This I despatched on a Tuesday morning, and it was not until the following Saturday that I obtained my reply. I cannot think of that painful interval even now without a shudder. The torture of suspense had risen to a fever, and for the last day and night I neither ate nor slept. On Saturday came a brief note, in these words: “J. C. may call at Hounslow before ten to-morrow.”
It was not signed, nor even dated; and so I was left to surmise if it had reached me in fitting time. It was scarcely eight o'clock on Sunday morning as I found myself standing beside the wicket of the garden, which seemed as deserted and desolate as before. At an open window, however, on the ground floor I saw a breakfast-table laid out; and as I looked, a lady and gentleman entered, and took their places at it. One was, I knew, the minister. The lady, who was a tall and dignified person rather than a handsome one, bore some resemblance to him. Her quick glance detected me from afar, and as quickly she called attention to my presence there. Mr. Pitt arose and beckoned me to come forward, which I did, with no small shame and embarrassment.
While I stood at the hall-door, uncertain whether to knock or wait, it was opened by the minister himself, who kindly wished me good-morning, and desired me to follow him.
“This is the youth himself, Hester,” said he, as we entered the room; “and I have no doubt he will be happy to answer any questions you may put to him.”
The lady motioned to me to be seated, and in a grave, almost severe tone, said,—
“Who composed this paper,—this narrative of yours?”
“I did, madam.”
“The whole of it?”
“Yes, madam, the whole of it.”
“Where have you been educated?”