Presently, she heard the
step again, as she would have done if it had been that of a feather
endowed with motion and walking down on tiptoe. Then gliding out as
before, she again beheld the retreating figure of the 'prentice; again
he looked cautiously in at the parlour-door, but this time instead of
retreating, he passed in and disappeared.
Miggs was back in her room, and had her head out of the window, before
an elderly gentleman could have winked and recovered from it. Out he
came at the street-door, shut it carefully behind him, tried it with
his knee, and swaggered off, putting something in his pocket as he
went along. At this spectacle Miggs cried 'Gracious!' again, and then
'Goodness gracious!' and then 'Goodness gracious me!' and then, candle
in hand, went downstairs as he had done. Coming to the workshop, she saw
the lamp burning on the forge, and everything as Sim had left it.
'Why I wish I may only have a walking funeral, and never be buried
decent with a mourning-coach and feathers, if the boy hasn't been and
made a key for his own self!' cried Miggs. 'Oh the little villain!'
This conclusion was not arrived at without consideration, and much
peeping and peering about; nor was it unassisted by the recollection
that she had on several occasions come upon the 'prentice suddenly,
and found him busy at some mysterious occupation.
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