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 The story of little Nell 
 
 3 1924 014 497 220 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014497220 
 
ECLECTIC SCHOOL READINGS 
 
 THE STORY 
 
 OF 
 
 LITTLE NELL 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 JANE GORDON 
 
 NEW YORK <* CINCINNATI *> CHICAGO 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
"PZ3 
 D5r 091 
 
 Copyright, igoi, by 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY. 
 
 Story of Little Nell. 
 
 G>2ff+d 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The story of Little Nell comprises the groundwork 
 and much the larger portion of Dickens's " Old Curiosity- 
 Shop," first published in 1840-41. It is given in the pres- 
 ent volume just as Dickens wrote it, but freed from the 
 various episodes and other passages originally employed 
 to introduce other characters and to give greater variety 
 to the narrative. The story thus abridged, and confined 
 . solely to the relation of the pathetic adventures of its 
 heroine, will appeal especially to young readers whom 
 the complete novel would perhaps repel by reason of its 
 great length and the complexity of its plot. They will 
 scarcely fail to perceive the beauty and the pathos of the 
 story as a whole, nor to admire the courage, the self-de- 
 nial, and the simple goodness of Little Nell herself. 
 
 The character of Little Nell was a great favorite with 
 Dickens. He was occupied for more than a year in writ- 
 ing the story, and she was to him more like a real child 
 than a mere fancy born of his brain. Her death caused 
 him real pain. In a letter to a friend, he wrote, " Nobody 
 will miss her as I shall." In another letter he said, " I 
 took my desk upstairs ; and writing until four o'clock in 
 the morning, finished the old story. It makes me melan- 
 choly to think that all these people are lost to me for- 
 ever, and I feel as if I could never become attached to 
 any new set of characters." 
 
THE 
 STORY OF LITTLE NELL 
 
 CHAPTER THE FIRST. 
 
 Night is generally my time for walking. In the sum- 
 mer I often leave home early in the morning, and roam 
 about fields and lanes all day, or even escape for days or 
 weeks together, but saving in the country I seldom go out 
 until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked, I love its 
 light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth, as 
 much as any creature living. 
 
 One night I had roamed into the city, and was walking 
 slowly on in my usual way, musing upon a great many 
 things, when I was arrested by an inquiry, the purport of 
 which did not reach me, but which seemed to be addressed 
 to myself, and was preferred in a soft sweet voice that 
 struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round and 
 found at my elbow a pretty little girl, who seemed about 
 thirteen or fourteen years old, who begged to be directed 
 to a certain street at a considerable distance, and indeed 
 in quite another quarter of the town. 
 
 " It is a very long way from here," said I, " my child." 
 
 " I know that, Sir," she replied timidly. " I am afraid 
 it is a very long way, for I came from there to-night." 
 
 "Alone?" said I, in some surprise. 
 
 " Oh yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened 
 now, for I had lost my road." 
 
 " And what made you ask it of me ? Suppose I should 
 tell you wrong." 
 
 5 
 
" I am sure you will not do that," said the little crea- 
 ture, " you are such a very old gentleman, and walk so 
 slow yourself." 
 
 I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this 
 appeal and the energy with which it was made, which 
 brought a tear into the child's clear eye, and made her 
 slight figure tremble as she looked up into my face. 
 
 "Come," said I, " I'll take you there." 
 
 She put her hand in mine as confidingly as if she had 
 known me from her cradle, and we trudged away together: 
 the little creature accommodating her pace to mine, and 
 rather seeming to lead and take care of me than I to be 
 protecting her. I observed that every now and then she 
 stole a curious look at my face as if to make quite sure 
 that I was not deceiving her, and that these glances (very 
 sharp and keen they were too) seemed to increase her con- 
 fidence at every repetition. 
 
 For my part, my curiosity and interest were at least 
 equal to the child's, for child she certainly was, although " 
 I thought it probable from what I could make out, that 
 her very small and delicate frame imparted a peculiar 
 youthfulness to her appearance. Though more scantily 
 attired than she might have been, she was dressed with 
 perfect neatness, and betrayed no marks of poverty or 
 neglect. 
 
 " Who' has sent you so far by yourself ? " said I. 
 
 " Somebody who is very kind to me, Sir." 
 
 " And what have you been doing ? " 
 
 " That, I must not tell," said the child firmly. 
 
 There was something in the manner of this reply which 
 caused me to look at the little creature with an involuntary 
 expression of surprise ; for I wondered what kind of er- 
 rand it might be that occasioned her to be prepared for 
 questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read my thoughts, 
 for as it met mine she added that there was no harm in 
 
what she had been doing, but it was a great secret — a 
 secret which she did not even know herself. 
 
 This was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit, 
 but with an unsuspicious frankness that bore the impress 
 of truth. She walked on as before, growing more familiar 
 with me as we proceeded and talking cheerfully by the 
 way, but she said no more about her home, beyond remark- 
 ing that we were going quite a new road and asking if it 
 were a short one. 
 
 While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a 
 hundred different explanations of the riddle and rejected 
 them every one. I really felt ashamed to take advantage 
 of the ingenuousness or grateful feeling of the child for 
 the purpose of gratifying my curiosity. I love these little 
 people ; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so 
 fresh from God, love us. As I had felt pleased at first by 
 her confidence I determined to' deserve it, and to do credit 
 to the nature which had prompted her to repose it in me. 
 
 There was no reason, however, why I should refrain 
 from seeing the person who had inconsiderately sent her 
 to so great a distance by night and alone, and as it was 
 not improbable that if she found herself near home she 
 might take farewell of me and deprive me of the opportu- 
 nity, I avoided the most frequented ways and took the 
 most intricate, and thus it was not until we arrived in the 
 street itself that she knew where we were. Clapping her 
 hands with pleasure and running on before me for ashort 
 distance, my little acquaintance stopped at a door and 
 remaining on the step till I came up knocked at it when I 
 joined her. 
 
 A part of this door was. of glass unprotected by any 
 shutter, which I did not observe at first, for all was very 
 dark and silent within, and I was anxious (as indeed the, 
 child was also) for an answer to our summons. When 
 she had knocked twice or thrice there was a noise as if 
 
8 
 
 some person were moving inside, and at length a faint 
 light appeared through the glass which, as it approached 
 very slowly, the bearer having to make his way through a 
 great many scattered articles, enabled me to see both 
 what kind of person it was who advanced and what kind 
 of place it was through which he came. 
 
 It was a little old man with long gray hair, whose face 
 and figure as he held the light above his head and looked 
 before him as he approached, I could plainly see. Though 
 much altered by age, I fancied I could recognize in his 
 spare and slender form something of that delicate mold 
 which I had noticed in the child. The'ir bright blue eyes 
 were certainly alike, but his face was so deeply furrowed 
 and so very full of care, that here all resemblance ceased. 
 
 The place through which he made his way at leisure was 
 one of those receptacles for old and curious things which 
 seem to crouch in odd corners of this town and to hide 
 their musty treasures from the public eye in jealousy and 
 distrust. There were suits of mail standing like ghosts 
 in armor here and there, fantastic carvings brought from 
 monkish cloisters, rusty weapons of various kinds, dis- 
 torted figures in china and wood and iron and ivory : tap- 
 estry and strange furniture that might have been designed 
 in dreams. The haggard aspect of the little oldS man was 
 wonderfully suited to the place ; he might have groped 
 among old churches and tombs and deserted houses and 
 gathered all the spoils with his own hands. There was 
 nothing in the whole collection but was in keeping with 
 himself ; nothing that looked older or more worn than he. 
 
 As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with 
 some astonishment which was not diminished when he 
 looked from me to my companion. The door being 
 opened, the child addressed him as grandfather, and told 
 him the little story of our companionship. 
 
 " Why bless thee, child," said the* old man, patting her 
 
on the head, " how couldst thou miss thy way ? What if I 
 had lost thee, Nell ! " 
 
 "I would have found my way back to you, grandfather," 
 said the child boldly, " never fear." 
 
 The old man kissed her, then turning to me and begging 
 me to walk in, I did so. The door was closed and locked. 
 Preceding me with the light, he led me through the place 
 I had already seen from without, into a small sitting-room 
 behind, in which was another door opening into a kind of 
 closet, where I saw a little bed that a fairy might have 
 slept in, it looked so very small and was so prettily ar- 
 ranged. The child took a candle and tripped into this 
 little room, leaving the old man and me together. 
 
 "You must be tired, Sir," said he as he placed a chair 
 near the fire, " how can I thank you ? " 
 
 " By taking more care of your grandchild another time, 
 my good friend," I replied. 
 
 " More care ! " said the old man in a shrill voice, " more 
 care of Nelly ! Why, who ever loved a child as I love 
 Nell ? " 
 
 He said this with such evident surprise that I was per- 
 plexed what answer to make, and the more so because 
 coupled with something feeble and wandering in his man- 
 ner, there were in his face marks of deep and anxious 
 thought which convinced me that he could not be, as I 
 had been at first inclined t'o suppose, in a state of dotage 
 or imbecility. 
 
 " I don't think you consider — " I began. 
 
 " I don't consider ! " cried the old man interrupting me, 
 " I don't consider her ! Ah, how little you know of the 
 truth ! Little Nelly, little Nelly ! " 
 
 It would be impossible for any man, I care not what his 
 form of speech might be, to express more affection than 
 the dealer in curiosities did, in these four words. I waited 
 for him to speak again, but he rested his chin upon his 
 
IO 
 
 hand and shaking his head twice or thrice fixed his eyes 
 upon the fire. 
 
 While we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the 
 closet opened, and the child returned, her light brown 
 hair hanging loose about her neck, and her face flushed 
 with the haste she had made to rejoin us. She busied 
 herself immediately in preparing supper, and while she 
 was thus engaged I remarked that the old man took an 
 opportunity of observing me more closely than he had 
 done yet. I was surprised to see that all this time every- 
 thing was done by the child, and that there appeared to 
 be no other persons but ourselves in the house. I took 
 advantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a 
 hint on this point, to which the old man replied that there 
 were few grown persons as • trustworthy or as careful as 
 she. 
 
 " It always grieves me," I observed, roused by what I 
 took to be his selfishness, " it always grieves me to con- 
 template the initiation of children into the ways of life, 
 when they are scarcely more than infants. It checks 
 their confidence and simplicity — two of the best qualities 
 that Heaven gives them — and demands that they share 
 our sorrows before they are capable of entering into our 
 enjoyments." 
 
 "It will never check hers," said the old man looking \ 
 steadily at me, " the springs are too deep. Besides, the 
 children of the poor know but few pleasures. Even the 
 cheap delights of childhood must be bought and paid for." 
 
 " But — forgive me for saying this — you are surely not 
 so very poor " — said I. 
 
 " She is not my child, Sir," returned the old man. " Her 
 mother was, and she was poor. I save nothing — not a 
 penny — though I live as you see, but " — he laid his hand 
 upon my arm and leaned forward to whisper — " she shall be 
 rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't you think 
 
II 
 
 ill of me, because I use her help. She gives it cheer- 
 fully as you see, and it would break her heart if she knew 
 that I suffered anybody else to do for me what her little 
 hands could undertake. I don't consider ! "—he cried 
 with sudden querulousness, " why, God knows that this 
 one child is the thought and object of my life, and yet he 
 never prospers me — no, never ! " 
 
 At this juncture, the subject of our conversation again 
 returned, and the old man, motioning me to approach the 
 table, broke off, and said no more. 
 
 We had scarcely begun our repast when there was a 
 knock at the door by which I had entered, and Nell burst- 
 ing into a hearty laugh, which I was rejoiced to hear, for 
 it was childlike and full of hilarity, said it was no doubt 
 dear old Kit come back at last. 
 
 "Foolish Nell!" said the old man fondling with her 
 hair. " She always laughs at poor Kit." 
 
 The child laughed again more heartily than before, and 
 I could not help smiling from pure sympathy. The little 
 old man took up a candle and went to open the door. 
 When he came back, Kit was at his heels. 
 
 Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an 
 uncommonly wide mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up 
 nose, and certainly the most comical expression of face 
 I ever saw. He stopped short at the door on seeing a 
 stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat 
 withput any vestige of a brim, and resting himself now 
 on one leg and now on the other and changing them con- 
 stantly, stood in the doorway, looking into the parlor 
 with the most extraordinary leer I ever beheld, I enter- 
 tained a grateful feeling towards the boy from that min- 
 ute, for I felt that he was the comedy of the child's life. 
 
 " A long way, -wasn't it, Kit ? " said the little old man. 
 
 " Why then, it was a goodish stretch, master," returned 
 Kit. 
 
12 
 
 " Did you find the house easily ? " 
 
 "Why then, not over and above easy, master," said Kit. 
 
 " Of course you have come back hungry ? " 
 
 " Why then, I do consider myself rather so, master," 
 was the answer. 
 
 The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways 
 as he spoke, and thrusting his head forward over his 
 shoulder, as if he could not get at his voice without that 
 accompanying action. I think he would have amused 
 one anywhere, but the child's exquisite enjoyment of his 
 oddity, and the relief it was to find that there was some- 
 thing she associated with merriment in a place that ap- 
 peared so unsuited to her, were quite irresistible. It was 
 a great point too that Kit himself was flattered by the 
 sensation he created, and after several efforts to preserve 
 his gravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his 
 mouth wide open and his eyes nearly shut, laughing vio- 
 lently. 
 
 The old man had again relapsed into his former ab- 
 straction and took no notice of what passed, but I remarked 
 that when her laugh was over, the child's bright eyes 
 were dimmed with tears, called forth by the fullness of 
 heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favorite 
 after the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself 
 - (whose laugh had been all the time one of that sort which 
 very little would change into a cry) he carried a large 
 slice of bread and meat into a corner, and applied himself 
 to disposing of them with great voracity. 
 * " Ah ! " said trie old man turning to me with a sigh as 
 if I had spoken to him but that moment, " you don't know 
 i what you say when you tell me that I don't consider her." 
 I " You must not attach too great weight to a remark 
 founded on first appearances, my friend," said I. 
 
 " No," returned the old man thoughtfully, " no. Come 
 hither, Nell." 
 
13 
 
 The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm 
 about his neck. 
 
 " Dp I love thee, Nell ? " said he. " Say — do I love 
 thee, Nell, or no ? " 
 
 The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her 
 head upon his breast. 
 
 " Why dost thou sob," said the grandfather pressing her 
 closer to him and glancing towards me. " Is it because 
 thou know'st I love thee, and dost not like that I should 
 seem to doubt it by my question ? Well, well — then let 
 us say I love thee dearly." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed you do," replied the child with great 
 earnestness, " Kit knows you do." 
 
 Kit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been 
 swallowing two thirds of his knife at every mouthful with 
 the coolness of a juggler, stopped short in his operations 
 on being thus appealed to, and bawled " Nobody isn't 
 such a fool as to say he doesn't," after which he incapaci- 
 tated himself for further conversation by taking a most 
 prodigious sandwich at one bite. " 
 
 " She is poor now " — said the old man patting the 
 child's cheek, " but I say again that the time is coming 
 when she shall be rich. It has been a long time coming, 
 but it must come at last ; a very long time, but it surely 
 must come. It has come to other men who do nothing 
 but waste and riot. When will it come to me ! " 
 
 "I am very happy as I am, grandfather," said the 
 child. 
 
 " Tush, tush ! " returned the old man, " thou dost not^ 
 know — how should'st thou ! " Then he muttered again 
 between his teeth, " The time must come, I am very sure 
 it must. It will be all the better for coming late ; " and 
 then he sighed and fell into his former musing state, and 
 still holding the child between his knees appeared to be 
 insensible to everything around him. By this time it 
 
wanted but a few minutes of midnight and I rose to go, 
 which recalled him to himself. 
 
 . " One moment, Sir," he said. " Now, Kit— near mid- 
 night, boy, and you still here ! Get home, get home, and 
 be true to your time in the morning, for there's work to 
 do. Good night ! There, bid him good night, Nell, and 
 let him be gone ! " 
 
 " Good night, Kit," said the child, her eyes lighting up 
 with merriment and kindness. 
 
 " Good night, Miss Nell," returned the boy. 
 
 " And thank this gentleman," interposed the old man, 
 " but for whose care I might have lost my little girl to- 
 night." 
 
 " No, no, master," said Kit, " that won't do, that 
 won't." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " cried the old man. 
 
 " I'd have found her, master," said Kit, " I'd have 
 found her. I'd bet that I'd find her if she was above 
 ground, I would, as quick as anybody, master. Ha ! ha ! 
 ha!" 
 
 Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, 
 and laughing like a stentor, Kit gradually backed to the 
 door, and roared himself out; 
 
 Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his 
 departure ; when he had gone, and the child was occupied 
 in clearing the table, the old man said: 
 
 " I haven't seemed to thank you, Sir, enough for what 
 you have done to-night, but I do. thank you humbly and 
 heartily, and so does she, and her thanks are better worth 
 than mine. I should be sorry that you went away and 
 thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of 
 her — I am not indeed." 
 
 I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. " But," 
 I added, " may I ask you a question ? " 
 
 " Ay, Sir," replied the old man, " what is it ? " 
 
15 
 
 " This delicate child," said I, " with so much beauty 
 and intelligence — has she nobody to care for her but you ? 
 Has she no other companion or adviser ? " 
 
 " No," he returned looking anxiously in my face, " no, 
 and she wants no other." 
 
 " But are you not fearful," said I, " that you may mis- 
 understand a charge so tender? I am sure you mean 
 well, but are you quite certain that you know how to 
 execute such a trust as this ? I am an old man, like you, 
 and I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is 
 young and promising. Do you not think that what I have 
 seen of you and this little creature to-night must have an 
 interest not wholly free from pain ? " 
 
 " Sir," rejoined the old man after a moment's silence, 
 " I have no right to feel hurt at what you say. It is true 
 that in many respects I am the child, and she the grown 
 person — that you have seen already. But waking or 
 sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the 
 one object of my care, and if you knew of how much care, 
 you would look on me with different eyes, you would in- 
 deed. Ah ! it's a weary life for an old man — a weary, 
 weary life — but there is a great end to gain and that I keep 
 before me." 
 
 Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and im- 
 patience, I turned to put on an outer coat which I had 
 thrown off on entering the room, purposing to say no more. 
 I was surprised to see the child standing patiently by 
 with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat and 
 stick. 
 
 " Those are not mine, my dear," said I. 
 
 " No," returned the child quietly, " they are grand- 
 father's." 
 
 " But he is not going out to-night." 
 
 " Oh yes he is," said the child, with a smile. 
 
 " And what becomes of you, my pretty one ?" 
 
i6 
 
 " Me ! I stay here of course. I always do." 
 
 I looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he 
 was, or feigned to be, busied in the arrangement of his 
 dress. From him I looked back to the slight gentle figure 
 of the child. Alone ! In that gloomy place all the long, 
 dreary night. 
 
 She evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheer- 
 fully helped the old man with his cloak, and when he was 
 ready took a candle to light us out. Finding that we did 
 not follow as she expected, she looked back with a smile 
 and waited for us. The old man showed by his face that 
 he plainly understood the cause of my hesitation, but he 
 merely signed to me with an inclination of the head to 
 pass out of the room before him, and remained silent. I 
 had no resource but to comply. 
 
 When we reached the door the child, setting down the 
 candle, turned to say good night and raised her face to 
 kiss me. Then she ran to the old man, who folded her in 
 his arms and bade God bless her. 
 
 " Sleep soundly, Nell," he said in a low voice, " and an- 
 gels guard thy bed ! Do not forget thy prayers, my 
 sweet." 
 
 " No indeed," answered the child fervently, " they make 
 me feel so happy ! " 
 
 " That's well ; I know they do ; they should," said the 
 old man. "Bless thee a hundred times! Early in the 
 morning I shall be home." 
 
 " You'll not ring twice," returned the child. " The bell 
 wakes me, even in the middle of a dream." 
 
 With this, they separated. The child opened the door 
 (now guarded by a shutter which I had heard the boy put 
 up before he left the house) and with another farewell, 
 whose clear and tender note I have recalled a thousand 
 times, held it until we had passed out. The old man 
 paused a moment while it was gently closed and fastened 
 
i7 
 
 on the inside, and, satisfied that this was done, walked on at 
 a slow pace. At the street corner he stopped, and regard- 
 ing me with a troubled countenance said that our ways 
 were widely different and that he must take his leave. I 
 would have spoken, but summoning up more alacrity than 
 might have been expected in one of his appearance, he 
 hurried away. I could see that twice or thrice he looked 
 back as if to ascertain if I were still watching him, or per- 
 haps to assure himself that I was not following at a 
 distance. The obscurity of the night favored his disap- 
 pearance, and' his figure was soon beyond my sight. 
 
 I remained standing on the spot where he had left me, 
 unwilling to depart, and yet unknowing why I should 
 loiter there. I looked wistfully into the street we had 
 lately quitted, and after a time directed my steps that way. 
 I passed and repassed the house, and stopped and listened 
 at the door; all was dark, and silent as the grave. 
 
 Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, 
 thinking of all possible harm that might happen to the 
 child — of fires and robberies and even murder — and feel- 
 ing as if some evil must ensue if I turned my back upon 
 the place. The closing of a door or a window in the street 
 brought me before the curiosity dealer's once more ; I 
 crossed the road and looked up at the house to assure my- 
 self that the noise had not come from there. No, it was 
 black, cold, and lifeless as before. 
 
 There were few passengers astir ; the street was sad 
 and dismal, and pretty well my own. A few stragglers 
 from the theaters hurried by, and now and then I turned 
 aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he reeled home- 
 wards, but these interruptions were not frequent and soon 
 ceased. The clocks struck one. Still I paced up and 
 down, promising myself that every time should be the 
 last, and breaking faith with myself on some new plea as 
 often as I did so. 
 
 Little JVeII.—2. 
 
i8 
 
 The more I thought of what the old man had said, and 
 of his looks and bearing, the less I could account for what 
 I had seen and heard. I had a strong misgiving that his 
 nightly absence was for no good purpose. I had only 
 come' to know the fact through the innocence of the child, 
 and though the old man was by at the time, and saw my 
 undisguised surprise, he had preserved a strange mystery 
 upon the subject and offered no word of explanation. 
 These reflections naturally recalled again more strongly 
 than before his haggard face, his wandering manner, his 
 restless, anxious looks. His affection for the child might 
 not be inconsistent with villainy of the worst kind ; even 
 that very affection was in itself an extraordinary contra- 
 diction, or how could he leave her thus ? Disposed as I 
 was to think badly of him, I never doubted that his love 
 for her was real. I could not admit the thought, remem- 
 bering what had passed between us, and the tone of voice 
 in which he had called her by her name. 
 
 " Stay here of course," the child had said in answer to 
 my question, " I always do ! " What could take him from 
 home by night, and every night ! I called up all the 
 strange tales I had ever heard of dark and secret deeds 
 committed in great towns and escaping detection for a 
 long series of years ; wild as many of these stories were, 1 
 could not find one adapted to this mystery, which only 
 became the more impenetrable, in proportion as I sought 
 to solve it. 
 
 Occupied with such thoughts as these, and a crowd of 
 others all tending to the same point, I continued to pace the 
 street for two long hours ; at length the rain began to de- 
 scend heavily, and then overpowered by fatigue, though 
 no less interested than I had been at first, I engaged the 
 nearest coach and so got home. A cheerful fire was blaz- 
 ing on the hearth, the lamp burned brightly, my clock re- 
 ceived me with its old familiar welcome ; everything was 
 
19 
 
 quiet, warm, and cheering, and in happy contrast to the 
 gloom and darkness I had quitted. 
 
 But all that night, waking or in my sleep, the same 
 thoughts recurred and the same images retained posses- 
 sion of my brain. I had ever before me the old dark 
 murky rooms — the gaunt suits of mail with their ghostly 
 silent air — the faces all awry, grinning from wood and 
 stone — the dust and rust and worm that lives in wood — 
 and alone in the midst of all this lumber and decay and 
 ugly age, the beautiful child in her gentle slumber, smil- 
 ing through her light and sunny dreams. 
 
 CHAPTER THE SECOND. 
 
 After combating, for nearly a week, the feeling which 
 impelled me to revisit the place I had quitted under the 
 circumstances already detailed, I yielded to it at length ; 
 and determining that this time I would present myself by 
 the light of day, bent my steps thither early in the after- 
 noon. 
 
 I walked past the house, and took several turns in the 
 street, with that kind of hesitation which is natural to a 
 man who is conscious that the visit he is about to pay is 
 unexpected, and may not be very acceptable. However, 
 as the door of the shop was shut, and it did not appear 
 likely that I should be recognized by those within, if I 
 continued merely to pass up and down before it, I soon 
 conquered this irresolution, and found myself in the 
 curiosity dealer's warehouse. 
 
 The old man, advancing hastily towards me, said in a 
 tremulous tone that he was very glad I had come. 
 
 After taking a seat I looked about for the child and not 
 seeing her inquired where she was. The old man said she 
 had gone out to do an errand and he expected her every 
 
20 
 
 moment. Just then the door opened and she appeared 
 closely followed by an elderly man of remarkably hard 
 features and forbidding aspect, and so low in stature as 
 to be quite a dwarf, though his head and face were large 
 enough for the body of a giant. His black eyes were 
 restless, sly, and cunning ; his mouth and chin, bristly 
 with the stubble of a coarse hard beard ; and his com- 
 plexion was one of that kind which never looks clean or 
 wholesome. But what added most to the grotesque ex- 
 pression of his face, was a ghastly smile, which, appearing 
 to be the mere result of habit and to have no connection 
 with any mirthful or complacent feeling, constantly re- 
 vealed the few discolored fangs that were yet scattered 
 in his mouth, and gave him the aspect of a panting dog. 
 His dress consisted of a large high-crowned hat, a worn 
 dark suit, a pair of capacious shoes, and a dirty white 
 neckerchief sufficiently limp and crumpled to disclose the 
 greater portion of his wiry throat. Such hair as he had, 
 was of a grizzled black, cut short and straight upon his 
 temples, and hanging in a frowzy fringe about his ears. 
 His hands, which were of a rough,coarse grain, were very 
 dirty ; his finger nails were crooked, long, and yellow. 
 
 The child advanced and put her hand in mine, the 
 curiosity dealer, who plainly had not expected his" un- 
 couth visitor, seemed disconcerted and embarrassed. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the dwarf (if we may call him so) keenly 
 surveying me, " and who may this be ? " 
 
 " A gentleman who was so good as to bring Nell home 
 the other night when she lost her way coming from your 
 house." 
 
 "Sir, I am your humble servant, Quilp is my name. 
 You might remember. It's not a long one — Daniel 
 Quilp." 
 
 The creature appeared quite horrible with his monstrous 
 head and little body, as he rubbed his hands slowly round, 
 
21 
 
 and round, and round again — with something fantastic 
 even in his manner of performing this slight action — and, 
 dropping his shaggy brows and cocking his chin in the 
 air, glanced upward with a stealthy look of exultation 
 that an imp might have copied and appropriated to him- 
 self. 
 
 " Here," he said, putting his hand into his breast and 
 sidling up to the old man as he spoke ; " I brought it my- 
 self for fear of accidents, as, being in gold, it was some- 
 thing large and heavy for Nell to carry in her bag. She 
 need be accustomed to such loads betimes though, neigh- 
 bor, for she will carry weight when you are dead." 
 
 " Heaven send she may ! I hope so,'' said the old man 
 with something like a groan. 
 
 " Hope so ! " echoed the dwarf, approaching close to 
 his ear ; " neighbor, I would I knew in what good invest- 
 ment all these supplies are sunk. But you are a deep 
 man, and keep your secret close." 
 
 " My secret ! " said the other with a haggard look. 
 " Yes, you're right — I — I — keep it close — very close." 
 
 He said no more, but taking the money turned away 
 with a slow, uncertain step, and pressed his hand upon his 
 head like a weary and dejected man. The dwarf watched 
 him sharply, while he passed into the little sitting room 
 and locked it in an iron safe above the chimney-piece ; 
 and after musing for a short space, prepared to take his 
 leave, observing that unless he made good haste, Mrs. 
 Quilp would certainly be in fits on his return. 
 
 "And so, neighbor," he added, "I'll turn my face home- 
 wards, leaving my love for Nelly and hoping she may 
 never lose her way again, though her doing so has pro- 
 cured me an honor I didn't expect." With that he 
 bowed and leered at me, and with a keen glance around 
 which seemed to comprehend every object within his 
 range of vision, however small or trivial, went his way. 
 
22 
 
 I had several times essayed to go myself, but the old 
 man had always opposed it and entreated me to remain. 
 As he renewed his entreaties on our being left alone, and 
 adverted with many thanks to the former occasion of our 
 being together, I willingly yielded to his persuasions, and 
 sat down, pretending to examine some curious miniatures 
 and a few old medals which he placed before me. It 
 needed no great pressing to induce me to stay, for if my 
 curiosity had been excited on the occasion of my first 
 visit, it certainly was not diminished now. 
 
 Nell joined us before long, and bringing some needle- 
 work to the table, sat by the old man's side. It was 
 pleasant to observe the fresh flowers in the room, the 
 pet bird with a green bough shading his little cage, the 
 breath of freshness and youth which seemed to rustle 
 through the old dull house and hover round the child. 
 It was curious, but not so pleasant, to turn from the 
 beauty and grace of the girl, to the stooping figure, care- 
 worn face, and jaded aspect of the old man. As he grew 
 weaker and more feeble, what would become of this lonely 
 little creature ; poor protector as he was, say that he 
 died — what would her fate be, then ? 
 
 The old man almost answered my thoughts, as he laid 
 his hand on hers, and spoke aloud. 
 
 " I'll be of better cheer, Nell," he said ; " there must be 
 good fortune in store for thee — I do not ask it for myself, 
 but thee. Such miseries must fall on thy innocent head 
 without it, that I cannpt believe but that, being tempted, 
 it will come at last 1 " 
 
 She looked cheerfully into his face, but made no an- 
 swer. 
 
 "When I think," said he, " of the many years — many in 
 thy short life — that thou hast lived alone with me ■ of 
 thy monotonous existence, knowing no companions of thy 
 own age nor any childish pleasures ; of the solitude in 
 
23 
 
 which thou hast grown to be what thou art, and in which 
 thou hast lived apart from nearly all thy kind but one old 
 man ; I sometimes fear I have dealt hardly by thee, 
 Nell." 
 
 " Grandfather ! " cried the child in unfeigned surprise; 
 
 " Not in intention — no no," said he. " I have ever 
 looked forward to the time that should enable thee to 
 mix among the gayest and prettiest, and take thy station 
 with the best. But I still look forward, Nell, I still look 
 forward, and if I should be forced to leave thee, mean- 
 while, how have I fitted thee for struggles with the world ? 
 The poor bird yonder is as well qualified to encounter 
 it, and be turned adrift upon its mercies — Hark ! I hear 
 Kit outside. Go to him, Nell, go to him." 
 
 She rose, and hurrying away, stopped, turned back, and 
 put her arms about the old man's neck, then left him and 
 hurried away again — but faster this time, to hide her fall- 
 ing tears. 
 
 "A word in your ear, Sir," said the old man in a 
 hurried whisper. " I have been rendered uneasy by what 
 you said the other night, and can only plead that I have 
 done all for the best — that it is too late to retract, if I 
 could (though I cannot) — and that I hope to triumph yet. 
 All is for her sake. I have borne great poverty myself, 
 and would spare her the sufferings that poverty carries 
 with it. I would spare her the miseries that brought her 
 mother, my own dear child, to an early grave. I would 
 leave her — not with resources which could be easily spent 
 or squandered away, but with what would place her be- 
 yond the reach of want forever. You mark me, Sir ? 
 She shall have no pittance, but a fortune — Hush ! I can 
 say no more than that, now or at any other time, and she 
 is here again ! " 
 
 The eagerness with which all this was poured into my 
 ear, the trembling of the hand with which he clasped my 
 
24 
 
 arm, the strained and starting eyes he fixed upon me, the 
 wild vehemence and agitation of his manner, filled me 
 with amazement. All that I had heard and seen, and a 
 great part of what he had said himself, led me to suppose 
 that he was a wealthy man. I could form no comprehen- 
 sion of his character, unless he were one of those miserable 
 wretches who, having made gain the sole end and object of 
 their lives and having succeeded in amassing great riches, 
 are constantly tortured by the dread of poverty, and be- 
 set by fears of loss and ruin. Many things he had said, 
 which I had been at a loss to understand, were quite 
 reconcilable with the idea thus presented to me, and at 
 length I concluded that beyond all doubt he was one of 
 this unhappy race. 
 
 The opinion was not the result of hasty consideration, 
 for which indeed there was no opportunity at that time, 
 as the child came back directly, and soon occupied herself 
 in preparations for giving Kit a writing lesson, of which it 
 seemed he had a couple every week, and one regularly on 
 that evening, to the great mirth and enjoyment both of 
 himself and his instructress. To relate how it was a long 
 time before his modesty could be so far prevailed upon as 
 to admit of his sitting down in the parlor, in the presence 
 of an unknown gentleman — how, when he did sit down, he 
 tucked up his sleeves and squared his elbows and put his 
 face close to the copy book and squinted horribly at the 
 lines — how, from the very first moment of having the pen 
 in his hand, he began to wallow in blots, and to daub him- 
 self with ink up to the very roots of his hair — how, if he 
 did by accident form a letter properly, he immediately 
 smeared it out again with his arm in his preparations to 
 make another — how, at every fresh mistake, there was a 
 fresh burst of merriment from the child and a louder and 
 not less hearty laugh from poor Kit himself — and how 
 there was all the way through, notwithstanding, a gentle 
 
25 
 
 wish on her part to teach, and an anxious desire on his to 
 learn — to relate all these particulars would no doubt 
 occupy more space and time than they deserve. It will 
 be sufficient to say that the lesson was given — that even- 
 ing passed and night came on — that the old man again 
 grew restless and impatient — that he quitted the house 
 secretly at the same hour as before — and that the child 
 was once more left alone within its gloomy walls. 
 
 And now, that I have carried this history so far in my 
 own character and introduced these personages to the 
 reader, I shall for the convenience of the narrative detach 
 myself from its further course, and leave those who have 
 prominent and necessary parts in it to speak and act for 
 themselves. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRD. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Quilp resided on Tower Hill ; and in 
 her bower on Tower Hill Mrs, Quilp was left to pine the 
 absence of her lord, when he quitted her on the business 
 which he has been already seen to transact. 
 
 Mr. Quilp could scarcely be said to be of any particular 
 trade or calling, though his pursuits were diversified and 
 his occupations numerous. He collected the rents of 
 whole colonies of filthy streets and alleys by the waterside, 
 advanced money to the seamen and petty officers of mer- 
 chant vessels, had a share in the ventures of divers mates 
 of East Indiamen, smoked his smuggled cigars under the 
 very nose of the Custom House, and made appointments 
 on 'Change with men in glazed hats and round jackets 
 pretty well every day. On the Surrey side of the river 
 was a small, rat-infested, dreary yard called " Quilp's 
 Wharf," in which were a little wooden countinghouse 
 burrowing all awry in the dust as if it had fallen from the 
 
26 
 
 clouds and plowed into the ground ; a few fragments of 
 rusty anchors ; several large iron rings ; some piles of 
 rotten wood ; and two or three heaps of old sheet copper, 
 crumpled, cracked, and battered. On Quilp's Wharf, 
 Daniel Quilp was a ship breaker, yet to judge from these 
 appearances he must either have been a ship breaker on a 
 very small scale, or have broken his ships up very small 
 indeed. Neither did the place present any extraordinary 
 aspect of life or activity, as its only human occupant was 
 an amphibious boy in a canvas suit, whose sole change of 
 occupation was from sitting on the head of a pile and 
 throwing stones into the mud when the tide was out, to 
 standing with his hands in his pockets gazing listlessly on 
 the motion and on the bustle of the river at high water. 
 It was flood tide when Daniel Quilp sat himself down 
 in the wherry to cross to the opposite shore. A fleet of 
 barges were coming lazily on, some sideways, some head 
 first, some stern first ; all in a wrong-headed, dogged, ob- 
 stinate way, bumping up against the larger craft, running 
 under the bows of steamboats, getting into every kind of 
 nook and corner where they had no business, and being 
 crunched on all sides like so many walnut shells ; while 
 each with its pair of long sweeps struggling and splashing 
 in the water looked like some lumbering fish in pain. In 
 some of the vessels at anchor all hands were busily 
 engaged in coiling ropes, spreading out sails to dry, tak- 
 ing in or discharging their cargoes ; in others no life was 
 visible but two or three tarry boys, and perhaps a barking 
 dog running to and fro upon the deck or scrambling up 
 to look over the side and bark the louder for the view. 
 Coming slowly on through the forests of masts was a 
 great steamship, beating the water in short impatient 
 strokes with her heavy paddles as though she wanted 
 room to breathe, and advancing in her huge bulk like a 
 sea monster among the minnows of the Thames, On 
 
either hand were long black tiers of colliers ; between 
 them vessels slowly working out of harbor with sails 
 glistening in the sun, and creaking noise on board, re- 
 echoed from a hundred quarters. The water and all up- 
 on it was in active motion, dancing and buoyant and 
 bubbling up ; while the old gray Tower and piles of build- 
 ings on the shore, with many a church spire shooting up 
 between, looked coldly on, and seemed to disdain their 
 chafing, restless neighbor. 
 
 Daniel Quilp, who was not much affected by a bright 
 morning save in so far as it spared him the trouble of 
 carrying an umbrella, caused himself to be put ashore 
 hard by the wharf, and proceeded thither through a nar- 
 row lane which, partaking of the amphibious characterof 
 its frequenters, had as much water as mud in its com- 
 position, and a very liberal supply of both. Arrived at 
 his destination, the first object that presented itself to his 
 •view was a pair of very imperfectly shod feet elevated in 
 the air with the soles upwards, which remarkable appear- 
 ance was referable to the boy, who being of an eccentric 
 spirit and having a natural taste for tumbling, was now 
 standing on his head and contemplating the aspect of the 
 river under these uncommon circumstances. He was 
 speedily brought on his heels by the sound of his master's 
 voice, and as soon as his head was in its right position, 
 Mr. Quilp, to speak expressively in the absence of a bettel 
 verb, " punched it " for him. 
 
 " Come, you let me alone," said the boy, parrying 
 Quilp's hand with both his elbows alternately. "Youil 
 get something you won't like if you don't, and so I tell 
 you." 
 
 " You dog," snarled Quilp, " I'll beat you with an iron 
 rod, I'll scratch you with a rusty nail, I'll pinch your eyes, 
 if you talk to me — I will." 
 
 With these threats he clenched his hand again, and 
 
28 
 
 dexterously diving in between the elbows and catching 
 the boy's head as it dodged from side to side, gave it three 
 or four good hard knocks. Having now carried his point 
 and insisted on it, he left off. 
 
 " You won't do it again," said the boy, nodding his 
 head and drawing back, with the elbows ready in case of 
 the worst ; " now — " 
 
 " Stand still, you dog," said Quilp. " I won't do it 
 again, because I've done it as often as I want. Here. 
 Take the key." 
 
 "Why don't you hit one of your size?" said the boy 
 approaching very slowly. 
 
 " Where is there one of my size, you dog ? " returned 
 Quilp. " Take the key, or I'll brain you with it " — 
 indeed he gave him a smart tap with the handle as he 
 spoke. "Now, open the countinghouse." 
 
 The boy sulkily complied, muttering at first, but desist- 
 ing when he looked round and saw that Quilp was follow- " 
 ing him with a steady look. And here it may be remarked, 
 that between this boy and the dwarf there existed a 
 strange kind of mutual liking. How born or bred, or how 
 nourished upon blows and threats on one side, and retorts 
 and defiances on the other, is not to the purpose. Quilp 
 would certainly suffer nobody to contradict him but the 
 boy, and the boy would assuredly not have submitted to 
 be so knocked about by anybody but Quilp, when he had 
 the power to run away at any time he chose. 
 
 " Now," said Quilp, passing into the wooden counting- 
 house, "you mind the wharf. Stand upon your head 
 again, and I'll cut one of your feet off." 
 
 The boy made no answer, but directly Quilp had shut 
 himself in, stood on his head before the door, then walked 
 on his hands to the back and stood on his head there, and 
 then to the opposite side and repeated the performance. 
 There were indeed four sides to the countinghouse, but 
 
29 
 
 he avoided that one where the window was, deeming it 
 probable that Quilp would be looking out of it. This was 
 prudent, for in point of fact the dwarf, knowing his dis- 
 position, was lying in wait at a little distance from the 
 sash armed with a large piece of wood, which, being rough 
 and jagged" and studded in many parts with broken nails, 
 might possibly have hurt him. 
 
