ansported for it, if there had been any harm in it? and, what's more,
would the blessed woman in the book here have written her life as she has
done, and given it to the world, if there had been any harm in faking?
She, too, was what they call a thief and a cut-purse; ay, and was
transported for it, like my dear son; and do you think she would have
told the world so, if there had been any harm in the thing? Oh, it is a
comfort to me that the blessed woman was transported, and came back--for
come back she did, and rich too--for it is an assurance to me that my
dear son, who was transported too, will come back like her.'

'What was her name?'

'Her name, blessed Mary Flanders.'

'Will you let me look at the book?'

'Yes, dear, that I will, if you promise me not to run away with it.'

I took the book from her hand; a short thick volume, at least a century
old, bound with greasy black leather. I turned the yellow and
dog's-eared pages, reading here and there a sentence. Yes, and no
mistake! _His_ pen, his style, his spirit might be observed in every
line of the uncouth-looking old volume--the air, the style, the spirit of
the writer of the book which first taught me to read. I covered my face
with my hand, and thought of my childhood . . .

'This is a singular book,' said I at last; 'but it does not appear to
have been written to prove that thieving is no harm, but rather to show
the terrible consequences of crime: it contains a deep moral.'

'A deep what, dear?'

'A--but no matter, I will give you a crown for this volume.'

'No, dear, I will not sell the volume for a crown.'

'I am poor,' said I; 'but I will give you two silver crowns for your
volume.'

'No, dear, I will not sell my volume for two silver crowns; no, nor for
the golden one in the king's tower down there; without my book I should
mope and pine, and perhaps fling myself into the river; but I am glad you
like it, which shows that I was right about you, after all; you are one
of our party, and you have a flash about that eye of yours which puts me
just in mind of my dear son. No, dear, I won't sell you my book; but, if
you like, you may have a peep into it whenever you come this way. I
shall be glad to see you; you are one of the right sort, for, if you had
been a common one, you would have run away with the thing; but you scorn
such behaviour, and, as you are so flash of your money, though you say
you are poor, you may give me a tanner to bu