Selecting from the few queer houses upon Mill Pond Bank a house with a
wooden front and three stories of bow-window (not bay-window, which is
another thing), I looked at the plate upon the door, and read there,
Mrs. Whimple. That being the name I wanted, I knocked, and an elderly
woman of a pleasant and thriving appearance responded. She was
immediately deposed, however, by Herbert, who silently led me into
the parlor and shut the door. It was an odd sensation to see his very
familiar face established quite at home in that very unfamiliar room
and region; and I found myself looking at him, much as I looked at
the corner-cupboard with the glass and china, the shells upon the
chimney-piece, and the colored engravings on the wall, representing the
death of Captain Cook, a ship-launch, and his Majesty King George the
Third in a state coachman's wig, leather-breeches, and top-boots, on the
terrace at Windsor.

"All is well, Handel," said Herbert, "and he is quite satisfied, though
eager to see you. My dear girl is with her father; and if you'll wait
till she comes down, I'll make you known to her, and then we'll go up
stairs. That's her father."

I had become aware of an alarming growling overhead, and had probably
expressed the fact in my countenance.

"I am afraid he is a sad old rascal," said Herbert, smiling, "but I have
never seen him. Don't you smell rum? He is always at it."