Ever since my eldest brother left our cottage to enlist into the army.

On which occasion, as the ballad that was made about it describes: 'Beside that cottage door, Mr Boffin, A girl was on her knees; She held aloft a snowy scarf, Sir, Which (my eldest brother noticed) fluttered in the breeze.
She breathed a prayer for him, Mr Boffin; A prayer he coold not hear.
And my eldest brother lean'd upon his sword, Mr Boffin, And wiped away a tear.' Much impressed by this family circumstance, and also by the friendly disposition of Mr Wegg, as exemplified in his so soon dropping into poetry, Mr Boffin again shook hands with that ligneous sharper, and besought him to name his hour.

Mr Wegg named eight.
'Where I live,' said Mr Boffin, 'is called The Bower.

Boffin's Bower is the name Mrs Boffin christened it when we come into it as a property.
If you should meet with anybody that don't know it by that name (which hardly anybody does), when you've got nigh upon about a odd mile, or say and a quarter if you like, up Maiden Lane, Battle Bridge, ask for Harmony Jail, and you'll be put right.

I shall expect you, Wegg,' said Mr Boffin, clapping him on the shoulder with the greatest enthusiasm, 'most joyfully.