Mercifully he went to
sleep again, and after another long night's rest he was much
stronger. He was able now--first sign of restored power--to settle
that he ought before everything to communicate with Mrs. Carter, and
he inquired of the old man if he could write.
"Oh, yes, I can write," said he, and something like a gleam of light
passed over his countenance at being asked to practise an art almost
forgotten in those walls.
A letter was accordingly written to Mrs. Carter, at her sister's
address, telling her briefly what had happened, but that she was not
to be alarmed, as the writer was rapidly recovering. He was able to
sign his name; but when the letter was finished, he reflected that he
had not got a coin in his pocket with which to pay the postage. One
of the institutions of the workhouse was, however, a kind of pawnshop
kept by one of the under-masters, as they were called, and Zachariah
got a shilling advanced on a pocket-knife. The letter, therefore,
was duly despatched, and he gave his secretary a penny for his
trouble. This led to a little further intimacy, and Zachariah asked
him how he came there.
"I don't know," he replied.
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