 It was a dirty little- box, this countinghouse, with noth- 
 ing in it but an old rickety desk and two stools, a hat peg, 
 an ancient almanac, an inkstand with no ink and the 
 stump of one pen, and an eight-day clock which hadn't 
 gone for eighteen years at least, and of which the minute- 
 hand had been twisted off for a toothpick. Daniel Quilp 
 pulled his hat over his brows, climbed on to the desk 
 (which had a flat top), and* stretching his short length 
 upon it went to sleep with the ease of an old practitioner; 
 intending, no doubt, to take a long and sound nap. 
 
 Sound it might have been, but long it was not, for he 
 had not been asleep a quarter of an hour when the boy 
 opened the door and thrust in his head, which was like a 
 bundle of badly-picked oakum. Quilp was a light sleeper 
 and started up directly. 
 
 " Here's somebody for you," said the boy. 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Ask ! " said Quilp, seizing the trifle of wood before 
 mentioned and throwing it at him with such dexterity 
 that it was well the boy disappeared before it reached the 
 spot on which he had stood. " Ask, you dog.'' 
 
 Not caring to venture within range of such missiles 
 again, the boy discretely sent in his stead the first cause 
 of the interruption, who now presented herself at the 
 door. 
 
 "What, Nelly ! " cried Quilp. 
 
 "Yes,"^said the child, hesitating whether to enter or 
 
3° 
 
 retreat, for the dwarf just roused, with his disheveled 
 hair hanging all about him and a yellow handkerchief 
 over his head, was something fearful to behold ; " it's only 
 me, Sir." 
 
 " Come in," said Quilp, without getting off the desk. 
 " Come in. Stay. Just look out into the yard, and see 
 whether there's a boy standing on his head." 
 
 " No, Sir," replied Nell. " He's on his feet." 
 
 " You're sure he is ? " said Quilp. " Well. Now, come 
 in and shut the door. What's your message, Nelly ? " 
 
 The child handed him a letter ; Mr. Quilp, without 
 changing his position further than to turn over a little 
 more on his side and rest his chin on his hand, proceeded 
 to make himself acquainted with its contents. 
 
 CHAPTER THE FOURTH. 
 
 Little Nell stood timidly by, with her eyes raised to 
 the countenance of Mr. Quilp as he read the letter, plainly 
 showing by her looks that while she entertained some fear 
 and distrust of the little man, she was much inclined to 
 laugh at his uncouth appearance and grotesque attitude. 
 And yet there was visible on the part of the child a pain- 
 ful anxiety for his reply, and a consciousness of his 
 power to render it disagreeable or distressing, which was 
 strongly at variance with this impulse and restrained it 
 more effectually than she could possibly have done by 
 any efforts of her own. 
 
 That Mr. Quilp was himself perplexed, and that in no 
 small degree, by the contents of the letter, was sufficiently 
 obvious. Before he had got through the first two or three 
 lines he began to open his eyes very wide and to frown 
 most horribly, the next two or three caused him to scratch 
 his head in an uncommonly vicious manner, and when he 
 
3i 
 
 came to the conclusion he gave a long dismal whistle in- 
 dicative of surprise and dismay. After folding and laying 
 it down beside him, he bit the nails of all his ten fingers 
 with extreme voracity ; and taking it up sharply, read it 
 again. The second perusal was to all appearance as un- 
 satisfactory as the first, and plunged him into a profound 
 reverie from which he awakened to another assault upon 
 his nails and a long stare at the child, who with her eyes 
 turned towards the ground awaited his further pleasure. 
 
 "Halloa here I" he said at length, in a voice, and with 
 a suddenness, which made the child start as though a gun 
 had been fired off at her ear. " Nelly ! " 
 
 " Yes, Sir." 
 
 " Do you know what's inside this letter, Nell ? " 
 
 " No, Sir ! " 
 
 " Are you sure, quite sure, quite certain, upon your 
 soul ? " 
 
 " Quite sure, Sir." 
 
 " Do you wish you may die if you do know, hey ? " said 
 the dwarf. 
 
 " Indeed I don't know," returned the child. 
 
 "Well ! " muttered Quilp as he marked her earnest look. 
 " I believe you. Humph ! Gone already ? Gone in four- 
 and-twenty hours ! What has he done with it, that's the 
 mystery ! " 
 
 This reflection set him scratching his head and biting 
 his nails once more. While he was thus employed his 
 features gradually relaxed into what was with him a cheer- 
 ful smile, but which in any other man would have been a 
 ghastly grin of pain, and when the child looked up again 
 she found that he was regarding her -with extraordinary 
 favor and complacency. 
 
 " You look very pretty to-day, Nelly, charmingly pretty. 
 Are you tired, Nelly ? " 
 
 " No, Sir. I'm in a hurry to get back, for he will be 
 anxious while I am away." 
 
32 
 
 " There's no hurry, little Nell, no hurry at all," said Quilp. 
 " You shall come with me to Tower Hill, and see Mrs. 
 Quilp that is, directly, she's very fond of you, Nell, though 
 not so fond as I am. You shall come home with me." 
 
 " I must go back indeed," said the child. " He told me 
 to return directly I had the answer." 
 
 " But you haven't it, Nelly," retorted the dwarf, " and 
 won't have it, and can't have it, until I have been home, 
 so you see that to do your errand, you must go with me. 
 Reach me yonder hat, my dear, and we'll go directly." 
 With that, Mr. Quilp suffered himself to roll gradually off 
 the desk until his short legs touched the ground, when he 
 got upon them and led the way from the countinghouse 
 to the wharf outside, when the first objects that presented 
 themselves were the boy who had stood on his head and 
 another young gentleman of about his own stature, rolling 
 in the mud together, locked in a tight embrace, and cuff- 
 ing each other with mutual heartiness. 
 
 " It's Kit ! " cried Nelly, clasping her hands, " poor Kit 
 who came with me ! Oh pray stop them, Mr. Quilp ! " 
 
 " I'll stop 'em," cried Quilp, diving into the little count- 
 inghouse and returning with a thick stick, " I'll stop 'em. 
 Now, my boys, fight away. I'll fight you both. I'll take 
 both of you, both together, both together ! " 
 
 With which defiances the dwarf flourished his cudgel, 
 and dancing round the combatants and treading upon 
 them and skipping over them, in a kind of frenzy, laid 
 about him, now on one and now on the other, in a most 
 desperate manner, always aiming at their heads and deal- 
 ing such blows as none but the veriest little savage would 
 have inflicted. This being warmer work than they had 
 calculated upon, speedily cooled the courage of the bel- 
 ligerents, who scrambled to their feet and called for 
 quarter. 
 
 " Come, you drop that stick or it'll be worse for you," 
 
33 
 
 said his boy, dodging round him and watching an oppor- 
 tunity to rush in ; " you drop that stick." 
 
 " Come a little nearer, and I'll drop it on your skull, 
 you dog," said Quilp with gleaming eyes ; " a little nearer 
 — nearer yet."" 
 
 But the boy declined the invitation until his master was 
 apparently a little off his guard, when he darted in and 
 seizing the weapon tried to wrest it from his grasp. Quilp, 
 who was as strong as a lion, easily kept his hold until the 
 boy was tugging at it with his utmost power, when he 
 suddenly let it go and sent him reeling backwards, so that 
 he fell violently upon his head. The success of this 
 manoeuvre tickled Mr. Quilp beyond description, and he 
 laughed and stamped upon the ground as at a most irre- 
 sistible jest. 
 
 " Never mind," said the boy, nodding his head and rub- 
 bing it at the same time ; " you see if ever I offer to strike 
 anybody again because they say you're a uglier dwarf than 
 can be seen anywheres for a penny, that's all." 
 
 " Do you mean to say I'm not, you dog ? " returned 
 Quilp. 
 
 " No ! " retorted the boy. 
 
 " Then what do you fight on my wharf for, you villain ? " 
 said Quilp. 
 
 " Because he said so," replied the boy, pointing to Kit, 
 " not because you an't." 
 
 " Then why did he say," bawled Kit, " that Miss Nelly 
 was ugly, and that she and my master was obliged to do 
 whatever his master liked ? Why did he say that ? " 
 
 "He said what he did because he's a fool, and you said 
 what you did because you're very wise and clever — almost 
 too clever to live, unless you're very careful of yo*urself, 
 Kit," said Quilp, with great suavity in his manner, but still 
 more of quiet malice about his eyes and mouth. " Here's 
 sixpence for you, Kit. Always speak the truth. At all 
 
 Little mil.—z. 
 
34 
 
 times, Kit, speak the truth. Lock the countinghouse, 
 you dog, and bring me the key." 
 
 The other boy, to whom this order was addressed, did 
 as he was told, and was rewarded for his partisanship in 
 behalf of his master, by a dexterous rap on the nose with 
 the key, which brought the water into his eyes. Then 
 Mr. Quilp departed with the child and Kit in a boat, and 
 the boy revenged himself by dancing on his head at inter- 
 vals on the extreme verge of the wharf, during the whole 
 time they crossed the river. 
 
 There was only Mrs. Quilp at home, and she, little ex- 
 pecting the return of her lord, was just composing herself 
 for a refreshing slumber when the sound of his footsteps 
 roused her. She had barely time to seem to be occupied 
 in some needlework, when he entered, accompanied by 
 the child ; having left Kit down stairs. 
 
 " Here's Nelly Trent, dear Mrs. Quilp," said her hus- 
 band. " She'll sit with you, my soul, while I write a 
 letter." 
 
 Mrs. Quilp looked tremblingly in her spouse's face to 
 know what this unusual courtesy might portend, and 
 obedient to the summons she saw in his gesture, followed 
 him into the next room. 
 
 " Mind what I say to you," whispered Quilp. " See if 
 you can get out of her anything about her grandfather, or 
 what they do, or how they live, or what he tells her. I've 
 my reasons for knowing, if f can. You women talk more 
 freely to one another than you do to us, and you have a 
 soft, mild way with you that'll win upon her. Do you 
 hear?" 
 
 "Yes, Quilp." 
 
 " Go, then. What's the matter now ? " 
 
 "Dear Quilp," faltered his wife, "I love the child— if 
 you could do without making me deceive her " 
 
 " Do you hear me," whispered Quilp, nipping and pinch- 
 
35 
 
 ing her arm; "worm yourself into her secrets; I know 
 you can. I'm listening, recollect. If you're not sharp 
 enough I'll creak the door, and woe betide you if I have 
 to creak it much. Go ! " 
 
 Mrs. Quilp departed according to order, and her amia- 
 ble husband, ensconcing himself behind the partly opened 
 door, and applying his ear close to it, began to listen with 
 a face of great craftiness and attention. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Quilp was thinking, however, in what manner 
 to begin or what kind of inquiries she could make ; and it 
 was not until the door, creaking in a very urgent manner, 
 warned her to proceed without further consideration, that 
 the sound of her voice was heard. 
 
 " How very often you have come backwards and for- 
 wards lately to Mr. Quilp, my dear." 
 
 " I have said so to grandfather, a hundred times," re- 
 turned Nell innocently. 
 
 " And what has he said to that ? " 
 
 " Only sighed, and dropped his head, and seemed so 
 sad and wretched that if you could have seen him I am 
 sure you must have cried ; you could not have helped it 
 more than I, I know. How that door creaks ! " 
 
 " It often does," returned Mrs. Quilp, with an uneasy 
 glance towards it. " But your grandfather — he used not 
 to be so wretched ? '' 
 
 " Oh no ! " said the child eagerly, " so different ! we 
 were once so happy and he so cheerful and contented ! 
 You cannot think what a sad change has fallen on us 
 since." 
 
 " I am very, very sorry, to hear you speak like this, my 
 dear ! " said Mrs. Quilp. And she spoke the truth. 
 
 " Thank you," returned the child, kissing her cheek, 
 " you are always kind to me, and it is a pleasure to talk 
 to you. I can speak to no one else about him, -but poor 
 Kit. I am very happy still, I ought to feel happier per- 
 
36 
 
 haps than I do, but you cannot think how it grieves me 
 sometimes to see him alter so." 
 
 " He'll alter again, Nelly," said Mrs. Quilp, " and be 
 what he was before." 
 
 " Oh if God would only let that come about ! " said the 
 child with streaming eyes ; " but it is a long time now, 
 since he first began to — I thought I saw that door mov- 
 ing ! " 
 
 " It's the wind," said Mrs. Quilp faintly. " Began 
 to—?" 
 
 " To be so thoughtful and dejected, and to forget our 
 old way of spending the time in the long evenings," said 
 the child. " I used to read to him by the fireside, and he 
 sat listening, and when I stopped and we began to talk, 
 he told me about my mother, and how she once looked 
 and spoke just like me when she was a little child. Then, 
 he used to take me on his knee, and try to make me 
 understand that she was not lying in her grave, but had 
 flown to a beautiful country beyond the sky, where noth- 
 ing died or ever grew old — we were very happy once ! " 
 
 " Nelly, Nelly ! " — said the poor woman, " I can't bear 
 to see one as young as you, so sorrowful. Pray don't 
 cry." 
 
 " I do so very seldom," said Nell, " but I have kept 
 this to myself a long time, and I am not quite well, I think, 
 for the tears come into my eyes and I cannot keep them 
 back. I don't mind telling you my grief, for I know you 
 will not tell it to any one again." 
 
 Mrs. Quilp turned away her head and made no answer. 
 
 " Then," said the child, " we often walked in the fields 
 and among the green trees, and when we came home at 
 night, we liked it better for being tired, and said what a 
 happy place it was. And if it was dark and rather dull, 
 we used to say, what did it matter to us, for it only made 
 us remember our last walk with greater pleasure, and look 
 
37 
 
 forward to our next one. But now we never have these 
 walks, and though it is the same house it is darker and 
 much more gloomy than it used to be, indeed ! " 
 
 She paused here, but though the door creaked more 
 than once, Mrs. Quilp said nothing. 
 
 " Mind you don't suppose/' said the child earnestly, 
 " that grandfather is less kind to me than he was. I think 
 he loves me better every day, and is kinder and more 
 affectionate than he was the day before. You do not 
 know how fond he is of me ! " 
 
 " I am sure he loves you dearly/' said Mrs. Quilp. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed he does ! " cried Nell, " as dearly as 
 I love him. But I have not told you the greatest change 
 of all, and this you must never breathe to any one. He 
 has no sleep or rest, but that which he takes by day in his 
 easy chair ; for every night and nearly all night long he is 
 away from home." 
 
 " Nelly ! " 
 
 " Hush ! " said the child, laying her finger on her lip 
 and looking round. " When he comes home in the morn- 
 ing, which is generally just before day, I let him in. 
 Last night he was very late, and it was quite light. I saw 
 that his face was deadly pale, that his eyes were blood- 
 shot, and that his legs trembled as he walked. When I 
 had gone to bed again, I heard him groan. I got up and 
 ran back to him, and heard him say, before he knew that I 
 was there, that he could not bear his life much longer, and 
 if it was not for the child, would wish to die. What shall 
 I do! Oh! what shall I do !" 
 
 The fountains of her heart were opened ; the child, 
 overpowered by the weight of her sorrows and anxieties, 
 by the first confidence she had ever shown, and the sym- 
 pathy with which her little tale had been received, hid her 
 face in the arms of her helpless friend, and burst into a 
 passion of tears. 
 
38 
 
 In a few moments Mr. Quilp returned, and expressed 
 the utmost surprise to find her in this condition, which he 
 did very naturally and with admirable effect, for that kind 
 of acting had been rendered familiar to him by long 
 practice, and he was quite at home in it. 
 
 "She's tired you see, Mrs. Quilp," said the dwarf, 
 squinting in a hideous manner to imply that his wife was 
 to follow his lead. " It's a long way from her home to the 
 wharf, and then she was alarmed to see a couple of young 
 scoundrels fighting, and was timorous on the water be- 
 sides. All this together has been too much for her. 
 Poor Nell ! " 
 
 Mr. Quilp unintentionally adopted the very best means 
 he could have devised for the recovery of his young visitor, 
 by patting .her on the head. Such an application from 
 any other hand might not have produced a remarkable 
 effect, but the child shrank so quickly from his touch and 
 felt such an instinctive desire to get out of his reach, that 
 she rose directly and declared herself ready to return. 
 
 " But you'd better wait, and dine with Mrs. Quilp and 
 me," said the dwarf. 
 
 " I have been away too long, Sir, already," returned 
 Nell, drying her eyes. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Quilp, " if you will go, you will, Nelly. 
 Here's the note. It's only to say that I shall see him to- 
 morrow or maybe next day, and that I couldn't do that 
 little business for him this morning. Good-bye, Nelly. 
 Here, you Sir ; take care of her, d'ye hear ? " 
 
 Kit, who appeared at the summons, deigned to make 
 no reply to so needless an injunction, and after staring at 
 Quilp in a threatening manner as if he doubted whether 
 he might not have been the cause of Nelly shedding tears, 
 and felt more than half-disposed to revenge the fact upon 
 him on the mere suspicion, turned about and followed his 
 young mistress, who had by this time taken her leave of 
 Mrs. Quilp and departed. 
 
39 
 
 " You're a keen questioner, an't you, Mrs. Quilp ? " 
 said the dwarf, turning upon her as soon as they were left 
 alone. 
 
 " What more could I do ? " returned his wife mildly. 
 
 " What more could you do ! " sneered Quilp, "Couldn't 
 you have done something less ? Couldn't you have done 
 what you had to do, without appearing in your favorite 
 part of the crocodile, you minx ? " 
 
 " I am very sorry for the child, Quilp," said his wife. 
 " Surely I've done enough. I've led her on to tell her 
 secret when she supposed we were alone ; and you were 
 by, God forgive me." 
 
 " You led her on ! You did a great deal truly ! " said 
 Quilp. " What did I tell you about making me creak the 
 door ? It's lucky for you that from what she let fall, I've 
 got the clue I want, for if I hadn't, I'd have visited the 
 failure upon you, I can tell you." 
 
 Mrs. Quilp, being fully persuaded of this, made no re- 
 ply. Her husband added with some exultation, 
 
 " But you may thank your fortunate stars — the same 
 stars that made you, Mrs. Quilp — you may thank them that 
 I'm upon the old gentleman's track, and have got a new 
 light. So let me hear no more about this matter now or 
 at any other time, and don't get anything too nice for din- 
 ner, for I shan't be home to it." 
 
 So saying, Mr. Quilp put his hat on and took himself 
 off, and Mrs. Quilp, who was afflicted beyond measure by 
 the recollection of the part she had just acted, shut her- 
 self up in her chamber, and smothering her head in the 
 bedclothes bemoaned her fault more bitterly than many 
 less tender-hearted persons would have mourned a much 
 greater offense ; for, in the majority of cases, conscience 
 is an elastic and very flexible article, which will bear a 
 deal of stretching and adapt itself to a great variety of 
 circumstances. Some people by prudent management 
 
40 
 
 and leaving it off piece by piece like a flannel^ waistcoat in 
 warm weather, even contrive, in time, to dispense with it 
 altogether ; but there be others who can assume the gar- 
 ment and throw it off at pleasure ; and this, being the 
 greatest and most convenient improvement, is the one 
 most in vogue. 
 
 CHAPTER THE FIFTH. 
 
 The child, in her confidence with Mrs. Quilp, had but 
 feebly described the sadness and sorrow of her thoughts, 
 or the heaviness of the cloud which overhung her home, 
 and cast dark shadows on its hearth. Besides that it was 
 very difficult to impart to any person not intimately ac- 
 quainted with the life she led, an adequate sense of its 
 gloom and loneliness, a constant fear of in some way com- 
 mitting or injuring the old man to whom she was so ten- 
 derly attached, had restrained her even in the midst of her 
 heart's overflowing, and made her timid of allusion to the 
 main cause of her anxiety and distress. 
 
 For, it was not the monotonous days unchequered by 
 variety and uncheered by pleasant companionship, it was 
 not the dark dreary evenings or the long solitary nights, 
 it was not the absence of every slight and easy pleasure 
 for which young hearts beat high, or the knowing nothing 
 of childhood but its weakness and its easily wounded spirit, 
 that had wrung such tears from Nell. To see the old man 
 struck down beneath the pressure of some hidden grief, 
 to mark his wavering and unsettled state, to be agitated 
 at times with a dreadful fear that his mind was wander- 
 ing, and to trace in his words and looks the dawning of 
 despondent madness ; to watch and wait and listen for 
 confirmation of these things day after day, and to feel and 
 know that, come what might, they were alone in the 
 
4! 
 
 world with no one to help or advise or care about them— > 
 these were causes of depression and anxiety that might 
 have sat heavily on an older breast with many influences 
 at work to cheer and gladden it, but how heavily on the 
 mind of a young child to whom they were ever present, 
 and who was constantly surrounded by all that could keep 
 such thoughts in restless action ! 
 
 And yet, to the old man's vision, Nell was still the same. 
 When he could for a moment disengage his mind from the 
 phantom that haunted and brooded on it always, there 
 was his young companion with the same smile for him, the 
 same earnest words, the same merry laugh, the same love 
 and care that sinking deep into his soul seemed to have 
 been present to him through his whole life. And so he 
 went on, content to read the book of her heart from the 
 page first presented to him, little dreaming of the story 
 that lay hidden in its other leaves, and murmuring within 
 himself that at least the child was happy. 
 
 She had been once. She had gone singing through the 
 dim rooms, and moving with gay and lightsome step 
 among their dusty treasures, making them older by her 
 young life, and sterner and more grim by her gay and 
 cheerful presence. But now the chambers were cold and 
 gloomy, and when she left her own little room to while 
 away the tedious hours, and sat in one of them, she was 
 still and motionless as their inanimate occupants, and had 
 no heart" to startle the echoes — hoarse from their long 
 silence — with her voice. 
 
 One night, the third after Nelly's interview with Mrs. 
 Quilp, the old man, who had been weak and ill all day, 
 said he should not leave home. The child's eyes sparkled 
 at the intelligence, but her joy subsided when they re- 
 verted to his worn and sickly face. 
 
 " Two days," he said, " two whole, clear days have 
 passed, and there is no reply. What did he tell thee, 
 Nell?" 
 
42 
 
 " Exactly what I told you, dear grandfather, indeed." 
 
 " True," said the old man, faintly. " Yes. But tell me 
 again, Nell. My head fails me. What was it that he told 
 thee? Nothing more than that he would see me to- 
 morrow or next day ? That was in the„note." 
 
 " Nothing more," said the child. " Shall I go to him 
 again to-morrow, dear grandfather ? Very early ? I will 
 be there and back, before breakfast." 
 
 The old man shook his head, and sighing mournfully, 
 drew her towards him. 
 
 " 'Twould be of no use, my dear, no earthly use. But 
 if he deserts me, Nell, at this moment — if he deserts me 
 now, when I should, with his assistance, be recompensed 
 for all the time and money I have lost, and all the agony 
 of mind I have undergone, which makes me what you see, 
 I am ruined, and — worse, far worse than that — have 
 ruined thee, for whom I ventured all. If we are beg- 
 gars — ! " 
 
 " What if we are ? " said the child boldly. " Let us be 
 beggars, and be happy." 
 
 " Beggars — and. happy ! " said the old man. " Poor 
 child!" 
 
 " Dear grandfather," cried the girl with an energy 
 which shone in her flushed face, trembling voice, and im- 
 passioned gesture, " I am not a child in that I think, but 
 even if I am, oh hear me pray that we may beg, or work 
 in open roads or fields, to earn a scanty living, rather 
 than live as we do now." 
 
 " Nelly !" said the old man. 
 
 " Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now," the child re- 
 peated, more earnestly than before. " If you are sorrow- 
 ful, let me know why and be sorrowful too ; if you waste 
 away and are paler and weaker every day, let me be your 
 nurse and try to comfort you. If you are poor, let us be 
 poor together, but let me be with you, do let me be with 
 
43 
 
 you, do not let me see such change and not know why, or 
 I shall break my heart and die. Dear grandfather, let us 
 leave this sad place to-morrow, and beg our way from 
 door to door." 
 
 The old man covered his face with his hands, and hid 
 it in the pillow of the couch on which he lay. 
 
 " Let us be beggars," said the child passing an arm 
 round his neck, " I have no fear but we shall have enough, 
 I am sure we shall. Let us walk through country places, 
 and sleep in fields and under trees, and never think of 
 money again, or anything that can make you sad, but 
 rest at nights, and have the sun and wind upon our faces 
 in the day, and thank God together. Let us never set 
 foot in dark rooms or melancholy houses any more, but 
 wander up and down wherever we like to go, and when 
 you are tired, you shall stop to rest in the pleasantest 
 place that we can find, and I will go and beg for both." 
 
 The child's voice was lost in sobs as she dropped upon 
 the old man's neck ; nor did she weep alone. 
 
 These were not words for other ears, nor was it a scene 
 for other eyes. And yet other ears and eyes were there 
 and greedily taking in all that passed, and moreover they ' 
 were the ears and eyes of no less a person than Mr. 
 Daniel Quilp, who, having entered unseen when the child 
 first placed herself at the old man's side, refrained — actu- 
 ated, no doubt, by motives of the purest delicacy — from 
 interrupting the conversation, and stood looking on with 
 his accustomed grin. Standing, however, being a tire- 
 some attitude to a gentleman already fatigued with walk- 
 ing, and the dwarf being one of that kind of persons who 
 usually make themselves at home, he soon cast his eyes 
 upon a chalir into which he skipped with uncommon agility, 
 and perching himself on the back with his feet upon the 
 seat, was thus enabled to look on and listen with greater 
 Comfort to himself, besides gratifying at the same time 
 
44 
 
 that taste for doing something fantastic and monkey-like, 
 which on all occasions had strong possession of him. 
 Here, then, he sat, one leg cocked carelessly over the 
 other, his chin resting on the palm of his hand, his head 
 turned a little on one side, and his ugly features twisted 
 into a complacent grimace. And in this position the old 
 man, happening in course of time to look that way, at 
 length chanced to see him, to his unbounded astonishment. 
 
 The child uttered a suppressed shriek on beholding 
 this agreeable figure ; in their first surprise both she and 
 the old man, not knowing what to say, and half doubting 
 its reality, looked shrinkingly at it. Not at all discon- 
 certed by this reception, Daniel Quilp preserved the 
 same attitude, merely nodding twice or thrice with great 
 condescension. At length the old man pronounced his 
 name, and inquired how he came there. 
 
 "Through the door," said Quilp pointing over his 
 shoulder with his thumb. " I'm not quite small enough to 
 get through keyholes. I wish I was. I want to have 
 some talk with you, particularly, and in private — with no- 
 body present, neighbor. Good-bye, little Nelly." 
 
 Nell looked at the old man, who nodded to her to retire, 
 and kissed her cheek. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the dwarf, smacking his lips, " what a nice 
 kiss that was — just upon the rosy part. What a capital 
 kiss ! " 
 
 Nell was none the slower in going away, for this remark. 
 Quilp looked after her with an admiring leer, and when 
 she had closed the door, fell to complimenting the old 
 man upon her charms. 
 
 " Such a fresh, blooming, modest little bud, neighbor," 
 said Quilp nursing his short leg, and making his eyes 
 twinkle very much ; " such a chubby, rosy, cosey, little 
 Nell ! " 
 
 The old man answered by a forced smile, and was 
 
45 
 
 plainly struggling with a feeling of the keenest and most 
 exquisite impatience. It was not lost upon Quilp, who 
 delighted in torturing him, or indeed anybody else when 
 he could. 
 
 "She's so," said Quilp, speaking very slowly, and 
 feigning to be quite absorbed in the subject, "so small, 
 so compact, so beautifully modeled, so fair, with such 
 blue veins and such a transparent skin, and such little 
 feet, and such winning ways — but bless me, you're ner- 
 vous ! Why, neighbor, what's the matter ? I swear to 
 you," continued the dwarf dismounting from the chair and 
 sitting down in it, with a careful slowness of gesture very 
 different from the rapidity with which he had sprung up 
 unheard, " I swear to you that I had no idea old blo6d 
 ran so fast or kept so warm. I thought it was sluggish 
 in its course, and cool, quite cool. I am pretty sure it 
 ought to be. Yours must be out of order, neighbor." 
 
 " I believe it is," groaned the old man, clasping his head 
 with both hands. " There's burning fever here, and some- 
 thing now and then to which I fear to give a name." 
 
 The dwarf said never a word, but watched his com- 
 panion as he paced restlessly up and down the room, and 
 presently returned to his seat. Here he remained, with 
 his head bowed upon his breast for some time, and then 
 suddenly raising it, said, 
 
 " Once, and once for all, have you brought me any 
 money ?" 
 
 " No ! " returned Quilp. 
 
 " Then," said the old man, clenching his hands des- 
 perately, and looking upward, " the child and I are lost ! " 
 
 " Neighbor," said Quilp, glancing sternly at him, and 
 beating his hand twice or thrice upon the table to attract 
 his wandering attention, " let me be plain with you, and 
 play a fairer game than when you held all the cards, and I 
 saw but the backs and nothing more. You have no secret 
 from me now." 
 
46 
 
 The old man looked up, trembling. 
 
 " You are surprised," said Quilp. " Well, perhaps that's 
 natural. You have no secret from me now, I say ; no, not 
 one. For now I know that all those sums of money, that 
 all those loans, advances, and supplies that you have had 
 from me, have found their way to — shall I say the word?" 
 
 " Ay ! " replied the old man, " say it, if you will." 
 
 " To the gaming-table," rejoined Quilp, " your nightly 
 haunt. This was the precious scheme to make your for- 
 tune, was it ; this was the secret certain source of wealth in 
 which I was to have sunk my money (if I had been the 
 fool you took me for) ; this was your inexhaustible mine 
 of gold, your El Dorado, eh?" 
 
 " Yes," cried the old man, turning upon him with gleam- 
 ing eyes, " it was. It is. It will be till I die." 
 
 " That I should have been blinded," said Quilp looking 
 contemptuously at him, " by a mere shallow gambler ! " 
 
 " I am no gambler," cried the old man fiercely. " I call 
 heaven to witness that I never played for gain of mine, or 
 love of play ; that at every piece I staked, I whispered to 
 myself that orphan's name and called on Heaven to bless 
 the venture, which it never did. Whom did it prosper ? 
 Who were those with whom I played ? Men who lived by 
 plunder, profligacy, and riot, squandering their gold in do- 
 ing ill and propagating vice and evil. My winnings would 
 have been from them, my winnings would have been be- 
 stowed to the last farthing on a young sinless child whose 
 life they would have sweetened and made happy. What 
 would they have contracted ? The means of corruption, 
 wretchedness, and misery. Who would not have hoped in 
 such a cause — tell me that ; now who would not have 
 hoped as I did ? " 
 
 ''When did you first begin this mad career?" asked 
 Quilp, his taunting inclination subdued for a moment by 
 the old man's grief and wildness. 
 
47 
 
 " When did I first begin ? " he rejoined, passing his 
 hand across his brow. " When was it, that I first began ? 
 When should it be, but when I began to think how little 
 I had saved, how long a time it took to save at all, how 
 short a time I might have at my age to live, and how she 
 would be left to the rough mercies of the world, with 
 barely enough to keep her from the sorrows that wait on 
 poverty ; then it was that I began to think about it. I 
 thought of it a long time, and had it in my sleep for 
 months. Then I began. I found no pleasure in it, I ex- 
 pected none. What has it ever brought to me but anxious 
 days and sleepless nights, but loss of health and peace of 
 mind, and gain of feebleness and sorrow ! " 
 
 " You lost what money you had laid by, first, and then 
 came to me. While I thought you were making your 
 fortune (as you said you were) you were making yourself 
 a beggar, eh ? Dear me ! And so it comes to pass that I 
 hold every security you could scrape together, and a bill 
 of sale upon the — upon the stock and property," said 
 Quilp standing up and looking about him, as if to assure 
 himself that none of it had been taken away. " But did 
 you never win ?" 
 
 " Never ! " groaned the old man. " Never won back 
 my loss ! " 
 
 " I thought," sneered the dwarf, " that if a man played 
 long enough he was sure to win at last, or at the worst 
 not to come off a loser." 
 
 " And so he is," cried the old man, suddenly rousing 
 himself from his state of despondency, and lashed into the 
 most violent excitement, " so he is ; I have felt that from 
 the first, I have always known it, I've seen it, I never felt 
 it half so strongly as I feel it now. Quilp, I have dreamed 
 three nights of winning the same large sum, I never could 
 dream that dream before, though I have often tried. Do 
 not desert me now I have this chance. I have no re- 
 
4 8 
 
 source but you, give me some help, let me try this one 
 last hope." 
 
 The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. 
 
 " See, Quilp, good tender-hearted Quilp," said the old 
 man, drawing some scraps of paper from his pocket with 
 a trembling hand, and clasping the dwarf's arm, " only 
 see here. Look at these figures, the result of long calcula- 
 tion, and painful and hard experience. I must win. I only 
 want a little help once more, a few pounds, but two score 
 pounds, dear Quilp." 
 
 ' " The last advance was seventy," said the dwarf ; " and 
 it went in one night." 
 
 " I know it did," answered the old man, " but that was 
 the very worst fortune of all, and the time had not come 
 then. Quilp, consider, consider," the old man cried, trem- 
 bling so much the while that the papers in his hand flut- 
 tered as if they were shaken by the wind, " that orphan 
 child. If I were alone, I could die with gladness — perhaps 
 even anticipate that doom which is dealt out so unequally, 
 coming as it does on the proud and happy in their 
 strength, and shunning the needy and afflicted and all who 
 court it in their despair — but what I have done has been 
 for her. Help me for her sake I implore you — not for mine, 
 for hers ! " 
 
 " I'm sorry I've got an appointment in the city," said 
 Quilp, looking at his watch with perfect self-possession, 
 " or I should have been very glad to have spent half an 
 hour with you while you composed yourself — very glad." 
 
 " Nay, Quilp, good Quilp," gasped the old man, catching 
 at his skirts — " you and I have talked together more than 
 once of her poor mother's story. The fear of her com- 
 ing to poverty has perhaps been bred in me by that. Do 
 not be hard upon me', but take that into account. You 
 are a great gainer by me. Oh spare me the money for this 
 one last hope ! " 
 
49 
 
 " I couldn't do it really," said Quilp with unusual polite- 
 ness, " though I tell you what — and this is a circumstance 
 worth bearing in mind as showing how the sharpest among 
 us may be taken in sometimes — I was so deceived by the 
 penurous way in which you lived, alone with Nelly — ,; 
 
 "All done to save money for tempting fortune, and 
 make her triumph greater," cried the old man. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I understand that now," said Quilp ; " but I 
 was going to say, I was so deceived by that, your miserly 
 way, the reputation you had among those who knew you of 
 being rich, and your repeated assurances that you would 
 make of my advances treble and quadruple the interest you 
 paid me, that I'd have advanced you even now what you 
 want, on your simple note of hand, though I had been led 
 to suspect something wrong, if I hadn't unexpectedly be- 
 come acquainted with your secret way of life." 
 
 " Who is it," retorted the old man desperately, " that 
 notwithstanding all my caution, told you that ? Come. 
 Let me know the name — the person." 
 
 The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his giving up 
 the child would lead to the disclosure of the artifice he 
 had employed, which, as nothing was to be gained by it, 
 it was as well to conceal, stopped short in his answer and 
 said, " Now, who do you think ?" 
 
 " It was Kit, it must have been the boy ; he played the 
 spy and you tampered with him ? " said the old man. 
 
 :" How came you to think of him ? " said the dwarf in a 
 tone of great commiseration. " Yes, it was Kit. Poor 
 Kit ! " 
 
 So saying, he nodded in a friendly manner, and took 
 his leave, stopping when he had passed the outer door a 
 little distance, and grinning with extraordinary delight. 
 
 " Poor Kit ! " muttered Quilp. " I think it was Kit who 
 said I was an uglier dwarf than could be seen anywhere 
 for a penny, wasn't it. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Poor Kit ! " 
 
 Little mil.— A. 
 
So 
 
 And with that he went his way, still chuckling as he 
 went. 
 
 CHAPTER THE SIXTH. 
 
 Daniel Quilp neither entered nor left the old man's 
 house, unobserved. In the shadow of an archway nearly 
 opposite, leading to one of the many passages which di- 
 verged from the main street, there lingered one who, hav- 
 ing taken up his position when the twilight first came on, 
 still maintained it with undiminished patience, and leaning 
 against the wall with the manner of one who had a long time 
 to wait, and being well used to it was quite resigned, 
 scarcely changed his attitude for the hour together. 
 
 This patient lounger attracted little attention from any 
 of those who passed, and bestowed as little upon them. His 
 eyes were constantly directed towards one object, the win- 
 dow at which the child was accustomed to sit. If he with- 
 drew them for a moment, it was only to glance at a clock 
 in some neighboring shop, and then to strain his sight once 
 more in the old quarter with increased earnestness and at- 
 tention. 
 
 It has been remarked that this personage evinced no 
 weariness in his place of concealment, nor did he, long as 
 his waiting was. But as the time went on, he manifested 
 some anxiety and surprise, glancing at the clock more fre- 
 quently and at the window less hopefully than before. At 
 length the clock was hidden from, his sight by some envi- 
 ous shutters, then the church steeples proclaimed it eleven 
 at night, then the quarter past, and then the conviction 
 seemed to obtrude itself upon his mind that it was of no 
 use tarrying there any longer. 
 
 That the conviction was an unwelcome one, and that he 
 was by no means willing to yield to it, was apparent from 
 
Si 
 
 his reluctance to quit the spot ; from the tardy steps with 
 which he often left it, still looking over his shoulder at 
 the same window ; and from the precipitation with which 
 he as often returned, when a fancied noise or the chang- 
 ing and imperfect light induced him to suppose it had 
 been softly raised. At length he gave the matter up as 
 hopeless for that night, and suddenly breaking into a run 
 as though to force himself away, scampered off at his 
 utmost speed, nor once ventured to look behind him lest 
 he should be tempted back again. 
 
 Without relaxing his pace or stopping, to take breath, 
 this mysterious individual dashed on through a great many 
 alleys and narrow ways until he at length arrived in a 
 square paved court, when he subsided into a walk, and 
 making for a small house from the window of which a 
 light was shining, lifted the latch of the door and passed 
 in. 
 
 " Bless us ! " cried a woman turning sharply round, 
 " who's that ? Oh ! It's you, Kit ! " 
 
 " Yes, mother, it's me." 
 
 " Why, how tired you look, my dear ! " 
 
 " Old master an't gone out to-night," said Kit ; " and so 
 she hasn't been at the window at all." With which words, 
 he sat down by the fire and looked very mournful and dis- 
 contented. 
 
 The room in which Kit sat himself down in this condi- ' 
 tion was an extremely poor and homely place, but with 
 that air of comfort about it, nevertheless, which — or the 
 spot must be a wretched one indeed — cleanliness and 
 order can always impart in some degree. Late as the 
 Dutch clock showed it to be, the poor woman was still 
 hard at work at an ironing-table ; a young child lay sleep- 
 ing in a cradle near the fire ; and another, a sturdy boy of 
 two or three years old, very wide awake, with a very tight 
 nightcap on his head, and a nightgown very much too 
 
52 
 
 small for him on his body, was sitting bolt upright in a 
 clothesbasket, staring over the rim with his great round 
 eyes, and looking as if he had thoroughly made up his 
 mind never to go to sleep any more ; which, as he had 
 already declined to take his natural rest and had been 
 brought out of bed in consequence, opened a cheerful 
 • prospect for his relations and friends. It was rather a 
 queer-looking family ; Kit, his mother, and the children, 
 being all strongly alike. 
 
 Kit was disposed to be out of temper, as the best of us 
 are too often — but he looked at the youngest child who 
 was sleeping soundly, and from him to his other brother 
 in the clothesbasket, and from him to their mother, who 
 had been at work without complaint since morning, and 
 thought it would be a better and kinder thing to be good- 
 humored. So he rocked the cradle with his foot, made 
 a face at the rebel in the clothesbasket, which put him in 
 high good-humor directly, and stoutly determined to be 
 talkative and make himself agreeable. 
 
 " Ah, mother ! " said Kit, taking out his clasp knife and 
 falling upon a great piece of bread and meat which she 
 had had ready for him, hours before, " what a one you are ! 
 There an't many such as you, / know." 
 
 " I hope there are many a great deal better, Kit," said 
 Mrs. Nubbles ; " and that there are, or ought to be, accord- 
 in' to what the parson at chapel says." 
 
