I had only one set of relations in Bedford, my aunt, who was my father’s sister, her husband, Samuel Lovell, and their children, my cousins. My uncle was a maltster and coal merchant. Although he was slender and graceful when he was young, he was portly when I first knew him. He always wore, even in his counting-house and on his wharf, a spotless shirt—seven a week—elaborately frilled in front. He was clean-shaven, and his face was refined and gentle. To me he was kindness itself. He was in the habit of driving two or three times a year to villages and solitary farm-houses to collect his debts, and, to my great delight, he used to take me with him. We were out all day. His creditors were by no means punctual: they reckoned on him with assurance. This is what generally happened. Uncle draws up at the front garden gate and gets out: I hold the reins. Blacksmith, in debt something like £15 for smithery coal, comes from his forge at the side of the house to meet him. “Ah, Mr. Lovell, I’m glad to see you: how’s the missus and the children? What weather it is!” “I suppose you guess, Master Fitchew, what I’ve come about: you’ve had this bill twice—I send my bills out only once a year—and you’ve not paid a penny.” Fitchew looks on the ground, and gives his head a shake on one side as if he were mortified beyond measure. “I know it, Mr. Lovell, nobody can be more vexed than I am, but I can’t get nothing out of the farmers. Last year was an awful year for them.” Uncle tries with all his might to look severe, but does not succeed. “You’ve told me that tale every time I’ve called for twenty years past: now mind, I’m not going to be humbugged any longer. I must have half of that £15 this month, or not another ounce of smithery coal do you get out of me. You may try Warden if you like, and maybe he’ll treat you better than I do.” “Mr. Lovell, £10 you shall have next Saturday fortnight as sure as my name’s Bill Fitchew.” A little girl, about eight years old, who was hurried into her white, Sunday frock with red ribbons, as soon as her mother saw my uncle at the gate, runs up towards him according to secret instructions, but stops short by about a yard, puts her forefinger on her lip and looks at him. “Hullo, my pretty dear, what’s your name? Dear, what’s your name?” “Say Keziah Fitchew, sir,” prompts Mrs. Fitchew, appearing suddenly at the side door as if she had come to fetch her child who had run out unawares. After much hesitation: “Keziah Fitchew, sir.” “Are you a good little girl? Do you say your prayers every morning and every evening?” “Yes, sir.” “Would you know what to do with sixpence if I gave it you? You’d put it in the missionary box, wouldn’t you?” Keziah thinks, but does not reply. It is a problem of immense importance. Uncle turns to Bill, so that Keziah cannot see him, puts up his left hand to the side of his face and winks violently.