I was returning along the Barkway road from a meadow where I had been to look to the new lambs, in my working dress, when I heard a horse coming behind me. I stepped aside to let him go by, when I heard myself called.
"My man," said the voice. "Can you tell me where is Mr. Jermyn's house?"
"Yes, sir," I said. "I am going there myself."
He was a grave-looking gentleman, very dark; and as I looked at him I remembered him; but I could see he did not remember me, and no wonder, for he had only seen me once, on a very agitating occasion, for a short while. He was riding a very good horse, which was going lame, but without any servant, and he had his valise strapped on the crupper. In appearance he was a country-squire on his way to town. I determined to give him a surprise as we went along.
"I hope you are well, Mr. Hamerton," I said.
He gave a great start at that, and looked at me closely.
"I do not remember you," he said. "And why do you call me Mr. Hamerton?"
"I knew that is not the name you were usually known by, father. Would you be easier if I called you Mr. Young?"
"I give it up," he said. "Who are you, sir?"
"Do you remember a young man," I said, "a year and a half ago, who came into Mr. Chiffinch's inner parlour on a certain occasion? You were sitting near His Royal Highness; His Majesty was at the end of the table; and by you was Father Bedingfeld who died in prison in December."