 " Much he knows about it," returned Kit contemptuously. 
 "Wait till he's a widder and works like you do, and gets 
 as little, and does as much, and keeps his spirits up the 
 same, and then I'll ask him what's o'clock and trust him 
 for being right to half a second." 
 
 " Did you tell me just now that your master hadn't gone 
 out to-night ? " inquired Mrs. Nubbles. 
 
 "Yes," said Kit, "worse luck." 
 
 "You should say better luck, I think," returned his 
 mother, " because Miss Nelly won't have been left alone." 
 
S3 
 
 " Ah ! " said Kit, " I forgot that. I said worse luck, 
 because I've been watching ever since eight o'clock, and 
 seen nothing of her." 
 
 " I wonder what she'd say," cried his mother, stopping 
 in her work and looking round, " if she knew that every 
 night, when she — poor thing — is sitting alone at that win- 
 dow, you are watching in the open street for fear any harm 
 should come to her, and that you never leave the place or 
 come home to your bed, though you're ever so tired, till 
 such time as you think she's safe in hers." 
 
 " Never mind what she'd say," replied Kit, with some- 
 thing like a blush on his uncouth face ; " she'll never 
 know nothing, and consequently, she'll never say noth- 
 ing. 
 
 Mrs. Nubbles ironed away in silence for a minute or 
 two, and coming to the fireplace for another iron, glanced 
 stealthily at Kit while she rubbed it on aboard and dusted 
 it with a duster, but said nothing until she had returned 
 to her table again, when holding the iron at an alarmingly 
 short distance from her cheek, to test its temperature, and 
 looking round with a smile, she observed : 
 
 " I know what some people would say, Kit — " 
 
 " Nonsense," interposed Kit with a perfect apprehen- 
 sion of what was to follow. 
 
 " No, but they would indeed. Some people would say 
 that you'd fallen in love with her, I know they would." 
 
 To this, Kit only replied by bashfully bidding his mother 
 " get out," and forming sundry strange figures with his 
 legs and arms, accompanied by sympathetic contortions 
 of his face. Not deriving from these means the relief 
 which he sought, he bit off an immense mouthful from the 
 bread and meat, by which artificial aids he choked him- 
 self and effected a diversion of the subject. 
 
 " Speaking seriously though, Kit," said his mother tak- 
 ing up the theme afresh, after a time, " for of course I 
 
54 
 
 was only in joke just now, it's very good and thoughtful, 
 and like you, to do this, and never let anybody know it, 
 though some day I hope she may come to know it, for Fm 
 sure she^ would be very grateful to you, and feel it very 
 much. It's a cruel thing to keep the dear child shut up 
 there. . I don't wonder that the old gentleman wants to 
 keep it from you." 
 
 ,fr He don't think it's cruel, bless you," said Kit, " and 
 jdon't mean it to be so, or he wouldn't do it — I do con- 
 sider, mother, that he wouldn't do it for all the gold and 
 silver in the world. No, no, that he wouldn't. I know 
 him better than that." 
 
 " Then what does he do it for, and why does he keep it 
 so close from you ? " said Mrs. Nubbles. 
 
 " That I don't know," returned her son. " If he hadn't 
 tried to keep it so close though, I should never have found 
 it out, for it was his getting me away at night and sending 
 me off so much earlier than he used to, that first made me 
 curious to know what was going on. Hark ! what's 
 that ? " 
 
 " It's only somebody outside." 
 
 " It's somebody crossing over here " — said Kit, stand- 
 ing up to listen, " and coming very fast too. He can't 
 have gone out after I left, and the house caught fire, 
 mother ! " 
 
 The boy stood for a moment, really bereft, by the ap- 
 prehension he had conjured up, of the power to move. 
 The footsteps drew nearer, the door was opened with a 
 hasty hand, and the child herself, pale and breathless, and 
 hastily wrapped in a few disordered garments, hurried in- 
 to the room. 
 
 " Miss Nelly ! What is the matter ! " cried mother and 
 son together. 
 
 " I must not stay a moment," she returned, " grand- 
 father has been taken very ill, I found him in a fit upon 
 the floor—" 
 
55 
 
 " I'll run for a doctor " — said Kit, seizing his brimless 
 hat. " I'll be there directly, I'll—" 
 
 " No, no," cried Nell, " there is one there, you're not 
 wanted, you — you — must never come near us any more ! " 
 
 " What ! " roared Kit. 
 
 " Never again," said the child. " Don't ask me why, 
 for I don't know. Pray don't ask me why, pray don't be 
 sorry, pray don't be vexed with me, I have nothing to do 
 with it indeed ! " 
 
 Kit looked at her with his eyes stretched wide, and 
 opened and shut his mouth a great many times, but 
 couldn't get out one word. 
 
 " He complains and raves of you," said the child, " I 
 don't know what you have done, but I hope it's nothing 
 very bad." 
 
 "/done !" roared Kit. 
 
 " He cries that you're the cause of all his misery," re- 
 turned the child with tearful eyes ; " he screamed and 
 called for you, they say you must not come near him or 
 he will die. You must not return to us any more. I came 
 to tell you. I thought it would be better that I should 
 come than somebody quite strange. Oh, Kit, what have 
 you done ? You, in whom I trusted so much, and who 
 were almost the only friend I had ! " 
 
 The unfortunate Kit looked at his young mistress harder 
 and harder, and with eyes growing wider and wider, but 
 was perfectly motionless and silent. 
 
 " I have brought his money for the week," said the 
 child, looking to the woman and laying it on the table — 
 " and — and — a little more, for he was always good and 
 kind to me. I hope he will be sorry and do well some- 
 where else and not take this to heart too much. It grieves 
 me very much to part with him like this, but there is no 
 help. It must be done. Good-night ! " 
 
 With the tears streaming down her face, and her slight 
 
56 
 
 figure trembling with the agitation of the scene she had 
 left, the shock she had received, the errand she had just 
 discharged, and a thousand painful and affectionate feel- 
 ings, the child hastened to the door, and disappeared as 
 rapidly as she had come. 
 
 The poor woman, who had no cause to doubt her son, 
 but every reason for relying on his honesty and truth, was 
 staggered, notwithstanding, by his not having advanced 
 one word in his defense. Visions of gallantry, knavery, 
 robbery ; and of the nightly absences from home for 
 which he had accounted so strangely, having been occa- 
 sioned by some unlawful pursuit ; flocked into her brain 
 and rendered her afraid to question him. She rocked 
 herself upon a chair, wringing her hands and weeping bit- 
 terly, but Kit made no attempt to comfort her and re- 
 mained quite bewildered. The baby in the cradle woke 
 up and cried, the boy in the clothesbasket fell over on 
 his back with the basket upon him and was seen no more, 
 the mother wept louder yet and rocked faster, but Kit, 
 insensible to all the din and tumult, remained in a state of 
 utter stupefaction. 
 
 CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. 
 
 Quiet and solitude were destined to hold uninterrupted 
 rule no longer, beneath the roof that sheltered the child. 
 Next morning the old man was in a raging fever accom- 
 panied with delirium, and sinking under the influence of 
 this disorder he lay for many weeks in imminent peril of 
 his life. There was watching enough now, but it was the 
 watching of strangers who made of it a greedy trade, and 
 who, in the intervals of their attendance upon the sick 
 man huddled together with a ghastly good-fellowship, and 
 
57 
 
 ate and drank and made merry; for disease and death 
 were their ordinary household gods. 
 
 Yet in all the hurry and crowding of such a time, the 
 child was more alone than she had ever been before ; 
 alone in spirit, alone in her devotion to him who was 
 wasting away upon his burning bed ; alone in her un- 
 feigned sorrow, and her unpurchased sympathy. Day 
 after day, and night after night, found her still by the pil- 
 low of the unconscious sufferer, still anticipating his every 
 want, and still listening to those repetitions of her name 
 and those anxieties and cares for her, which were ever 
 uppermost among his feverish wanderings. 
 
 The house was no longer theirs. Even the sick chamber 
 seemed to be retained on the uncertain tenure of Mr. 
 Quilp's favor. The old man's illness had not lasted many 
 days when he took formal possession of the premises and 
 all upon them, in virtue of certain legal powers to that 
 effect, which few understood and none presumed to call in 
 question. This important step secured, with the assist- 
 ance of a man of law whom he brought with him for the 
 purpose, the dwarf proceeded to establish himself and his 
 coadjutor in the house, as an assertion of his claim against 
 all comers ; and then set about making his quarters com- 
 fortable after his own fashion. 
 
 To this end, Mr. Quilp encamped in the back parlor, 
 having first put an effectual stop to any further business 
 by shutting up the shop. Having looked out from among 
 the old furniture the handsomest and most commodious 
 chair he could possibly find, which he reserved for his' own 
 use, and an especially hideous and uncomfortable one, 
 which he considerately appropriated to the accommoda- 
 tion of his friend, he caused them to be carried into this 
 room and took up his position in great state. The apart- 
 ment was very far removed from the old man's chamber, 
 but Mr. Quilp deemed it prudent, as a precaution against 
 
5» 
 
 infection from fever, and a means of wholesome fumiga- 
 tion, not only to smoke himself without cessation, but to 
 insist upon it that his legal friend did the like. More- 
 over, he sent an express to the wharf for the tumbling 
 boy, who arriving with all despatch was enjoined to sit 
 himself down in another chair just inside the door, con- 
 tinually to smoke a great pipe which the dwarf had pro- 
 vided for the purpose, and to take it from his lips under 
 any pretense whatever, were it only for one minute at a 
 time, if he dared. These arrangements completed, Mr. 
 Quilp looked round him with chuckling satisfaction, and 
 remarked that he called that comfort. 
 
 The legal gentleman, whose melodious name was Brass, 
 might have called it comfort also but for two drawbacks : 
 one was that he could by no exertion sit easily in his chair, 
 the seat of which was very hard, angular, slippery, and 
 sloping ; the other that tobacco smoke always caused 
 him great internal discomposure and annoyance. But as 
 he was quite a creature of Mr. Quilp's and had a thousand 
 reasons for conciliating his good opinion, he tried to smile, 
 and nodded his acquiescence with the best grace he could 
 assume. 
 
 This Brass was an attorney of no very good repute from 
 Bevis Marks in the City of London ; he was a tall, meager 
 man, with a nose like a wen, a protruding forehead, re- 
 treating eyes, and hair of a deep red. He wore a long 
 black surtout reaching nearly to his ankles, short black 
 trousers, high shoes, and cotton stockings of a bluish 
 gray. He had a cringing manner but a very harsh voice, 
 and his blandest smiles were so extremely forbidding, that 
 to have had his company under the least repulsive circum- 
 stances, one would have wished him to be out of temper 
 that he might only scowl. 
 
 Quilp looked at his legal adviser, and seeing that he 
 was winking very much in the anguish of his pipe, that he 
 
S9 
 
 sometimes shuddered when he happened to inhale its full 
 flavor, and that he constantly fanned the smoke from 
 him, was quite overjoyed and rubbed his hands with glee. 
 
 " Smoke away, you dog," said Quilp turning to the boy ; 
 "fill your pipe again and smoke it fast, down to the last 
 whiff, or I'll put the sealing-waxed end of it in the fire and 
 rub it red hot upon your tongue." 
 
 Luckily the boy was case-hardened, and would have 
 smoked a small limekiln if anybody had treated him with 
 it. Wherefore he only muttered a brief defiance of his 
 master, and did as he was ordered. 
 
 " Shall we stop here long, Mr. Quilp ? " inquired his 
 legal friend. 
 
 " We must stop, I suppose, till the old gentleman up 
 stairs is dead," returned Quilp. 
 
 " He ! he ! he ! " laughed Mr. Brass, " oh ! very good ! " 
 
 " Smoke away ! " cried Quilp. " Never stop ! you can 
 talk as you smoke. Don't lose time." 
 
 "He ! he ! he ! " cried Brass faintly, as he again applied 
 himself to the odious pipe. " But if he should get better, 
 Mr. Quilp ? " 
 
 " Then we shall stop till he does, and no longer," re- 
 turned the dwarf. 
 
 " How kind it is of you, Sir, to wait till then ! " said 
 Brass. " Some people, Sir, would have sold or removed 
 the goods — oh dear, the very instant the law allowed 'em. 
 Some people, Sir, would have been all flintiness and 
 granite. Some people, Sir, would have — " 
 
 " Some people would have spared themselves the jab- 
 bering of such a parrot as you," interposed the dwarf. 
 
 " He! he! he ! " cried Brass. " You have such spirits ! " 
 
 The smoking sentinel at the door interposed in this 
 place, and without taking his pipe from his lips, growled, 
 
 " Here's the gal a comin' down." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Quilp, drawing in his breath with great 
 
6o 
 
 relish as if he were taking soup. " Aha ! Nelly ! How is 
 he now, my duck of diamonds ? " 
 
 " He's very bad," replied the weeping child. 
 
 " What a pretty little Nell 1 " cried Quilp. 
 
 " Oh beautiful, Sir, beautiful indeed," said Brass. 
 " Quite charming ! " 
 
 " Has she come to sit upon Quilp's knee," said the 
 dwarf, in what he meant to be a soothing tone, " or is she 
 going to bed in her own little room inside here — which is 
 poor Nelly going to do ? " 
 
 " I'm not going to stay at all," faltered Nell. "I want 
 a few things out of that room, and then I — I — won't come 
 down here any more." 
 
 " And a very nice little room it is ! " said the dwarf 
 looking into it as the child entered. " Quite a bower. 
 You're sure you're not going to use it, you're sure you're 
 not coming back, Nelly ? " 
 
 " No," replied the child, hurrying away, with the few 
 articles of dress she had come to remove ; " never again, 
 never again." 
 
 "She's very sensitive," said Quilp, looking after her. 
 " Very sensitive ; that's a pity. The bedstead is much 
 about my size. I think I shall make it my little room." 
 
 Nell shrank timidly from all the dwarf's advances 
 towards conversation and fled from the very sound of his 
 voice, nor were the lawyer's smiles less terrible to her than 
 Quilp's grimaces. She lived in such continual dread and 
 apprehension of meeting one or other of them upon the 
 stairs or in the passages if she stirred from her grand- 
 father's chamber, that she seldom left it for a moment 
 Until late at night, when the silence encouraged her to 
 venture forth and breathe the pure air of some empty 
 room. 
 
 One night she had stolen to her usual window and was 
 sitting there very sorrowfully, for the old man had been 
 
6i 
 
 worse that day, when she thought she heard her name 
 pronounced by a voice in the street, and looking down, 
 recognized Kit, whose endeavors to attract her attention 
 had roused her from her sad reflections. 
 
 "Miss Nell ! " said the boy in a low voice. 
 
 " Yes," replied the child, doubtful whether she ought 
 to hold, any communication with the supposed culprit, but 
 inclining to her old favorite still, " what do you want ? " 
 
 " I have wanted to say a word to you for a long time," 
 the boy replied, "but the people below have driven me 
 away and wouldn't let me see you. You don't believe — I 
 hope you don't really believe — that I deserve to be cast 
 off as I have been ; do you, Miss ? " 
 
 " I must believe it," returned the child. " Or why 
 would grandfather have been so angry with you ? " 
 
 " I don't know," replied Kit. " I'm sure I've never de- 
 served it from him, no, nor from you. I can say that 
 with a true and honest heart anyway. And then to be 
 driven from the door, when I only came to ask how old 
 master was — ! " 
 
 " They never told me that," said the child. " I didn't 
 know it indeed. I wouldn't have had them do it for the 
 world." 
 
 " Thank'ee, Miss, returned Kit, " it's comfortable to 
 hear you say that. I said I never would believe that it 
 was your doing." 
 
 " That was right ! " said the child eagerly. 
 
 " Miss Nell," cried tb° boy, coming under the window 
 and speaking in a lower tone, "there are new masters down 
 stairs. It's a change for you." 
 
 " It is indeed," replied the child. 
 
 " And so it will be for him when he gets better," said 
 the boy, pointing towards the sick room. 
 
 " — If he ever does," added the child, unable to restrain 
 her tears. 
 
62 
 
 " Oh, he'll do that, he'll do that," said Kit, " I'm sure he 
 will. You mustn't be cast down, Miss Nell. Now don't 
 be, pray." 
 
 These words of encouragement and consolation were 
 few and roughly said, but they affected the child and made 
 her for the moment weep the more. 
 
 " He'll be sure to get better now," said the boy anxiously, 
 " if you don't give way to low spirits and turn ill yourself, 
 which would make him worse and throw him back just as 
 he was recovering. When he does, say a good word — say 
 a kind word for me, Miss Nell." 
 
 " They tell me I must not even mention your name to 
 him for along, long time," rejoined the child, " I dare not ; 
 and even if I might, what good would a kind word do you, 
 Kit ? We shall be very poor. We shall scarcely have 
 bread to eat." 
 
 " It's not that I maybe taken back," said the boy, "that 
 I ask the favor of you. It isn't for the sake of food and 
 wages that I've been waiting about so long in hopes to see 
 you. Don't think that I'd come in a time of trouble to talk 
 of such things as them." 
 
 The child looked gratefully and kindly at him, but waited 
 that he might speak again. 
 
 " No, it's not that," said Kit hesitating, " it's something 
 very different from that. I haven't got much sense I 
 know, but if he could be brought to believe that I'd been 
 a faithful servant to him, doing thebest I could, and never 
 meaning harm, perhaps he mightn't — " 
 
 Here Kit faltered so long that the child entreated him 
 to speak out, and quickly, for it was very late, and time to 
 shut the window. 
 
 " Perhaps he mightn't think it overventuresome of me 
 to say — well then, to say this," — cried Kit with sudden 
 boldness. "This home is gone from you and him. Mother 
 and I have got a poor one, but that's better than this 
 
63 
 
 with all these people here ; and why not come there, till 
 he's had time to look about and find a better ! " 
 
 The child did not speak. Kit, in the relief of having 
 made his proposition, found his tongue loosened, and spoke 
 out in its favor with his utmost eloquence. 
 
 " You think," said the boy, " that it's very small and in- 
 convenient. So it is, but it's very clean. Perhaps you think 
 it would be noisy, but there's not a quieter court than ours 
 in all the town. Don't be afraid of the children ; the baby 
 hardly ever cries, and the other one is very good — besides, 
 /'d mind 'em. They wouldn't vex you much, I'm sure. 
 Do try, Miss Nell, do try. The little front room upstairs 
 is very pleasant. You can see a piece of the church clock 
 through the chimneys and almost tell the time ; mother 
 says it would be just the thing for you, and so it would, 
 and you'd have her to wait upon you both, and me to run 
 of errands. We don't mean money, bless you ; you're not 
 to think of that. Will you try him, Miss Nell ? Only 
 say you'll try him. Do try to make old master come, and 
 ask him first what I have done — will you only promise that, 
 Miss Nell ? " 
 
 Before the child could reply to this earnest solicitation, 
 the street door opened, and Mr. Brass thrusting out his 
 night-capped head called in a surly voice, " Who's there ! " 
 Kit immediately glided away, and Nell, closing the window 
 softly, drew back into the room. 
 
 It was natural enough that her short and unfinished dia- 
 logue with Kit should leave a strong impression on her 
 mind, and influence her dreams that night and her recollec- 
 tions for a long, long time. Surrounded by unfeeling credi- 
 tors and mercenary attendants upon the sick, and meet- 
 ing in the height of her anxiety and sorrow with little re- 
 gard or sympathy even from the women about her, it is not 
 surprising that the affectionate heart of the child should 
 have been touched to the quick by one kind and generous 
 
64 
 
 spirit, however uncouth the temple in which it dwelt. 
 Thank Heaven that the temples of such spirits are not 
 made with hands, and that they may be more worthily 
 hung with poor patchwork than with purple and fine linen ! 
 
 CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. 
 
 At length the crisis of the old man's disorder was past, 
 and he began to mend. By very slow and feeble degrees 
 his consciousness came back, but the mind was weakened 
 and its functions were impaired. He was patient, and 
 quiet ; often sat brooding, but not despondently, for a 
 long space ; was easily amused, even by a sunbeam on the 
 wall or ceiling ; made no complaint that the days were 
 long or the nights tedious ; and appeared indeed to have 
 lost all count of time and every sense of care or weari- 
 ness. He would sit for hours together with Nell's small 
 hand in his, playing with the fingers and stopping some- 
 times to smooth her hair or kiss her brow ; and when he 
 saw that tears were glistening in her eyes would look, 
 amazed, about him for the cause, and forget his wonder 
 even while he looked. 
 
 The child and he rode out : the old man propped up 
 with pillows, and the child beside him. They were hand 
 in hand as usual. The noise and motion in the streets 
 fatigued his brain at first, but he was not surprised, or 
 curious, or pleased, or irritated. He was asked if he re- 
 membered this, or that. " Oh yes," he said, " quite well — 
 why not?" Sometimes he turned his head and looked 
 with earnest gaze and outstretched neck, after some 
 stranger in the crowd, until he disappeared from sight ; 
 but, to the question why he did this, he answered not a 
 word. 
 
 He was sitting in his easy chair one day, and Nell upon 
 
65 
 
 a stool beside him, when a man outside the door inquired 
 if he might enter. " Yes," he said without emotion. It 
 was Quilp, he knew. Quilp was master there. Of course 
 he might come in. And so he did. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you well again at last, neighbor," said 
 the dwarf, sitting down opposite to him. " You're quite 
 strong now ? " 
 
 "Yes," said the old man feebly, " yes.'' 
 
 " I don't want to hurry you, you know, neighbor," said 
 the dwarf, raising his voice, for the old man's senses 
 were duller than they had been ; " but, as soon as you can 
 arrange your future proceedings, the better." 
 
 " Surely," said the old man. " The better for all par- 
 ties." 
 
 " You see," pursued Quilp after a short pause, " the 
 goods being once removed, this house would be uncom- 
 fortable ; uninhabitable in fact." 
 
 " You say true," returned the old man. " Poor Nell 
 too, what would she do ? " 
 
 " Exactly," bawled the dwarf nodding his head ; " that's 
 very well observed. Then will you consider about it, 
 neighbor ? " 
 
 " I will, certainly," replied the old man. " We shall 
 not stop here." 
 
 " So I supposed," said the dwarf. " I have sold the 
 things. They have not yielded quite as much as they 
 might have done, but pretty well — pretty well. To-day's 
 Tuesday. When shall they be moved ? There's no hurry 
 — shall we say this afternoon ? " 
 
 " Say Friday morning," returned the old man. 
 
 "Very good," said the dwarf. "So be it, — with the 
 understanding that I can't go beyond that day, neighbor, 
 on any account." 
 
 "Good," returned the old man. "I shall lemember 
 it." 
 
 Little Nell.— I, 
 
66 
 
 Mr. Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the strange, even 
 spiritless way in which all this was said ; but as the old 
 man nodded his head and repeated "On Friday morning. 
 I shall remember it," he had no excuse for dwelling upon 
 the subject any further, and so took a friendly leave with 
 many expressions of good will and many compliments to 
 his friend on his looking so remarkably well ; and went 
 below stairs to report progress to Mr. Brass. 
 
 All that day, and all the next, the old man remained in 
 this state. He wandered up and down- the house and 
 into and out of the various rooms, as if with some vague 
 intent of bidding them adieu, but he referred neither by 
 direct allusions nor in any other manner to the interview 
 of the morning or the necessity of finding some other 
 shelter. An indistinct idea he had, that the child was 
 desolate and in want of help, for he often drew her to his 
 bosom and bade her be of good cheer, saying that they 
 would not desert each other ; but he seemed unable to 
 contemplate their real position more distinctly, and was 
 still the listless, passionless creature, that suffering of 
 mind and body had left him. 
 
 Thursday arrived, and there was no alteration in the 
 old man. But, a change came upon him that evening, as 
 he and the child sat silently together. 
 
 In a small dull yard below his window, there was a tree — 
 green and flourishing enough, for such a place — and as 
 the air stirred among its leaves, it threw a rippling 
 shadow on the white wall. The old man sat watching 
 the shadows as they trembled in this patch of light until 
 the sun went down, and when it was night and the moon 
 was slowly rising he still sat in the same spot. 
 
 To one who had been tossing on a restless bed so long, 
 even these few green leaves and this tranquil light, 
 although it languished among chimneys and house tops, 
 were pleasant things. They suggested quiet places afar 
 off, and rest, and peace. 
 
6; 
 
 The child thought more than once that he was moved, 
 and had forborne to speak. But now he shed tears — tears 
 that it lightened her aching heart to see — and making as 
 though he would fall upon his knees, besought her to 
 forgive him. 
 
 " Forgive you — what ? " said Nell, interposing to 
 prevent his purpose. " Oh, grandfather, what should 1 
 forgive ? " 
 
 " All that is past, all that has come upon thee, Nell, all 
 that was done in that uneasy dream," returned the old 
 man. 
 
 " Do not talk so," said the child. " Pray do not. Let 
 us speak of something else." 
 
 " Yes, yes, we will,'' he rejoined. "And it shall be of 
 what we talked of long ago — many months — months is it, 
 or weeks, or days ? which is it, Nell ?" 
 
 " I do not understand you " — said the child. 
 
 " It has come back upon me to-day, it has all come 
 back since we have been sitting here. I bless thee for it, 
 Nell ! " 
 
 " For what, dear grandfather ? " 
 
 " For what you said when we were first made beggars, 
 Nell. Let us speak softly. Hush ! for if they knew our 
 purpose downstairs, they would cry that I was mad and 
 take thee from me. We will not stop here another day. 
 We will go far away from here." 
 
 " Yes, let us go," said the child earnestly. " Let us be- 
 gone from this place, and never turn back or think of it 
 again. Let us wander barefoot through the world, rather 
 than linger here." 
 
 "We will " — answered the old man, "we will travel 
 afoot through fields and woods, and by the side of rivers, 
 and trust ourselves to God in the places where He dwells. 
 It is far better to lie down at night beneath an open sky 
 like that yonder — see how bright it is — than to rest in 
 
68 
 
 close rooms which are always full of care and weary 
 dreams. Thou and I together, Nell, may be cheerful and 
 happy yet, and learn to forget this time, as if it had never 
 been." 
 
 " We will be happy," cried the child. "We never can 
 be here." 
 
 "No, we never can again — never again — that's truly 
 said," rejoined the old man. " Let us steal away to- 
 morrow morning — early and softly, that we may not be 
 seen or heard — and leave no trace or track for them to 
 follow by. Poor Nell, thy cheek is pale and thy eyes 
 are heavy with watching and weeping — with watching 
 and weeping for me — I know — for me ; but thou wilt be 
 well again, and merry too, when we are far away. To- 
 morrow morning, dear, we'll turn our faces from this 
 scene of sorrows, and be as free and happy as the birds." 
 
 And then the old man clasped his hands above her 
 head, and said in a few broken words that from that time 
 forth they would wander up and down together, and 
 never part more until Death took one or other of the twain. 
 
 The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence. 
 She had no thought of hunger or cold, or thirst, or suffer- 
 ing. She saw in this, but a return of the simple pleasures 
 they had once enjoyed, a relief from the gloomy solitude 
 in which she had lived, an escape from the heartless peo- 
 ple by whom she had been surrounded in her late time of 
 trial, the restoration of the old man's health and peace, 
 and a life of tranquil happiness. Sun, and stream, and 
 meadow, and summer days, shone brightly in her view, 
 tind there was no dark tint in all the sparkling picture. 
 
 The old man had slept for some hours soundly in his 
 bed, and she was yet busily engaged in preparing for their 
 flight. There were a few. articles of clothing for herself 
 to carry, and a few for him ; old garments, such as be- 
 came their fallen fortunes, laid out to wear ; and a staff 
 
6 9 
 
 to support his feeble steps, put ready for his use. But 
 this was not all her task, for now she must visit the old 
 rooms for the last time. 
 
 And how different the parting with them was from 
 any she had expected, and most of all from that which 
 she had oftenest pictured to herself. How could she 
 ever have thought of bidding them farewell in triumph, 
 when the recollection of the many hours she had passed 
 among them rose to her swelling heart, and made her feel 
 the wish a cruelty, lonely and sad though many of those 
 hours had been ! She sat down at the window where she 
 had spent so many evenings — darker far than this — and 
 every thought of hope or cheerfulness that had occurred 
 to her in that place came vividly upon her mind, and 
 blotted out all its dull and mournful associations in an 
 instant. 
 
 Her own little room, too, where she had so often knelt 
 down and prayed at night — prayed for the time which 
 she hoped was dawning now — the little room where she 
 had slept so peacefully, and dreamed such pleasant 
 dreams — it was hard not to be able to glance round it 
 once more, and to be forced to leave it without one kind 
 look or grateful tear. There were some trifles there- 
 poor useless thing — that she would have liked to take 
 away ; but that was impossible. 
 
 This brought to mind her bird, her poor bird, who 
 hung there yet. She wept bitterly for the loss of this 
 little creature — until the idea occurred to her — she did not 
 know how or why it came into her head — that it might by 
 some means fall into the hands of Kit who would keep it 
 for her sake, and think perhaps that she had left it behind 
 in the hope that he might have it, and as an assurance 
 that she was grateful to him. She was calmed and com- 
 forted by the thought, and went to rest with a lighter heart. 
 
 From many dreams of rambling through light and sunny 
 
7° 
 
 places, but with some vague object unattained which ran 
 indistinctly through them all, she awoke to find that it 
 was yet night, and that the stars were shining brightly in 
 the sky. At length the day began to glimmer, and the 
 stars to grow pale and dim. As soon as she was sure of 
 this, she arose, and dressed herself for the journey. 
 
 The old man was yet asleep, and as she was unwilling to 
 disturb him, she left him to slumber on until the sun rose. 
 He was anxious that they should leave the house without 
 a minute's loss of time, and was soon ready. 
 
 The child then took him by the hand, and they trod 
 lightly and cautiously down the stairs, trembling whenever 
 a board creaked, and often stopping to listen. The old 
 man had forgotten a kind of wallet which contained the 
 light burden he had to carry, and the going back a few 
 Steps to fetch it seemed an interminable delay. 
 
 At last they reached the passage on the ground floor, 
 where the snoring of Mr. Quilp and his legal friend sounded 
 more terrible in their ears than the roars of lions. The 
 bolts of the door were rusty, and difficult to unfasten 
 without noise. When they were all drawn back it was 
 found to be locked, and, worst of all, the key was gone. 
 Then the child remembered for the first time one of the 
 nurses having told her that Quilp always locked both the 
 house doors at night, and kept the keys on the table in 
 his bedroom. 
 
 It was not without great fear and trepidation that little 
 Nell slipped off her shoes and gliding through the store- 
 room of old curiosities, where Mr. Brass — the ugliest piece 
 of goods in all the stock — lay sleeping on a mattress, 
 passed into her own little chamber. 
 
 Here she stood for a few moments quite transfixed with 
 terror at the sight of Mr. Quilp, who was hanging so far 
 out of bed that he almost seemed to be standing on 
 his head, and who, either from the uneasiness of this pos* 
 
7i 
 
 ture or in one of his agreeable habits, was gasping and 
 growling with his mouth wide open, and the whites (or 
 rather the dirty yellows) of his eyes distinctly visible. It 
 was no time, however, to ask whether anything ailed him, 
 so possessing herself of the key after one hasty glance 
 about the room, and repassing the prostrate Mr. Brass, 
 she rejoined the old man in safety. They got the door 
 open without noise, and passing into the street, stood 
 still. 
 
 " Which way ? " said the child. 
 
 The old man looked, irresolutely and helplessly, first 
 at her, then to the right and left, then at her again, and 
 shook his head. It was plain that she was thenceforth his 
 guide and leader. The child felt it, but had no doubts or 
 misgiving, and putting her hand in his, led him gently 
 away. 
 
 It was the beginning of a day in June ; the deep blue sky 
 unsullied by a cloud, and teeming with brilliant light. The 
 streets were as yet nearly free from passengers, the houses 
 and shops were closed, and the healthful air of morning 
 fell like breath from angels on the sleeping town. 
 
 The old man and the child passed on through the glad 
 silence, elate with hope and pleasure. They were alone 
 together once again ; every object was bright and fresh ; 
 nothing reminded them, otherwise than by contrast, 
 of the monotony and constraint they had left behind ; 
 church towers and steeples, frowning and dark at other 
 times, now shone and dazzled in the sun ; each humble 
 nook and corner rejoiced in light ; and the sky, dimmed 
 by excessive distance, shed its placid smile on everything 
 beneath. 
 
 Forth from the city, while it yet slumbered, went the 
 two poor adventurers, wandering they knew not whither. 
 
72 
 
 CHAPTER THE NINTH. 
 
 Daniel Quilp of Tower Hill, and Sampson Brass of 
 Bevis Marks in the city of London, Gentleman, one of 
 her Majesty's attorneys of the Courts of Kind's Bench 
 and Common Pleas at Westminster and a solicitor of the 
 High Court of Chancery, slumbered on unconscious and. 
 unsuspicious of any mischance, until a knocking at the 
 street door caused the said Daniel Quilp to struggle into 
 a horizontal position, and to stare at the ceiling with a 
 drowsy indifference, betokening that he heard the noise 
 and rather wondered at the same, but couldn't be at the 
 trouble of bestowing any further thought upon the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 As the knocking, however, instead of accommodating 
 itself to his lazy state, increased in vigor, Daniel Quilp 
 began by degrees to comprehend the possibility of there 
 being somebody at the door, and thus he gradually came 
 to recollect that it was Friday morning, and he had 
 ordered Mrs. Quilp to be in waiting upon him at an early 
 hour. 
 
 Mr. Brass, after writhing about in a great many strange 
 attitudes, and often twisting his face and eyes into an ex- 
 pression like that which is usually produced by eating 
 gooseberries very early in the season, was by this time 
 awake also, and seeing that Mr. Quilp invested himself in 
 his everyday garments, hastened to do the like, putting 
 on his shoes before his stockings, and thrusting his legs 
 into, his coat sleeves, and making such other small mis- 
 takes in his toilet as are not uncommon to those who 
 dress in a hurry, and labor under the agitation of having 
 been suddenly roused. 
 
 While the attorney was thus engaged, the dwarf was 
 groping under the table, muttering desperate impreca- 
 
73 
 
 tions upon himself and mankind in general and all inan- 
 imate objects to boot, which suggested to Mr. Brass the 
 question " what's the matter ? " 
 
 " The key," said the dwarf, looking viciously at him, 
 " the door key,— that's the matter. D'ye know anything 
 of it?" 
 
 " How should I know anything of it, Sir ? " returned 
 Mr. Brass. 
 
 " How should you ? " repeated Quilp with a sneer. 
 " You're a nice lawyer, an't you." 
 
 Not caring to represent to the dwarf in his present hu- 
 mor, that the loss of a key by another person could 
 scarcely be said to affect his (Brass's) legal knowledge in 
 any material degree, Mr. Brass humbly suggested that it 
 must have been forgotten over night, and was doubtless 
 at that moment in its native keyhole. Notwithstanding 
 that Mr. Quilp had a strong conviction to the contrary, 
 founded on his recollection of having carefully taken it 
 out, he was fain to admit that this was possible, and 
 therefore went grumbling to the door where, sure enough, 
 he found it. 
 
 Now, just as Mr. Quilp laid his hand upon the lock and 
 saw with great astonishment that the fastenings were un- 
 done, the knocking came again. The dwarf was very 
 much exasperated, and wanting somebody to wreak his 
 ill humor upon, determined to dart out suddenly and fa- 
 vor Mrs. Quilp with a gentle acknowledgment of her at- 
 tention in waking him so early. 
 
 With this view he drew back the lock very silently and 
 softly, and opening the door all at once, pounced out 
 upon Mrs. Quilp who stood trembling outside. 
 
 " You'd better walk in," said the dwarf. " Go on, go 
 on. Mrs. Quilp — after you, ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Quilp hesitated, but Mr. Quilp insisted. And it 
 was not a contest of politeness, or by any means a matter 
 
74 
 
 of form, for she knew very well that her husband wished 
 to enter the house in this order, that he might have a 
 favorable opportunity of inflicting a few pinches on her 
 arms, which were seldom free from impressions of his 
 fingers in black and blue colors. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Quilp," said the dwarf when they had en- 
 tered the shop, " go you up stairs, if you please, to Nelly's 
 room, and tell her that she's wanted." 
 
 Mrs. Quilp, only too glad to escape from h,er husband's 
 attentions, disappeared and soon came hurrying down- 
 stairs, declaring that the rooms above were empty. 
 
 " Empty ! " said the dwarf. 
 
 " I give you my word, Quilp,'' answered his trembling 
 wife, " that I have been into every room and there's not 
 a soul in any of them." 
 
 " And that," said Mr. Brass, clapping his hands once, 
 with an emphasis, " explains the mystery of the key ! " 
 
 Quilp looked frowningly at him, and frowningly at his 
 wife, but, receiving no enlightenment from either of them, 
 hurried upstairs, whence he soon hurried down again, 
 confirming the report which had been already made. 
 
 " It's a strange way of going, very strange not to 
 communicate with me who am such a close and intimate 
 friend of his ! Ah ! he'll write to me no doubt, or he'll 
 bid Nelly write — yes, yes, that's what he'll do. Nelly's 
 very fond of me. Pretty Nell ! " 
 
 Quilp turned to Mr. Brass and observed with assumed 
 carelessness, that this need not interfere with the re- 
 moval of the goods. 
 
 " For indeed," he added, " we knew that they'd go 
 away to-day, but not that they'd go so early or so quietly. 
 But they have their reasons, they have their reasons." 
 
 In his secret heart, Daniel Quilp was both surprised 
 and troubled by the flight which had been made. It had 
 not escaped his keen eye that some indispensable articles 
 
75 
 
 of clothing were gone with the fugitives, and knowing 
 the old man's weak state of mind, he marveled what that 
 course of proceeding might be in which he had so readily 
 procured the concurrence of the child. It must not be 
 supposed (or it would be a gross injustice to Mr. Quilp) 
 that he was tortured by any disinterested anxiety on behalf 
 of either. His uneasiness arose from a misgiving that the 
 old man had some secret store of money which he had 
 not suspected, and the bare idea of its escaping his 
 clutches, overwhelmed him with mortification and self- 
 reproach. 
 
 By this time certain vans had arrived for the convey- 
 ance of the goods, and divers strong men in carpet caps 
 were balancing chests of drawers and other trifles of 
 that nature upon their heads, and performing muscular 
 feats which heightened their complexions considerably. 
 Not to be behindhand in the bustle, Mr. Quilp went to 
 work with surprising vigor ; hustling and driving the 
 people about, like an evil spirit ; setting Mrs. Quilp upon 
 all kinds of arduous and impracticable tasks ; carrying 
 great weights up and down with no apparent effort ; kick- 
 ing the boy from the wharf whenever he could get near 
 him ; and inflicting with his loads a great many sly bumps 
 and blows upon the shoulders of Mr. Brass, as he stood 
 upon the doorsteps to answer all the inquiries of curious 
 neighbors, which was his department. His presence 
 and example diffused such alacrity among the persons 
 employed, that in a few hours the house was emptied of 
 everything, but pieces of matting, and scattered frag- 
 ments of straw. 
 
 Seated, like an African chief, on one of these pieces of 
 matting, the dwarf was regaling himself in the parlor 
 with bread and cheese, when he observed, without ap- 
 pearing to do so, that a boy was prying in at the outer 
 door. Assured that it was Kit, though he saw little 
 
7 6 
 
 more than his nose, Mr. Quilp hailed him by his name ; 
 whereupon Kit came in and demanded what he wanted. 
 
 " Come here, you Sir," said the dwarf. " Well, so your 
 old master and young mistress have gone ? " 
 
 " Where ? " rejoined Kit, looking round. 
 
 " Do you mean to say you don't know where?" an- 
 swered Quilp sharply. " Where have they gone, eh ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Kit. 
 
 " Come," retorted Quilp, " let's have no more of this ! 
 Do you mean to say that you don't know they went away 
 by stealth, as soon as it was light this morning ? " 
 
 " No," said the boy, in evident surprise. 
 
 " You don't know that ? " cried Quilp. " Don't I know 
 that you were hanging about the house the other night, 
 like a thief, eh ? Weren't you told then ? " 
 
 " No," replied the boy. 
 
 " You were not ? " said Quilp. " What were you told 
 then ; what were you talking about ? " 
 
 Kit, who knew no particular reason why he should keep 
 the matter secret now, related the purpose for which he 
 had come on that occasion, and the proposal he had 
 made. 
 
 " Oh ! " said the dwarf after a little consideration. 
 " Then, I think they'll come to you yet." 
 
 " Do you think they will ? " cried Kit eagerly. 
 
