injury my struggling thoughts had unwillingly done him, if I wrote and placed in his hands, before going to college, a full acknowledgment of his goodness to me, and an ample tribute of thanks. It might serve as an implied vindication of him against any dark scandal from a rival brother and expounder, or from any other quarter.
Accordingly, I wrote the document with much care. I may add with much feeling too; for it affected me as I went on. Having no set studies to pursue, in the brief interval between leaving the Foundation and going to Cambridge, I determined to walk out to his place of business, and give it into his own hands.
It was a winter afternoon, when I tapped at the door of his little counting-house, which was at the further end of his long, low shop. As I did so (having entered by the back yard, where casks and boxes were taken in, and where there was the inscription, "Private way to the counting-house"), a shopman called to me from the counter that he was engaged.
"Brother Gimblet" (said the shopman, who was one of the brotherhood) "is with him."
I thought this all the better for my purpose, and made bold to tap again. They were talking in a low tone, and money was passing; for I heard it being counted out.
"Who is it?" asked Brother Hawkyard sharply.
"George Silverman," I answered, holding the door open. "May I come in?"
Both brothers seemed so astounded to see me that I felt shyer than usual. But they looked quite cadaverous in the early gaslight, and perhaps that accidental circumstance exaggerated the expression of their faces.
"What is the matter? " asked Brother Hawkyard.
"Ay! what is the matter?" asked Brother Gimblet.
"Nothing at all," I said, diffidently producing my document: "I am only the bearer of a letter from myself."
"From yourself, George?" cried Brother Hawkyard.
"And to you," said I.
"And to me, George ?"
He turned paler, and opened it hurriedly; but looking over it, and seeing generally what it was, became less hurried; recovered his color, and said, "Praise the Lord!"
