In a minute Mr Marshal entered--so
changed that he could never have recognized him--still, however,
a kind hearted, genial man. He received his classfellow cordially
and respectfully--referred merrily to old times, and begged to
know how he was getting on, asked whether he had come to London with
any special object, and invited him to dine with them on Sunday.
He accepted the invitation, met him, according to agreement, at a
certain chapel in Kentish Town, of which he was a deacon, and walked
home with him and his wife.
They had but one of their family at home--the youngest son, whom
his father was having educated for the dissenting ministry, in the
full conviction that he was doing not a little for the truth, and
justifying its cause before men, by devoting to its service the son
of a man of standing and worldly means, whom he might have easily
placed in a position to make money. The youth was of simple character
and good inclination--ready to do what he saw to be right, but
slow in putting to the question anything that interfered with his
notions of laudable ambition, or justifiable self interest. He was
attending lectures at a dissenting college in the neighbourhood,
for his father feared Oxford or Cambridge, not for his morals, but
his opinions in regard to church and state.
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