 " Ay, I think they will," returned the dwarf. " Now, 
 when they do, let me know ; d'ye hear ? Let me know, 
 and I'll give you something. I want to do 'em a kind- 
 ness, and I can't do 'em a kindness unless I know where 
 they are. You hear what I say ?" 
 
 Kit might have returned some answer which would not 
 have- been agreeable to his irascible questioner, if the 
 boy from the wharf, who had been skulking about the room 
 in search of anything that might have been left about by 
 accident, had not happened to cry, " Here's a bird ! 
 What's to be done with this ? " 
 
77 
 
 u Wring its neck," rejoined Quilp. 
 " Oh no, don't do that," said Kit, stepping forward. 
 " Give it to me." 
 
 " Oh yes, I dare say," cried the other boy. " Come ! 
 You let the cage alone, and let me wring its neck, will 
 you ? He said I was to do it. You let the cage alone, 
 will you ? " 
 
 " Give it here, give it to me, you dogs," roared Quilp. 
 " Fight for it, you dogs, or I'll wring its neck myself ! " 
 
 Without further persuasion, the two boys fell upon each 
 other tooth and nail. They were a pretty equal match, 
 and rolled about together, exchanging blows which were 
 by no means child's play until at length Kit, planting a 
 well-directed hit in his adversary's chest, disengaged him- 
 self, sprang nimbly up, and snatching the cage from 
 Quilp's hands made off with his prize. 
 
 He did not stop once until he reached home, where his 
 bleeding face occasioned great consternation, and caused 
 the elder child to howl dreadfully. 
 
 " Goodness gracious, Kit, what is the matter, what 
 have you been doing ?" cried Mrs. Nubbles. 
 
 " Never you mind, mother," answered her son, wiping 
 his face on the jack towel behind the door. " I'm not 
 hurt, don't you be afraid for me. I've been a fightin' for 
 a bird and won him, that's all. Hold your noise, little 
 Jacob. I never see such a naughty boy in all my days ! " 
 " You have been fighting for a bird ! " exclaimed his 
 mother. 
 
 "Ah ! Fightin' for a bird ! " replied Kit, "and here he 
 is — Miss Nelly's bird, mother, that they was agoin' to 
 wring the- neck of ! I stopped that though — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 They wouldn't wring his neck and me by, no, no. It 
 wouldn't do, mother, it wouldn't do at all. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 Kit laughing so heartily, with his swollen and bruised 
 face looking out of the towel, made little Jacob laugh, and 
 
then his mother laughed, and then the baby crowed and 
 kicked with great glee, and then they all laughed in con- 
 cert, partly because of Kit's triumph, and partly because 
 they were very fond of each other. When this fit was 
 over, Kit exhibited the bird to both children, as a great 
 and precious rarity — it was only a poor linnet — and look- 
 ing about the wall for an old nail, made a scaffolding of a 
 chair and table and twisted it out with great exultation. 
 
 " Let me see," said the boy, " I think I'll hang him in 
 the winder, because it's more light and cheerful, and he 
 can see the sky there, if he looks up very much. He's 
 such a one to sing, I can tell you ! " 
 
 So, the scaffolding was made again, and Kit, climbing up 
 with the poker for a hammer, knocked in the nail and hung 
 up the cage, to the immeasurable delight of the whole 
 family. When it had been adjusted and straightened a 
 great many times, and he had walked backwards into the 
 fireplace in his admiration of it, the arrangement was pro- 
 nounced to be perfect. 
 
 " And now, mother," said the boy, " before I rest any 
 more, I'll go out and see if I can find a horse to hold, and 
 then I can buy some birdseed, and a bit of something 
 nice for you, into the bargain." 
 
 CHAPTER THE TENTH. 
 
 Bless us what a number of gentlemen on horseback 
 there were riding up and down, and how few of them 
 wanted their horses held ! 
 
 Kit walked about, now with quick steps and now with 
 slow ; now lingering as some rider slackened his horse's 
 pace and looked about him ; and now darting at full speed 
 up a by-street as he caught a^glimpse of some distant 
 horseman going lazily up the shady side of the road, and 
 
79 
 
 promising to stop at every door. But on they all went, 
 one after another, and there was not a penny stirring. 
 " I wonder," thought the boy, " if one of these gentlemen 
 knew there was nothing in the cupboard at home, whether 
 he'd stop on purpose, and make believe that he wanted to 
 call somewhere, that I might earn a trifle ?" 
 
 He was quite tired out with pacing the streets, to say 
 nothing of repeated disappointments, and was sitting 
 down upon a step to rest, when there approached towards 
 him a little clattering jingling four-wheeled chaise, drawn 
 by a little obstinate-looking rough-coated xpony, and 
 driven by a little fat placid-faced old gentleman. Beside 
 the little old gentleman sat a little old lady, plump and 
 placid like himself, and the pony was coming along at his 
 own pace and doing exactly as he pleased with the whole 
 concern. If the old gentleman remonstrated by shaking 
 the reins, the pony replied by shaking his head. It was 
 plain that the utmost the pony would consent to do, was 
 to go in his own way up any street that the old gentle- 
 man particularly wished to traverse, but~that it was an 
 understanding between them that he must do this after 
 his own fashion or not at all. 
 
 As they passed where he sat, Kit looked so wistfully at 
 the little turn-out that the old gentleman looked at him, 
 and Kit rising and putting his hand to his hat, the old 
 gentleman intimated to the pony that he wished to stop, 
 to which proposal the pony (who seldom objected to that 
 part of his duty) graciously acceded. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Sir," said Kit. " I'm sorry you 
 stopped, Sir. I only meant did you want yeur horse 
 minded." 
 
 " I'm going to get down in the next street," returned 
 the old gentleman. " If you like to come on after us, you 
 may have the job." 
 
 Kit thanked him, and joyfully obeyed. The pony ran 
 
8o 
 
 off at a sharp angle to inspect a lamp post on the oppo- 
 site side of the way, and then went off at a tangent to 
 another lamp post on the other side. Having satisfied 
 himself that they were of the same pattern and materials, 
 he came to a stop, apparently absorbed in meditation. 
 
 "Will you go on, Sir," said the old gentleman, gravely, 
 " or are we to wait here for you till it's too late for our 
 appointment ? " 
 
 The pony remained immovable. 
 
 " Oh you naughty Whisker," said the old lady. " Fie 
 upon you ! I'm ashamed of such conduct." 
 
 The pony appeared to be touched by this appeal to his 
 feelings, for he trotted on directly, though in a sulky 
 manner, and stopped no more until he came to a door 
 whereon was a brass plate with the words " Witherden — 
 Notary." Here the old gentleman got out and helped 
 out the old lady, and then took from under the seat a 
 nosegay resembling in shape and dimensions a full-sized 
 warming pan with the handle cut short off. This, the old 
 lady carried into the house with a staid and stately air, 
 and the old gentleman (who had a clubfoot) followed 
 close upon her. 
 
 They went, as it was easy to tell from the sound of 
 their voices, into the front parlor, which seemed to be a 
 kind of office. The day being very warm and the street a 
 quiet one, the windows were wide open, and it was easy to 
 hear through the Venetian blinds all that passed inside. 
 
 At first there was a great shaking of hands and shuf- 
 fling of feet, succeeded by the presentation of the nose- 
 gay, for «a voice, supposed by the listener to be that of 
 Mr. Witherden the notary, was heard to exclaim a great 
 many times, " Oh, delicious ! " " Oh, fragrant, indeed ! " 
 and a nose, also supposed to be the property of that gen- 
 tleman, was heard to inhale the scent with a snuffle of ex- 
 ceeding pleasure. 
 
8i 
 
 " I brought it in honor of the occasion, Sir," said the 
 old lady. 
 
 " Ah ! an occasion indeed, ma'am ; an occasion which 
 does honor to me, ma'am, honor to me," rejpined Mr. 
 Witherden the Notary. " I have had many a gentleman 
 articled to me, ma'am, many a one. Some of them are 
 now rolling in riches, unmindful of their old companion 
 and friend, ma'am, others are in the habit of calling upon me 
 to this day and saying, ' Mr. Witherden, some of the pleas- 
 antest hours I ever spent in my life were spent in this 
 office — were spent, Sir, upon this very stool ; ' but there 
 was never one among the number, ma'am, attached as I 
 have been to many of them, of whom I augured such bright 
 things as I do of your only son." 
 
 " Oh dear ! " said the old lady. " How happy you do 
 make us when you tell us that, to be sure ! " 
 
 ■' I tell you, ma'am," said Mr. Witherden, " what I think 
 as an honest man, which, as the poet observes, is the 
 noblest work of God. I agree with the poet in every par- 
 ticular, ma'am. The mountainous Alps on the one hand, or 
 a humming bird on the other, is nothing, in point of work- 
 manship, to an honest man — or woman — or woman." 
 
 " Anything that Mr. Witherden can say of me," observed 
 a small quiet voice, " I can say with interest of him, I am 
 sure." 
 
 " It's a happy circumstance, a truly happy circum- 
 stance," said the notary, " to happen too upon his eight- 
 and-twentieth birthday, and I hope I know how to appre- 
 ciate it. I trust, Mr. Garland, my dear Sir, that we may 
 mutually congratulate each other upon this auspicious 
 occasion." 
 
 To this the old gentleman replied that he felt assured 
 they might. There appeared to be another shaking of 
 hands in consequence, and when it was over, the old gentle- 
 man said that, though he said it who should not, he 
 
 Little Nell.- -6. 
 
82 
 
 believed no son had ever been a greater comfort to his 
 parents than Abel Garland had been to his. 
 
 "You see, Mr. Witherden," said the old lady, "that 
 Abel has not been brought up like the run of young men. 
 He has always had a pleasure in our society, and always 
 been with us. Abel has never been absent from us, for a 
 day ; has he, my dear ? " 
 
 "Never, my dear," returned the old gentleman, " except 
 when he went to Margate one Saturday with Mr. Tomkin- 
 ley that had been a teacher at that school he went to, and 
 came back upon the Monday ; but he was very ill after 
 that, you remember, my dear ; it was quite a dissipation." 
 
 "He was not used to it, you know," said the old lady, 
 " and he couldn't bear it, that's the truth. Besides he had 
 no comfort in being there without us, and had nobody to 
 talk to or enjoy himself with." 
 
 " That was it, you know," interposed the same small 
 quiet voice that had spoken once before. " I was quite 
 abroad, mother, quite desolate, and to think that the sea 
 was between us — oh, I never shall forget what I felt when 
 I first thought that the sea was between us ! " 
 
 "Very natural under the circumstances," observed the 
 notary. " Mr. Abel's feelings did credit to his nature, and 
 credit to your nature, ma'am, and his father's nature, and 
 human nature. I trace the same current now, flowing 
 through all his quiet and unobtrusive proceedings. — I am 
 about to sign my name, you observe, at the foot of the ar- 
 ticles which Mr. Chuckster will witness ; and, placing my 
 finger upon this blue wafer with the vandyked corners, I 
 am constrained to remark in a distinct tone of voice — 
 don't be alarmed, ma'am, it is merely a form of law — that I 
 deliver this, as my act and deed. Mr. Abel will place his 
 name against the other wafer, repeating the same cab- 
 alistic words, and the business is over. Ha ! ha ! ha ! You 
 see how easily these things are done ! " 
 
83 
 
 There was a short silence, apparently, while Mr. Abel 
 went through the prescribed form, and then the shaking of 
 hands and shuffling of feet were renewed. In about a 
 quarter of an hour Mr. Chuckster (with a pen behind his 
 ear) appeared at the door, and condescending to address 
 Kit by the jocose appellation of " Young Snob," informed 
 him that the visitors were coming out. 
 
 Out they came forthwith ; Mr. Witherden, who was short, 
 chubby, fresh-colored, brisk, and pompous, leading the old 
 lady with extreme politeness, and the father and son fol- 
 lowing them, arm in arm. Mr. Abel, who had a quaint old- 
 fashioned air about him, looked nearly of the same age as 
 his father, and bore a wonderful resemblance to him in 
 face and figure, though wanting something of his full, 
 round cheerfulness, and substituting in its place a timid re- 
 serve. In all other respects, in the neatness of the dress, 
 and even in the clubfoot, he and the old gentleman were 
 precisely alike. 
 
 Having seen the old lady safely in her seat, and assisted 
 in the arrangement of her cloak and a small basket which 
 formed an indispensable portion of her equipage, Mr. Abel 
 got into a little box behind which had evidently been 
 made for his express accommodation, and smiled at every- 
 body present by turns, beginning with his mother and end- 
 ing with the pony. There was then a great to-do to make 
 the pony hold up his head that the bearing rein might be 
 fastened ; at last even this was effected ; and the old gentle- 
 man, taking his seat and the reins, put his hand in his 
 pocket to find a sixpence for Kit. 
 
 He had no sixpences, neither had the old lady, nor Mr. 
 Abel, nor the notary, nor Mr. Chuckster. The old gentle- 
 man thought a shilling too much, but there was no shop 
 in the street to get change at, so he gave it to the boy. 
 
 " There," he said jokingly. " I'm coming here again 
 next Monday at the same time, and mind you're here, my 
 lad, to work it out." 
 
8 4 
 
 " Thank you, Sir," said Kit. " I'll be sure to be here." 
 He was quite serious, but they all laughed heartily at 
 his saying so, especially Mr. Chuckster, who roared out- 
 right and appeared to relish the joke amazingly. As the 
 pony, with a presentiment that he was going home, or a 
 determination that he would not go anywhere else (which 
 was the same thing) trotted away pretty nimbly, Kit had 
 no time to justify himself, and went his way also. 
 
 Having expended his treasure in such purchases as he 
 knew would be most acceptable at home, not forgetting 
 some seed for the wonderful bird, he hastened back as 
 fast as he could, so elated with his success and great good 
 fortune, that he more than half expected Nell and the old 
 man would have arrived before him. 
 
 CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. 
 
 Often, while they were yet pacing the silent streets of 
 the town on the morning of their departure, the child 
 trembled with a mingled sensation of hope and fear as in 
 some far-off figure imperfectly seen in the clear distance, 
 her fancy traced a likeness to honest Kit. But although 
 she would gladly have given him her hand and thanked 
 him for what he had said at their last meeting, it was 
 always a relief to find, when they came nearer to each 
 other, that the person who approached was not he, but a 
 stranger ; for even if she had not dreaded the effect which 
 the sight of him might have wrought upon, her fellow- 
 traveler, she felt that to bid farewell to anybody now, 
 and most of all to him who had been so faithful and so 
 true, was more than she could bear. It was enough to 
 leave dumb things behind, and objects that were insensible 
 both to her love and sorrow. To have parted from her 
 
85 
 
 only other friend upon the threshold of that wild journey, 
 would have wrung her heart indeed. 
 
 The two pilgrims, often pressing each other's hands, or 
 exchanging a smile or cheerful look, pursued their way in 
 silence. Bright and happy as it was, there was something 
 solemn in the long, deserted streets, from which like bodies 
 without souls all habitual character and expression had de- 
 parted, leaving but one dead uniform repose, that made 
 them all alike. All was so still at that early hour, that 
 the few pale people whom they met seemed as much un- 
 suited to the scene as the sickly lamp which had been 
 here and there left burning was powerless and faint in 
 the full glory of the sun. 
 
 Before they had penetrated very far into the labyrinth 
 of men's abodes which yet lay between them and the out- 
 skirts, this aspect began to melt away, and noise and 
 bustle to usurp its place. Some straggling carts and 
 coaches rumbling by first broke the charm, then others 
 came, then others yet more active, then a crowd. The 
 wonder was at first to see a tradesman's window open, but 
 it was a rare thing soon to see one closed ; then smoke 
 rose slowly from the chimneys, and sashes were thrown 
 up to let in air, and doors were opened, and servant 
 girls, looking lazily in all directions but their brooms, 
 scattered brown clouds of dust into the eyes of shrink- 
 ing passengers, or listened disconsolately to milkmen who 
 spoke of country fairs, and told of wagons in the mews, 
 with awnings and all things complete and gallant swains 
 to boot, which another hour would see upon their journey. 
 
 At length these streets, becoming more straggling yet, 
 dwindled and dwindled away, until there were only small 
 garden patches bordering the road, with many a summer- 
 house innocent of paint and built of old timber or some 
 fragments of a boat, green as the tough cabbage stalks 
 that grew about it, and grottoed at the seams with toad- 
 
86 
 
 stools and tight-sticking snails. To these succeeded pert 
 cottages, two and two with plots of ground in front, laid 
 out in angular beds with stiff box borders and narrow 
 paths between, where footstep never strayed to make the 
 gravel rough. Then came the public house, freshly 
 painted in green and white, with tea gardens and a bowl- 
 ing green, spurning its old neighbor with the horse 
 trough where the wagons stopped ; then fields ; and 
 then some houses, one by one, of goodly size with lawns ( 
 some even with a lodge where dwelt a porter and his wife. 
 Then came a turnpike ; then fields again with trees and 
 haystacks ; then a hill ; and on the top of that the trav- 
 eler might stop, and — looking back at old Saint Paul's 
 looming through the smoke, its cross peeping above the 
 cloud (if the day were clear), and glittering in the sun ; 
 and casting his eyes upon the Babel out of which it grew 
 until he traced it down to the furthest outposts of the 
 invading army of bricks and mortar whose station lay for 
 the present nearly at his feet — might feel at last that he 
 was clear of London. 
 
 Near such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old 
 man and his little guide (if guide she were, who knew not 
 whither they were bound) sat down to rest. She had had 
 the precaution to furnish her basket with some slices of 
 bread and meat, and here they made their frugal break- 
 fast. 
 
 The freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the 
 beauty of the waving grass, the deep green leaves, the 
 wild flowers, and the thousand exquisite scents and 
 sounds that floated in the air, — deep joys to most of us, 
 but most of all to those whose life is in a crowd or who 
 live solitarily in great cities as in the bucket of a human 
 well, — sank into their breasts and made them very glad. 
 The child had repeated her artless prayers once that 
 morning, more earnestly perhaps than she had ever done 
 
87 
 
 in all her life, but as she felt all this, they rose to her lips 
 again. The old man took off his hat — he had no memory 
 for the words — but he said amen, and that they were very 
 good. 
 
 There had been an old copy of the Pilgrim's Progress 
 with strange plates, upon a shelf at home, over which 
 she had often pored whole evenings, wondering whether 
 it was true in every word, and where those distant coun- 
 tries with the curious names might be. As she looked 
 back upon the place they had left, one part of it came 
 strongly on her mind. 
 
 " Dear grandfather,'' she said, " only that this place is 
 prettier and a great deal better than the real one, if that 
 in the book is like it, I feel as if we were both Christian, 
 and laid down on this grass all the cares and troubles we 
 brought with us ; never to take them up again." 
 
 " No — never to return — never to return " — replied the 
 old man, waving his hand towards the city. " Thou and 
 I are free of it now, Nell. They shall never lure us 
 back." 
 
 " Are you tired ? " said the child, " are you sure you don't 
 feel ill from this long walk ?" 
 
 " I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away," 
 Was his reply. " Let us be stirring, Nell. We must be 
 further away — a long, long way further. We are too near 
 to stop, and be at rest. Come ! " 
 
 There was a pool of clear water in the field, in which 
 the child laved her hands and face, and cooled her feet 
 before setting forth to walk again. She would have the 
 old man refresh himself in this way too, and making him 
 sit down upon the grass, cast the water on him with her 
 hands, and dried it with her simple dress. 
 
 " 1 can do nothing for myself, my darling,'' said the 
 grandfather, " I don't know how it is, I could once, but the 
 time's gone. Don't leave me, Nell ; say that thou'lt not 
 
88 
 
 leave me. I loved thee all the while, indeed I did. If I 
 lose thee too, my dear, I must die ! " 
 
 He laid his head upon her shoulder and moaned pite- 
 ously. The time had been, and a very few days before, 
 when the child could not have restrained her tears and 
 must have wept with him. But now she soothed him with 
 gentle and tender words, smiled at his thinking they could 
 ever part, and rallied him cheerfully upon the jest. He 
 was soon calmed and fell asleep, singing to himself in a 
 low voice, like a little child. 
 
 He awoke refreshed, and they continued their journey. 
 The road was pleasant, lying between beautiful pastures 
 and fields of corn, above which, poised high in the clear 
 blue sky, the lark trilled out her happy song. The air 
 came ladened with the fragrance it caught upon its way, 
 and the bees, upborne upon its scented breath, hummed 
 forth their drowsy satisfaction as they floated by. 
 
 They were now in the open country ; the houses were 
 very few and scattered at long intervals, often miles apart. 
 Occasionally they came upon a cluster of poor cottages, 
 some with a chair or low board put across the open door 
 to keep the scrambling children from the road, others shut 
 up close while all the family were working in the fields. 
 These were often the commencement of a little village : 
 and after an interval came a wheelwright's shed or per- 
 haps a blacksmith's forge ; then a thriving farm with sleepy 
 cows lying about the yard, and horses peering over the 
 low wall and scampering away when harnessed horses 
 passed upon the road, as though in triumph at their free- 
 dom. There were dull pigs too, turning up the ground in 
 search of dainty food, and grunting their monotonous 
 grumblings as they prowled about, or crossed each other 
 in their quest ; plump pigeons skimming round the roof 
 or strutting on the eaves ; and ducks and geese, far more 
 graceful in their own conceit ; waddling awkwardly about 
 
8 9 
 
 the edges of the pond or sailing glibly on its surface. The 
 farmyard passed, then came the little inn ; and the village 
 tradesman's ; then the lawyer's and the parson's ; the 
 church then peeped out modestly from a clump of trees ; 
 then there were a few more cottages ; then the cage, and 
 pound, and not unfrequently, on a bank by the wayside, a 
 deep old dusty well. Then came the trim-hedged fields on 
 either hand, and the open road again. 
 
 They walked all day, and slept that night at a small 
 cottage where beds were let to travelers. Next morn- 
 ing they were afoot again, and though jaded at first, and 
 very tired, recovered before long and proceeded briskly 
 forward. 
 
 They often stopped to rest, but only for a short space 
 at a time, and still kept on, having had but slight refresh- 
 ment since the morning. It was nearly five o'clock in 
 the afternoon, when, drawing near another cluster of 
 laborers' huts, the child looked wistfully in each, doubt- 
 ful at which to ask for permission to rest awhile, and buy 
 a draught of milk. 
 
 It was not easy to determine, for she was timid and 
 fearful of being repulsed. Here was a crying child, and 
 there a noisy wife. In this, the people seemed too poor ; 
 in that, too many. At length she stopped at one where 
 the family were seated round the table — chiefly because 
 there was an old man sitting in a cushioned chair beside 
 the hearth, and she thought he was a grandfather and 
 would feel for hers. 
 
 There were besides, the cottager and his wife, and three 
 young sturdy children, brown as berries. The request 
 was no sooner preferred, than granted. The eldest boy 
 ran out to fetch some milk, the second dragged two stools 
 towards the door, and the youngest crept to his mother's 
 gown, and looked at the strangers from beneath his sun- 
 burnt hand. 
 
90 
 
 " God save you, master," said the old cottager in a thin 
 piping voice ; " are you traveling far ? " 
 
 " Yes, Sir, a long way " — replied the child ; for her 
 grandfather appealed to her. 
 
 " From London ? " inquired the old man. 
 
 The child said yes. 
 
 Ah ! He had been in London many a time — used to go 
 there often once, with wagons. It was nigh two-and- 
 thirty year since he had been there last, and he did hear 
 say there were great changes. Like enough! .He had 
 changed, himself, since then. Two-and-thirty year was 
 a long time and eighty-four a great age, though there was 
 some he had known that had lived to very hard upon a 
 hundred — and not so hearty as he, neither — no, nothing 
 like it. 
 
 " Sit thee down, master, in the elbowchair,'' said the 
 old man, knocking his stick upon the brick floor, and trying 
 to do so sharply. " Take a pinch out o' that box ; I don't 
 take much myself, for it comes dear, but I find it wakes 
 me up sometimes, and ye're but a boy to me. I should 
 have a son pretty nigh as old as you if he'd lived, but they 
 listed him for a so'ger — he come back home though, for 
 all he had but one poor leg. He always said he'd be buried 
 near the sundial he used to climb upon when he was a 
 baby, did my poor boy, and his words come true — you 
 can see the place with your own eyes ; we've kept the turf 
 up ever since." 
 
 He shook his head, and looking at his daughter with 
 watery eyes, said she needn't be afraid that he was going 
 to talk about that any more. He didn't wish to trouble 
 nobody, and if he had troubled anybody by what he said, 
 he asked pardon, that was all. 
 
 The milk arrived, and the child producing her little 
 basket and selecting its best fragments for her grand- 
 father, they made a hearty meal, The furniture, of the 
 
9i 
 
 room was very homely of course — a few rough chairs and 
 a table, a corner cupboard with their little stock of 
 crockery and delf, a gaudy tea tray, representing a lady 
 in bright red, walking out with a very blue parasol, a few 
 common, colored Scripture subjects in frames upon the 
 wall and chimney, an old dwarf clothespress and an 
 eight-day clock, with a few bright saucepans and a kettle, 
 comprised the whole. But everything was clean and neat, 
 and as the child glanced round, she felt a tranquil air of 
 comfort and content to which she had long been unaccus- 
 tomed. 
 
 " How far is it to any town or village ? " she asked of 
 the husband. 
 
 " A matter of good five mile, my dear,' 7 was the reply, 
 " but you're not going on to-night ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, Nell," said the old man hastily, urging her 
 too by signs. " Further on, further on, darling, further 
 away if we walk till midnight." 
 
 " There's a good barn hard by, master," said the man, 
 " or there's travelers' lodgings, I know, at the Plow an' 
 Harrer. Excuse me, but you do seem a little tired, and 
 unless you're very anxious to get on — " 
 
 "Yes, yes, we are," returned the old man fretfully. 
 " Further away, dear Nell, pray further away." 
 
 "We must go on, indeed," said the child, yielding to 
 his restless wish. " We thank you very much, but we 
 cannot stop so soon. I'm quite ready, grandfather." 
 
 But the woman had observed, from the young wan- 
 derer's gait, that one of her little feet was blistered and 
 sore, and being a woman and a mother too, she would not 
 suffer her to go until she had washed the place and ap- 
 plied some simple remedy, which she did so carefully and 
 with such a gentle hand — rough-grained and hard though 
 it was, with work — that the child's heart was too full to 
 admit of her saying more than a fervent " God bless 
 
9 2 t 
 
 you ! " nor could she look back nor trust herself to speak, 
 until they had left the cottage some distance behind. 
 When she turned her head, she saw that the whole family, 
 even the old grandfather, were standing in the road 
 watching them as they went, and so, with many waves of 
 the hand, and cheering nods, and on one side at least not 
 without tears, they parted company. 
 
 They trudged forward, more slowly and painfully than 
 they had done yet, for another mile or thereabouts, when 
 they heard the sound of wheels behind them, and looking 
 round observed an empty cart approaching pretty briskly. 
 The driver on coming up to them stopped his horse and 
 looked earnestly at Nell. 
 
 " Didn't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder ? " he said. 
 
 "Yes, Sir," replied the child. 
 
 "Ah! They asked me to look out for you," said the 
 man. " I'm going your way. Give me your hand — jump 
 up, master." 
 
 This was a great relief, for they were very much 
 fatigued and could scarcely crawl along. To them the 
 jolting cart was a luxurious carriage, and the ride the 
 most delicious in the world. Nell had scarcely settled 
 herself on a little heap of straw in one corner, when she 
 fell asleep, for the first time that day. 
 
 She was awakened by the stopping of the cart, which 
 was about to turn up a by-lane. The driver kindly got 
 down to help her out, and pointing to some trees at a 
 very short distance before them, said that the town lay 
 there, and that they had bette take the path which they 
 would see, leading through the churchyard. Accord- 
 ingly, towards this spot they directed their weary steps. 
 
93 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. 
 
 The sun was setting when they reached the wicket gate 
 at which the path began. 
 
 The old man and the child quitted the gravel path, and 
 strayed among the tombs ; for there the ground was soft, 
 and easy to their tired feet. As they passed behind the 
 church, they heard voices near at hand, and presently 
 came on those who had spoken. 
 
 They were two men who were seated in easy attitudes 
 upon the grass, and so busily engaged as to be at first un- 
 conscious of intruders. It was not difficult to divine that 
 they were of a class of itinerant showmen — exhibitors of 
 the freaks of Punch — for, perched crosslegged upon a 
 tombstone behind them, was a figure of that hero himself, 
 his nose and chin as hooked and his face as beaming as 
 usual. Perhaps his imperturbable character was never 
 more strikingly developed, for he preserved his usual 
 equable smile notwithstanding that his body was dangling 
 in a most uncomfortable position, all loose and limp and 
 shapeless, while his long peaked cap, unequally balanced 
 against his exceedingly slight legs, threatened every in- 
 stant to bring him toppling down. 
 
 In part scattered upon the ground at the feet of the two 
 men, and in part jumbled together in a long flat box, were 
 the other persons of the Drama. The hero's wife and one 
 child, the hobbyhorse, the doctor, the foreign gentleman 
 who not being familiar with the language is unable in the 
 representation to express his ideas otherwise than by the 
 utterance of the word " Shallabalah '' three distinct times, 
 the Radical neighbor who will by no means admit that a 
 tin bell is an organ, and the executioner, were all here. 
 Their owners had evidently come to that spot to make 
 some needful repairs in the stage arrangements, for one 
 
94 
 
 of them was engaged in binding together a small gallows 
 with thread, while the other was intent upon fixing a new 
 black wig, with the aid of a small- hammer and some tacks, 
 upon the head of the Radical neighbor, who had been 
 beaten bald. 
 
 They raised their eyes when the old man and his young 
 companion were close upon them, and pausing in their, 
 work, returned their looks of curiosity. One of them, the 
 actual exhibitor no doubt, was a little merry-faced man 
 with a twinkling eye and a red nose, who seemed to have 
 unconsciously imbibed something of his hero's character. 
 The other — that was he who took the money — had rather 
 a careful and cautious look, which was perhaps inseparable 
 from his occupation also. 
 
 The merry man was the first to greet the strangers 
 with a nod ; and following the old man's eyes, he observed 
 that perhaps that was the first time he , had ever seen a 
 Punch off the stage. (Punch, it may be remarked, seemed 
 to be pointing with the tip of his cap to a most flourishing 
 epitaph, and to be chuckling over it with all his heart.) 
 
 " Why do you come here to do this ? " said the old man, 
 sitting down beside them, and looking at the figures with 
 extreme delight. 
 
 " Why you see," rejoined the little man, " we're putting 
 up for to-night at the public house yonder, and it wouldn't 
 do to let 'em see the present company undergoing repair." 
 
 " No ! " cried the old man, making signs to Nell to lis- 
 ten, " why not, eh ? why not ? " 
 
 " Because it would destroy all the delusion, and take 
 away all the interest, wouldn't it ? " replied the little man. 
 
 " Would you care a ha'penny for the Lord Chancellor if 
 you know'd him in. private and without his wig? — certainly 
 not." 
 
 " Good ! " said the old man, venturing to touch one of 
 the puppets, and drawing away his hand with a shrill 
 laugh. " Are you going to show 'em to-night ?Are you ? " 
 
95 
 
 " That is the intention, governor," replied the other, 
 " and unless I'm much mistaken, Tommy Codlin is a cal- 
 culating at this minute what we've lost through your com- 
 ing upon us. Cheer up, Tommy, it can't be much." 
 
 The little man accompanied these latter words with a 
 wink, expressive of the estimate he had formed of the 
 travelers' finances. 
 
 To this Mr. Codlin, who had a surly, grumbling manner, 
 replied, as he twitched Punch off the tombstone and flung 
 him into the box, 
 
 " I don't care if we haven't lost a farden, but you're too 
 free. If you stood in front of the curtain and see the 
 public's faces as I do, you'd know human natur' better." 
 
 " Ah ! it's been the spoiling of you, Tommy, your taking 
 to that branch," rejoined his companion. "When you 
 played the ghost in the reg'lar drama in the fairs, you be- 
 lieved in everything — except ghosts. But now you're a 
 universal mistruster. / never see a man so changed." 
 
 "Never mind," said Mr. Codlin, with the air of a dis- 
 contented philosopher. " I know better now, and p'raps 
 I'm sorry for it." 
 
 Turning over the figures in the box like one who knew, 
 and despised them, Mr. Codlin drew one forth and held it 
 up for the inspection of his friend : 
 
 " Look here ; here's all this Judy's clothes falling to 
 pieces again. You haven't got a needle and thread I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 The little man shook his head, and scratched it ruefully 
 as he contemplated this severe indisposition of a principal 
 performer. Seeing that they were at a loss, the child said 
 timidly : 
 
 " I have a needle, Sir, in my basket, and thread too. 
 Will you let me try to mend it fox you ? I think I can do 
 it neater than you could." 
 
 Even Mr. Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal 
 
9 6 
 
 so seasonable. Nelly, kneeling down beside the box, was 
 soon busily engaged in her task, and accomplishing it to a 
 miracle. 
 
 While she was thus engaged, the merry little man looked 
 at her with an interest which did not appear to be dimin- 
 ished when he glanced at her helpless companion. When 
 she had finished her work he thanked her, and inquired 
 whither they were traveling. 
 
 " N— no further to-night, I think," said the child, look- 
 ing towards her grandfather. 
 
 " If you're wanting a place to stop at," the man re- 
 marked, "I should advise you to take up at the same 
 house with us. That's it — the long, low, white house 
 there. It's very cheap." 
 
 The old man, notwithstanding his fatigue, would have 
 remained in the churchyard all night if his new acquaint- 
 ances had stayed there too. As he yielded to this sugges- 
 tion a ready and rapturous assent, they all rose and 
 walked away together; he keeping close to the box of 
 puppets in which he was quite absorbed, the merry little 
 man carrying it slung over his arm by a strap attached to 
 it for the purpose, Nelly having hold of her grandfather's 
 hand, and Mr. Codlin sauntering slowly behind, casting 
 up at the church tower and neighboring trees such looks 
 as he was accustomed in town practice to direct to draw- 
 ing-room and nursery windows, when seeking for a profit- 
 able spot on which to plant the show. 
 
 The public house was kept by a fat old landlord and 
 landlady who made no objection to receiving their new 
 guests, but praised Nelly's beauty and were at once pre- 
 possessed in her behalf. There was no other company in 
 the kitchen but the two showmen, and the child felt very 
 thankful that they had fallen upon such good quarters. 
 The landlady was very much astonished to learn that they 
 had come all the way from London, and appeared to have 
 
97 
 
 no little curiosity touching their farther destination. The 
 child parried her inquiries as well as she could, and with 
 no great trouble, for finding that they appeared to give 
 her pain, the old lady desisted. 
 
 " These two gentlemen have ordered supper in an 
 hour's time," she said, taking her into the bar; "and your 
 best plan will be to sup with them. Meantime you shall 
 have a little taste of something that'll do you good, for 
 I'm sure you must want it after all you've gone through 
 to-day. Now, don't look after the old gentleman, because 
 when you've drunk that, he shall have some too." 
 
 As nothing could induce the child to leave him alone, 
 however, or to touch anything in which he was not the 
 first and greatest sharer, the old lady was obliged to help 
 him first. When they had been thus refreshed, the whole 
 house hurried away into an empty stable where the show 
 stood, and where, by the light of a few flaring candles 
 stuck round a hoop which hung by a line from the ceiling, 
 it was to be forthwith exhibited. 
 
 And now Mr. Thomas Codlin, the misanthrope, after 
 blowing away at the Pan's pipes until he was intensely 
 wretched, took his station on one side of the checked 
 drapery which concealed the mover of the figures, and 
 putting his hands in his pockets prepared to reply to all 
 questions and remarks of Punch, and to make a dismal 
 feint of being his most intimate private friend, of believ- 
 ing in him to the fullest and most unlimited extent, of 
 knowing that he enjoyed day and night a merry and glori- 
 ous existence in that temple, and that he was at all times 
 and under every circumstance the same intelligent and 
 joyful person that the spectators then beheld him. All 
 this Mr. Codlin did with the air of a man who had made 
 up his mind for the worst and was quite resigned ; his eye 
 slowly wandered about during the briskest repartee to ob- 
 serve the effect upon the audience, and particularly the 
 
 Little Ncll.—T. 
 
9 8 
 
 impression made upon the landlord and landlady, which 
 might be productive of very important results in connec- 
 tion with the supper. 
 
 Upon this head, however, he had no cause for any 
 anxiety, for the whole performance was applauded to the 
 echo, and voluntary contributions were showered in with 
 a liberality which testified yet more strongly to the general 
 delight. Among the laughter none was more loud and 
 frequent than the old man's. Nell's was unheard, for she, 
 poor child, with her head droop/ng on his shoulder, had 
 fallen asleep, and slept too soundly to be roused by any 
 of his efforts to awaken her to a participation in his glee. 
 
 The supper was very good, but she was too tired to eat, 
 and yet would not leave the old man until she had kissed 
 him in his bed. He, happily insensible to every care and 
 anxiety, sat listening with a vacant smile and admiring 
 face to all that his new friends said ; and it was not until 
 they retired yawning to their room, that he followed the 
 child upstairs. 
 
 It was but a loft partitioned into two compartments, 
 where they were to rest, but they were well pleased with 
 their lodging and had hoped for none so good. The old 
 man was uneasy when he had lain down, and begged that 
 Nell would come and sit at his bedside as she had done 
 for so many nights. She hastened to him, and sat there 
 till he slept. 
 
 There was a little window, hardly more than a chink in 
 the wall, in her room, and when she left him, she opened 
 it, quite wondering at the silence. The sight of the old 
 church and the graves about it in the moonlight, and the 
 dark trees whispering among themselves, made her more 
 thoughtful than before. She closed the window again, 
 and sitting down upon the bed, thought of the life that was 
 before them. 
 
 She had-a little money, but it was very little, and when 
 
99 
 
 that was gone, they must begin to beg. There was one 
 piece of gold among it, and an emergency might come 
 when its worth to them would be increased a hundred 
 fold. It would be best to hide this coin, and never pro- 
 duce it unless their case was absolutely desperate, and no 
 other resource was left them. 
 
 Her resolution taken, she sewed the piece of gold into 
 her dress, and going to bed with a lighter heart sank into 
 a deep slumber. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH. 
 
 Another bright day shining in through the small case- 
 ment, and claiming fellowship with the kindred eyes of 
 the child, awoke her. At sight of the strange room and 
 its unaccustomed objects she started up in alarm, wonder- 
 ing how she had been moved from the familiar chamber 
 in which she seemed to have fallen asleep last night, and 
 whither she had been conveyed. But another glance 
 around called to her mind all that had lately passed, and 
 she sprang from her bed, hoping and trustful. 
 
 It was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she 
 walked out into the churchyard, brushing the dew from 
 the long grass with her feet, and often turning aside into 
 places where it grew longer than in others, that she might 
 not tread upon the graves. She felt a curious kind of 
 pleasure in lingering among these houses of the dead, and 
 read the inscriptions on the tombs of the good people (a 
 great number of good people were buried there), passing 
 on from one to another with increasing interest. 
 
 It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, 
 save for the cawing of the rooks who had built their nests 
 among the branches of some tall old trees, and were call- 
 ing to one another, high up in the air. First one sleek 
 
100 
 
 bird, hovering near his ragged house as it swung and 
 dangled in the wind, uttered his hoarse cry, quite by 
 chance as it would seem, and in a sober tone as though he 
 were but talking to himself. Another answered, and he 
 called again, but louder than before ; then another spoke 
 and then another ; and each time the first, aggravated by 
 contradiction, insisted on his case more strongly. 
 
 Frequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these 
 sounds came down and feeling as though they made the 
 place more quiet than perfect silence would have done, the 
 child loitered from grave to grave, now stopping to 
 replace with careful hands the bramble which had started 
 from some green mound it help to keep in shape, and now 
 peeping through one of the low latticed windows into the 
 church, with its worm-eaten books upon the desks, and 
 baize of whitened green moldering from the pew sides 
 and leaving the naked wood to view. 
 
 After lingering here awhile, the child thoughtfully 
 retraced her steps. 
 
 The old man was by this time up and dressed. Mr. 
 Codlin, still doomed to contemplate the harsh realities of 
 existence, was packing among his linen the candle ends 
 which had been saved from the previous night's perform- 
 ance ; while his companion received the compliments of 
 all the loungers in the stable yard, who, unable to separate 
 him from the master mind of Punch, set him down as next 
 in importance to that merry outlaw, and loved him 
 scarcely less. When he had sufficiently acknowledged his 
 popularity he came in to breakfast, at which meal they all 
 sat down together. 
 
