"If you wish it, madam," said I, bowing respectfully.
"You have camphor julep ready made up, have you not?"
"Yes, madam," replied I.
"Then do me the favour to send the boy with a bottle to my house directly." I handed down the bottle, she paid for it, and putting it into Timothy's hands, desired him to take it to the direction which she gave him. Timothy put on his hat, cocked his eye at me, and left us alone.
"What is your name?" said she, in the same melodious voice.
"Japhet Newland, madam," replied I.
"Japhet—it is a good, a scriptural name," said the lady, musirg in half soliloquy. "Newland—that sounds of mammon."
"This mystery is unravelled," thought I, and I was right in my conjectures. "She is some fanatical methodist;" but I looked at her again, and her dress disclaimed the idea, for in it there was much taste displayed.
"Who gave you that name?" said she, after a pause.
The question was simple enough, but it stirred up a host of annoying recollections; but not wishing to make a confidant of her, I gently replied, as I used to do in the Foundling Hospital on Sunday morning—"My godfathers and godmothers in my baptism, ma'am."