“I mean, godmother,” replied Miss Wren, sitting down beside the Jew, “that the fox has caught a famous flogging, and that if his skin and bones are not tingling, aching, and smarting at this present instant, no fox did ever tingle, ache, and smart.” Therewith Miss Jenny related what had come to pass in the Albany, omitting the few grains of pepper.
“Now, godmother,” she went on, “I particularly wish to ask you what has taken place here, since I left the wolf here? Because I have an idea about the size of a marble, rolling about in my little noddle. First and foremost, are you Pubsey and Co. , or are you either? Upon your solemn word and honour.”
The old man shook his head.
“Secondly, isn’t Fledgeby both Pubsey and Co. ?”
The old man answered with a reluctant nod.
“My idea,” exclaimed Miss Wren, “is now about the size of an orange. But before it gets any bigger, welcome back, dear godmother!”
The little creature folded her arms about the old man’s neck with great earnestness, and kissed him. “I humbly beg your forgiveness, godmother. I am truly sorry. I ought to have had more faith in you. But what could I suppose when you said nothing for yourself, you know? I don’t mean to offer that as a justification, but what could I suppose, when you were a silent party to all he said? It did look bad; now didn’t it?”
“It looked so bad, Jenny,” responded the old man, with gravity, “that I will straightway tell you what an impression it wrought upon me. I was hateful in mine own eyes. I was hateful to myself, in being so hateful to the debtor and to you. But more than that, and worse than that, and to pass out far and broad beyond myself—I reflected that evening, sitting