“Sometimes, sir, I have supposed I must have dropt some of the manuscript; sometimes, that one of my sisters betrayed me.”
“O! your sister?—what, not your brother?”
“No, sir; he could not, for—”
I was going on, but he laughed so much I could not be heard, exclaiming,
“Vastly well! I see you are of Mr. Baretti's'mind, and think your brother could keep your secret, and not your sister?”
“Well, but,” cried he presently, “how was it first known to you, you were betrayed?”
“By a letter, sir, from another sister. I was very ill, and in the country; and she wrote me word that my father had taken up a review, in which the book was mentioned, and had put his finger upon its name, and said—'Contrive to get that book for me.'”
“And when he got it,” cried the king, “he told me he was afraid of looking at it! and never can I forget his face when he mentioned his first opening it. But you have not kept your pen unemployed all this time?”
“Indeed I have, sir.”
“But why?”