"Do you know I had rather a shock last week, Miriam?" said Mrs. Parsley, rubbing her nose.
"Did you; how?"
"Well, that wretched Gideon Anab—no, he shan't be called Gideon Anab since he has fallen away from grace—that wretched Shorty has gone back to live with his disreputable old grandmother!"
"You don't say so; and where has he been all this time?"
"Somewhere in Whitechapel, I believe. I know he went off last year with five pounds of my money. I'm disappointed in that boy, Miriam. I thought his instincts were good, and that if he had the chance he'd rise. But he hasn't; he's taken a rise out of me instead!"
"The young vagabond he wants a good flogging."
"No good, my dear. Take my word for it, when they're past me they're past everything. However, he has promised a lot now, and we're going to begin over again, Miriam, my dear, for the last time. But I haven't told you what really gave me the shock. How old do you think the wretch is?"
"Oh, I don't know; about sixteen."
"He's twenty-three! You may well stare. It's perfectly true. Not that he hasn't wickedness for ninety-nine; still, even now I don't despair of him. I'll lead him to the stool of repentance yet, if I have to lead him by the ear."
"I rather think that's about the only way you'll ever lead him in that particular direction," said Miriam drily.