“I won’t do it again,” said I.
I was racking my brains with thinking how to tell her about Mr. Weston, for she must know he was coming to-morrow. However, I waited till the breakfast things were removed, and I was more calm and cool; and then, having sat down to my drawing, I began—“I met an old friend on the sands to-day, mamma.”
“An old friend! Who could it be?”
“Two old friends, indeed. One was a dog;” and then I reminded her of Snap, whose history I had recounted before, and related the incident of his sudden appearance and remarkable recognition; “and the other,” continued I, “was Mr. Weston, the curate of Horton.”
“Mr. Weston! I never heard of him before.”
“Yes, you have: I’ve mentioned him several times, I believe: but you don’t remember.”
“I’ve heard you speak of Mr. Hatfield.”
“Mr. Hatfield was the rector, and Mr. Weston the curate: I used to mention him sometimes in contradistinction to Mr. Hatfield, as being a more efficient clergyman. However, he was on the sands this morning with the dog—he had bought it, I suppose, from the rat-catcher; and he knew me as well as it did—probably through its means: and I had a little conversation with him, in the course of which, as he asked about our school, I was led to say something about you, and your good management; and he said he should like to know you, and asked if I would introduce him to you, if he should take the liberty of calling to-morrow; so I said I would. Was I right?”
“Of course. What kind of a man is he?”
“A very respectable man, I think: but you will see him to-morrow. He is the new vicar of F——, and as he has only been there a few weeks, I suppose he has made no friends yet, and wants a little society.”