“No, sir, but you are alive, and I don't think of Hawes now one way or other—with such scum as that out of sight is out of mind. When did you begin to get better, sir? and are you better? and shall I see your blessed face in my cell every day as I used?” And the water stood in the thief's eyes.
Mr. Eden smiled and sighed. “Your mind is like an eel—Heaven help the man that tries to get hold of it to do it any lasting good. You and I must have a good pray together some day.”
“Ah! your reverence, that would do me good soul and body,” said Mr. Supple.
“Let me now feel your pulse; it is very low. What is the matter?”
“Starvation, overwork, and solitude. I feel myself sinking.”
“If I could amuse your mind.”
“Even you could hardly do that, sir.”
“Hum! I have brought you a quire of paper and one of Mr. Gillott's swan-quill pens and a penny ink-bottle.”
“What for?”
“You are to write a story.”