the Joiceys had followed my own parents as tenants of the tiny house when
the latter gave it up. To both of us it seemed a far cry from the honest
blacksmith's modest cottage to Mr. Pitt's dining-room in Downing Street.]

It was in the autumn of 1850 that a rather curious adventure befell me,
which might well have cut short my career, and prevented these pages from
ever seeing the light. We were about to remove from Summerhill Terrace to
a house not far distant which had just been bought by my father, and, as
it happened, one dull afternoon I was left alone at home, my mother and
the servants being all engaged at the new house. I was left with strict
injunctions to "put the chain on the front door," and to bolt the kitchen
door, which was on a lower level than the other. The first order I
obeyed, but the second, under the temptation of an entrancing story in
_Tait's Edinburgh Magazine_ which absorbed my thoughts, I entirely
forgot. I was devouring this story, as only children do devour stories,
when I heard the front door opened. I was sitting in the parlour, at the
back of the house, so that I could not see anyone enter the garden.
Running to the door, under the belief that my mother had returned, I
found myself confronted by two men. They were--or pretended to
be--pedlars; and one of them carried a case filled with sham jewellery.
Their great desire seemed to be to get me to unchain the door. I was
simple enough to tell them that I was alone in the house, but my
simplicity did not carry me so far as a compliance with their urgent
request. After arguing with me for several minutes, and even endeavouring
to bribe me with a trumpery jewel, the men withdrew, muttering. I watched
them for a moment, and took note of the keen, earnest gaze they bent upon
the house before leaving the garden. But the voice of the charmer in
_Tait_ was calling too loudly to allow me to dwell upon anything
else, and I was quickly back again in the parlour and deep in mystery.