 " And where are you going to-day ? " said the little 
 man, addressing himself to Nell. 
 
 " Indeed I hardly know, — we have not determined yet," 
 replied the child. 
 
 " We're going on to the races," said the little man. 
 
IOI 
 
 " If that's your way and you like to have us for com- 
 pany, let us travel together. If you prefer going alone, 
 only say the word and you'll find that we shan't trouble 
 you." 
 
 "We'll go with you," said the old man, "Nell, — with 
 them, with them." 
 
 The child considered for a moment, and reflecting that 
 she must shortly beg, and could scarcely hope to do so at 
 a better place than where crowds of rich ladies and gentle- 
 men were assembled together for purposes of enjoyment 
 and festivity, determined to accompany these men so far. 
 She therefore thanked the little man for his offer, and 
 said, glancing timidly towards his friend, that if there was 
 no objection to their accompanying them as far as the 
 race town — 
 
 " Objection ! " said the little man. " Now be gracious 
 for once, Tommy, and say that you'd rather they went 
 with us. I know you would. -Be gracious, Tommy." 
 
 " Trotters,' said Mr. Codlin, who talked very slowly 
 and eat very greedily, as is not uncommon with philoso- 
 phers and misanthropes ; " you're too free." 
 
 " Why, what harm can it do ? " urged the other. 
 
 " No harm at all in this particular case, perhaps," re- 
 plied Mr. Codlin ; " but the principle's a dangerous one, 
 and you're too free I tell you." 
 
 " Well, are they to go with us or not ? " 
 
 " Yes, they are," said Mr. Codlin ; " but you might have 
 made a favor of it, mightn't you ? " 
 
 The real name of the little man was Harris, but it had 
 gradually merged into the less euphonious one of Trotters, 
 which, with the prefatory adjective, Short, had been con- 
 ferred upon him by reason of the small size of his legs. 
 Short Trotters, however, being a compound name, incon- 
 venient of use in friendly dialogue, the gentleman on whom 
 it had been bestowed was known among his intimates- 
 
102 
 
 either as " Short," or " Trotters," and was seldom ac- 
 costed at full length as Short Trotters, except in formal 
 conversations and on occasions of ceremony. 
 
 Breakfast being at length over, Mr. Codlin called the 
 bill, and divided the sum total into two fair and equal 
 parts, assigning one moiety to himself and friend, and the 
 other to Nelly and her grandfather. These being duly 
 discharged and all things ready for their departure, they 
 took farewell of the landlord and landlady and resumed 
 their journey. 
 
 And here Mr. Codlin's false position in society and the 
 effect it wrought upon his wounded spirit, were strongly 
 illustrated ; for whereas he had been last night accosted 
 by Mr. Punch as " master," and had by inference left the 
 audience to understand that he maintained that individual 
 for his own luxurious entertainment and delight, here he 
 was, now, painfully walking beneath the burden of that 
 same Punch's temple, and bearing it bodily upon his 
 shoulders on a sultry day and along a dusty road. In 
 place of enlivening his patron with a constant fire of wit 
 or the cheerful rattle of his quarterstaff on the heads of 
 his relations and acquaintance, here was that beaming 
 Punch utterly devoid of spine, all slack and drooping in a 
 dark box, with his legs doubled up round his neck, and 
 not one of his social qualities remaining. 
 
 Mr. Codlin trudged heavily on, exchanging a word or 
 two at intervals with Short, and stopping to rest and growl 
 occasionally. Short led the way ; with the flat box, 
 the private luggage (which was not extensive) tied up 
 in abundle, and a brazen trumpet slung from his 
 shoulder blade. Nell and her grandfather walked next 
 him on either hand, and Thomas Codlin brought up the 
 rear. 
 
 When they came to any town or village, or even to a de- 
 tached house of good appearance, Short blew a blast upon 
 
103 
 
 the brazen trumpet and caroled a fragment of a song in 
 that hilarious tone common to Punches and their consorts. 
 If people hurried to the windows, Mr. Codlin pitched 
 the temple, and hastily unfurling the drapery and conceal- 
 ing Short therewith, flourished hysterically on- the pipes 
 and performed an air. Then the entertainment began as' 
 soon as might be ; Mr. Codlin having the responsibility of 
 deciding on its length and of protracting or expediting the 
 time for the hero's final triumph over the Enemy of man- 
 kind, according as he judged that the aftercrop of half- 
 pence would be plentiful or scant. When it had been 
 gathered in to the last farthing, he resumed his load and 
 on they went again. 
 
 They made a long day's journey, despite these interrup- 
 tions, and were yet upon the road when the moon was 
 shining in the sky. Short beguiled the time with songs and 
 jests, and made the best of everything that happened. Mr. 
 Codlin, on the other hand, cursed his fate, and all the hol- 
 low things of earth (but Punch especially), and limped 
 along with the theater on his back, a prey to the bitterest 
 chagrin. 
 
 They had stopped to rest beneath a finger post where 
 four roads met, and Mr. Codlin in his deep misanthropy 
 had let down the drapery and seated himself in the bottom 
 of the show, invisible to mortal eyes and disdainful of the 
 company of his fellow-creatures, when two monstrous 
 shadows were seen stalking towards them from a turning in 
 the road by which they had come. The child was at first 
 quite terrified by the sight of these gaunt giants — for such 
 they looked as they advanced with lofty strides beneath 
 the shadow of the trees — but Short, telling her there was 
 nothing to fear, blew a blast upon the trumpet, which was 
 answered by a cheerful shout. 
 
 " It's Grinder's lot, an't it? " cried Mr, Short in a loud 
 key. 
 
104 
 
 " Yes," replied a couple of shrill voices. 
 
 " Come on then," said SJjort. " Let's have a look at; 
 you. I thought it was you." 
 
 Thus invited, " Grinder's lot" approached with re-; 
 doubled speed and soon came up with the little party.i 
 Mr. Grinder's company, familiarly termed a lot, consisted 
 of a young gentleman and a young lady on stilts, and Mr. 
 Grinder himself, who used his natural legs for pedestrian 
 purposes and carried at his back a drum. The public cos- 
 tume of the young people was of the Highland kind, but 
 the night being damp and cold, the young gentleman wore 
 over his kilt a man's pea-jacket reaching to his ankles and 
 a glazed hat ; the young lady too was muffled in an old 
 cloth pelisse and had a handkerchief tied about her head. 
 Their Scotch bonnets, ornamented with plumes of jet 
 black feathers, Mr. Grinder carried on his instrument. 
 
 " Bound for the races, I see," said Mr. Grinder coming 
 up out of breath. "So are we. How are you, Short ?" 
 With that they shook hands in a very friendly manner. 
 The young people being too high up for the ordinary sal- 
 utations, saluted Short after their own fashion. The 
 young gentleman twisted up his right stilt and patted 
 him on the shoulder, and the young lady rattled her tam- 
 bourine. 
 
 " Practice ? " said Short pointing to the stilts. 
 
 " No," returned Grinder. " It comes either to walkin' 
 in 'em or carryin' of 'em, and they like walkin' in 'em 
 best. It's wery pleasant for the prospects. Which road 
 are you takin' ? We go the nighest." 
 
 " Why, the fact is," said Short, " that we were going 
 the longest way, because then we could stop for the night, 
 a mile and a half on. But three or four miles gained to- 
 night is so many saved to-morrow, and if you keep on, I 
 think our best way is to do the same." 
 
 " Where's your partner ?" inquired Grinder, 
 
105 
 
 " Here he is," cried Mr. Thomas Codliti, presenting his 
 head and face in the proscenium of the stage, and ex- 
 hibiting an expression of countenance not often seen there ; 
 " and he'll see his partner boiled alive before he'll go on 
 to-night. That's what he says." 
 
 " Well, don't say such things as them, in a spear which 
 is dewoted to something pleasanter," urged Short. " Re- 
 spect associations, Tommy, even if you do cut up rough." 
 
 " Rough or smooth," said Mr. Codlin, beating his hand 
 on the little footboard where Punch, when suddenly 
 struck with the symmetry of his legs and their capacity 
 for silk stockings, is accustomed to exhibit them to popu- 
 lar admiration, " rough or smooth, I won't go further than 
 the mile and a half to-night. I put up at the Jolly Sand- 
 boys and nowhere else. If you like to come there, come 
 there. If you like to go on by yourself, go on by yourself, 
 and do without me if you can." 
 
 So saying, Mr. Codlin disappeared from the scene and 
 immediately presented himself outside the theater, took 
 it on his shoulders at a jerk, and made off with most re- 
 markable agility. 
 
 Any further controversy being now out of the question, 
 Short was fain to part with Mr. Grinder and his pupils 
 and to follow his morose companion. After lingering at 
 the finger post for a few minutes to see the stilts frisking 
 away in the moonlight and the bearer of the drum toiling 
 slowly after them, he blew a few notes upon the trumpet 
 as a parting salute, and hastened with all speed to follow 
 Mr. Codlin. With this view he gave his unoccupied hand 
 to Nell, and bidding her be of good cheer as they would 
 soon be at the end of their journey for that night, and 
 stimulating the old man with a similar assurance, led 
 them at a pretty swift pace towards their destination, 
 which he was the less unwilling to make for, as the moon 
 was now overcast and the clouds were threatening ram, 
 
io6 
 
 CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. 
 
 The Jolly Sandboys was a small roadside inn of pretty 
 ancient date, with a sign representing three Sanboys in- 
 creasing their jollity with as many bags of gold, creaking 
 and swinging on its post on the opposite side of the road. 
 As the travelers had observed that day many indications 
 of their drawing nearer and nearer to the race town, such 
 as gypsy camps, carts laden with gambling booths and 
 their appurtenances, itinerant showmen of various kinds, 
 and beggars and trampers of every degree, all wending 
 their way in the same direction, Mr. Codlin was fearful of 
 finding the accommodations forestalled ; this fear increas- 
 ing as he diminished the distance between himself and the 
 hostelry, he quickened his pace, and notwithstanding the 
 burden he had to carry, maintained a round trot until he 
 reached the threshold. Here he had the gratification of 
 finding that his fears were without foundation, for tne 
 landlord was leaning against the door post looking lazily 
 at the rain, which had by this time begun to descend 
 heavily, and no tinkling of cracked bell, nor boisterous 
 shout, nor noisy chorus, gave note of company within. 
 
 " All alone ? " said Mr. Codlin, putting down his burden 
 and wiping his forehead. 
 
 " All alone as yet," rejoined the landlord, glancing at 
 the sky, "but we shall have more company to-night I ex- 
 pect. Here one of you boys, carry that show into the 
 barn. Make haste in out of the wet, Tom ; when it came 
 on to rain I told 'em to make the fire up, and there's a 
 glorious blaze in the kitchen, I can tell you." 
 
 Mr. Codlin followed with a willing mind, and soon 
 found that the landlord had not commended his prepara- 
 tions without good reason. A mighty fire was blazing on 
 the hearth and roaring up the wide chimney with a cheer- 
 
io7 
 
 ful sound, which a large iron caldron, bubbling and sim- 
 mering in the heat, lent its pleasant aid to swell. There 
 was a deep red ruddy blush upon the room, and when the 
 landlord stirred the fire, sending the flames skipping and 
 leaping up — when he took off the lid of the iron pot and 
 there rushed out a savory smell, while the bubbling 
 sound grew deeper and more rich, and an unctuous steam 
 came floating out, hanging in a delicious mist above their 
 heads — when he did this, Mr. Codlin's heart was touched. 
 He sat down in the chimney corner and smiled. 
 
 Mr. Codlin sat smiling in the chimney corner, eyeing 
 the landlord as with a roguish look he held the cover in 
 his hand, and, feigning that his doing so was needful to 
 the welfare of the cookery, suffered the delightful steam 
 to tickle the nostrils of his guest. The glow of the fire 
 was upon the landlord's bald head, and upon his twinkling 
 eye, and upon his watering mouth, and upon his pimpled 
 face, and upon his round fat figure. Mr. Codlin drew his 
 sleeve across his lips, and said in a murmuring voice, 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " It's a stew of tripe," said the landlord smacking his 
 lips, " and cow heel," smacking them again, " and bacon," 
 smacking them once more, "and steak," smacking them 
 for the fourth time, "and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes, 
 and sparrowgrass, all working up together in one de- 
 licious gravy." Having come to the climax, he smacked 
 his lips a great many times, and taking a long hearty 
 sniff of the fragrance that was hovering about, put on the 
 cover again with the air of one whose toils on earth were 
 over. 
 
 " At what time will it be ready ? " asked Mr. Codlin 
 faintly. 
 
 " It'll be done to a turn," said the landlord looking up 
 at the clock — and the very clock had a color in its fat 
 white face, and looked a clock for Jolly Sandboys to 
 
io8 
 
 consult — " it'll be done to a turn at twenty-two minutes 
 before eleven." 
 
 "Then," said Mr. Codlin, "don't let anybody bring 
 into the room even so much as a biscuit till the time 
 arrives." 
 
 Mr. Codlin now bethought him of his companions, and 
 acquainted mine host of the Sandboys that their arrival 
 might be shortly looked for. The rain was rattling 
 against the windows and pouring down in torrents, and 
 such was Mr. Codlin's extreme amiability of mind, that 
 he more than once expressed his earnest hope that they 
 would not be so foolish as to get wet. 
 
 At length they arrived, drenched with the rain and 
 presenting a most miserable appearance, notwithstanding 
 that Short had sheltered the child as well as he could 
 under the skirts of his own coat, and they were nearly 
 breathless from the haste they had made. But their 
 steps were no sooner heard upon the road than the land- 
 lord, who had been at the outer door anxiously watching 
 for their coming, rushed into the kitchen and took the 
 cover off. The effect was electrical. They all came in 
 with smiling faces, though the wet was dripping from 
 their clothes upon the floor, and Short's first remark was, 
 " What a delicious smell ! " 
 
 It is not very difficult to forget rain and mud by the 
 side of a cheerful fire, and in a bright room. They were 
 furnished with slippers and such dry garments as the 
 house or their own bundles afforded ; and ensconcing 
 themselves, as Mr. Codlin had already done, in the warm 
 chimney corner, soon forgot their late troubles or only 
 remembered them as enhancing the delights of the 
 present time. Overpowered by the warmth and comfort 
 and the fatigue they had undergone, Nelly and the old 
 man had not long taken their seats here, when they fell 
 asleep. 
 
109 
 
 " Who are they ?" whispered the landlord. 
 
 Short shook his head, and wished he knew himself. 
 
 " Don't you know ? " asked the host, turning to Mr. 
 Codlin. 
 
 " Not I," he replied. " They're no good, I suppose." 
 
 " They're no harm," said Short. " Depend upon that.- 
 I tell you what — it's plain that the old man an't in his 
 right mind — " 
 
 " If you haven't got anything newer than that to say," 
 growled Mr. Codlin, glancing at the clock, " you'd better 
 let us fix our minds upon the supper, and not disturb us." 
 
 " Hear me out, won't you ! " retorted his friend. " It's 
 very plain to me, besides, that they're not used to this 
 way of life. Don't tell me that that handsome child has 
 been in the habit of prowling about as she's done these 
 last two or three days. I know better." 
 
 " Well, who does tell you she has ? " growled Mr. Codlin, 
 again glancing at the clock and from it to the caldron, 
 " can't you think of anything more suitable to present 
 circumstances than saying things and then contradicting 
 'em?" 
 
 " I wish somebody would give you your supper," 
 returned Short, " for there'll be no peace till you've got 
 it. Have you seen how anxious the old man is to get on 
 — always wanting to be furder away — furder away. 
 Have you seen that ? " 
 
 " Ah ! what then ? " muttered Thomas Codlin. 
 
 " This, then," said Short. " He has given his friends 
 the slip. Mind what I say, — he has given his friends the 
 slip, and persuaded this delicate young creetur all along 
 of her fondness for him to be his guide and traveling 
 companion — where to, he knows no more than the Man 
 in the Moon. Now, I'm not a going to stand that." 
 
 " You're not a going to stand that ! " cried Mr. Codlin, 
 glanckig at the clock again and pulling his hair with both 
 
no 
 
 hands in a kind of frenzy, but whether occasioned by his 
 companion's observation or the tardy pace of Time, it 
 was difficult to determine. " Here's a world to live in ! " 
 
 " I," repeated Short emphatically and slowly, " am not 
 a going to stand it. I am not a going to see this fair 
 .young child a falling into bad hands, and getting among 
 people that she's no more fit for, than they are to get 
 among angels as their ordinary chums. Therefore when 
 they dewelope an intention of parting company from us, 
 I shall take measures for detaining of 'em, and restoring 
 'em to their friends, who I dare say have had their dis- 
 consolation pasted up on every wall in London by this 
 time." 
 
 "Short," said Mr. Codlin, who with his head upon his 
 hands, and his elbows on his knees, had been shaking 
 himself impatiently from side to side up to this point and 
 occasionally stamping on the ground, but who now looked 
 up with eager eyes ; " it's possible that there may be un- 
 common good sense in what you've said. If there is, and 
 there should be a reward, Short, remember that we're 
 partners in everything ! " 
 
 His companion had only time to nod a brief assent to 
 this position, for the child awoke at the instant. They 
 had drawn close together during the previous whispering, 
 and now hastily separated and were rather awkwardly 
 endeavoring to exchange some casual remarks in their 
 usual tone, when strange footsteps were heard without, 
 and fresh company entered. 
 
 These were no other than four very dismal dogs, who 
 came pattering in one after the other, headed by an old 
 bandy dog of particularly mournful aspect, who, stopping 
 when the last of his followers had got as far as the door, 
 erected himself upon his hind legs and looked round at 
 his companions, who immediately stood upon their hind 
 legs, in a grave and melancholy row. Nor was this the 
 
Ill 
 
 only remarkable circumstance about these dogs, for each 
 of them wore a kind of little coat of some gaudy color 
 trimmed with tarnished spangles, and one of them had a 
 cap upon his head, tied very carefully under his chin, 
 which had fallen down upon his nose and completely 
 obscured one eye ; add to this, that the gaudy coats 
 were all wet through and discolored with rain, and that 
 the wearers were splashed and dirty, and some idea may 
 be formed of the unusual appearance of these new visitors 
 to the Jolly Sandboys. 
 
 Neither Short nor the landlord nor Thomas Codlin, 
 however, were the least surprised, merely remarking that 
 these were Jerry's dogs and that Jerry could not be far 
 behind. So there the dogs stood, patiently winking and 
 gaping and looking . extremely hard at the boiling pot, 
 until Jerry himself appeared, when they all dropped down 
 at once and walked about the room in their natural 
 manner. This posture it must be confessed did not much 
 improve their appearance, as their own personal tails and 
 their coat tails — both capital things in their way — did not 
 agree together. 
 
 Jerry, the manager of these dancing dogs, was a tall 
 black-whiskered man in a velveteen coat, who seemed 
 well known to the landlord and his guests and accosted 
 them with great cordiality. Disencumbering himself of a 
 barrel organ which he placed upon a chair, and retaining 
 in his hand a small whip wherewith to awe his company 
 of comedians, he came up to the fire to dry himself, and 
 entered into conversation. 
 
 "Your people don't usually travel in character, do 
 they ? " said Short, pointing to the dresses of the dogs. 
 " It must come expensive if they do ? " 
 
 " No," replied Jerry, " no, it's not the custom with us. 
 But we've been playing a little on the road to-day, and 
 we come out with a new wardrobe at the races, so I didn't 
 think it worth while to stop to undress. Down, Pedro ! " 
 
112 
 
 This was addressed to the dog with the cap on, who be- 
 ing a new member of the company and not quite certain 
 of his duty, kept his unobscured eye anxiously on his 
 master, and was perpetually starting upon his hind legs 
 when there was no occasion, and falling down again. 
 
 " I've got a animal here/' said Jerry, putting his hand 
 into the capacious pocket of his coat, and diving into one 
 corner as if be were feeling for a small orange or an 
 apple or some such article, "a animal here, wot I think . 
 you know something of, Short." 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Short, " let's have a look at him." 
 
 " Here he is," said Jerry, producing a little terrier from 
 his pocket. "He was once a Toby of yours, warn't he ! " 
 
 In some versions of the great drama of Punch there is 
 a small dog — a modern innovation — supposed to be the 
 private property of that gentleman, whose name is always 
 Toby. This Toby has been stolen in youth from another 
 gentleman, and fraudulently sold to the confiding hero, 
 who having no guile himself has no suspicion that it lurks 
 in others ; but Toby, entertaining a grateful recollection 
 of his old master, and scorning to attach himself to any 
 new patrons, not only refuses to smoke a pipe at the bid- 
 ding of Punch, but to mark his old fidelity more strongly, 
 seizes him by the nose and wrings the same with violence, 
 at which instance of canine attachment the spectators are 
 deeply affected. This was the character which the little 
 terrier in question had once sustained ; if there had been, 
 any doubt upon the subject he would speedily have re- 
 solved it by his conduct ; for not only did he, on seeing 
 Short, give the strongest tokens of recognition, but catch- 
 ing sight of the flat box he barked so furiously at the 
 pasteboard nose which he knew was inside, that his mas- 
 ter was obliged to gather him up and put him into his 
 pocket again, to the great relief of the whole company. 
 
 The landlord now busied himself in laying the cloth, in 
 which process Mr. Codlin obligingly assisted by setting 
 
H3 
 
 forth his own knife and fork in the most convenient place 
 and establishing himself behind them. When everything 
 was ready, the landlord took off the cover for the last 
 time, and then indeed there burst forth such a goodly 
 promise of supper, that if he had offered to put it on 
 again or had hinted at postponement, he would certainly 
 have been sacrificed on his own hearth. 
 
 However, he did nothing of the kind, but instead 
 thereof assisted a stout servant-girl in turning the con- 
 tents of the caldron into a large tureen ; a proceeding 
 which the dogs, proof against various hot splashes which 
 fell upon their noses, watched with terrible eagerness. 
 At length the dish was lifted on the table, little Nell ven- 
 tured to say grace, and supper began. 
 
 At this juncture the poor dogs were standing on their 
 hind legs quite surprisingly ; the child, having pity on 
 them, was about to cast some morsels of food to them be- 
 fore she tasted it herself, hungry though she was, when 
 their master interposed. 
 
 " No, my dear, no, not an atom from anybody's hand 
 but mine if you please. That dog," said Jerry, pointing 
 out the old leader of the troop, and speaking in a terrible 
 voice, "lost a halfpenny to-day. He goes without his 
 supper." 
 
 The unfortunate creature dropped upon his fore legs <fi-' 
 rectly, wagged his tail, and looked imploringly at his mas- 
 ter. 
 
 "You must be more careful, Sir," said Jerry, walking 
 coolly to the chair where he had placed the organ, and 
 setting the top. " Come here. Now, Sir, you play away 
 at that, while we have supper, and leave off if you dare.'' 
 
 The dog immediately began to grind most mournful 
 music. His master having shown him the whip resumed 
 his seat and called up the others, who, at his directions, 
 formed in a row. standing upright as a file of soldiers. 
 Little MI/.—&. 
 
114 
 
 " Now, gentlemen," said Jerry, looking at them atten- 
 tively. " The dog whose name's called, eats. The dogs 
 whose names an't called, keep quiet. Carlo ! " 
 
 The lucky individual whose name was called, snapped 
 up the morsel thrown towards him, but none of the others 
 moved a muscle. In this manner they were fed at the 
 discretion of their master. Meanwhile the dog in dis- 
 grace ground hard at the organ, sometimes in quick time, 
 sometimes in slow, but never leaving off for an instant. 
 When the knives and forks rattled very much, or any of 
 his fellows got an unusually large piece of fat, he accom- 
 panied the music with a short howl, but he immediately 
 checked it on his master looking round, and applied him- 
 self with increased diligence to the Old Hundredth. 
 
 CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. 
 
 Supper was not yet over, when there arrived at the 
 Jolly Sandboys two more travelers bound for the same 
 haven as the rest, who had been walking in the rain for 
 some hours, and came in shining and heavy with water. 
 One of these was the proprietor of a giant, and a little 
 lady without iegs or arms, who had jogged forward in a 
 van ; the other, a silent gentleman who earned his living 
 by showing tricks upon the cards, and who had rather de- 
 ranged the natural expression of his countenance by put- 
 ting small leaden lozenges into his eyes and bringing 
 them out at his mouth, which was one of his professional 
 accomplishments. The name of the first of these new- 
 comers was Vuffin ; the other, probably as a pleasant 
 satire upon his ugliness, was called Sweet William. To 
 render them as comfortable as he could, the landlord be- 
 stirred himself nimbly, and in a very short time both 
 gentlemen were perfectly at their ease. 
 
us 
 
 "How's the Giant?" said Short, when they all sat 
 smoking round the fire. 
 
 " Rather weak upon his legs," returned Mr. Vuffin. " I 
 begin to be afraid he's going at the knees." 
 
 " That's a bad lookout," said Short. 
 
 " Ay ! Bad indeed," replied Mr. Vuffin, contemplating 
 the fire with a sigh. " Once get a giant shaky on his legs, 
 and the public care no more about him than they do for a 
 dead cabbage stalk." 
 
 " What becomes of the old giants ? " said Short, turning 
 to him again after a little reflection. 
 
 "They're usually kept in carawans to wait upon the 
 dwarfs," said Mr. Vuffin. 
 
 " The maintaining of 'em must come expensive, when 
 they can't be shown, eh?" remarked Short, eyeing him 
 doubtfully. 
 
 " It's better that, than letting 'em go upon the parish 
 or about the streets," said Mr. Vuffin. "Once make a 
 giant common and giants will never draw again. Look at 
 wooden legs. If there was only one man with a wooden 
 leg what a property he'6. be ! " 
 
 " So he would ! " observed the landlord and Short both 
 together. " That's very true." 
 
 " Instead of which," pursued Mr. Vuffin, " if you was 
 to advertise Shakspeare played entirely by wooden legs, 
 it's my belief you wouldn't draw a sixpence." 
 
 "I don't suppose you would," said Short. And the 
 landlord said so too. 
 
 " This shows, you see," said Mr. Vuffin, waving his 
 pipe with an argumentative air, "this shows the policy of 
 keeping the used-up giants still in the carawans, where 
 they get food and lodging for nothing, all their lives, and 
 in general very glad they are to stop there. There was 
 one giant — a black 'un — as left his carawan some years 
 ago and took to carrying coach bills about London, making 
 
n6 
 
 himself as cheap as crossing sweepers. He died. I make 
 no insinuation against anybody in particular," said Mr. 
 Vuffin, looking solemnly round, " but he was ruining the 
 trade ; — and he died." 
 
 The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the 
 owner of the dogs, who nodded and said gruffly that he 
 remembered. 
 
 " I know you do, Jerry," said Mr. Vuffin with profound 
 meaning. " I know you remember it, Jerry, and the un- 
 iversal opinion was, that it served him right. Why, I re- 
 member the time when old Maunders as had three-and- 
 twenty wans — I remember the time when old Maunders 
 had in his cottage in Spa Fields in the winter time when 
 the season was over, eight male and female dwarfs setting 
 down to dinner every day, who was waited on by eight 
 old giants in green coats, red smalls, blue cotton stock- 
 ings, and high-lows : and there was one dwarf as had 
 grown elderly and wicious who whenever his giant wasn't 
 quick enough to please him, used to stick pins in his legs, 
 not being able to reach up any higher. I know that's a 
 fact, for Maunders told it me himself." 
 
 " What about the dwarfs, when they get old ? " inquired 
 the landlord. 
 
 " The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is," returned 
 Mr. Vuffin ; " a gray-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is be- 
 yond all suspicion. But a giant weak in the legs and not 
 standing upright ! — keep him in the carawan, but never 
 show him, never shdw him, for any persuasion that can 
 be offered." 
 
 While Mr. Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes 
 and beguiled the time with such conversation as this, the 
 silent gentleman sat in a warm corner, swallowing, or 
 seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth of halfpence for 
 practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehears- 
 ing other feats of dexterity of that kind, without paying 
 
ii7 
 
 any regard whatever to the company, who in their turn 
 left him utterly unnoticed. At length the weary child 
 prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they with- 
 drew, leaving the company yet seated round the fire, and 
 the dogs fast asleep at a humble distance. 
 
 After bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to 
 her poor garret, but had scarcely closed the door, when 
 it was gently tapped at. She opened it directly, and was 
 a little startled by the sight of Mr. Thomas Codlin, whom 
 she had left, to all appearance, fast asleep downstairs. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " said the child. 
 
 " Nothing's the matter, my dear," returned her visitor. 
 " I'm your friend. Perhaps you haven't thought so, but 
 it's me that's your friend — not him." 
 
 " Not who? " the child inquired. 
 
 " Short, my dear. I tell you what," said Codlin, " for 
 all his having a kind of way with him that you'd be very 
 apt to like, I'm the real, open-hearted man. I mayn't 
 look it, but I am indeed." 
 
 The child began to be alarmed. 
 
 " Short's very well, and seems kind," resumed the 
 misanthrope, " but he overdoes it. Now I don't." 
 
 Certainly if there were any fault in Mr. Codlin's usual 
 deportment, it was that he rather underdid his kindness 
 to those about him, than overdid it. But the child was 
 puzzled, and could not tell what to say. 
 
 " Take my advice," said Codlin ; " don't ask me why, . 
 but take it. As long as you travel with us, keep as hear 
 me as you can. Don't offer to leave us — not on any ac- 
 count — but always stick to me and say that I'm your 
 friend. Will you bear that in mind, my dear, and always 
 say that it was me that was your friend ?" 
 
 " Say so where, — and when ? " inquired the child in- 
 nocently. 
 
 " Oh, nowhere in particular," replied Codlin, a little put 
 
n8 v 
 
 out as it seemed by the question ; " I'm only anxious 
 that you should think me so, and do me justice. You 
 can't think what an interest I have in you. Why didn't 
 you tell me your little history — that about you and the 
 poor old gentleman ? I'm the best adviser that ever was, 
 and so interested in you — so much more interested than 
 Short. I think they're breaking up downstairs ; you 
 needn't tell Short, you know, that we've had this little 
 talk together. God bless you. Recollect the friend. 
 Codlin's the friend, not Short. Short's very well as far as 
 he goes, but the real friend is Codlin — not Short." 
 
 Eking out these professions with a number of benevo- 
 lent and protecting looks and great fervor of manner, 
 Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe, leaving the child in 
 a state of extreme surprise. She was still ruminating up- 
 on his curious behavior, when the floor of the crazy 
 stairs and landing cracked beneath the tread of the other 
 travelers who were passing to their beds. When they had 
 all passed, and the sound of their footsteps had died 
 away, one of them returned, and after a little hesitation 
 and rustling in the passage, as if he were doubtful what 
 door to knock at, knocked at hers. 
 
 "Yes ?" said the child from within. 
 
 " It's me — Short " — a voice called through the keyhole. 
 " I only wanted to say that we must be off early to-mor- 
 row morning, my dear, because unless we get the start of 
 the dogs and the conjurer, the villages won't be worth a 
 penny. You'll be sure to be stirring early and go with 
 us ? I'll call you." 
 
 The child answered in the affirmative, and returning 
 his "good night" heard him creep away. She felt some 
 uneasiness at the anxiety of these men, increased by the 
 recollection of their whispering together downstairs and 
 their slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she quite 
 free from a misgiving that they were not the fittest com- 
 
H9 
 
 panions she could have stumbled on. Her uneasiness, 
 however, was nothing, weighed against her fatigue ; and 
 she soon forgot it in sleep. 
 
 Very early next morning Short fulfilled his promise, and 
 knocking softly at her door, entreated that she would get 
 up directly, as the proprietor of the dogs was still snor- 
 ing, and if they lost no time they might get a good deal 
 in advance both of him and the conjurer, who was talking 
 in his sleep, and from what he could be heard .to say, 
 appeared to be balancing a donkey in his dreams. She 
 started from her bed without delay, and roused the old 
 man with so much expedition that they were both ready 
 as soon as Short himself, to that gentleman's unspeakable 
 gratification and relief. 
 
 After a very unceremonious and scrambling breakfast, 
 of which the staple commodities were bacon and bread, 
 they took leave of the landlord and issued from the 
 door of the Jolly Sandboys. The morning was fine and 
 warm, the ground cool to the feet after the late rain, the 
 hedges gayer and more green, the air clear, and every- 
 thing fresh and healthful. Surrounded by these in- 
 fluences, they walked on pleasantly enough. 
 
 They had not gone very far, when the child was again 
 struck by the altered behavior of Mr. Thomas Codlin, 
 who instead of plodding on sulkily by himself as he had 
 theretofore done, kept close to her, and when he had an 
 opportunity of looking at her unseen by his companion, 
 warned her by certain wry faces and jerks of the head not 
 to put any trust in Short, but to reserve all confidences 
 for Codlin. Neither did he confine himself to looks and 
 gestures, for when she and her grandfather were walking on 
 beside the aforesaid Short, and that little man was talking 
 with his accustomed, cheerfulness on a variety of indiffer- 
 ent subjects, Thomas Codlin testified his jealousy and dis- 
 trust by following close at her heels, and occasionally ad- 
 
120 
 
 monishing her ankles with the legs of the theater in a 
 very abrupt and painful manner. 
 
 All these proceedings naturally made the child more 
 watchful and suspicious, and she soon observed that 
 whenever they halted to perform outside a village ale- 
 house or other place, Mr. Codlin while he went through 
 his share of the entertainments kept his eye steadily on 
 her and the old man, or with a show at great friendship 
 and consideration invited the latter to lean upon his arm, 
 and so held him tight until the representation was over 
 and they again went forward. Even Short seemed to 
 change in this respect, and to mingle with his good nature 
 something' of a desire to keep them in safe custody. 
 This increased the child's misgivings, and made her yet 
 more anxious and uneasy. 
 
 Meanwhile, they were drawing near the town where 
 the races were to begin next day ; for, from passing nu- 
 merous groups of gypsies and trampers on the road, wend- 
 ing their way towards it, and straggling out from every 
 by-way and cross-country lane, they gradually fell into a 
 stream of people, some walking by the side of covered 
 carts, others with horses, others with donkeys, others 
 toiling on with heavy loads upon their backs, but all tend- 
 ing to the same point. The public houses by the wayside, 
 from being empty and noiseless as those in the remoter 
 parts had been, now sent out boisterous shouts and clouds 
 of smoke ; and, from the misty windows, clusters of 
 broad red faces looked down upon the road. On every 
 piece of waste or common ground, some small gambler 
 drove his noisy trade, and bellowed to the idle passers-by 
 to stop and try their chance ; the crowd grew thicker 
 and more noisy ; gilt gingerbread in blanket stalls ex- 
 posed its glories to the dust ; and often a four-horse car- 
 riage, dashing by, obscured all objects in the gritty cloud 
 it raised, and left them, stunned and blinded, far behind. 
 
121 
 
 It was dark before they reached the town itself, and 
 long indeed the few last miles had been. Here all was 
 tumult and confusion ; the streets were filledwith throngs 
 of people — many strangers were there, it seemed, by the 
 looks they cast about — the church bells rang out their 
 noisy peals, and flags streamed from windows and house 
 tops. In the large inn yards waiters flitted to and fro 
 and ran against each other, horses clattered on the un- 
 even stones, carriage steps fell rattling down, and sicken- 
 ing smells from many dinners came in a heavy lukewarm 
 breath upon the sense. In the smaller public houses, 
 fiddlers with all their might and main were squeaking out 
 the tune to staggering feet ; vagabond groups assembled 
 round the doors to see the stroller woman dance, and add 
 their uproar to the shrill flageolet and deafening drum. 
 
 Through this delirious scene the child, frightened and 
 repelled by all she saw, led on her bewildered charge, 
 clinging close to her conductor, and trembling lest in the 
 press she should be separated from him and left to find 
 her way alone. Quickening their steps to get clear of all 
 the roar and riot, they at length passed through the town 
 and made for the race course, which was upon an open 
 heath, situated on an eminence, a full mile distant from its 
 furthest bounds. 
 
 Although there were many people here, none of the 
 best favored or best clad, busily erecting tents and driv- 
 ing stakes into the ground, and hurrying to and fro with 
 dusty feet and many a grumbled oath — although there 
 were tired children cradled on heaps of straw between 
 the wheels of carts, crying themselves to sleep — and poor 
 lean horses and donkeys just turned loose, grazing among 
 the men and women, and pots and kettles, and half-lighted 
 fires, and ends of candles flaring and wasting in the air — 
 for all this, the Child felt it an escape from the town and 
 drew her breath more freely. After a scanty supper, the 
 
122 
 
 purchase of which reduced her little stock so low, that 
 she had only a few half-pence with which to buy a break- 
 fast on the morrow, she and the old man lay down to rest 
 in a corner of a tent, and slept, despite the busy prepara- 
 tions that were going on around them all night long. 
 
 And now they had come to the time when they must 
 beg their bread. Soon after sunrise in the morning she 
 stole out from the tent, and rambling into some fields at 
 a short distance, plucked a few wild roses and such hum- 
 ble flowers, purposing to make them into little nosegays 
 and offer them to the ladies in the carriages when the 
 company arrived. Her thoughts were not idle while she 
 was thus employed ; when she returned and was seated 
 beside the old man in one corner of the tent, tying her 
 flowers together, while the two men lay dozing in another 
 corner, she plucked him by the sleeve, and slightly glanc- 
 ing towards them, said in a low voice — 
 
 " Grandfather, don't look at those I talk of, and don't 
 seem as if I spoke of anything but what I am about. 
 What was that you told me before we left the old house ? 
 That if they knew what we were going to do, they would 
 say that you were mad, and part us ? " 
 
 The old man turned to her with an aspect of wild terror ; 
 but she checked him by a look, and bidding him hold 
 some flowers while she tied them up, and so bringing her 
 lips closer to his ear, said — 
 
 " I know that was what you told me. You needn't 
 speak, dear. I recollect it very well. It was not likely 
 that I should forget it. Grandfather, these men suspect 
 that we have secretly left our friends, and mean to carry 
 us before some gentleman and have us taken care of and 
 sent back. If you let your hand tremble so, we can never 
 get away from them, but if you're only quiet now, we 
 shall do so, easily." 
 
 " How ? " muttered the old man, " Dear Nelly, how ? 
 
123 
 
 They will shut me up in a stone room, dark and cold, 
 and chain me up to the wall, Nell — flog me with whips, 
 and never let me see thee more ! " 
 
 " You're trembling again," said the child. " Keep close 
 to me all day. Never mind them, don't look at them, but 
 me. I shall find a time when we can steal away. When 
 I do, mind you come with me, and do not stop or speak a 
 word. Hush ! That's all." 
 
 " Halloa ! what are you up to, my dear ? " said Mr. 
 Codlin, raising his head, and yawning. Then observing 
 that his companion was fast asleep, he added in an earnest 
 whisper, "Codlin's the friend, remember — not Short." 
 
 " Making some nosegays," the child replied ; " I am 
 going to try and sell some, these three days of the races. 
 Will you have one — as a present I mean ? " 
 
 Mr. Codlin would have risen to receive it, but the child 
 hurried towards him and placed it in his hand. He 
 stuck it in his buttonhole with an air of ineffable com- 
 placency for a misanthrope, and leering exultingly at the 
 unconscious Short, muttered, as he laid himself down 
 again, " Tom Codlin's the friend ! " 
 
 As the morning wore oh, the tents assumed a gayer 
 and more brilliant appearance, and long lines of carriages 
 come rolling softly on the turf. Men who had lounged 
 about all night in smock frocks and leather leggings, came 
 out in silken vests and hats and plumes, as jugglers or 
 mountebanks ; or in gorgeous liveries as soft-spoken 
 servants at gambling booths ; or in sturdy yeoman 'dress 
 as decoys at unlawful games. Black-eyed gypsy girls,, 
 hooded in showy handkerchiefs, sallied forth to tell for- 
 tunes, and pale slender women with consumptive faces 
 lingered upon the footsteps of ventriloquists and con- 
 jurers, and counted the sixpences with anxious eyes long 
 before they were gained. As many of the children as 
 could be kept within bounds, were stowed away, with aU 
 
124 
 
 the other signs of dirt and poverty, among the donkeys, 
 carts, and horses ; and as many as could not be thus dis- 
 posed of ran in and out in all intricate spots, crept between 
 people's legs and carriage wheels, and came forth un- 
 harmed from under horses' hoofs. The dancing dogs, 
 the stilts, the little /ady and the tall man, and all the 
 other attractions, with organs out of number and bands 
 innumerable, emerged from the holes and corners in 
 which they had passed the night, and nourished boldly in 
 the sun. 
 
