book, child, what book?’

‘Why, blessed Mary, to be sure.’

‘Oh, that; I ha’n’t got it, child—­I have lost it, have left it at home.’

‘Lost it,’ said I; ’left it at home—­what do you mean?  Come, let me have it.’

‘I ha’n’t got it, child.’

‘I believe you have got it under your cloak.’

‘Don’t tell any one, dear; don’t—­don’t,’ and the apple-woman burst into tears.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ said I, staring at her.

‘You want to take my book from me?’

’Not I, I care nothing about it; keep it, if you like, only tell me what’s the matter?’

‘Why, all about that book.’

‘The book?’

‘Yes, they wanted to take it from me.’

‘Who did?’

’Why, some wicked boys.  I’ll tell you all about it.  Eight or ten days ago, I sat behind my stall, reading my book; all of a sudden I felt it snatched from my hand, up I started, and see three rascals of boys grinning at me; one of them held the book in his hand.  “What book is this?” said he, grinning at it.  “What do you want with my book?” said I, clutching at it over my stall; “give me my book.”  “What do you want a book for?” said he, holding it back; “I have a good mind to fling it into the Thames.”  “Give me my book,” I shrieked; and, snatching at it, I fell over my stall, and all my fruit was scattered about.