“I don’t know the hand,” said George.  But opening the inclosure he caught a glance of a hand he did know, and let everything else drop on the bed, while he held this and gazed at it, and the color flushed into his white cheek.  “Oh!” cried he, and worshipped it in silence again; then opened it and devoured it.  First came some precious words of affection and encouragement.  He kissed the letter.  “You are a good fellow to bring me such a treasure; and I’ll never forget it as long as I live!”

Then he went back to the letter.  “There is something about you, Tom!”

“About me?”

“She tells me you never had a father, not to say a father—­”

“She says true.”

“Susan says that is a great disadvantage to any man, and so it is—­and—­poor fellow—­”

“What?”

“She says they came between your sweetheart and you—­Oh! poor Tom!”

“What?”

“You lost your sweetheart; no wonder you went astray after that.  What would become of me if I lost my Susan?  And—­ay, you were always better than me, Susan.  She says she and I have never been sore tempted like you.”

“Bless her little heart for making excuses for a poor fellow; but she was always a charitable, kind-hearted young lady.”

“Wasn’t she, Tom?”

“And what sweet eyes!”

“Ain’t they, Tom? brimful of heaven I call them.”

“And when she used to smile on you, Master George, oh! the ivories.”

“Now you take my hand this minute.  How foolish I am.  I can’t see—­now you shall read it on to me because you brought it.”

“’And you, George, that are as honest a man as ever lived, do keep him by you a while, and keep him in the right way.  He is well-disposed but weak—­do it to oblige me.’”

“Will you stay with me, Tom?” inquired George, cheerful and business-like.  “I am not a lucky man, but while I have a shilling there’s sixpence for the man that brought me this—­dew in the desert I call it.  And to think you have seen her since I have; how was she looking; had she her beautiful color; what did she say to you with her own mouth?”

Then Robinson had to recall every word Susan had said to him; this done, George took the inclosure.  “Stop, here is something for you:  ’George Fielding is requested to give this to Robinson for the use of Thomas Sinclair.’  There you are, Tom—­well!—­what is the matter?”

“Nothing.  It is a name I have not heard a while.  I did not know any creature but me knew it; is it glamour, or what?”

“Why, Tom! what is the matter? don’t look like that.  Open it, and let us see what there is inside.”

Robinson opened it, and there was the five-pound note for him, with this line:  “If you have regained the name of Sinclair, keep it.”

Robinson ran out of the house, and walked to and fro in a state of exaltation.  “I’m well paid for my journey; I’m well paid for not fingering that note!  Who would not be honest if they knew the sweets?  How could he know my name? is he really more than man?  Keep it?  Will I not!”