By one of those freaks of mind which it is so hard to account for, every good feeling rushed upon him with far greater power than when he was in ——­ Prison, and, strange to say, he now loved his reverence more and took his words deeper to heart than he had done when they were together.  His flesh crept with horror at the thought that he had been a criminal again, at least in intention, and that but for Heaven’s mercy he would have been taken and punished with frightful severity, and above all would have wounded his reverence to the heart in return for more than mortal kindness, goodness and love.  And, to do Robinson justice, this last thought made his heart sicken and his flesh creep more than all the rest.  He was like a man who had fallen asleep on the brink of an unseen precipice—­awoke—­and looked down.

The penitent man said his prayers this morning and vowed on his knees humility and a new life.  Henceforth he would know himself; he would not attempt to guide himself; he would just obey his reverence.  And to begin, whenever a temptation came in sight he would pray against it then and there and fly from it, and the moment his master returned he would leave the town and get away to honest George Fielding with his passport—­Susan’s letter.

With these prayers and these resolutions a calm complacency stole over him; he put his reverence’s tract and George’s letter in his bosom and came down into the kitchen.

The first person he met was the housemaid, Jenny.

“Oh, here is my lord!” cried she.  “Where were you last night?”

Robinson stammered out, “Nowhere in particular.  Why?”

“Oh, because the master was asking for you, and you weren’t to be found high or low.”

“What, is he come home?”

“Came home last night.”

“I’ll go and take him his hot water.”

“Why, he is not in the house, stupid.  He dressed the moment he came home and went out to a party.  He swore properly at your not being in the way to help him dress.”

“What did he say?” asked Robinson, a little uneasy.

The girl’s eyes twinkled.  “He said, ’How ever am I to lace myself now that scamp is not in the way?’”

“Come, none of your chaff, Jenny.”

“Why you know you do lace him, and pretty tight, too.”

“I do nothing of the kind.”

“Oh, of course you won’t tell on one another.  Tell me our head scamp does not wear stays!  A man would not be as broadshouldered as that and have a waist like a wasp and his back like a board without a little lacing, and a good deal, too.”

“Well, have it your own way, Jenny.  Won’t you give me a morsel of breakfast?”

“Well, Tom, I can give you some just for form’s sake; but bless you, you won’t able to eat it.”

“Why not?”

“Gents that are out all night bring a headache home in the morning in place of an appetite.”

“But I was not out all night.  I was at home soon after twelve.”