e II. was yet
king, 'twas a shabby rural outlet of London; so dangerous, that the City
folks who went to their villas and junketing houses at Hampstead and the
outlying villages, would return in parties of nights, and escorted by
waiters with lanthorns, to defend them from the footpads who prowled
about the town outskirts. Hampstead and Highgate churches, each crowning
its hill, filled up the background of the view which you saw as
you turned your back to London; and one, two, three days Mr. George
Warrington had the pleasure of looking upon this landscape, and walking
back in the direction of the new hospital.

Along the lane were sundry small houses of entertainment; and I remember
at one place, where they sold cakes and beer, at the sign of the
Protestant Hero, a decent woman smiling at me on the third or fourth
day, and curtseying in her clean apron, as she says, "It appears the
lady don't come, sir! Your honour had best step in, and take a can of my
cool beer."

At length, as I am coming back through Tottenham Road, on the 25th of
May--O day to be marked with the whitest stone!--a little way beyond Mr.
Whitefield's Tabernacle, I see a landau before me, and on the box-seat
by the driver is my young friend Charley, who waves his hat to me and
calls out, "George! George!" I ran up to the carriage, my knees knocking
together so that I thought I should fall by the wheel; and inside I see
Hetty, and by her my dearest Theo, propped with a pillow. How thin the
little hand had become since last it was laid in mine! The cheeks were
flushed and wasted, the eyes strangely bright, and the thrill of the
voice when she spoke a word or two, smote me with a pang, I know not of
grief or joy was it, so intimately were they blended.

"I am taking her an airing to Hampstead," says Hetty, demurely. "The
doctor says the air will do her good."

"I have been ill, but I am better now, George," says Theo. There came a
great burst of music from the people in the chapel hard by, as she was
speaking. I held her hand in mine. Her eyes were looking into mine once
more. It seemed as if we had never been parted.

I can never forget the tune of that psalm. I have heard it all through
my life. My wife has touched it on her harpsichord, and her little ones
have warbled it. Now, do you understand, young people, why I love it so?
Because 'twas the music played at our amoris redintegratio. Because it
sang hope to me, at the period of my existence th