Letter II
In the autumn of 1665, on a night which was by all accounts perfectly ordinary, God put me in the path of a pauper. The young man knelt in the churchyard, tracing the letters of an epitaph. I watched him from a distance, having taken to protecting the resting place of my late mother. At first, I thought he was attempting to learn to read, and I had no intention of interrupting his study as there is no effort I believe to be more noble than that of education and self-improvement. But then he stood, and began to shovel dirt. I realised that he was not a student, but a graverobber. Still, I wished to believe that he would not go through with it. I let him strike my mother's coffin with the blade of the shovel, let his fingers dip into the hole he had dug before I stopped him.
The boy was soaked right through, and he trembled when I touched him. He turned to me with hauntingly wide eyes as if he somehow knew with certainty he was turning to face a creature of the dark, though I have long since ruminated on this and believe it to be impossible. Godfrey, he said his name was. He told me that unfortunate circumstances had necessitated his crimes. My heart ached for the poor child. He was so small, his hands were so filthy, and he looked so cold.
So blinded was I by what I wanted him to be that I did not see him for what he truly was. I offered him the opportunity to be my apprentice, believing that I was helping him. If I knew things would end as they had, I never would have made such an offer.