 Along the uncleared course, Short led his party, sound- 
 ing the brazen trumpet and revelling in the voice of 
 Punch ; and at his heels went Thomas Codlin, bearing 
 the show as usual, and keeping his eye on Nelly and her 
 grandfather, as they rather lingered in the rear. The child 
 bore upon her arm the little basket with her flowers, and 
 sometimes stopped, with timid and modest looks, to offer 
 them at some gay carriage ; but alas ! there were many 
 bolder beggars there, gypsies who promised husbands, and 
 other adepts in their trade, and although some ladies 
 smiled gently as they shook their heads, and others cried 
 to the jentlcmen beside them " See, what a pretty face ! " 
 they let the pretty face pass on, and never thought that 
 it looked tired or hungry. 
 
 There was but one lady who seemed to understand the 
 child, and she was one who sat alone in a handsone car- 
 riage, while two young men in dashing clothes, who had 
 just dismounted from it, talked and laughed loudly at a 
 little distance, appearing to forget her, quite. There were 
 many ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or 
 looked another way, or at the two young men (not un- 
 favorably at them), and left her to herself. She motioned 
 away a gypsy woman urgent to tell her fortune, saying 
 that it was told already and had been for some years, but 
 called the child towards her, and taking her flowers put 
 
125 
 
 money into her trembling hand, and bade her go home 
 and keep at home. 
 
 Many a time they went up and down those long, long 
 lines, seeing everything- but the horses and the race ; 
 when the bell rang to clear the course, going back to rest 
 among the carts and donkeys, and not coming out again 
 until the heat was over. Many a time, too, was Punch 
 displayed in full zenith of his humor, but all this while 
 the eye of Thomas Codlin was upon them, and to escape 
 without notice was impracticable. 
 
 At length, late in the day, Mr. Codlin pitched the show 
 in a convenient spot, and the spectators were soon in the 
 very triumph of the scene. The child, sitting down with 
 the old man close behind it, had been thinking how 
 strange it was that horses who were such fine honest 
 creatures should seem to make vagabonds of all the men 
 they drew about them, when a loud laugh at some ex- 
 temporaneous witticism of Mr. Short's, having allusion 
 to the circumstances of the day, roused her from her 
 meditation and caused her to look around. 
 
 If they were ever to get away unseen, that was the very 
 moment. Short was plying the quarterstaves vigorously 
 and knocking the characters in the fury of the combat 
 against the sides of the show, the people were looking on 
 with laughing faces, and Mr. Codlin had relaxed into a 
 grim smile as his roving eye detected hands going into 
 waistcoat pockets and groping secretly for sixpences. If 
 they were ever to get away unseen, that was the very 
 moment. They seized it, and fled. 
 
 They made a path through booths and carriages and 
 throngs of people, and never once stopped to look behind. 
 The bell was ringing and the course was cleared by the 
 time they reached the ropes, but they dashed across it in- 
 sensible to the shouts and screeching that assailed them 
 for breaking in upon its sanctity, and creeping under the 
 
126 
 
 brow of the hill at a quick pace, made for the open 
 fields. 
 
 CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH. 
 
 Day after day as he bent his steps homeward, returning 
 from some new effort to procure employment, Kit raised 
 his eyes to the window of the little room he had so much 
 commended to the child, and hoped to see some indica- 
 tion of her presence. His own earnest wish, coupled with 
 the assurance he had received from Quilp, filled him with 
 the belief that she would yet arrive to claim the humble 
 shelter he had offered, and from the death of each day's 
 hope, another hope sprang up to live to-morrow. 
 
 " I think they must certainly come to-morrow, eh, 
 mother ? " said Kit, laying aside his hat with a weary air 
 and sighing as he spoke. " They have been gone a week. 
 They surely couldn't stop away more than a week, could 
 they now ? " 
 
 The mother shook her head, and reminded him how 
 often he had been disappointed already. 
 
 " For the matter of that," said Kit, " you speak true 
 and sensible enough, as you always do, mother. Still, I 
 do consider that a week is quite long enough for 'em to 
 be rambling about ; don't you say so ? " 
 
 " Quite long enough, Kit, longer than enough, but they 
 may not come back for all that." 
 
 Kit was for a moment disposed to be vexed by this 
 contradiction, and not the less so from having anticipated 
 it in his own mind and knowing how just it was. But the 
 impulse was only momentary, and the vexed look became 
 a kind one before it had crossed the room. 
 
 " Then what do you think, mother, has become of 'em ? 
 You don't think they've gone to sea, anyhow ? '' 
 
127 
 
 " Not gone for sailors, certainly," returned the mother 
 with a smile. " But I can't help thinking that they have 
 gone to some foreign country." 
 
 " I say," cried Kit with a rueful face, " don't talk like 
 that, mother." 
 
 " I am afraid they have, and that's the truth," she said. 
 "It's the talk of all the neighbors, and there are some 
 even that know of their having been seen on board ship, 
 and can tell you the name of the place they've gone to, 
 which is more than I can, my dear, for it's a very hard 
 one." 
 
 " I don't believe it," said Kit. " Not a word of it. A 
 set of idle chatterboxes, how should they know ! " 
 
 " They may be wrong of course," returned the mother, 
 " I can't tell about that, though I don't think it's at all 
 unlikely that they're in the right, for the talk is that the 
 old gentleman had put by a little money that nobody 
 knew of, not even that ugly little man you talk to me 
 about — what's his name — Quilp ; and that he and Miss 
 Nell have gone to live abroad where it can't be taken 
 from them, and they will never be disturbed. That don't 
 seem very far out of the way now, do it ? " 
 
 Kit scratched his head mournfully, in reluctant admis- 
 sion that it did not, and clambering up to the old nail took 
 down the cage and set himself to clean it and to feed the 
 bird. His thoughts reverting from his occupation to the 
 little old gentleman who had given him the shilling, he 
 suddenly recollected that that was the very day — nay, 
 nearly the very hour — at which the little old gentleman 
 had said he should be at the notary's house again. He 
 no sooner remembered this, than he hung up the cage 
 with great precipitation, and hastily explaining the nature 
 of his errand, went off at full speed to the appointed 
 place. 
 
 It was some two minutes after the time when he 
 
128 
 
 reached the spot, which was a considerable distance from 
 his home, but by great good luck the little old gentleman 
 had not yet arrived ; at least there was no pony chaise 
 to be seen, and it was not likely that he had come and 
 gone again in so short a space. Greatly relieved to find 
 that he was not too late, Kit leaned against a lamp post to 
 take breath, and waited the advent of the pony and his 
 charge. 
 
 Sure enough, before long the pony came trotting round 
 the corner of the street, looking as obstinate as a pony 
 might, and picking his steps as if he were spying about 
 for the cleanest places, and would by no means dirty his 
 feet or hurry himself inconveniently. Behind the pony 
 sat the little old gentleman, and by the old gentleman's 
 side sat the little old lady, carrying just such a nosegay 
 as she had brought before. 
 
 The old gentleman, the old lady, the pony, and the 
 chaise, came up the street in perfect unanimity, until they 
 arrived within some half a dozen doors of the notary's 
 house, when the pony, deceived by a brass plate beneath 
 a tailor's knocker, came to a halt, and maintained by a 
 sturdy silence, that that was the house they wanted. 
 
 " Now, Sir, will you have the goodness to go on ; this 
 is not the place," said the old gentleman. 
 
 The pony looked with great attention into a fire plug 
 which was near him, and appeared to be quite absorbed in 
 contemplating it. 
 
 " Oh dear, such a naughty Whisker ! " cried the old 
 lady. " After being so good too, and coming along so 
 well ! I am quite ashamed of him. I don't know what 
 we are to do with him, I really don't." 
 
 The pony having thoroughly satisfied himself as to the 
 nature and properties of the fire plug, looked into the air 
 after his old enemies the flies, and as there happened to 
 be one of them tickling his ear at that moment he 'shook 
 
129 
 
 his head and whisked his tail, after which he appeared 
 full of thought but quite comfortable and collected. The 
 old gentleman, having exhausted his powers of persuasion, 
 alighted to lead him ; whereupon the pony, perhaps 
 because he held this to be a sufficient concession, perhaps 
 because he happened to catch sight of the other brass 
 plate, or perhaps because he was in a spiteful humor, 
 darted off with the old lady and stopped at the right 
 house, leaving the old gentleman to come panting on 
 behind. 
 
 It was then that Kit presented himself at the pony's 
 head, and touched his hat with a smile. 
 
 " Why, bless me," cried the old gentleman, " the lad is 
 here ! My dear, do you see ? " 
 
 " I said I'd be here, Sir," said Kit, patting Whisker's 
 neck. " I hope you've had a pleasant ride, Sir. He's a 
 very nice little pony." 
 
 " My dear," said the old gentleman. " This is an 
 uncommon lad ; a good lad, I'm sure." 
 
 " I'm sure he is," rejoined the old lady. " A very good 
 lad, and I am sure he is a good son." 
 
 Kit acknowledged these expressions of confidence by 
 touching his hat again and blushing very much. The old 
 gentleman then handed the old lady out, and after look- 
 ing at him with an approving smile, they went into the 
 house — talking about him as they went, Kit could not 
 help feeling. Presently Mr. Witherden, smelling very 
 hard at the nosegay, came to the window and looked at 
 him and after that Mr. Abel came and looked at him, and 
 after that the old gentleman and lady came and looked at 
 him again, and after that they all came and looked at him 
 together, which Kit, feeling very much embarrassed by, 
 made a pretense of not observing. Therefore he patted 
 the pony more and more ; and this liberty the pony most 
 handsomely permitted. 
 
 Little Nell. — 9. 
 
*3o 
 
 The faces had not disappeared from the window many 
 moments, when Mr. Chuckster in his official coat, and 
 with his hat hanging on his head just as it happened to 
 fall from its peg, appeared upon the pavement, and tell- 
 ing him he was wanted inside, bade him go in and he 
 would mind the chaise the while. In giving him this 
 direction Mr. Chuckster remarked that he wished he 
 might be blessed if he could make out whether he (Kit) 
 was "precious raw " or "precious deep," but intimated 
 by a distrustful shake of the head, that he inclined to the 
 latter opinion. 
 
 Kit entered the office in a great tremor, for he was not 
 used to going among strange ladies and gentlemen, and 
 the tin boxes and bundles of dusty papers had in his eyes 
 an awful and venerable air. Mr. Witherden too was a 
 bustling gentleman who talked loud and fast, and all eyes 
 were upon him, and he was very shabby. 
 
 " Well, boy," said Mr. Witherden, " you came to work 
 out that shilling ; — not to get another, hey ? " 
 
 " No indeed, Sir," replied Kit, taking courage to look 
 up. " I never thought of such a thing." 
 
 " Father alive ? " said the notary. 
 
 " Dead, Sir." 
 
 "Mother?" 
 
 "Yes, Sir." 
 
 " Married again — eh ? " 
 
 Kit made answer, not without some indignation, that 
 she was a widow with three children, and that as to her 
 marrying again, if the gentleman knew her he wouldn't 
 think of such a thing. At this reply Mr. Witherden 
 buried his nose in the flowers again, and whispered be- 
 hind the nosegay to the old gentleman that he believed 
 the lad was as honest a lad as need be. 
 
 " Now," said Mr. Garland when they had made some 
 further inquiries of him, " I am not going to give you 
 anything — " 
 
I3i 
 
 "Thank you, Sir," Kit replied ; and quite seriously too, 
 for this announcement seemed to free him from the suspi- 
 cion which the notary had hinted. 
 
 " — But," resumed the old gentleman, " perhaps I may 
 want to know something more about you, so tell me 
 where you live and I'll put it down in my pocketbook." 
 
 Kit told him, and the old gentleman wrote down the 
 address with his pencil. He had scarcely done so, when 
 there was a great uproar in the street, and the old lady 
 hurrying to the window cried that Whisker had run away, 
 upon which Kit darted out to the rescue, and the others 
 followed. 
 
 It seemed that Mr. Chuckster had been standing with 
 his hands in his pockets looking carelessly at the pony, 
 and occasionally insulting him with such admonitions as 
 "Stand still,"— " Be quiet,"— " Woa-a-a," and the like, 
 which by a pony of spirit cannot be borne. Consequently, 
 the pony being deterred by no considerations of duty or 
 obedience, and not having before him the slightest fear 
 of the human eye, had at length started off, and was at 
 that moment rattling down the street, — Mr. Chuckster, 
 with his hat off and a pen behind his ear, hanging on in 
 the rear of the chaise and making futile attempts to draw 
 it the other way, to the unspeakable admiration of all be- 
 holders. Even in running away, however, Whisker was 
 perverse, for he had not gone very far when he suddenly 
 stopped, and before assistance could be rendered, com- 
 menced backing at nearly as quick a pace as he had gone 
 forward. By these means Mr. Chuckster was pushed and 
 hustled to the office again, in a most inglorious manner, 
 and arrived in a state of great exhaustion and discom- 
 fiture. 
 
 The old lady then stepped into her seat, and Mr. Abel 
 (whom they had come to fetch) into his. The old gentle- 
 man, after reasoning with the pony on the extreme impro- 
 
132 
 
 priety of his conduct, and making the best amends in his 
 power to Mr. Chuckster, took his place also, and they 
 drove away, waving a farewell to the notary and his clerk, 
 and more than once turning to nod kindly to Kit as he 
 watched them from the road. 
 
 CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH. 
 
 Kit turned away and very soon forgot the pony, and 
 the chaise, and the little old lady, and the little old gen- 
 tleman, and the little young gentleman to boot, in think- 
 ing what could have become of his late master and his 
 lovely grandchild, who were the fountain head of all his 
 meditations. Still casting about for some plausible means 
 of accounting for their nonappearance, and of persuad- 
 ing himself that they must soon return, he bent his steps 
 towards home, intending to finish the task which the sud- 
 den recollection of his contract had interrupted, and then 
 to sally forth once more to seek his fortune for the day. 
 
 When he came to the corner of the court in which he 
 lived, lo and behold there was the pony again ! Yes, 
 there he was, looking more obstinate than ever ; and 
 alone in the chaise, keeping a steady watch upon his 
 every wink, sat Mr. Abel, who, lifting up his eyes by 
 chance and seeing Kit pass by, nodded to him as though 
 he would have nodded his head off. 
 
 Kit wondered to see the pony again, so near his own 
 home too, but it never occurred to him for what purpose 
 the pony might have come there, or where the old lady 
 and the old gentleman had gone, until he lifted the latch 
 of the door, and walking in, found them seated in the 
 room in conversation with his mother, at which unex- 
 pected sight he pulled off his hat and made his best bow 
 in some confusion. 
 
133 
 
 " We are here before you, you see, Christopher," said 
 Mr. Garland smiling. 
 
 " Yes, Sir," said Kit ; and as he said it he looked 
 towards his mother for an explanation of the visit. 
 
 " The gentleman's been kind enough, my dear," said 
 she, in reply to this mute interrogation, " to ask me 
 whether you were in a good place, or in any place at all, 
 and when I told him no, you were not in any, he was so 
 good as to say that — " 
 
 " That we wanted a good lad in our house," said the old 
 gentleman and the old lady both together, " and that per- 
 haps we might think of it, if we found everything as we 
 would wish it to be." 
 
 As this thinking of it plainly meant the thinking of en- 
 gaging Kit, he immediately partook of his mother's 
 anxiety and fell into a great flutter ; for the little old 
 couple were very methodical and cautious, and asked so 
 many questions that he began to be afraid there was no 
 chance of his success. 
 
 " You see, my good woman,'' said Mrs. Garland to Kit's 
 mother, " that it's necessary to be very careful and par- 
 ticular in such a matter as this, for we're only three in 
 family, and are very quiet regular folks, and it would be a 
 sad thing if we made any kind of mistake, and found 
 things different from what we hoped and expected." 
 
 To this, Kit's mother replied, that certainly it was quite 
 true, and quite right, and quite proper, and Heaven for- 
 bid that she shoufii shrink, or have cause to shrink, from 
 any inquiry into her character or that of her son, who was 
 a very good son though she was his mother, in which re- 
 spect, she was bold to say, he took after his father, who 
 was not only a good son to his mother, but the best of 
 husbands and the best of fathers besides, which Kit could 
 and would corroborate she knew, and so would little 
 Jacob and the baby likewise if they were old enough, 
 
134 
 
 which unfortunately they were not, though as they didn't 
 know what a loss they had had, perhaps it was a great 
 deal better that they should be as young as they were ; 
 and so Kit's mother wound up a long story by wiping her 
 eyes with her apron, and patting little Jacob's head, who 
 was rocking the cradle and staring with all his might at 
 the strange lady and gentleman. 
 
 When Kit's mother had done speaking, the old lady 
 struck in again, and said that she was quite sure she was 
 a very honest and very respectable person or she never 
 would have expressed herself in that manner, and that 
 certainly the appearance of the children and the cleanli- 
 ness of the house deserved great praise and did her the 
 utmost credit, whereat Kit's mother dropped a courtesy 
 a,nd became consoled. Lastly, inquiry was made into 
 the nature and extent of Kit's wardrobe, and a small ad- 
 vance being made to improve the same, he was formally 
 hired at an annual income of six pounds, over and above 
 his board and lodging, by Mr. and Mrs. Garland, of Abel 
 Cottage, Finchley. 
 
 It would be difficult to say which party appeared most 
 pleased with this arrangment, the conclusion of which 
 was hailed with nothing but pleasant looks and cheerful 
 smiles on both sides. It was settled that Kit should re- 
 pair to his new abode on the next day but one, in the 
 morning ; and finally, the little old couple, after -bestow- 
 ing a bright half-crown on little Jacob and another on the 
 baby, took their leaves ; being escorted fe far as the street 
 by their new attendant, who held the obdurate pony by 
 the bridle while they took their seats, and saw them drive 
 away with a lightened heart. 
 
 " Well, mother," said Kit, hurrying back into the house, 
 " I think my fortune's about made now." 
 
 " I should think it was indeed, Kit," rejoined his 
 mother. " Six pound a year ! Only think ! " 
 
135 
 
 " Ah ! " said Kit, trying to maintain the gravity which 
 the consideration of such a sum demanded, but grinning 
 with delight in spite of himself. " There's a property ! " 
 
 Kit drew a long breath when he had said this, and put- 
 ting his hands deep into his pockets as if there were one 
 year's wages at least in each, looked at his mother, as 
 though he saw through her, and down an immense per- 
 spective of sovereigns beyond. 
 
 " Please God we'll make such a lady of you for Sun- 
 days, mother ! such a scholar of Jacob, such a child of 
 the baby, such a room of the one upstairs ! Six pound a 
 year ! " 
 
 CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH. 
 
 The remainder of that day and the whole of the next 
 were a busy time for the« Nubbles family, to whom every- 
 thing connected with Kit's outfit and departure was 
 matter of as great moment as if he had been about to 
 penetrate into the interior of Africa, or to take a cruise 
 round the world. It would be difficult to suppose that 
 there ever was a box which was opened and shut so many 
 times within four-and-twenty hours, as that which con- 
 tained his wardrobe and necessaries ; and certainly there 
 never was one which to two small eyes presented such a 
 mine of clothing, as this mighty chest with its three shirts 
 and proportionate allowance of stockings and pocket 
 handkerchiefs, disclosed to the astonished vision of little 
 Jacob. At last it was conveyed to the carrier's, at whose 
 house at Finchley Kit was to find it next day ; and the 
 box being gone, there remained but two questions for 
 consideration : firstly, whether the carrier would lose, or 
 dishonestly feign to lose, the box upon the road ; and 
 
I3 6 
 
 secondly, whether Kit's mother perfectly understood how 
 to take care of herself in the absence of her son. 
 
 " I don't think there's hardly a chance of his really los- 
 ing it, but carriers are under great temptation to pretend 
 they lose things, no doubt," said Mrs. Nubbles apprehen- 
 sively, in reference to the first point. 
 
 " No doubt about it," returned Kit, with a serious look ; 
 " upon my word, mother, I don't think it was right to 
 trust it to itself. Somebody ought to have gone with , it, 
 I'm afraid." 
 
 " We can't help it now," said his mother ; " but it was 
 foolish and wrong. People oughtn't to be tempted." 
 
 Kit inwardly resolved that he would never tempt a 
 carrier any more, save with an empty box ; and hav- 
 ing formed this Christian determination, he turned his 
 thoughts to the second question. 
 
 " You know you must keep up your spirits, mother, 
 and not be lonesome because I'm not at home. I shall 
 very often be able to look in when I come into town I 
 dare say, and I shall send you a letter sometimes, and 
 when the quarter comes round, I can get a holiday of 
 course ; and then see if we don't take little Jacob to the 
 play, and let him know what oysters means." 
 
 With more kisses, and hugs, and tears, than many 
 young gentlemen who start upon their travels, and leave 
 well-stocked homes behind them, would deem within the 
 bounds of probability (if matter so low could be herein set 
 down), Kit left the house at an early hour next morning, 
 and set out to walk to Finchley. 
 
 Lest anybody should feel a curiosity to know how Kit 
 was clad, it may be briefly remarked that he wore no 
 livery, but was dressed in a coat of pepper-and-salt with 
 waistcoat of canary color, and nether garments of iron- 
 gray ; besides these glories, he shone in the luster of a 
 new pair of boots and an extremely stiff and shiny hat, 
 
137 
 
 which on being struck anywhere with the knuckles 
 sounded like a drum. And in this attire, rather wonder- 
 ing that he attracted so little attention, and attributing 
 the circumstance to the insensibility of those who got up 
 early, he made his way towards Abel Cottage. 
 
 Without encountering any more remarkable adventure 
 on the road, than meeting a lad in a brimless hat, the ex- 
 act counterpart of his old one, on whom he bestowed half 
 the sixpence he possessed, Kit arrived in course of time 
 at the carrier's house, where, to the lasting honor of hu- 
 man nature, he found the box in safety. Receiving from 
 the wife of this immaculate man, a direction to Mr. Gar 
 land's, he took the box upon his shoulder and repaired 
 thither directly. 
 
 To be sure, it was a beautiful little cottage with a 
 thatched roof and little spires at the gable ends, and 
 pieces of stained glass in some of the windows, almost as 
 large as pocketbooks. On one side of the house was a 
 little stable, just the size for the pony, with a little room 
 over it, just the size for Kit. White curtains were flutter- 
 ing, and birds, in cages that looked as bright as if they 
 were made of gold, were singing at the windows ; plants 
 were arranged on either side of the path, and clustered 
 about the door ; and the garden was bright with flowers 
 in full bloom, which shed a sweet odor all round, and 
 had a charming and elegant appearance. Everything, 
 within the house and without, seemed to be the perfection 
 of neatness and order. In the garden there was not a 
 weed to be seen, and to judge from some dapper garden- 
 ing tools, a basket, and a pair of gloves which were lying 
 in one of the walks, old Mr. Garland had been at work in 
 it that very morning. 
 
 Kit looked about him, and admired, and looked again, 
 and this a great many times before he could make up his 
 mind to turn his head another way and ring the bell. 
 
138 
 
 There was abundance of time to look about him again 
 though, when he had rung it, for nobody came, so after 
 ringing twice or thrice he sat down upon his box, and 
 waited. 
 
 He rang the bell a great many times, and yet nobody 
 came. But at last, as he was sitting upon the box think- 
 ing about giant's castles, and princesses tied up to pegs by 
 the hair of their heads, and dragons bursting out from be- 
 hind gates, and other incidents of the like nature, com- 
 mon in storybooks to youths of low degree on their first 
 visit to strange houses, the door was gently opened, and 
 a little servant girl, very tidy, modest, and demure, but 
 very pretty too, appeared. 
 
 " I suppose you're Christopher, Sir," said the servant 
 girl. 
 
 Kit got off the box, and said yes, he was. 
 " I'm afraid you've rung a good many times, perhaps," 
 she rejoined, " but we couldn't hear you, because we've 
 been catching the pony." 
 
 Kit rather wondered what this meant, but as he couldn't 
 stop there, asking questions, he shouldered the box again 
 and followed the girl into the hall, where through a back 
 door he descried Mr. Garland leading Whisker in triumph 
 up the garden, after that self-willed pony had (as he after- 
 wards learned) dodged the family round a small paddock 
 in the rear, for one hour and three quarters. 
 
 The old gentleman received him very kindly and so did 
 the old lady, whose previous good opinion of him was 
 greatly enchanced by his wiping his boots on the mat 
 until the soles of his feet burnt again. He was then 
 taken into the parlor to be inspected in his new clothes ; 
 and when he had been surveyed several times, and had 
 afforded by his appearance unlimited satisfaction, he was 
 taken into the stable (where the pony received him with 
 uncommon complaisance) ; and thence into the little 
 
139 
 
 chamber he had already observed, which was very clean 
 and comfortable ; and thence into the garden, in which 
 the old gentleman told him he would be taught to employ 
 himself, and where he told him, besides, what great things 
 he meant to do to make him comfortable, and happy, if he 
 found he deserved it. All these kindnesses Kit acknow- 
 ledged with various expressions of gratitude, and so many 
 touches of the new hat, that the brim suffered considera- 
 bly. When the old gentleman had said all he had to say 
 in the way of promise and advice, and Kit had said all he 
 had to say in the way of assurance and thankfulness, he 
 was handed over again to the old lady, who, summoning 
 the little servant girl (whose name was Barbara) instructed 
 her to take him downstairs and give him something to 
 eat and drink, after his walk. 
 
 Downstairs, therefore, Kit went ; and at the bottom of 
 the stairs there was such a kitchen as was never before 
 seen or heard of out of a toyshop window, with every- 
 thing in it as bright and glowing, and as precisely ordered, 
 too, as Barbara herself. And in this kitchen, Kit sat him- 
 self down at a table as white as a tablecloth, to eat cold 
 meat, and use his knife and fork the more awkwardly, be- 
 cause there was an unknown Barbara looking on and ob- 
 serving him. 
 
 It did not appear, however, that there was anything re- 
 markably tremendous about this strange Barbara, who 
 having lived a very quiet life, blushed very much and was 
 quite as embarrassed and uncertain what she ought to say 
 or do, as Kit could possibly be. When he had sat for 
 some little time, attentive to the ticking of the sober 
 clock, he ventured to glance curiously at the dresser, and 
 there, among the plates and dishes, were Barbara's little 
 workbox with a sliding lid to shut in the balls of cotton, 
 and Barbara's prayer book, and Barbara's hymn book, 
 and Barbara's Bible. Barbara's little looking-glass hung in 
 
140 
 
 a good light near the window, and Barbara's bonnet was 
 on a nail behind the door. From all these mute signs 
 and tokens of her presence, he naturally glanced at Bar- 
 bara herself, who sat as mute as they, shelling peas into 
 a dish ; and just when Kit was looking at her eyelashes 
 and wondering — quite in the simplicity of his heart — 
 what color her eyes might be, it perversely happened 
 that Barbara raised her head a little to look at him, 
 when both pair of eyes were hastily withdrawn, and Kit 
 leaned over his plate, and Barbara over her pea shells, 
 each in extreme confusion at having been detected by the 
 other. 
 
 CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH. 
 
 It was not until they were quite exhausted and could 
 no longer maintain the pace at which they had fled from 
 the race ground, that the old man and the child ventured 
 to stop, and sit down to rest upon the borders of a little 
 wood. Here, though the course was hidden from their 
 view, they could yet faintly distinguish the noise of dis- 
 tant shouts, the hum of voices, and the beating of drums. 
 Climbing the eminence which lay between them and the 
 spot they had left, the child could even discern the flutter- 
 ing flags and white tops of booths ; but no person was ap- 
 proaching towards them, and their resting place was soli- 
 tary and still. 
 
 Some time elapsed before she could reassure her trem- 
 bling companion, or restore him to a state of moderate 
 tranquillity. His disordered imagination represented to 
 him a crowd of persons stealing towards them beneath 
 the cover of the bushes, lurking in every ditch, and peep- 
 ing from the boughs of every rustling tree. He was 
 
Hi 
 
 haunted by apprehensions of being led captive to some 
 gloomy place where he would be chained and scourged, 
 and worse than all, where Nell could never come to see 
 him, save through iron bars and gratings in the wall. 
 His terrors affected the child. Separation from her 
 grandfather was the greatest evil she could dread ; and 
 feeling for the time as though, go where they would, they 
 were to be hunted down, and could never be safe but in 
 hiding, her heart failed her, and her courage drooped. 
 
 In one so young, and so unused to the scenes in which 
 she had lately moved, this sinking of the spirit was not 
 surprising. But, Nature often enshrines gallant and no- 
 ble hearts in weak bosoms — oftenest, God bless her, in 
 female breasts — and when the child, casting her tearful 
 eyes upon the old man, remembered how weak he was, 
 and how destitute and helpless he would be if she failed 
 him, her heart swelled within her, and animated her with 
 new strength and fortitude. 
 
 " We are quite safe now, and have nothing to fear in- 
 deed, dear grandfather," she said. 
 
 " Nothing to fear ! " returned the old man. " Nothing 
 to fear if they took me from thee ! Nothing to fear if 
 they parted us ! Nobody is true to me. No, not one. 
 Not even Nell ! " 
 
 "Oh ! do not say that," replied the child, "for if ever 
 anybody was true at heart, and earnest, I am. I am sure 
 you know I am." 
 
 " Then how," said the old man, looking fearfully round, 
 " how can you bear to think that we are safe, when they 
 are searching for me everywhere, and may come here, and 
 steal upon us, even while we're talking ? " 
 
 " Because I'm sure we have not been followed," said 
 the child. " Judge for yourself, dear grandfather ; look 
 round, and see how quiet and still it is. We are alone to- 
 gether, and may ramble where we like. Not safe ! Could 
 
\H2 ' 
 
 I feel easy — did I feel at ease — when any danger threat- 
 ened you ? " 
 
 " True, true," he answered, pressing her hand, but still 
 looking anxiously about. " What noise was that ? " 
 
 "A bird," said the child, "flying into the wood, and 
 leading the way for us to follow. You remember that we 
 said we would walk in woods and fields, and by the side 
 of rivers, and how happy we would be — you remember 
 that ? But here, while the sun shines above our heads, 
 and everything is bright and happy, we are sitting sadly 
 down, and losing time. See what a pleasant path ; and 
 there's the bird — the same bird — now he flies to another 
 tree, and stays to sing. Come ! " 
 
 When they rose up from the ground, and took the 
 shady track which led them through the wood, she 
 bounded on before, printing her tiny footsteps in the 
 moss, which rose elastic from so light a pressure and gave 
 it back as mirrors throw off breath ; and thus she lured 
 the old man on, with many a backward look and merry 
 beck, now pointing stealthily to some lone bird as it 
 perched and twittered on a branch that strayed across 
 their path, now stopping to listen to the songs that broke 
 the happy silence, or watch the sun as it trembled 
 through the leaves, and stealing in among the ivied trunks 
 of stout old trees, opened long paths of light. As they 
 passed onward, parting the boughs that clustered in their 
 way, the serenity which the child had first assumed stole 
 into her breast in earnest ; the old man cast no longer 
 fearful looks behind, but felt at ease and cheerful, for the 
 further they passed into the deep green shade, the more 
 they felt that the tranquil mind of God was there, and 
 shed its peace on them. 
 
 At length, the path becoming clearer and less intricate, 
 brought them to the end of the wood, and into a public 
 road. Taking their way along it for' a short distance, 
 
> J43 
 
 they came to a lane, so shaded by the trees on either 
 hand that they met together overhead, and arched the 
 narrow way. A broken finger post announced that this 
 led to a village three miles off ; and thither they resolved 
 to bend their steps. 
 
 The miles appeared so long that they sometimes thought 
 they must have missed their road. But at last to their 
 great joy, it led downward in a steep descent, with over*- 
 hanging banks over which the footpaths led ; and the 
 clustered houses of the village peeped out from the 
 woody hollow below. 
 
 It was a very small place. The men and boys were 
 playing at cricket on the green ; and as the other folks 
 were looking on, they wandered up and down, uncertain 
 where to seek a humble lodging. There was but one old 
 man in the little garden before his cottage, and him they 
 were timid of approaching, for he was the schoolmaster, 
 and had "School" written up over his window in black 
 letters on a white board. He -was a pale, simple-looking 
 man, of a spare and meager habit, and sat among his flow- 
 ers and beehives, smoking his pipe, in the little porch be- 
 fore his door. 
 
 " Speak to him, dear," the old man whispered. 
 
 " I am almost afraid to disturb him," said the child tim- 
 idly. " He does not seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait 
 a little, he may look this way." 
 
 They waited, but the schoolmaster cast no look to- 
 wards them, and still sat, thoughtful and silent, in the 
 little porch. He had a kind face. In his plain old suit 
 of black, he looked pale and meager. They fancied, too, 
 a lonely air about him and his house, but perhaps that 
 was because the other people formed a merry company 
 upon the green, and he seemed the only solitary man in 
 all the place. 
 
 They were very tired, and the child would have been 
 
144 
 
 bold enough to address even a schoolmaster, but for some- 
 thing in his manner which seemed to denote that he was 
 uneasy or distressed. As they stood hesitating at a little 
 distance, they saw that he sat for a few minutes at a time 
 like one in a brown study, then laid aside his pipe and 
 took a few turns in his garden, then approached the gate 
 and looked towards the green, then took up his pipe again 
 with a sigh, and sat down thoughtfully as before. 
 
 As nobody else appeared and it would soon be dark, 
 Nell at length took courage, and when he had resumed 
 his pipe and seat, ventured to draw near, leading her 
 grandfather by the hand. The slight noise they made in 
 raising the latch of the wicket gate, caught his attention. 
 He looked at them kindly but seemed disappointed, too, 
 and slightly shook his head. 
 
 Nell dropped a courtesy, and told him they were poor 
 travelers who sought a shelter for the night which they 
 would gladly pay for, so far as their means allowed. The 
 schoolmaster looked earnestly at her as she spoke, laid 
 aside his pipe, and rose up directly. 
 
 " If you could direct us anywhere, Sir," said the child, 
 " we should take it very kindly." 
 
 " You have been walking a long way," said the school- 
 master. 
 
 " A long way, Sir," the child replied. 
 
 " You're a young traveler, my child," he said, laying 
 his hand gently on her head. " Your grandchild, friend ? " 
 
 " Ay, Sir," cried the old man, " and the stay and com- 
 fort of my life." 
 
 " Come in," said the schoolmaster. 
 
 Without further preface he conducted them into his 
 little schoolroom, which was parlor and kitchen likewise, 
 and told them they were welcome to remain under his 
 roof till morning. Before they had done thanking him, 
 he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with knives 
 
H5 
 
 and platters ; and bringing out some bread and cold 
 meat, besought them to eat. 
 
 The child looked round the room as she took her seat. 
 There were a couple of forms, notched and cut and inked 
 all over ; a small deal desk perched on four legs, at which 
 no doubt the master sat ; a few dog's-eared books upon a 
 high shelf ; and beside them a motley collection of peg 
 tops, balls, kites, fishing lines, marbles, half-eaten apples, 
 and other confiscated property of idle urchins. Dis- 
 played on hooks upon the wall in all their terrors, were 
 the cane and ruler ; and near them, on a small shelf of its 
 own, the dunce's cap, made of old newspapers and dec- 
 orated with glaring wafers of the largest size. But, the 
 great ornaments of the walls were certain moral sentences 
 fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums 
 in simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved 
 by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted all round 
 the room : for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bear- 
 ing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling 
 a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars. 
 
 " Yes," said the old schoolmaster, observing that her 
 attention was caught by these latter specimens. " That's 
 beautiful writing, my dear." 
 
 " Very, Sir," replied the child modestly, " is it yours ? " 
 
 " Mine ! " he returned, taking out his spectacles and 
 putting them on, to have a better view of the triumphs so 
 dear to his heart, "/couldn't write like that, now-a-days. 
 No. They're all done by one hand ; a little hand it is, 
 not so old as yours, but a very clever one." 
 
 As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot 
 of ink had been thrown on one of the copies, so he took a 
 penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall, care- 
 fully scraped it out. When he had finished, he walked 
 slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one 
 might contemplate a beautiful picture, but with some- 
 
 Little Nell.—\a. 
 
146 
 
 thing of sadness in his voice and manner which quite 
 touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its 
 cause. 
 
 "A little hand indeed," said the poor schoolmaster. 
 " Far beyond all his companions, in his learning and his 
 sports too, how did he ever come to be so fond of me ! 
 That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should 
 love me — " and there the schoolmaster stopped, and took 
 off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown 
 dim. 
 
 " I hope there is nothing the matter, Sir," said Nell 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Not much, my dear," returned the schoolmaster. " I 
 hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. He was 
 always foremost among them. But he'll be there to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Has he been ill ? " asked the child, with a child's quick 
 sympathy. 
 
 " Not very. They said he was wandering in his head 
 yesterday, dear boy, and so they said the day before. 
 But that's a part of that kind of disorder ; it's not a bad 
 sign — not at all a bad sign." 
 
 The child was silent. He walked to the door, and 
 looked wistfully out. The shadows of night were gather- 
 ing, and all was still. 
 
 " If he could lean upon anybody's arm, he would come 
 to me, I know," he said, returning into the room. " He 
 always came into the garden to say good night. But 
 perhaps his illness has only just taken a favorable turn, 
 and it's too late for him to come out, for it's very damp 
 and there's a heavy dew. It's much better he shouldn't 
 come to-night." 
 
 The schoolmaster lighted a candle, fastened the win- 
 dow shutter, and closed the door. But after he had done 
 this, and sat silent a little time, he took down his hat, 
 
147 
 
 and said he would go and satisfy himself, if Nell would 
 sit up till he returned. The child readily complied, and 
 he went out. 
 
 She sat there half an hour or more, feeling the place 
 very strange and lonely, for she had prevailed upon the 
 old man to go to bed, and there was nothing to be heard 
 but the ticking of an old clock, and the whistling of the 
 wind among the trees. When he returned, he took his 
 seat in the chimney corner, but remained silent for a 
 long time. At length he turned to her, and speaking 
 very gently, hoped she would say a prayer that night for 
 a sick child. 
 
 "My favorite scholar !" said the poor schoolmaster, 
 smoking a pipe he had forgotten to light, and looking 
 mournfully round about the walls. " It is a little hand to 
 have done all that, and waste away with sickness. It is a 
 very, very little hand ! " 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH. 
 
 After a sound night's rest in a chamber in the 
 thatched roof, in which it seemed the sexton had for 
 some years been a lodger, but which he had lately 
 deserted for a wife and a cottage of his own, the child 
 rose early in the morning and descended to the room 
 where she had supped last night. As the schoolmaster 
 had already left his bed and gone out, she bestirred her- 
 self to make it neat and comfortable, and had just 
 finished its arrangement when the kind host returned. 
 
 He thanked her many times, and said that the old 
 dame who usually did such offices for him had gone to 
 nurse the little scholar whom he had told her of. The 
 child asked how he was, and hoped he was better. 
 
148 
 
 " No," rejoined the schoolmaster shaking his head sor- 
 rowfully, " no better. They even say he is worse." 
 
 " I am very sorry for that, Sir," said the child. 
 
 The poor schoolmaster appeared to be gratified by her 
 earnest manner, but yet rendered more uneasy by it, for 
 he added hastily that anxious people often magnified an 
 evil and thought it greater than it was ; " for my part," he 
 said, in his quiet, patient way, " I hope it's not so. I 
 don't think he can be worse." 
 
 The child asked his leave to prepare breakfast, and 
 her grandfather coming downstairs, they all three par- 
 took of it together. While .the meal was in progress, 
 their host remarked that the old man seemed much 
 fatigued, and evidently stood in need of rest. 
 
 " If the journey you have before you is a long one," he 
 said, " and don't press you for one day, you're very wel- 
 come to pass another night here. I should really be glad 
 if you would, friend." 
 
 He saw that the old man looked at Nell, uncertain 
 whether to accept or decline his offer ; and added, 
 
 " I shall be glad to have your young companion with me 
 for one day. If you can do a charity to a lone man, and 
 rest yourself at the same time, do so. If you must pro- 
 ceed upon your journey, I wish you well through it, and 
 will walk a little way with you before school begins." 
 
 " What are we to do, Nell ? " said the old man irreso- 
 lutely, " say what we're to do, dear." 
 
 It required no great persuasion to induce the child to 
 answer that they had better accept the invitation and 
 remain. She was happy to show her gratitude to the 
 kind schoolmaster by busying herself in the performance 
 of such household duties as his little cottage stood in 
 need of. When these were done, she took some needle- 
 work from her basket, and sat herself down upon a stool 
 beside the lattice, where the honeysuckle and woodbine 
 
149 
 
 entwined their tender stems, and stealing into the room 
 filled it with their delicious breath. Her grandfather 
 was basking in the sun outside, breathing the perfume of 
 the flowers, and idly watching the clouds as they floated 
 on before the light summer wind. 
 
