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Well! Having formed that resolution, then come the question of a name. How did I hammer that hot iron into shape? This way. The most difficult explanation I had ever had with her was, how I come to be called Doctor, and yet was no Doctor. After all, I felt that I had failed of getting it correctly into her mind, with my utmost pains. But trusting to her improvement in the two years, I thought that I might trust to her understanding it when she should come to read it as put down by my own hand. Then I thought I would try a joke with her and watch how it took, by which of itself I might fully judge of her understanding it. We had first discovered the mistake we had dropped into, through her having asked me to prescribe for her when she had supposed me to be a Doctor in a medical point of view; so thinks I, “Now, if I give this book the name of my Prescriptions, and if she catches the idea that my only Prescriptions are for her amusement and interest,–to make her laugh in a pleasant way, or to make her cry in a pleasant way,–it will be a delightful proof to both of us that we have got over our difficulty.” It fell out to absolute perfection. For when she saw the book, as I had it got up,–the printed and pressed book,–lying on her desk in her cart, and saw the title, DOCTOR MARIGOLD’S PRESCRIPTIONS, she looked at me for a moment with astonishment, then fluttered the leaves, then broke out a laughing in the charmingest way, then felt her pulse and shook her head, then turned the pages pretending to read them most attentive, then kissed the book to me, and put it to her bosom with both her hands. I never was better pleased in all my life!

But let me not anticipate. (I take that expression out of a lot of romances I bought for her. I never opened a single one of ’em–and I have opened many–but I found the romancer saying “let me not anticipate.” Which being so, I wonder why he did anticipate, or who asked him to it.) Let me not, I say, anticipate. This same book took up all my spare time. It was no play to get the other articles together in the general miscellaneous lot, but when it come to my own article! There! I couldn’t have believed the blotting, nor yet the buckling to at it, nor the patience over it. Which again is like the footboard. The public have no idea.

At last it was done, and the two years’ time was gone after all the other time before it, and where it’s all gone to, who knows? The new cart was finished,–yellow outside, relieved with wermilion and brass fittings,–the old horse was put in it, a new ‘un and a boy being laid on for the Cheap Jack cart,–and I cleaned myself up to go and fetch her. Bright cold weather it was, cart-chimneys smoking, carts pitched private on a piece of waste ground over at Wandsworth, where you may see ’em from the Sou’western Railway when not upon the road. (Look out of the right-hand window going down.)

“Marigold,” says the gentleman, giving his hand hearty, “I am very glad to see you.”

“Yet I have my doubts, sir,” says I, “if you can be half as glad to see me as I am to see you.”

“The time has appeared so long,–has it, Marigold?”

“I won’t say that, sir, considering its real length; but–“

“What a start, my good fellow!”

Ah! I should think it was! Grown such a woman, so pretty, so intelligent, so expressive! I knew then that she must be really like my child, or I could never have known her, standing quiet by the door.