It suddenly occurred to me—and I heaved a sigh at the recollection—that my mother’s name was not Stone, but that she was Mrs Leary.
I renewed my inquiry, substituting the latter name.
“Mistress Leary?” said the vulgar-looking hag before me, “lift here five year ago.”
The vendor of cabbages did not know where Mrs Leary had gone. Neither did I; and this knowledge, or rather absence of knowledge, produced within me a train of reflections that were new and peculiar.
I turned out of the house, and walked mechanically up the street. A familiar name met my half-vacant gaze. It was painted on a sign, over the door of a cheese-monger’s shop—Michael Brady.
I remembered that Mrs Brady, the wife of the man whose name I saw, was the intimate acquaintance and friend of my mother. Perhaps, I might learn something from her; but what, I almost feared to ascertain.
I went into the shop, and found Mrs Brady seated among her cheeses. She did not look a day older than when I last saw her. When asked, if she remembered ever having seen me before, she gazed at me for some time, and made answer in the negative.
I was not astonished at her reply. I could easily understand her stupidity; my appearance must have greatly altered since she had seen me last.
“Do you remember the name of Rowland Stone?” I asked.
“What! the little Rolling Stone?” she exclaimed, gazing at me again. “I do believe you are,” said she, “Now when I look at you, I can see it is. How you have changed!”