 As the schoolmaster, after arranging the two forms in 
 due order, took his seat behind his desk and made other 
 preparations for school, the child was apprehensive that 
 she might be in the way, and offered to withdraw to her 
 little bedroom. But this he would not allow, and as he 
 seemed pleased to have her there, she remained, busying 
 herself with her work. 
 
 " Have you many scholars, Sir ? " she asked. 
 
 The poor schoolmaster shook his head, and said that 
 they barely filled the two forms. 
 
 " Are the others clever, Sir ? " asked the child, glancing 
 at the trophies on the wall. 
 
 " Good boys," returned the schoolmaster, " good boys 
 enough, my dear, but they'll never do like that." 
 
 A small, white-headed boy with a sunburnt face 
 appeared at the door while he was speaking, and stopping 
 there to make a rustic bow, came in and took his seat 
 upon one of the forms. The white-headed boy then put 
 an open book, astonishingly dog's-eared, upon his knees, 
 and thrusting his hands into his pockets began counting 
 the marbles with which they were filled, displaying in the 
 expression of his face a remarkable capacity of totally 
 abstracting his mind from the spelling on which his eyes 
 were fixed. Soon afterwards another white-headed little 
 boy came straggling in, and after him a red-headed lad, 
 and after him two more with white heads, and then one with 
 a flaxen poll, and so on until the forms were occupied by 
 a dozen boys or thereabouts, with heads of every color 
 but gray, and ranging in their ages from four years old 
 to fourteen years or more ; for the legs of the youngest 
 
150 
 
 were a long way from the floor when he sat upon the 
 form, and the eldest was a heavy, good-tempered, foolish 
 fellow, about half a head taller than the schoolmaster. 
 
 At the top of the first form— the post of honor in the 
 school — was the vacant place of the little sick scholar, 
 and at the head of the row of pegs on which those who 
 came in hats or caps were wont to hang them up, one 
 was left empty. No boy attempted to violate the sanc- 
 tity of seat or peg, but many a one looked from the 
 empty spaces to the schoolmaster, and whispered his 
 idle neighbor behind his hand. 
 
 Then began the hum of conning over lessons and get- 
 ting them by heart, the whispered jest and stealthy game, 
 and all the noise and drawl of school ; and in the midst 
 of the din sat the poor schoolmaster, the very image of 
 meekness and simplicity, vainly attempting to fix his 
 mind upon the duties of the day, and to forget his little 
 friend. But the tedium of his office reminded him more 
 strongly of the willing scholar, and his thoughts were 
 rambling from his pupils — it was plain. 
 
 None knew this better than the idlest boys, who, grow- 
 ing bolder with impunity, waxed louder and more daring ; 
 playing odd or even under the master's eye, eating 
 apples openly and without rebuke, pinching each other 
 in sport or malice without the least" reserve, and cutting 
 their autographs in the very legs of his desk. The puz- 
 zled dunce, who stood beside it to say his lesson out of 
 book, looked no longer at the ceiling for forgotten words, 
 but drew closer to the master's elbow and boldly cast 
 his eye upon the page ; the wag of the little troop 
 squinted and made grimaces (at the smallest boy of 
 course), holding no book -before his face, and his approv- 
 ing audience knew no constraint in their delight. If the 
 master did chance to rouse himself and seem alive to 
 what was going on, the noise subsided for a moment and 
 
no eyes met his but wore a studious and a deeply humble 
 look ; but the instant he relapsed again, it broke out 
 afresh, and ten times louder than before. 
 
 Oh ! how some of those idle fellows longed to be out- 
 side, and how they looked at the open door and window, 
 as if they half meditated rushing violently out, plunging 
 into the woods, and being wild boys and savages from 
 that time forth. What rebellious thoughts of the cool 
 river, and some shady bathing place beneath willow trees 
 with branches dipping in the water, kept tempting and 
 urging that sturdy boy, who, with his shirt collar unbut- 
 toned and flung back as far as it could go, sat fanning 
 his flushed face with a spelling book, wishing himself a 
 whale, or a tittlebat, or a fly, or anything but a boy at 
 school on that hot, broiling day ! Heat ! ask that other 
 boy, whose seat being nearest to the door'gave him oppor- 
 tunities of gliding out into the garden and driving his 
 companions to madness by dipping his face into the buc- 
 ket of the well and then rolling on the grass — ask him if 
 there were ever such a day as that, when even the bees 
 were diving deep down into the cups of flowers and -stop- 
 ping there, as if they had made up their minds to retire 
 from business and be manufacturers of honey no more. 
 The day was made for laziness, and lying on one's back 
 in green places, and staring at the sky till its brightness 
 forced one to shut one's eyes and go to sleep ; and was 
 this a time to be poring over musty books in a dark room, 
 slighted by the very sun itself ? Monstrous ! 
 
 Nell sat by the window occupied with her work, but 
 attentive still to all that passed, though sometimes rather 
 timid of the boisterous boys. The lessons over, writing 
 time began ; and there being but one desk and that the 
 master's, each boy sat at it in turn and labored at his 
 crooked copy, while the master walked about. This was 
 a quieter time ; for he would come and look over the 
 
152 
 
 writer's shoulder, and tell him mildly to observe how such, 
 a letter was turned in such a copy on the wall, praise 
 such an upstroke here and such a downstroke there, and 
 bid him take it for his model. Then he would stop and 
 tell them what the sick child had said last night, and how 
 he had longed to be among them once again ; and such 
 was the poor schoolmaster's gentle and affectionate 
 manner, that the boys seemed quite remorseful that they 
 had worried him so much, and were absolutely quiet ; eat- 
 ing no apples, cutting no names, inflicting no pinches, and 
 making no grimaces, for full two minutes afterwards. 
 
 " I think, boys," said the schoolmaster when the clock 
 struck twelve, " that I shall give an extra half-holiday 
 this afternoon." 
 
 At this intelligence, the boys, led on and headed by the 
 tall boy, raised a great shout, in the midst of which the 
 master was seen to speak, but could not be heard. As he 
 held up his hand, however, in token of his wish that they 
 should be silent, they were considerate enough to leave 
 off, as soon as the longest winded among them were quite 
 out of breath. 
 
 " You must promise me first," said the schoolmaster, 
 "that you'll not be noisy,' or at least, if you are, that 
 you'll go away and be so — away out of the village, I 
 mean. I'm sure you wouldn't disturb your old playmate 
 and companion." 
 
 There was a general murmur (and perhaps a very sin- 
 cere one, for they were but boys) in the negative ; and 
 the tall boy, perhaps as sincerely as any of them, called 
 those about him to witness that he had only shouted in a 
 whisper. 
 
 "Then pray don't forget, there's my dear scholars," 
 said the schoolmaster, " what I have asked you, and do 
 it as a favor to me. Be as happy as you can, and don't 
 be unmindful that you are blessed with health, Good-bye 
 all!" 
 
"S3 
 
 "Thank'ee, Sir," and "Good-bye, Sir," were said a 
 great many times in a variety of voices, and the boys 
 went out very slowly and softly. But there was the sun 
 shining and there were the birds singing, as the sun only 
 shines and the birds only sing on holidays and half-holi- 
 days ; there were the trees waving to all free boys to 
 climb and nestle among their leafy branches ; the hay, en- 
 treating them to come and scatter it to the pure air ; the 
 green corn, gently beckoning towards wood and stream ; 
 the smooth ground, rendered smoother still by blending 
 lights and shadows, inviting to runs and leaps, and long 
 walks God knows whither. It was more than boy could 
 bear, and with a joyous whoop the whole cluster took to 
 their heels and spread themselves about, shouting and 
 laughing as they went. 
 
 " It's natural, thank Heaven ! " said the poor school- 
 master looking after them. " I'm very glad they didn't 
 mind me ! " 
 
 Towards night an old woman came tottering up the 
 garden as speedily as she could, and meeting the school- 
 master at the door, said he was to go to Dame West's di- 
 rectly, and had best run on before her. He and the child 
 were on the point of going out together for a walk, and 
 without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried 
 away, leaving the messenger to follow as she might. 
 
 They stopped at a cottage door and the schoolmaster 
 knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened with- 
 out loss of time. They entered a room where a little 
 group of women were gathered about one, older than the 
 rest, who was crying very bitterly, and sat wringing her 
 hands and rocking herself to and fro. 
 
 " Oh dame ! '' said the schoolmaster, drawing near her 
 chair, " is it so bad as this ? " 
 
 " He's going fast," cried the old woman ; " my grand- 
 son's dying. It's all along of you. You shouldn't see 
 
»54 
 
 him now, but for his being so earnest on it. This is what 
 his learning has brought him to. Oh dear, dear, dear, 
 what can I do ! " 
 
 " Do not say that I am in any fault," urged the gentle 
 schoolmaster. " I am not hurt, dame. No, no. You are 
 in great distress of mind, and don't mean what you say. 
 I am sure you don't." 
 
 The schoolmaster looked round upon the other women 
 as if to entreat some one among them to say a kind word 
 for him, but they shook their heads, and murmured 
 to each other that they never thought there was much 
 good in learning, and that this convinced them. Without 
 saying a word in reply, or giving them a look of reproach, 
 he followed the old woman who had summoned him (and 
 who had now rejoined them) into another room, where his 
 infant friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed. 
 
 He was a very young boy ; quite a little child. His 
 hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were 
 very bright ; but their light was Of Heaven, not earth. 
 The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping 
 over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprang up, 
 stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted 
 arms around his neck, crying out that he was his dear, 
 kind friend. 
 
 " I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows," 
 said the poor schoolmaster. 
 
 " Who is that ? " said the boy, seeing Nell. " I am 
 afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to 
 shake hands with me." 
 
 The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little 
 languid hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time, 
 the sick boy laid him gently down. 
 
 "You remember the garden, Harry," whispered the 
 schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dullness seemed 
 gathering upon the child, " and how pleasant it used to 
 
155 
 
 be in the evening time ? You must make haste to visit it 
 again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and 
 are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, 
 my dear, very soon now, — won't you ? " 
 
 The boy smiled faintly — so very, very faintly — and put 
 his hand upon his friend's gray head. He moved his lips 
 too, but no voice came from them ; no, not a sound. 
 
 In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices 
 borne upon the evening air came floating through the 
 open window. " What's that ? " said the sick child, open- 
 ing his eyes. 
 
 " The boys at play upon the green." 
 
 He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to 
 wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped 
 powerless down. 
 
 " Shall I do it ? " said the schoolmaster. 
 
 " Please wave it at the window," was the faint reply. 
 " Tie it to the lattice. Some of them may see it there. 
 Perhaps they'll think of me, and look this way.'' 
 
 He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering 
 signal to his idle bat, that lay with slate and book and 
 other boyish property upon a table in the room. And 
 then he laid him softly down once more, and asked if the 
 little girl were there, for he could not see her. 
 
 She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that 
 _ lay upon the coverlet. The two old friends and compan- 
 ions — for such they were, though they were man and 
 child — held each other in a long embrace, and then the 
 little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell 
 asleep. 
 
 The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding 
 the small cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the 
 hand of a dead child. He felt that ; and yet he chafed it 
 still and could not lay it down. 
 
i$6 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST. 
 
 Almost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the school- 
 master from the bedside and returned to his cottsge. In 
 the midst of her grief and tears she was yet careful to 
 conceal their real cause from the old man, for the dead 
 boy had been a grandchild, and left but one aged relative 
 to mourn his premature decay. 
 
 She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when 
 she was alone, gave free vent to the sorrow with which 
 her breast was overcharged. But the sad scene she had 
 witnessed was not without its lesson of content and 
 gratitude ; of content with the lot which left her health 
 and freedom ; and gratitude that she- was spared to the 
 one relative and friend she loved, and to live and move 
 in a beautiful world, when so many young creatures — as 
 young and full of hope as she — were stricken down and 
 gathered to their graves. 
 
 Her dreams were of the little scholar : not coffined and 
 covered up, but mingling with angels, and smiling happily. 
 The sun darting his cheerful rays into the room, awoke 
 her ; and now there remained but to take leave of the 
 poor schoolmaster and wander forth once more. 
 
 By the time they were ready to depart, school had be- 
 gun. In the darkened room, the din of yesterday was 
 going on again : a little sobered and softened down, per- 
 haps, but only a very little, if at all. The schoolmaster 
 rose from his desk and walked with them to the gate. 
 
 It was with a trembling and reluctant hand, that the 
 child held out to him the money which the lady had given 
 her at the races for her flowers : faltering in her thanks 
 as she thought how small the sum was, and blushing as 
 she offered it. . But he bade her put it up, and stooping 
 lo kiss her cheek, turned back into his house. 
 
I 4 
 
 J 
 
 They had not gone half a dozen paces when he was at 
 the door again ; the old man retraced his steps to shake 
 hands, and the child did the same. 
 
 " Good fortune and happiness go with you ! " said the 
 poor schoolmaster. " I am quite a solitary man now. If 
 you ever pass this way again, you'll not forget the little 
 village school." 
 
 " We shall never forget it, Sir," rejoined Nell ; " nor 
 ever forget to be grateful to you for your kindness to us." 
 
 " I have heard such words from the lips of children 
 very often," said the schoolmaster, shaking his head, and 
 smiling thoughtfully, " but they were soon forgotten. I 
 had attached one young friend to me, the better friend 
 for being young — but that's over — God bless you ! " 
 
 They bade him farewell very many times, and turned 
 away, walking slowly and often looking back, until they 
 could see him no more. At length they had left the vil- 
 lage far behind, and even lost sight of the smoke among 
 the trees. They trudged onward now, at a quicker pace, 
 resolving to keep the main road, and go wherever it might 
 lead them. 
 
 But main roads stretch a long, long way. With the 
 exception of two or three inconsiderable clusters of cot- 
 tages which they passed, without stopping, and one lonely 
 roadside public house where they had some bread and 
 cheese, this highway had led them to nothing— late in the 
 afternoon— and still lengthened out, far in the distance, 
 the same dull, tedious, winding course, that they had 
 been pursuing all day. As they had no resource, how- 
 ever, but to go forward, they still kept on, though at a 
 much slower pace, being very weary and fatigued. 
 
 The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful even- 
 ing, when they arrived at a point where the road made 
 a sharp turn and struck across a common. On the bor- 
 der of this common, and close to the hedge which divided 
 
i 5 8 
 
 it from the cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn up to 
 rest; upon which, by reason of its situation, they came so 
 suddenly that they could not have avoided it if they 
 would. 
 
 It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart 
 little house upon wheels, with white dimity curtains fes- 
 tooning the windows, and window shutters of green picked 
 out with panels of a staring red, in which happily- 
 contrasted colors the whole concern shone brilliant. 
 Neither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey 
 or emaciated horse, for a pair of horses in pretty good 
 condition were released from the shafts and grazing on 
 the frowzy grass. Neither was it a gypsy caravan, for at 
 the open door (graced with a bright brass knocker) sat a 
 Christian lady, stout and comfortable to look upon, who 
 wore a large bonnet trembling with bows. And that it 
 was not an unprovided or destitute caravan was clear 
 from this lady's occupation, which was the very pleasant 
 and refreshing one of taking tea. The tea things, and a 
 cold knuckle of ham, were set forth upon a drum, covered 
 with a white napkin ; and there, as if at the most con- 
 venient round table in all the world, sat this roving lady, 
 taking her tea and enjoying the prospect. 
 
 It happened that at that moment the lady of the car- 
 avan had her cup (which, that everything about her might 
 be of a stout and comfortable kind, was a breakfast cup) 
 to her lips, and that having her eyes lifted to the sky in 
 her enjoyment of the full flavor of the tea, it happened 
 that being thus agreeably engaged, she did not see the 
 travelers when they first came up. It was not until she 
 was in the act of setting down the cup, and drawing a 
 long breath after the exertion of causing its contents to 
 disappear, that the lady of the caravan beheld an old man 
 and a young child walking slowly by, and glancing at her 
 proceedings with eyes of modest but hungry admiration. 
 
1 59 
 
 " Hey ! " cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the 
 crumbs out of her lap and swallowing the same before 
 wiping her lips, " Yes, to be sure — Who won the Helter- 
 Skelter Plate, child?" 
 
 " Won what, ma'am ? " asked Nell. 
 
 " The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child — the plate 
 that was run for on the second day." 
 
 " On the second day, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Second day ! Yes, second day," repeated the lady 
 with an air of impatience. " Can't you say who won the 
 Helter-Skelter Plate when you're asked the question 
 civilly?" 
 
 " I don't know, ma'am." 
 
 " Don't know ! " repeated the lady of the caravan ; 
 " why, you were there. I saw you with my own eyes." 
 
 Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that 
 the lady might be intimately acquainted with the firm of 
 Short and Codlin ; but what followed tended to reassure 
 her. 
 
 " And very sorry I was," said the lady of the caravan, 
 " to see you in company with a Punch ; a low, practical, 
 wulgar wretch, that people should scorn to look at." 
 
 " I was not there by choice," returned the child; " we 
 didn't know our way, and the two men were very kind to 
 us, and let us travel with them. Do you — do you know 
 them, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Know 'em, child ! " cried the lady of the caravan in a 
 sort of shriek. " Know them / But you're young and in- 
 experienced, and that's your excuse for asking sich a 
 question. Do I look as if I know'd 'em, does the caravan 
 look as if it know'd 'em ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am, no," said the child, fearing she had com- 
 mitted some grevious fault. " I beg your pardon." 
 
 It was granted immediately, though the lady still ap- 
 peared m,uch ruffled and discomposed by the degrading 
 
i6o 
 
 supposition. The child then explained that they had left 
 the races on the first day, and were traveling to the next 
 town on that road, where they purposed to spend the 
 night. As the countenance of the stout lady began to 
 clear up, she ventured to inquire how far it was. The re- 
 ply — which the stout lady did not come to, until she had 
 thoroughly explained that she went to the races on the 
 first day in a gig, and as an expedition of pleasure, and 
 that her presence there had no connection with any mat- 
 ters of business or profit — was, that the town was eight 
 miles off. 
 
 This discouraging information a little dashed the child, 
 who could scarcely repress a tear as she glanced along the 
 darkening road. Her grandfather made no complaint, but 
 he sighed heavily as he leaned upon his staff, and vainly 
 tried to pierce the dusty distance. 
 
 The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her 
 tea equipage together preparatory to clearing the table, 
 but noting the child's anxious manner she hesitated and 
 stopped. The child courtesied, thanked her for her infor- 
 mation, and giving her hand to the old man had already got 
 some fifty yards or so away, when the lady of the caravan 
 called to her to return. 
 
 " Come nearer, nearer still " — said she, beckoning tQ 
 her to ascend the steps. " Are you hungry, child ?" 
 
 " Not very, but we are tired, and it's — it is a long 
 way " — 
 
 " Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea," 
 rejoined her new acquaintance. " I suppose you are 
 agreeable to that, old gentleman ?" 
 
 The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked 
 her. The lady of the caravan then bade him come up the 
 steps likewise, but the drum proving an inconvenient 
 table for two, they descended again, and sat upon the 
 grass, where she handed down to them the tea tray, the 
 
i6i 
 
 bread and butter, the knuckle of ham, and in short every- 
 thing of which she had partaken herself.. 
 
 " Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the 
 best place " — said their friend, superintending the arrange- 
 ments from above. " Now hand up the teapot for a little 
 more hot water, and a pinch of fresh tea, and then both 
 of you eat and drink as much as you can, and don't spare 
 anything ; that's all I ask of you." 
 
 They might perhaps have carried out the lady's wish, if 
 it had been less freely expressed, or even if it had not 
 been expressed at all. But as this direction relieved them 
 from any shadow of delicacy or uneasiness, they made a 
 hearty meal and enjoyed it to the utmost. 
 
 While they were thus engaged, the lady of the caravan 
 alighted on the earth, and with her hands clasped behind 
 her, and her large bonnet trembling excessively, walked 
 up and down in a measured tread and very stately manner, 
 surveying the caravan from time to time with an air of 
 calm delight, and deriving particular gratification from the 
 red panels and the brass knocker. When she had taken 
 this gentle exercise for some time, she sat down upon the 
 steps and called " George ; " whereupon a man in a 
 carter's frock, who had been so shrouded in a hedge up to 
 this time as to see everything that passed without being 
 seen himself, parted the twigs that concealed him, and 
 appeared in a sitting attitude, supporting on his legs a 
 baking dish, and bearing in his right hand a knife, and in 
 his left a fork. 
 
 " Yes, Missus " — said George. 
 
 " How did you find the cold pie, George ? " 
 
 " It warn't amiss, Mum." 
 
 The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some 
 time, and then said, 
 
 " Have you nearly finished ? " 
 
 " Wery nigh, Mum." 
 
 Little Nell.— 11. 
 
102 
 
 "I hope I haven't hurried you, George," said his mis 
 tress, who appeared to have a great sympathy with his 
 late pursuit. 
 
 " If you have," returned the follower, wisely reserving 
 himself for any favorable contingency that might occur, 
 " we must make up for it next time, that's all." 
 
 " We are not a heavy load, George ? '* 
 
 " That's always what the ladies say," replied the man, 
 looking a long way round, as if he were appealing to 
 Nature in general against such monstrous propositions. 
 " If you see a woman a driving, you'll always perceive 
 that she never will keep her whip still ; the horse can't go 
 fast enough for her. If cattle have got their proper load, 
 you never can persuade a woman that they'll not bear 
 something more. What is the cause of this here ? " 
 
 " Would these two travelers make much difference to 
 the horses, if we took them with us ? " asked his mistress, 
 offering no reply to the philosophical inquiry, and point- 
 ing to Nell and the old man, who were painfully preparing 
 to resume their journey on foot. 
 
 " They'd make a difference in course," said George 
 doggedly. 
 
 " Would they make much difference ? " repeated his 
 mistress. " They can't be very heavy." 
 
 " The weight o' the pair, Mum," said George, eyeing 
 them with the look of a man who was calculating within 
 half an ounce or so, " would be a trifle under that of 
 Oliver Cromwell." 
 
 Nell was very much surprised that the man should be 
 so accurately acquainted with the weight of one whom 
 she had read of in books as having lived considerably be- 
 fore their time, but speedily forgot the subject in the joy 
 of hearing that they were to go forward in the caravan, 
 for which she thanked its lady with unaffected earnest- 
 ness. She helped with great readiness and alacrity to put 
 
163 
 
 away the tea things and other matters that were lying about, 
 and, the horses being by that time harnessed, mounted 
 into the vehicle, followed by her delighted grandfather. 
 Their patroness then shut the door and sat herself down 
 by her drum at an open window ; and, the steps being 
 struck by George and stowed under the carriage, away 
 they went, with a great noise of flapping and creaking and 
 straining, and the bright brass knocker, which nobody 
 ever knocked at, knocking one perpetual double knock of 
 its own accord as they jolted heavily along. 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. 
 
 When they had traveled slowly forward for some short 
 distance, Nell ventured to steal a look round the caravan 
 and observe it more closely. One half of it — that moiety 
 in which the comfortable proprietress was then seated — 
 was carpeted, and so partitioned off at the further end as 
 to accommodate a sleeping place, constructed after the 
 fashion of a berth on board ship, which- was shaded, like 
 the little windows, with fair white curtains, and looked 
 comfortable enough, though by what kind of gymnastic 
 exercise the lady of the caravan ever contrived to get 
 into it, was an unfathomable mystery. The other half 
 served for a kitchen, and was fitted up with a stove whose 
 small chimney passed through the roof. It held also a 
 closet or larder, several chests, a great pitcher of water, 
 and a few cooking utensils and articles of crockery. 
 These latter necessaries hung upon the walls, which, in 
 that portion of the establishment devoted to the lady of 
 the caravan, were ornamented with such gayer and lighter 
 decorations as a triangle and a couple of well-thumbed 
 tambourines. 
 
 The lady of the caravan sat at one window in all the 
 
164 
 
 pride and poetry of the musical instruments, and little 
 Nell and her grandfather sat at the other in all the 
 humility of the kettle and saucepans, while the machine 
 jogged on and shifted the darkening prospect very slowly. 
 At first the two travelers spoke little, and only in 
 whispers, but as they grew more familiar with the place 
 they ventured to converse with greater freedom, and 
 talked about the country through which they were pass- 
 ing, and the different objects that presented themselves, 
 until the old man fell asleep ; which the lady of the 
 caravan observing, invited Nell to come and sit beside 
 her. 
 
 "Well, child," she said, "how do you like this way of 
 traveling ? " 
 
 Nell replied that she thought it was very pleasant in- 
 deed, to which the lady assented in the case of people who 
 had their spirits. For herself, she said, she was troubled 
 with a lowness in that respect which required a constant 
 stimulant. 
 
 "That's the happiness of you young people," she con- 
 tinued. " You don't know what it is to be low in your 
 feelings. You always have your appetites too, and what 
 a comfort that is." 
 
 Nell thought that she could sometimes dispense with 
 her own appetite very conveniently ; and thought, more- 
 over, that there was nothing either in the lady's personal 
 appearance or in her manner of taking tea, to lead to the 
 conclusion that her natural relish for meat and drink had 
 at all failed her. She silently assented, however, as in 
 duty bound, to what the lady had said, and waited until 
 she should speak again. 
 
 Instead of speaking, however, she sat looking at the 
 child for a long time in silence, and then getting up, 
 brought out from a corner a large roll of canvas about a 
 yard in width, which she laid upon the floor and spread 
 
i6 S 
 
 open with her foot until it nearly reached from one end of 
 the caravan to the other. 
 
 "There, child," she said, "read that." 
 
 Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in enormous 
 black letters, the inscription, " Jarley's Waxwork." 
 
 " Read it again," said the lady, complacently. 
 
 "Jarley's Waxwork," repeated Nell. 
 
 " That's me," said the lady. " I am Mrs. Jarley." 
 
 Giving the child an encouraging look, intended to reas- 
 sure her and let her know, that, although she stood in the 
 presence of the original Jarley, she mqst not allow herself 
 to be utterly overwhelmed and borne down, the lady of 
 the caravan unfolded another scroll, whereon was the 
 inscription, " One hundred figures the full size of life," 
 and then another scroll, on which was written, " The only 
 stupendous collection of real waxwork in the world," and 
 then several smaller scrolls with such inscriptions as " Now 
 exhibiting within " — " The genuine and only Jarley " — 
 " Jarley's unrivaled collection " — " Jarley is the delight 
 of the Nobility and Gentry" — "The Royal Family are 
 the patrons of Jarley." When she had exhibited these 
 leviathans of public announcement to the astonished child, 
 she brought forth specimens of the lesser fry in the shape 
 of handbills, some of which were couched in the form of 
 parodies on popular melodies, as " Believe me if all 
 Jarley's waxwork so rare " — " I saw thy show in youthful 
 prime " — " Over the water to Jarley ; " while, to consult 
 all tastes, others were composed with a view to the lighter 
 and more facetious spirits, as a parody on the favorite 
 air of " If I had a donkey," beginning 
 
 If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go 
 To see Mrs. Jarley's waxwork show, 
 Bo you think I'd acknowledge him ? 
 Oh, no, no I 
 
 Then run to Jarley's — 
 
i66 
 
 — besides several compositions in prose, all having the 
 same moral, namely, that the reader must make haste to 
 Jarley's, and that children and servants were admitted at 
 half-price. When she had brought all these testimonials 
 of her important position in society to bear upon her 
 young companion, Mrs. Jarley rolled them up, and having 
 put them carefully away, sat down again, and looked at 
 the child in triumph. 
 
 "Never go into the company of a filthy Punch any 
 more," said Mrs. Jarley, " after this." 
 
 " I never saw any waxwork, ma'am," said Nell. " Is 
 it funnier than Punch ? " 
 
 " Funnier ! " said Mrs. Jarley in a shrill voice. " It is 
 not funny at all." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Nell, with all possible humility. 
 
 " It isn't funny at all," repeated Mrs. Jarley. " It's 
 calm and — what's that word again — critical ? — no— class- 
 ical, that's it — it's calm and classical. No low beatings 
 and knockings about, no jokings and squeakings like 
 your precious Punches, but always the same, with a con- 
 stantly unchanging air of coldness and gentility ; and so 
 like life, that if waxwork only spoke and walked about, 
 you'd hardly know the difference. I won't go so far as 
 to say, that, as it is, I've seen waxwork quite like life, 
 but I've certainly seen some life that was exactly like 
 waxwork." 
 
 " Is it here, ma'am ? " asked Nell, whose curiosity was 
 awakened by this description. 
 
 " Is what here, child ? " 
 
 " The waxwork, ma'am." 
 
 "Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of? 
 How could such a collection be here, where you see 
 everything except the inside of one little cupboard and a 
 few boxes ? It's gone on in the other wans to the assem- 
 bly rooms, and there it'll be exhibited the day after to- 
 
167 
 
 morrow. You are going to the same town, and you'll see 
 it I dare say. It's natural to. expect that you'll see it, 
 and I've no doubt you will. . I suppose you couldn't stop 
 away if you was to try ever so much." 
 
 "I shall not be in the town, I think, ma'am," said the 
 child. 
 
 " Not there ! " cried Mrs. Jarley. " Then where will 
 you be?" 
 
 " I — I — don't quite know. I am not Certain." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you're traveling about 
 the country without knowing where you're going to ? " 
 said the lady of the caravan. " What curious people you 
 are ! What line are you in ? You looked to me at the 
 races, child, as if you were quite out of your element, 
 and -had got there by accident." 
 
 " We were there quite by accident," returned Nell, con- 
 fused by this abrupt questioning. "We are poor people, 
 ma'am, and are only wandering about. We have nothing 
 to do ; — I wish we had." 
 
 " You amaze me more and more," said Mrs. Jarley, 
 after remaining for some time as mute as one of her own 
 figures, " Why, what do you call yourselves ? Not beg- 
 gars ? " 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am, I don't know what else we are," 
 returned the child. 
 
 " Lord bless me," said the lady of the caravan. " I 
 never heard of such a thing. Who'd have thought it ! '' 
 
 She remained so long silent after this exclamation, that 
 Nell feared she felt her having been induced to bestow 
 her protection and conversation upon one so poor, to be 
 an outrage upon her dignity that nothing could repair. 
 This persuasion was rather confirmed than otherwise by 
 the tone in which she at length broke silence and said, 
 
 " And yet you can read. And write too, I shouldn't 
 wonder ? " 
 
i68 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said the child, fearful of giving new 
 offense by the confession. 
 
 " Well, and what a thing that is," returned Mrs. Jarley. 
 " / can't ! " 
 
 Nell said " indeed " in a tone which might imply, either 
 that she was reasonably surprised to find the genuine 
 and only Jarley, who was the delight of the Nobility and 
 Gentry and the peculiar pet of the Royal Family, destitute 
 of these familiar arts ; or that she presumed so great a 
 lady could scarcely stand in need of such ordinary accom- 
 plishments. In whatever way Mrs. Jarley received the 
 response, it did not provoke her to further questioning, or 
 tempt her into any more remarks at the time, for she 
 relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and remained in that 
 state so long that Nell withdrew to the other window and 
 rejoined her grandfather, who was now awake. 
 
 At length the lady of the caravan shook off her fit of 
 meditation, and, summoning the driver to come under 
 the window at which she was seated, held a long conver- 
 sation with him in a low tone of voice, as if she were 
 asking his advice on an important point, and discussing 
 the pros and cons of some very weighty matter. This 
 conference at length concluded, she drew in her head 
 again, and beckoned Nell to approach. 
 
 " And the old gentleman too," said Mrs. Jarley ; " for 
 I want to have a word with him. Do you want a good 
 situation for your granddaughter, master ? If you do, 
 I can put her in the way of getting one. What do you 
 say?" 
 
 " I can't leave her," answered the old man. " We 
 can't separate. What would become of me without her ? " 
 
 " I should have thought you were old enough to take 
 care of yourself, if you ever will be," retorted Mrs. Jarley 
 sharply. 
 
 " But he never will be," said the child in an earnest 
 
169 
 
 whisper. " I fear he never will be again. Pray do not 
 speak harshly to him. We are very thankful to you," she 
 added aloud ; " but neither of us could part from the 
 other if all the wealth of the world were halved between 
 us." 
 
 Mrs. Jarley was a little disconcerted by this reception 
 of her proposal, and looked at the old man, who tenderly 
 took Nell's hand and detained it in his own, as if she 
 could have very well dispensed with his company or even 
 his earthly existence. After" an awkward pause, she 
 thrust her head out of the window again, and had another 
 conference with the driver upon some point on which 
 they did not seem to agree quite so readily as on their 
 former topic of discussion ; but they concluded at last, 
 and she addressed the grandfather again. 
 
 " If you're really disposed to employ yourself," said 
 Mrs. Jarley, " there would be plenty for you to do in the 
 way of helping to dust the figures, and take the checks, 
 and so forth. What I want your granddaughter for, is to 
 point 'em out to the company ; they would be soon learnt, 
 and she has a way with her that people wouldn't think 
 unpleasant, though she does come after me ; for I've been 
 always accustomed to go round with visitors myself, 
 which I should keep on doing now, only that my spirits 
 make a little ease absolutely necessary. It's not a com- 
 mon offer, bear in mind," said the lady, rising into the 
 tone and manner in which she was accustomed to address 
 her audiences ; " it's Jarley 's waxwork, remember. The 
 duty's very light and genteel, the company particular 
 select, the exhibition takes place in assembly rooms, 
 townhalls, large rooms at inns> or auction galleries. 
 There is none of your open-air wagrancy at Jarley's, rec- 
 ollect ; there is no tarpaulin and sawdust at Jarley's, 
 remember. Every expectation held out in the handbills 
 is realized to the utmost, and the whole forms an effect 
 
170 
 
 of imposing brilliancy hitherto unrivaled in this king- 
 dom. Remember that the price of admission is only six- 
 pence, and that this is an opportunity which may never 
 occur again ! " 
 
 Descending from the sublime when she had reached 
 this point, to the details of common life, Mrs. Jarley re- 
 marked that with reference to salary she could pledge 
 herself to no specific sum until she-had sufficiently tested 
 Nell's abilities, and narrowly watched her in the per- 
 formance of her duties. But board and lodging, both for 
 her and her grandfather, she bound herself to provide, 
 and she furthermore passed her word that the board 
 should always be good in quality, and in quantity plentiful. 
 
 Nell and her grandfather consulted together, and while 
 they were so engaged, Mrs. Jarley with her hands behind 
 her walked up and down the caravan, as she had walked 
 after tea on the dull earth, with uncommon dignity and 
 self-esteem. Nor will this appear so slight a circumstance 
 as to be unworthy of mention, when it is remembered 
 that the caravan was in uneasy motion all the time, and 
 that none but a person of great natural stateliness and 
 acquired grace could have forborne to stagger. 
 
 " Now, child ? " cried Mrs. Jarley, coming to a halt as 
 Nell turned towards her. 
 
 " We are very much obliged to you, ma'am," said Nell, 
 " and thankfully accept your offer." 
 
 fi And you'll never be sorry for it," returned Mrs. 
 Jarl-ey. " I'm pretty sure of that. So as that's all settled, 
 let us have a bit of supper." 
 
 In the meanwhile, the caravan blundered on as if it 
 had been drinking strong beer and was drowsy, and came 
 at last upon the paved streets of a town which were clear 
 of passengers, and quiet, for it was by this time near mid- 
 night, and the townspeople were all abed. As it was too 
 late an hour to repair to the exhibition room, they turned 
 
i;i 
 
 aside into a piece of waste ground that lay just within 
 the old town gate, and drew up there for the night, near 
 to another caravan, which, notwithstanding that it bore 
 on the lawful panel the great name of Jarley, and was 
 employed besides in conveying from place to place the 
 waxwork which was its country's pride, was designated 
 by a groveling stamp office as a " Common Stage Wagon," 
 and numbered too — seven thousand odd hundred — as 
 though its precious freight were mere flour or coals ! 
 
 This ill-used machine being empty (for it had deposited 
 its burden at the place of exhibition, and lingered here 
 until its services were again required) was assigned to the 
 old man as his sleeping place for the night ; and within 
 its wooden walls, Nell made him up the best bed she 
 could, from the materials at hand. For herself, she was 
 to sleep in Mrs. Jarley's own traveling carriage, as a 
 signal mark of that lady's favor and confidence. 
 
 She had taken leave of her grandfather and was return- 
 ing to the other wagon, when she was tempted by the 
 pleasant coolness of the night to linger for a little while 
 in the air. The moon was shining down upon the old 
 gateway of the town, leaving the low archway very black 
 and dark ; and with a mingled sensation of curiosity and 
 fear, she slowly approached the gate, and stood still to 
 look up at it, wondering to see how dark, and grim, and 
 old, and cold, it looked. 
 
 There was an empty niche from which some old statue 
 had fallen or been carried away hundreds of years ago, 
 and she was thinking what strange people it must have 
 looked down upon when it stood there, and how many 
 hard struggles might have taken place, and how many 
 murders might have been done, upon that silent spot, 
 when there suddenly emerged from the black shade of 
 the arch, a man. The instant he appeared, she recog- 
 nized him — Who could have failed to recognize, in that 
 instant, the ugly misshapen Quilp ! 
 
172 
 
 The street beyond was so narrow, and the shadow of 
 the houses on one side of the way so deep, that he seemed 
 to have risen out of the earth. But there he was. The 
 child withdrew into a dark corner, and saw him pass 
 close to her. He had a stick in his hand, and, when he 
 had got clear of the shadow of the gateway, he leaned upon 
 it, looked back — directly, as it seemed, towards' where 
 she stood — and beckoned. 
 
 To her ? oh no, thank God, not to her ; for as she stood, 
 in an extremity of fear, hesitating whether to scream for 
 help, or come from her hiding place and fly, before he 
 should draw nearer, there issued slowly forth from the 
 arch another figure — that of a boy — who carried on his 
 back a trunk. 
 
 " Faster, sirrah ! " said Quilp, looking up at the old 
 gateway, and showing in the moonlight like some mon- 
 strous image that had come down from its niche and was 
 casting a backward glance at its old house, " faster ! " 
 
 " It's a dreadful heavy load, Sir," the boy pleaded. 
 " I've come on very fast, considering." 
 
 " You have come fast, considering ! " retorted Quilp ; 
 "you creep, you dog, you crawl, you measure distance 
 like a worm. There are the chimes now, half-past 
 twelve." 
 
 He stopped to listen, and then turning upon the boy 
 with a suddenness and ferocity that made him start, asked 
 at what hour that London coach passed the corner of 
 the road. The boy replied, at one. 
 
 " Come on then," said Quilp, " or I shall be too late. 
 Faster — do you hear me ? Faster." 
 
 The boy made all the speed he could, and Quilp led on- 
 ward, constantly turning back to threaten him, and urge 
 him to greater haste. Nell did not dare to move until 
 they were out of sight and hearing, and then hurried to 
 where she had left her grandfather, feeling as if the very 
 
i73 
 
 passing of the dwarf so near him must have filled him 
 with alarm and terror. But he was sleeping soundly, and 
 she softly withdrew. 
 
 As she was making her way to her own bed, she deter- 
 mined to say nothing of this adventure, as upon whatever 
 errand the dwarf had come (and she feared it must have 
 been in search of them) it was clear by his inquiry about 
 the London coach that he was on his way homeward, and 
 as he had passed through that place, it was but reason- 
 able to suppose that they were safer from his inquiries 
 there, than they could be elsewhere. These reflections 
 did not remove her own alarm, for she had been too much 
 terrified to be easily composed, and felt as if she were 
 hemmed in by a legion of Quilps, and the very air itself 
 were filled with them. 
 
 The delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the patron- 
 ized of Royalty had, by some process of self-abridgment 
 known only to herself, got into her traveling bed, where 
 . she was snoring peacefully, while the large bonnet, care- 
 fully disposed upon the drum, was revealing its glories 
 by the light of a dim lamp that swung from the roof. 
 The child's bed was already made upon the floor, and it 
 was a great' comfort to her to hear the steps removed as 
 soon as she had entered, and to know that all easy com- 
 munication between persons outside and the brass 
 knocker was by this means effectually prevented. Cer- 
 tain guttural sounds, too, which from time to time as- 
 cended through the door of the caravan, and a rustling of 
 straw in the same direction, apprised her that the driver 
 was couched upon the ground beneath, and gave her an 
 additional feeling of security. 
 
