Our dear Moll did nothing to damp his hopes, but played her part bravely and well to spare him the anguish of remorse that secretly wrung her own heart.  She met us with a cheerful countenance, admired the neatness of the parlour, the glowing fire, ate her share of porridge, and finding the eggs cooked hard, declared she could not abide them soft.  Then she would see her father work his lathe (to his great delight), and begged he would make her some cups for eggs, as being more to our present fashion than eating them from one’s hand.

“Why,” says he, “there’s an old bed-post in the corner that will serve me to a nicety.  But first I must see our landlord and engage a room for Kit and me; for I take it, my dear,” adds he, “you will be content to stay with us here.”

“Yes,” answers she, “’tis a most cheerful view of the river from the windows.”

She tucked up her skirt and sleeves to busy herself in household matters, and when I would have relieved her of this office, she begged me to go and bear her father company, saying with a piteous look in her eyes that we must leave her some occupation or she should weary.  She was pale, there were dark lines beneath her eyes, and she was silent; but I saw no outward sign of grief till the afternoon, when, coming from Jack’s shop unexpected, I spied her sitting by the window, with her face in her hands, bowed over a piece of cloth we had bought in the morning, which she was about to fashion into a plain gown, as being more suitable to her condition than the rich dress in which she had left the Court.

“Poor soul!” thinks I; “here is a sad awaking from thy dream of riches and joy.”

Upon a seasonable occasion I told Dawson we must soon begin to think of doing something for a livelihood—­a matter which was as remote from his consideration as the day of wrath.

“Why, Kit,” says he, “I’ve as good as fifty pounds yet in a hole at the chimney back.”

“Aye, but when that’s gone—­” says I.

“That’s a good way hence, Kit, but there never was such a man as you for going forth to meet troubles half way.  However, I warrant I shall find some jobs of carpentry to keep us from begging our bread when the pinch comes.”

Not content to wait for this pinch, I resolved I would go into the city and enquire there if the booksellers could give me any employment —­thinking I might very well write some good sermons on honesty, now I had learnt the folly of roguery.  Hearing of my purpose the morning I was about to go, Moll takes me aside and asks me in a quavering voice if I knew where Mr. Godwin might be found.  This question staggered me a moment, for her husband’s name had not been spoken by any of us since the catastrophe, and it came into my mind now that she designed to return to him, and I stammered out some foolish hint at Hurst Court.

“No, he is not there,” says he, “but I thought maybe that Sir Peter Lely—­”