I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her house which ought to have been empty, that I found her more difficult of approach, though I was fervently grateful to her in my heart, than ever. I felt in the same way towards my school companions; I felt in the same way towards Mrs Rachael, who was a widow; and O, towards her daughter, of whom she was proud, who came to see her once a fortnight! I was very retired and quiet, and tried to be very diligent.

One sunny afternoon, when I had come home from school with my books and portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and as I was gliding up-stairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out of the parlour-door, and called me back. Sitting with her, I found — which was very unusual indeed — a stranger. A portly, important-looking gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat, large gold watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ring upon his little finger.

“This,” said my godmother in an under tone, “is the child.” Then she said, in her naturally stern way of speaking, “This is Esther, sir.”

The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me, and said, “Come here, my dear!” He shook hands with me and asked me to take off my bonnet — looking at me all the while. When I had complied, he said, “Ah!” and afterwards “Yes!” And then, taking off his eye-glasses and folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair, turning the case about in his two hands, he gave my godmother a nod. Upon that, my godmother said, “You may go upstairs, Esther!” And I made him my curtsy and left him.

It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost fourteen, when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside. I was reading aloud, and she was listening. I had come down at nine o’clock, as I always did, to read the Bible to her; and was reading from St. John, how our Saviour stooped down, writing with his finger in the dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him.

“‘So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her!’”

I was stopped by my godmother’s rising, putting her hand to her head, and crying out, in an awful voice, from quite another part of the book:

“‘Watch ye, therefore! lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. And what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!’”

In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, she fell down on the floor. I had no need to cry out; her voice had sounded through the house, and been heard in the street.

She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she lay there, little altered outwardly, with her old handsome resolute frown that I so well knew, carved upon her face. Many and many a time, in the day and in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers might be plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her, asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to give me the least sign that she knew or heard me. No, no, no. Her face was immovable. To the very last, and even afterwards, her frown remained unsoftened.

On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentleman in black with the white neckcloth reappeared. I was sent for by Mrs Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never gone away.

“My name is Kenge,” he said; “you may remember it, my child; Kenge and Carboy, Lincoln’s Inn.”

I replied, that I remembered to have seen him once before.