The stranger and myself walked in the direction of Cheapside, the way in which he had been originally proceeding; he was silent for a few moments, at length he said, ‘You have really done me a great service, and I should be ungrateful not to acknowledge it. I am a merchant; and a merchant’s pocket-book, as you perhaps know, contains many things of importance; but, young man,’ he exclaimed, ‘I think I have seen you before; I thought so at first, but where I cannot exactly say: where was it?’ I mentioned London Bridge and the old apple-woman. ‘Oh,’ said he, and smiled, and there was something peculiar in his smile, ‘I remember now. Do you frequently sit on London Bridge?’ ‘Occasionally,’ said I: ‘that old woman is an old friend of mine.’ ‘Friend?’ said the stranger, ‘I am glad of it, for I shall know where to find you. At present I am going to ‘Change; time, you know, is precious to a merchant.’ We were by this time close to Cheapside. ‘Farewell,’ said he, ‘I shall not forget this service. I trust we shall soon meet again.’ He then shook me by the hand and went his way. The next day, as I was seated beside the old woman in the booth, the stranger again made his appearance, and, after a word or two, sat down beside me; the old woman was sometimes reading the Bible, which she had already had two or three days in her possession, and sometimes discoursing with me. Our discourse rolled chiefly on philological matters. ‘What do you call bread in your language?’ said I. ‘You mean the language of those who bring me things to buy, or who did; for, as I told you before, I shan’t buy any more; it’s no language of mine, dear—they call bread pannam in their language.’