“Why, my dear old lady,” cried the young man, taking her withered hands, “I can remember you holding my little palms together as I knelt on the bed, and teaching me to say a kind of prayer. Let me see, what was it—I’ve never heard it since—yes, that’s it:
“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
God bless the bed that I lay on,
Four corners to my bed,
Six angels round me spread,
Two at head, two at feet,
And two to guard me while I sleep.”
The poor old woman’s jaw dropped, her eyes dilated, and her hands went up, as the speaker went on, and as he ended the simple, pious old doggerel, she burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing as she cried:
“Yes, yes, yes, it is—it is him, sir. Oh, my dear, dear boy; and you growed to be such a fine young man. It is you, Master George. Thank God! Thank God!”
She flung her arms about his neck, and he held her to his breast, kissing her withered old brow as he patted her cheek gently, ignorant of the fact that Mrs Hampton and Gertrude had followed to the open door, and were waiting impatiently for the old woman’s return.
“Come, old granny,” cried the young man, “this is more like coming home. Heaven bless all memories, say I.”
“Yes, my dear,” sobbed the old woman, looking at him proudly, as she laid her hands on his breast, and gazed in his face.
“And—Ha, ha, ha! The sugar drops you made me, and—by Jove, yes. What’s become of the old fruit-knife, and the white needle-case, and that bit of sweet root you used to keep in that big old pocket. Don’t you remember? You gave them to me to play with.”
The old woman uttered a little laugh full of childish delight as she bent sidewise, thrust one arm through an opening, raked about, and, as playfully as if she were dealing with a child, brought out by degrees the articles he had named, all preserved as old folk do preserve such things, and in addition a little square tin box, with grotesque heads stamped thereon.
“But you don’t recollect that?” she said playfully.