 Notwithstanding these protections, she could get none 
 but broken sleep by fits and starts all night, for fear of 
 Quilp, who throughout her uneasy dreams was somehow 
 connected with the waxwork, or was waxwork himself, 
 
174 
 
 or was Mrs. Jarley and waxwork too, or was himself, 
 Mrs. Jarley, waxwork, and a barrel organ all in one, and' 
 yet not exactly, any of them either. At length, towards 
 break of day, that deep sleep came upon her which suc- 
 ceeds to weariness and overwatching, and which has no 
 consciousness but one of overpowering and irresistible 
 enjoyment. 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. 
 
 Sleep hung upon the eyelids of the child so long, that, 
 when she awoke, Mrs. Jarley was already decorated with 
 her large bonnet, and actively engaged in preparing 
 breakfast. She received Nell's apology for being so late 
 with perfect good humor, and said that she should not 
 have roused her if she had slept on until noon. 
 
 " Because it does you good," said the lady of the 
 caravan, " when you're tired, to sleep as long as ever you 
 can, and get the fatigue quite off ; and that's another 
 blessing of your time of life — you can sleep so very 
 sound." 
 
 " Have you had a bad night, ma'am ? " asked Nell. 
 
 " I seldom have anything else, child," replied Mrs. 
 Jarley, with the air of a martyr. " I sometimes wonder 
 how I bear it." 
 
 Remembering the snores which had proceeded from 
 that cleft in the caravan in which the proprietress of the 
 waxwork passed the night, Nell rather thought she must 
 have been dreaming of lying awake. However, she 
 expressed herself very sorry to hear such a dismal 
 account of her state of health, and shortly afterwards sat 
 down with her grandfather and Mrs. Jarley to breakfast. 
 The meal finished, Nell assisted to wash the cups and 
 saucers, and put them in their proper places, and these 
 
175 
 
 household duties performed, Mrs. Jarley arrayed herself 
 in an exceedingly bright shawl for the purpose of making 
 a progress through the streets of the town. 
 
 " The wan will come on to bring the boxes," said Mrs. 
 Jarley, " and you had better come in it, child. I am 
 obliged to walk, very much against my will ; but the 
 people expect it of me, and public characters can't be 
 their own masters and mistresses in such matters as 
 these. How do I look, child ? " 
 
 Nell returned a satisfactory reply, and Mrs. Jarley, 
 after sticking a great many pins into various parts of her 
 figure, and making several abortive attempts to obtain a 
 full view of her own back, was at last satisfied with her 
 appearance, and went forth majestically. 
 
 The caravan followed at no great distance. As it went 
 jolting through the streets, Nell peeped from the window, 
 curious to see in what kind of place they were, and yet 
 fearful of encountering at every turn the dreaded face of 
 Quilp. It was a pretty large town, with an open square 
 which they were crawling slowly across, and in the middle 
 of which was the Townhall, with a clock tower and a 
 weathercock. There were houses of stone, houses of red 
 brick, houses of yellow brick, houses of lath and plaster, 
 and houses of wood, many of them very old, with withered 
 faces carved upon the beams, and staring down into the 
 street. These had very little, winking windows, and low- 
 arched doors, and, in some of the narrower ways, quite 
 overhung the pavement. The streets were very clean, 
 very sunny, very empty, and very dull. A few idle men 
 lounged about the two inns, and the empty market place, 
 and the tradesmen's doors, and some old people were 
 dozing in chairs outside an almshouse wall ; but scarcely 
 any passengers who seemed bent on going anywhere or to 
 have any object in view, went by ; and if perchance some 
 straggler did, his footsteps echoed on the hot, bright pave- 
 
176 
 
 ment for minutes afterwards. Nothing seemed to be going 
 on but the clocks, and they had such drowsy faces, such 
 heavy, lazy hands, and such cracked voices, that they 
 surely must have been too slow. The very dogs were all 
 asleep, and the flies, drunk with moist sugar in the grocer's 
 shop, forgot their wings and briskness, and baked to death 
 in dusty corners of the window. 
 
 Rumbling along with most unwonted noise, the caravan 
 stopped at last at the place of exhibition, where Nell dis- 
 mounted amidst an admiring group of children, who evi» 
 dently supposed her to be an important item of the curiosi- 
 ties, and were fully impressed with the belief that her 
 grandfather was a cunning device in wax. The chests 
 were taken out with all convenient despatch, and taken in 
 to be unlocked by Mrs. Jarley, who, attended by George 
 and another man in velveteen shorts and a drab hat were 
 waiting to dispose of their contents (consisting of red fes- 
 toons and other ornamental devices in upholstery work) 
 to the best advantage in the decoration of the room. 
 
 They all got to work without loss of time, and very 
 busy they were. As the stupendous collection were yet 
 concealed by cloths, lest the envious dust should injure 
 their complexions, Nell bestirred herself to assist in the 
 embellishment of the room, in which her grandfather also 
 was of great service. The two men being well used to it, 
 did a great deal in a short time ; and Mrs. Jarley served 
 out the tin tacks from a linen pocket like a toll collector's 
 which she wore for the purpose, and encouraged her 
 assistants to renewed exertion. 
 
 While they were thus employed, a tallish gentleman 
 with a hook nose and black hair, dressed in a military 
 surtout very short and tight in the sleeves, and which 
 had once been frogged and braided all over, but was now 
 sadly shorn of its garniture and quite threadbare — dressed, 
 too, in ancient gray pantaloons fitting tight to the leg, and a 
 
177 
 
 pair of pumps in the winter of their existence — looked in 
 at the door, and smiled affably. Mrs. Jarley's back 
 being then towards him, the military gentleman shook his 
 forefinger as a sign that her myrmidons were not to ap- 
 prise her of his presence, and stealing up close behind her, 
 tapped her on the neck, and cried playfully " Boh ! " 
 
 " What, Mr. Slum ! " cried the lady of the waxwork. 
 " Lor ! who'd have thought of seeing you here ! " 
 
 " Ton my soul and honor," said Mr. Slum, " that's a 
 good remark Ton my soul and honor, that's a wise 
 remark. Who would have thought it ! George, my faith- 
 ful feller, how are you ? " 
 
 George received this advance with a surly indifference, 
 observing that he was well enough for the matter of that, 
 and hammering lustily all the time. 
 
 " I came' here," said the military gentleman turning to 
 Mrs. Jarley, — " Ton my soul and honor, I hardly know 
 what I came here for. It would puzzle me to tell you, it 
 would, by Gad. I wanted a little inspiration, a little 
 freshening up, a little change of ideas, and — Ton my soul 
 and honor," said the military gentleman, checking him- 
 self and looking round the room, " what a classical thing 
 this is ! It's quite Minervian ! " 
 
 " It'll look well enough when it comes to be finished," 
 observed Mrs. Jarley. 
 
 " Well enough ! " said Mr. Slum. " Will you believe 
 me when I say it's the delight of my life to have dabbled 
 in poetry, when I think I've exercised my pen upon this 
 charming theme ? By the way — any orders ? Is there 
 anylittle thing I can do for you ? " 
 
 " It comes so very expensive, Sir," replied Mrs. Jarley, 
 " and I really don't think it does much good." 
 
 " Hush ! No, no ! " returned Mr. Slum, elevating his 
 hand. " No fibs. I'll not hear it. Don't say it don't do 
 good. Don't say it. I know better ! " 
 
 Little Nell.— 12. 
 
i 7 8 
 
 "I don't think it does," said Mrs. Jarley. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! " cried Mr. Slum, " you're giving way, you're 
 coming down. Ask the perfumers, ask the blacking 
 makers, ask the hatters, ask the old lottery office keepers 
 — ask any man among 'em what my poetry has done for 
 him, and mark my words, he blesses the name of Slum. 
 If he's an honest man, he raises his eyes to heaven, 
 and blesses the name of Slum — mark that ! You are 
 acquainted with Westminster Abbey, Mrs. Jarley ? " 
 
 " Yes, surely." 
 
 " Then upon my soul and honor, ma'am, you'll find in 
 a certain angle of that dreary pile, called Poets' Corner, a 
 few smaller names than Slum," retorted that gentleman, 
 tapping himself expressively on the forehead to imply 
 that there was some slight quantity of brains behind it. 
 " I've got a little, trifle here, now," said Mr. Slum, taking 
 off his hat which was full of scraps of paper, "a little 
 trifle here, thrown off in the heat of the moment, which I 
 should say was exactly the thing you wanted to set this 
 place on fire with. It's an acrostic — the name at this 
 moment is Warren, but the idea's a convertible one, and 
 a positive inspiration for Jarley. Have the acrostic." 
 
 " I suppose it's very dear," said Mrs. Jarley. 
 
 "Five shillings," returned Mr. Slum, using his pencil 
 as a toothpick. " Cheaper than any prose." 
 
 " I couldn't give more than three," said Mrs. Jarley. 
 
 " — And six," retorted Slum. "Come. Three-and-six." 
 
 Mrs. Jarley was not proof against the poet's insinuat- 
 ing manner, and Mr. Slum entered the order in a small 
 notebook as a three-and-sixpenny one. Mr. Slum then 
 withdrew to alter the acrostic, after taking a most affec- 
 tionate leave of his patroness, and promising to return, 
 as soon as he possibly could, with a fair copy for the 
 printer. 
 
 As his presence had not interfered with or interrupted 
 
179 
 
 the preparations, they were now far advanced, and were 
 completed shortly after his departure. When the festoons 
 were all put up as tastily as they might be, the stupendous 
 collection was uncovered, and there were displayed, on a 
 raised platform some two feet from the floor, running 
 round the room and parted from the rude public by a 
 crimson rope breast high, divers sprightly effigies of cele- 
 brated characters, singly and in groups, clad in glittering 
 dresses of various climes and times, and standing more 
 or less unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes very 
 wide open, and their nostrils very much inflated, and the 
 muscles of their legs and arms very strongly developed, 
 and all their countenances expressing great surprise. All 
 the gentlemen were very pigeon-breasted and very blue 
 about the beards ; and all the ladies were miraculous 
 figures ; and all the ladies and all the gentlemen were 
 looking intensely nowhere, and staring with extraordinary 
 earnestness at nothing. 
 
 When Nell had exhausted her first raptures .at this 
 glorious sight, Mrs. Jarley ordered the room to be 
 cleared of all but herself and the child, and, sitting her- 
 self down in an armchair in the center, formally invested 
 her with a willow wand, long used by herself for pointing 
 out the characters, and was at great pains to instruct her 
 in her duty. 
 
 " That," said Mrs. Jarley in her exhibition tone, as Nell 
 touched a figure at the beginning of the platform, " is an 
 unfortunate maid of honor in the time of Queen Eliza- 
 beth, who died from pricking her finger in consequence 
 of working upon a Sunday. Observe the blood which is 
 trickling from her finger ; also the gold-eyed needle of the 
 period, with which she is at work." 
 
 All this Nell repeated twice or thrice, pointing to the 
 finger and the needle at the right times, and then passed 
 on to the next. 
 
i8o 
 
 " That, ladies and gentlemen," said Mrs. Jarley, " is 
 Jasper Packlemerton of atrocious memory, who courted 
 and married fourteen wives, and destroyed them all by 
 tickling the soles of their feet when they was sleeping in 
 the consciousness of innocence and virtue. On being 
 brought to the scaffold and asked if he was sorry for what 
 he had done, he replied yes, he was sorry for having let 
 'em off so easy, and hoped all Christian husbands would 
 pardon him the offense. Let this be a warning to all 
 young ladies to be particular in the character of the gentle- 
 men of their choice. Observe that his fingers is curled as 
 if in the act of tickling, and that his face is represented 
 with a wink, as he appeared when committing his barbar- 
 ous murders." 
 
 When Nell knew all about Mr. Packlemerton, and could 
 say it without faltering, Mrs. Jarley passed on to the fat 
 man, and then to the thin man, the tall man, the short man, 
 the old lady who died of dancing at a hundred and thirty- 
 two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who poisoned 
 fourteen families with pickled walnuts, and other histori- 
 cal characters and interesting but misguided individuals. 
 And so well did Nell profit by her instructions, and so 
 apt was she to remember them, that by the time they had 
 been shut up together for a couple of hours, she was in 
 full possession of the history of the whole establishment, 
 and perfectly competent to the enlightenment of visitors. 
 
 Mrs. Jarley was not slow to express her admiration at 
 this happy result, and carried her young friend and pupil 
 to inspect the remaining arrangements within doors, by 
 virtue of which the passage had been already converted 
 into a grove of green baize hung with the inscriptions she 
 had already seen (Mr. Slum's productions), and a highly 
 ornamented table placed at the upper end for Mrs. Jarley 
 herself, at which she was to preside and take the money, 
 in company with his Majesty King George the Third, Mr. 
 
181 
 
 Grimaldi as clown, Mary Queen of Scots, an anonymous 
 gentleman of the Quaker persuasion, and Mr. Pitt holding 
 in his hand a correct model of the bill for the imposition 
 of the window duty. The preparations without doors had 
 not been neglected either ; for a nun of great personal 
 attractions was telling her beads on the little portico 
 over the door; and a brigand with the blackest possible 
 head of hair, and the clearest possible complexion, was 
 at that moment going round the town in a cart, consult- 
 ing the miniature of a lady. 
 
 It now only remained that Mr. Slum's compositions 
 should be judiciously distributed ; that the pathetic effu- 
 sions should find their way to all private houses and trades- 
 people ; and that the parody commencing " If I know'd a 
 donkey," should be confined to the taverns, and circulated 
 only among the lawyers' clerks and choice spirits of the 
 place. When this had been done, and Mrs. Jarley had 
 waited upon the boarding schools in person, with a hand- 
 bill composed expressly for them, in which it was dis- 
 tinctly proved that waxwork refined the mind, cultivated 
 the taste, and enlarged the sphere of the human under- 
 standing, that indefatigable lady sat down to dinner. 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. 
 
 Unquestionably Mrs. Jarley had an inventive genius. 
 In the midst of the various devices for attracting visitors 
 to the exhibition, little Nell was not forgotten. The light 
 cart in which the Brigand usually made his perambulations 
 being gaily dressed with flags and streamers, and the 
 Brigand placed therein, contemplating the miniature of 
 his beloved as usual, Nell was accommodated with a seat 
 beside him, decorated with artificial flowers, and in this 
 state and ceremony rode slowly through the town every 
 
1 82 
 
 morning, dispersing handbills from a basket, to the sound 
 of drum and trumpet. The beauty of the child, coupled 
 with her gentle and timid bearing, produced quite a sen- 
 sation in the little country place. The Brigand, heretofore 
 a source of exclusive interest in the streets, became a 
 mere secondary consideration, and to be important only as 
 a part of the show of which she was the chief attraction. 
 Grown up folks began to be interested in the bright-eyed 
 girl, and some score of little boys fell desperately in love, 
 and constantly left inclosures of nuts and apples, directed 
 in small text, at the waxwork door. 
 
 This desirable impression was not lost upon Mrs. Jar- 
 ley, who, lest Nell should become too cheap, soon sent 
 the Brigand out alone again, and kept her in the exhibi- 
 tion room, where she described the figures every half hour 
 to the great satisfaction of admiring audiences. And 
 these audiences were of a very superior description, includ- 
 ing a great many young ladies' boarding schools, whose 
 favor Mrs. Jarley had been at great pains to conciliate, by 
 altering the face and costume of Mr. Grimaldi as clown to 
 represent Mr. Lindley Murray as he appeared when en- 
 gaged in the composition of his English Grammar, and 
 turning a murderess of great renown into Mrs. Hannah 
 More — both of which likenesses were admitted by Miss 
 Monflatbers, who was at the head of the head Boarding 
 and Day Establishment in the town, and who conde- 
 scended to take a private view with eight chosen young 
 ladies, to be quite startling from their extreme correctness. 
 Mr. Pitt in a nightcap and bedgown, and without his boots, 
 represented the poet Cowper with perfect exactness ; and 
 Mary Queen of Scots in a dark wig, white shirt collar, 
 and male attire, was such a complete image of Lord Byron 
 that the young ladies quite screamed when they saw it. 
 Miss Monflathers, however, rebuked this enthusiasm, and 
 took occasion to reprove Mrs. Jarley for not keeping her 
 
183 
 
 collection more select, observing that his lordship had 
 held certain free opinions quite incompatible with wax- 
 work honors. 
 
 Although her duties were sufficiently laborious, Nell 
 found in the lady of the caravan a very kind and consider- 
 ate person, who had not only a peculiar relish for being 
 comfortable herself, but for making everybody about her 
 comfortable also ; which latter taste, it may be remarked, 
 is, even in persons who live in much finer places than car- 
 avans, a far more rare and uncommon one than the first, 
 and is not by any means its necessary consequence. As 
 her popularity procured her various little fees from the 
 visitors on which her patroness never demanded any toll, 
 and as her grandfather, too, was well-treated and useful, 
 she had no cause of anxiety in connection with the wax- 
 work, beyond that which sprang from her recollection of 
 Quilp, and her fears that he might return and one day sud- 
 denly encounter them. 
 
 One evening, a holiday night with them, Nell and. her 
 grandfather went out to walk. They had been rather 
 closely confined for some days, and the weather being 
 warm, they strolled a long distance. Clear of the town, 
 they took a footpath which struck through some pleasant 
 fields, judging that it would terminate in the road they 
 quitted and enable them to return that way. It made, how- 
 ever, a much wider circuit than they had supposed, and 
 thus they were tempted onward until sunset, when they 
 reached the track of which they were in search, and stopped 
 to rest. 
 
 It had been gradually getting overcast, and now the sky 
 was dark and lowering, save where the glory of the depart- 
 ing sun piled up masses of gold and burning fire, decaying 
 embers of which gleamed here and there through the 
 black veil, and shone redly down upon the earth. The 
 wind began to moan in hollow murmurs, as the sun went 
 
1 84 
 
 down carrying glad day elsewhere ; and a train of dull 
 clouds coming up against it, menaced thunder and light- 
 ning. Large drops of rain soon began to fall, and, as 
 the storm clouds came sailing onward, others supplied the 
 void they left behind and spread over all the sky. Then 
 was heard the low rumbling of distant thunder, then the 
 lightning quivered, and then the darkness of an hour 
 seemed to have gathered in an instant. 
 
 Fearful of taking shelter beneath a tree or hedge, the 
 old man and the child hurried along the high road, hoping 
 to find some house in which they could seek a refuge from 
 the storm, which had now burst forth in earnest, and every 
 moment increased in violence. Drenched with the pelting 
 rain, confused by the deafening thunder, and bewildered 
 by the glare of the forked lightning, they would have 
 passed a solitary house without being aware of its vicinity, 
 had not a man, who was standing at the door, called lustily 
 to them to enter. 
 
 "Your ears ought to be better than other folks' at any 
 rate, if you make so little of the chance of being struck 
 blind," he said, retreating from the door and shading his 
 eyes with his hands as the jagged lightning came again. 
 " What were you going past for, eh ? " he added, as he 
 closed the door and led the way along a passage to a room 
 behind. 
 
 "We didn't see the house, Sir, till we heard you calling," 
 Nell replied. 
 
 " No wonder," said the man, " with this lightning in one's 
 eyes, by the bye. You had better stand by the fire here, 
 and dry yourselves a bit. You can call for what you like 
 if you want anything. If you don't want anything, you 
 are not obliged to give an order, don't be afraid of that. 
 This is a public house that's all. The Valiant Soldier is 
 pretty well known hereabouts." 
 
 " Is this house called the Valiant Soldier, Sir ? " asked 
 Nell 
 
i8 5 
 
 " I thought everybody knew that," replied the landlord. 
 " Where have you come from, if you don't know the 
 Valiant Soldier as well as the Church catechism ? This is 
 the Valiant Soldier, by James Groves, — Jem Groves — 
 honest Jem Groves, as is a man of unblemished moral 
 character, and has a good dry skittle ground. If any man 
 has got anything to say again Jem Groves, let him say it 
 to Jem Groves, and Jem Groves can accommodate him 
 with a customer on any terms from four pound a side to 
 forty." 
 
 With these words, the speaker tapped himself on the 
 waistcoat to intimate that he was the Jem Groves so 
 highly eulogized ; sparred scientifically at a counterfeit 
 Jem Groves, who was sparring at society in general from 
 a black frame over the chimney piece. 
 
 The night being warm, there was a large screen drawn 
 across the room, for a barrier against the heat of the fire. 
 It seemed as if somebody on the other side of this screen 
 had been insinuating doubts of Mr. Groves's prowess, and 
 had thereby given rise to these egotistical expressions, 
 for Mr. Groves wound up his defiance by giving a loud 
 knock upon it with his knuckles and pausing for a reply 
 from the other side. 
 
 " There an't many men," said Mr. Groves, no answer 
 being returned, " who would ventur' to cross Jem Groves 
 under his own roof. There's only one man, I know, that 
 has nerve enough for that, and that man's not a hundred 
 mile from here neither. But he's worth a dozen men, and 
 I let him say of me whatever he likes in consequence, — 
 he knows that." 
 
 In return for this complimentary address, a very gruff 
 hoarse voice bade Mr. Groves hold his noise and light a 
 candle. And the same, voice remarked that the. same 
 gentleman needn't waste his breath in brag, for most 
 people knew pretty well what sort of stuff he was made of. 
 
186 
 
 "Nell, they're — they're playing cards," whispered the 
 old man, suddenly interested. " Don't you hear them ? ' 
 
 " Look sharp with that candle," said the voice ; "it's as 
 much as I can do to see the pips on the cards as it is ; and 
 get this shutter closed as quick as you can, will you ? 
 Game ! Seven-and- sixpence to me, old Isaac. Hand 
 over." 
 
 " Do you hear, Nell, do you hear them ? " whispered the 
 old man again, with increased earnestness, as the money 
 chinked upon the table. 
 
 " I haven't seen such a storm as this," said a sharp, 
 cracked voice of most disagreeable quality, when a tre- 
 mendous peal of thunder had died away, " since the night 
 when old Luke Withers won thirteen times running, upon 
 the red." 
 
 " Ah ! " returned the gruff voice ; " for all old Luke's 
 winning through thick and thin of late years, I remember 
 the time when he was the unluckiest and unfortunatest of 
 men. He never took a dicebox in his hand, or held a 
 card, but he was plucked, pigeoned, and cleaned out com- 
 pletely." 
 
 " Do you hear what he says ? " whispered the old man. 
 " Do you hear that, Nell ? " 
 
 The child saw with astonishment and alarm that his 
 whole appearance had undergone a complete change. His 
 face was flushed and eager, his eyes were strained, his 
 teeth set, his breath came short and thick, and the hand 
 he laid upon her arm trembled so violently that she shook 
 beneath its grasp. 
 
 " Bear witness," he muttered, looking upward, " that I 
 always said it ; that I knew it, dreamed of it, felt it was 
 the truth, and that it must be so ! What money have we, 
 Nell ? Come ! I saw you with money yesterday. What 
 money have we ? Give it to me." 
 
 " No, no, let me keep it, grandfather," said the fright- 
 
i8 7 
 
 ened child. " Let us go away from here. Do not mind 
 the rain. Pray let us go." 
 
 " Give it to me, I say," returned the old man fiercely. 
 " Hush, hush, don't cry, Nell. If I spoke sharply, dear, 
 I didn't mean it. It's for thy good. I have wronged 
 thee, Nell, but I will right thee yet, I will indeed. Where 
 is the money ? " 
 
 " Do not take it," said the child. " Pray do not take it, 
 dear. For both our sakes let me keep it, or let me throw 
 it away — better let me throw it away, than you take it 
 now. Let us go ; do let us go." 
 
 " Give me the money," returned the old man, " I must 
 have it. There — there — that's my dear Nell. I'll right 
 thee one day, child, I'll right thee, never fear ! " 
 
 She took from her pocket a little purse. He seized it 
 with the same rapid impatience which had characterized 
 his speech, and hastily made his way to the other side of 
 the screen. It was impossible to restrain him, and the 
 trembling child followed close behind. 
 
 The landlord had placed a light upon the table, and was 
 engaged in drawing the curtain of the window. The 
 speakers whom they had heard were two men, who had a 
 pack of cards and some silver money between them, while 
 upon the screen itself the games they had played were 
 scored in chalk. The man with the rough voice was a 
 burly fellow of middle age, with large black whiskers, 
 broad cheeks, a coarse, wide mouth, and bull neck, which 
 was pretty freely displayed as his shirt collar was only 
 confined Jay a loose, red neckerchief. He wore his hat, 
 which was of a brownish white, and had beside him a 
 thick, knotted stick. The other man, whom his companion 
 had called Isaac, was of a more slender figure — stooping, 
 and high in the shoulders — with a very ill-favored face, 
 and a most sinister and villainoils squint. 
 
 " Now, old gentleman," said Isaac, looking round. 
 
" Do you know either of us ? This side of the screen is 
 private, Sir." 
 
 " No offense, I hope," returned the old man. 
 
 "But, there is offense," said the other, interrupting him, 
 " when you intrude yourself upon a couple of gentlemen 
 who are particularly engaged." 
 
 " I had no intention to offend," said the old man, look- 
 ing anxiously at the cards, " I thought that — " 
 
 " But you had no right to think, Sir," retorted the 
 other. " What has a man at your time of life to do with 
 thinking ? " 
 
 " Now,' 7 said the stout man, raising his eyes from his 
 cards for the first time, " can't you let him speak ? " 
 
 The landlord, who had apparently resolved to remain 
 neutral until he knew which side of the question the 
 stout man would espouse, chimed in at this place with 
 " Ah, to be sure, can't you let him speak, Isaac List ? " 
 
 " Can't I let him speak," sneered Isaac in reply, mimick- 
 ing as nearly as he could, in his shrill voice, the tones of 
 the landlord. "Yes, I can let him speak, Jemmy Groves." 
 
 " Well then, do it, will you ? " said the landlord. 
 
 Mr. List's squint assumed a portentous character, 
 which seemed to threaten a prolongation of this con- 
 troversy, when his companion, who had been looking 
 sharply at the old man, put a timely stop to it. 
 
 " Who knows," said he, with a cunning look, " but the 
 gentleman may have civilly meant to ask if he might have 
 the honor to take a hand with us ! " 
 
 " I did mean it," cried the old man. " That is what I 
 mean. That is what I want now ! " 
 
 " I thought so," returned the same man. " Then who 
 knows but the gentleman, anticipating our objection to 
 play for love, civilly desired to play for money ? " 
 
 The old man replied by shaking the little purse in his 
 eager hand, and then throwing it down upon the table, 
 
189 
 
 and gathering up the cards as a miser would clutch at 
 gold. 
 
 " Oh ! That indeed — " said Isaac ; " if that's what the 
 gentleman meant, I beg the gentleman's pardon. Is this 
 the gentleman's little purse ? A very pretty little purse. 
 Rather a light purse," added Isaac, throwing it into the 
 air and catching it dexterously, " but enough to amuse a 
 gentleman for half an hour or so." 
 
 " We'll make a four-handed game of it, and take in 
 Groves," said the stout man. " Come, Jemmy." 
 
 The landlord, who conducted himself like one who was 
 well used to such little parties, approached the table and 
 took his seat. The child, in perfect agony, drew her 
 grandfather aside, and implored him, even then, to come 
 away. 
 
 " Come ; and we may be so happy," said the child. 
 
 " We will bt happy," replied the old man hastily. " Let 
 me go, Nell. The means of happiness are on the cards 
 and in the dice. We must rise from little winnings to 
 great. There's little to be won here ; but great will come 
 in time. I shall but win back my own, and it's all for 
 thee, my darling." 
 
 " God help us! " cried the child. " Oh ! what hard for- 
 tune brought us here ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " rejoined the old man laying his hand upon her 
 mouth, " Fortune will not bear chiding. We must not 
 reproach her, or she shuns us ; I have found that out." 
 
 " Now, mister," said the stout man. " If you're not 
 coming yourself, give us the cards, will you ? '' 
 
 " I am coming," cried the old man. " Sit thee down, 
 Nell, sit thee down and look on. Be of good heart, it's 
 all for thee — all — every penny. I don't tell them, no, no, 
 or else they wouldn't play, dreading the chance that such 
 a cause must give me. Look at them. See what they 
 are and what thou art. Who doubts that we must win ! " 
 
190 
 
 "The gentleman has thought better of it, and isn't 
 coming," said Isaac, making as though he would rise 
 from the table. " I'm sorry the gentleman's daunted — 
 nothing venture, nothing have — but the gentleman knows 
 best." 
 
 " Why, I am ready. You have all been slow but me," 
 said the old man. "I wonder who's more anxious to 
 begin than I." 
 
 As he spoke he drew a chair to the table ; and the 
 other three closing round it at the same time, the game 
 commenced. 
 
 The child sat by, and watched its progress with a 
 troubled mind. Regardless of the run of luck, and mind- 
 ful only of the desperate passion which had its hold upon 
 her grandfather, losses and gains were to her alike. 
 Exulting in some brief triumph, or cast down by a aefeat, 
 there he sat so wild and restless, so feverishly and 
 intensely anxious, so terribly eager, so ravenous for the 
 paltry stakes, that she could have almost better borne to 
 see him dead. And yet she was the innocent cause of 
 all this torture, and he, gambling with such a savage 
 thirst for gain as the most insatiable gambler never felt, 
 had not one selfish thought ! 
 
 On the contrary, the other three — knaves and gamesters 
 by their trade — while intent upon their game, were yet as 
 cool and quiet as if every virtue had been centered in their 
 breasts. Sometimes one would look up to smile to another, 
 or to snuff the feeble candle, or to glance at the lightning 
 as it shot through the open window and fluttering curtain, 
 or to listen to some louder peal of thunder than the rest, 
 with a kind of momentary impatience, as if it put him out ; 
 but there they sat, with a calm indifference to everything 
 but their cards, perfect philosophers in appearance, and 
 with no greater show of passion or excitement than if they 
 had been made of stone. 
 
igi 
 
 The storm had raged for full three hours ; the lightning 
 had grown fainter and less frequent ; the thunder, from 
 seeming to roll and break above their heads, had gradu- 
 ally died away into a deep hoarse distance ; and still the 
 game went on, and still the anxious child was quite for- 
 gotten. 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH. 
 
 At length the play came to an end, and Mr. Isaac List 
 rose the only winner. Mat and the landlord bore their 
 losses with professional fortitude. Isaac pocketed his 
 gains with the air of a man who had quite made up his 
 mind to win, all along, and was neither surprised nor 
 pleased. 
 
 Nell's little purse was exhausted ; but, although it lay 
 empty by his side, and the other players had now risen from 
 the table, the old man sat poring over the cards, dealing 
 them as they had been dealt before, and turning up the diff- 
 erent hands to see what each man would have held if they 
 had still been playing. He was quite absorbed in this occu- 
 pation, when the child drew near and laid her hand upon 
 his shoulder, telling him it was near midnight. 
 
 " See the curse of poverty, Nell," he said, pointing to the 
 packs he had spread put upon the table. " If I could 
 have gone on a little longer, only a little longer, the luck 
 would have turned on my side. Yes, it's as plain as the 
 marks upon the cards. See here — and there — and here 
 again." 
 
 " Put them away," urged the child. " Try to forget 
 them." 
 
 " Try to forget them ! " he rejoined, raising his haggard 
 face to hers, and regarding her with an incredulous stare. 
 
192 
 
 " To forget them ! How are we ever to grow rich if I 
 forget them ? " 
 
 The child could only shake her head. 
 
 " No, no, Nell," said the old man, patting her cheek ; 
 " they must not be forgotten. We nyist make amends for 
 this as soon as we can. Patience — patience, and we'll 
 right thee yet, I promise thee. Lose to-day win to-mor- 
 row. And nothing can be won without anxiety and care 
 — nothing. Come, I am ready.'' 
 
 " Do you know what the time is ? " said Mr. Groves, who 
 was smoking with his friends. " Past twelve o'clock — '" 
 
 — " And a rainy night," added the stout man. 
 
 " The Valiant Soldier, by James Groves. Good beds. 
 Cheap entertainment for man and beast," said Mr. Groves, 
 quoting his signboard. Half-past twelve o'clock." 
 
 " It's very late," said the uneasy child. " I wish we had 
 gone before. What will they think of us ! It will be two 
 o'clock by the time we get back. What would it cost, Sir, 
 if we stopped here ? " 
 
 " Two good beds, one-and-sixpence ; supper one shilling ; 
 total, two shillings and sixpence," replied the Valiant 
 Soldier. 
 
 Now, Nell had still the piece of gold sewed in her dress ; 
 and when she came to consider the lateness of the hour, 
 and the somnolent habits of Mrs. Jarley, and to imagine 
 the state of consternation in which they would certainly 
 throw that good lady by knocking her up in the middle of 
 the night — and when she reflected, on the other hand, that 
 if they remained where they were, and rose early in the 
 morning, they might get back before she awoke, and could 
 plead the violence of the storm by which they had been 
 overtaken, as a good apology for their absence — she de- 
 cided, after a great deal of hesitation, to remain. She 
 therefore took her grandfather aside, and telling him that 
 she had still enough left to defray the cost of their lodg- 
 ing, proposed that they should stay there for the night. 
 
193 
 
 " If I had had but that money before — If I had only 
 known of it a few minutes ago ! " muttered the old man. 
 
 " We will decide to stop here if you please," said Nell, 
 turning hastily to the landlord. 
 
 " I think that's prudent," returned Mr. Groves. " You 
 shall have your suppers directly." 
 
 Accordingly, when Mr. Groves had smoked his pipe out, 
 knocked out the ashes, and placed it carefully in a corner 
 of the fireplace, with the bowl downwards, he brought in 
 the bread and cheese, with many high encomiums upon 
 their excellence, and bade his guests to fall to and make 
 themselves at home. Nell and her grandfather ate spar- 
 ingly, for both were occupied with their own reflections. 
 
 As they would leave the house very early in the morn- 
 ing, the child was anxious to pay for their entertainment 
 before they retired to bed. But as she felt the necessity 
 of concealing her little hoard from her grandfather, and 
 had to change the piece of gold, she took it secretly from 
 its place of concealment, and embraced an opportunity of 
 following the landlord when he went out of the room, and 
 tendered it to him in the little bar. 
 
 " Will you give me the change here, if you please ? " 
 said the child. 
 
 Mr. James Groves was evidently surprised, and looked 
 at the money, and rang it, and looked at the child, and at 
 the money again, as though he had a mind to inquire how 
 she came by it. The coin being genuine, however, and 
 changed at his house, he probably felt, like a wise land- 
 lord, that it was no business of his. At any rate, he 
 counted out the change, and gave it her. The child was 
 returning to the room where they had passed the evening, 
 when she fancied she saw a figure just gliding in at the 
 door. There was nothing but a long dark passage between 
 this door and the place where she had changed the money, 
 and, being very certain that no person had passed in or 
 
 Little Nell.— 13. 
 
194 
 
 out while she stood there, the thought struck her that she 
 had been watched. 
 
 But by whom ? When she reentered the room, she 
 found its inmates exactly as she had left them. The stout 
 fellow lay upon two chairs, resting his head on his hand, 
 and the squinting man reposed in a similar attitude on the 
 opposite side of the table. Between them sat her grand- 
 father, looking intently at the winner with a kind of hun- 
 gry admiration, and hanging upon his words as if he were 
 some superior being. She was puzzled for a moment, and 
 looked round to see if any one else were there. No. Then 
 she asked her grandfather in a whisper whether anybody 
 had left the room while she was absent. " No," he said, 
 " nobody." 
 
 It must have been her fancy then ; and yet it was strange, 
 that, without anything in her previous thoughts to lead to 
 it, she should have imagined this figure so very distinctly. 
 She was still wondering and thinking of it, when a girl 
 came to light her to bed. 
 
 The old man took leave of the company at the same 
 time, and they went upstairs together. It was a great, 
 rambling house, with dull corridors and wide staircases 
 which the flaring candles seemed to make more gloomy. 
 She left her grandfather in his chamber, and followed her 
 guide to another, which was at the end of a passage, and 
 approached by some half dozen crazy steps. This was 
 prepared for her. The girl lingered a little while to talk, 
 and tell her grievances. She had not a good place, she 
 said ; the wages were low, and the work was hard. She 
 was going to leave it in a fortnight ; the child couldn't 
 recommend her to another, she supposed ? Indeed she 
 was afraid another would be difficult to get after living 
 there, for the house had a very indifferent character ; there 
 was far too much card playing, and such like. She was 
 very much mistaken if some of the people who came there 
 
i95 
 
 oftenest were quite as honest as they might be, but she 
 wouldn't have it known that she had said so, for the world. 
 Then there were some rambling allusions to a rejected 
 sweetheart, who had threatened to go a soldiering — a final 
 promise of knocking at the door early in the morning — and 
 " Good night." 
 
 The child did not feel comfortable when she was left 
 alone. She could not help thinking of the figure stealing 
 through the passage downstairs ; and what the girl had 
 said did not tend to reassure her. The men were very ill- 
 looking. They might get their living By robbing and mur- 
 dering travelers. Who could tell ? 
 
 Reasoning herself out of these fears, or losing sight of 
 them for a little while, there came the anxiety to which 
 the adventures of the night gave rise. Here was the old 
 passion awakened again in her grandfather's breast, and 
 to what further distraction it might tempt him Heaven 
 only knew. What fears their absence might have oc- 
 casioned already ! Persons might be seeking for them 
 even then. Would they be forgiven in the morning, or 
 turned adrift again ? Oh ! why had they stopped in that 
 strange place ? It would have been better, under any cir- 
 cumstances, to have gone on ! 
 
 At last, sleep gradually stole upon her — a broken, fitful 
 sleep, troubled by dreams of falling from high towers, 
 and waking with a start and in great terror. A deeper 
 slumber followed this — and then — What ! That figure in 
 the room ! 
 
 A figure was there. Yes, she had drawn up the blind 
 to admit the light when it should dawn, and there, between 
 the foot of the bed and the dark casement, it crouched 
 and slunk along, groping its way with noiseless hands, 
 and stealing round the bed. She had no voice to cry for 
 help, no power to move, but lay still, watching it. 
 
 On it came — on, silently and stealthily, to the bed's 
 
I<JO 
 
 head. The breath so near her pillow, that she shrank 
 back into it, lest those wandering hands should light upon 
 her face. Back again it stole to the window — then turned 
 its head towards her. 
 
 The dark form was a mere blot upon the lighter dark- 
 ness of the room, but she saw the turning of the head, and 
 felt and knew how the eyes looked and the ears listened. 
 There it remained, motionless as she. At length, still 
 keeping the face "towards her, it busied its hand in some- 
 thing, and she heard the chink of money. 
 
 Then, on it came again, silent and stealthy as before, 
 and, replacing the garments it had taken from the bedside, 
 dropped upon its hands and knees, and crawled away. 
 How slowly it seemed to move, now that she could hear 
 but not see it, creeping along the floor ! It reached the 
 door at last, and stood upon its feet. The steps^creaked 
 beneath its noiseless tread, and it was gone. 
 
 The first impulse of the child was to fly from the terror 
 of being by herself in that room — to have somebody by — 
 not to be alone — and then her power of speech would be 
 restored. With no consciousness of having moved, she 
 gained the door. 
 
 There was the dreadful shadow, pausing at the bottom 
 of the steps. 
 
 She could not pass it ; she might have done so, per- 
 haps, in the darkness, without being seized, but her blood 
 curdled at the thought. The figure stood quite still, and 
 so did she ; not boldly, but of necessity ; for going back 
 into the room was hardly less terrible than going on. 
 
 The rain beat fast and furiously without, and ran down 
 in plashing streams from the thatched roof. Some sum- 
 mer insect, with no escape into the air, flew blindly to and 
 fro, beating his body against the walls and ceiling, and 
 filling the silent place with his murmurs. The figure 
 moved again. The child involuntarily did the same. 
 Once in her grandfather's room, she would be safe. 
 
i 9 7 
 
 It crept along the passage until it came to the very door 
 she longed so ardently to reach. The child, in the agony 
 of being so near, had almost darted forward with the de- 
 sign of bursting into the room and closing it behind her, 
 when the figure stopped again. 
 
 The idea flashed suddenly upon her — what if it entered 
 there, and had a design upon the old man's life ! She 
 turned faint and sick. It did. It went in. There was a 
 light inside. The figure was now within the chamber, 
 and she, still dumb — quite dumb, and almost senseless — 
 stood looking on. 
 
 The door was partly open. Not knowing what she 
 meant to do, but meaning to preserve him or be killed 
 herself, she staggered forward and looked in. What sight 
 was that which met her view ! 
 
 The bed had not been lain on, but was smooth and 
 empty. And at a table sat the old man himself, the only 
 living creature there, his white face pinched and sharp- 
 ened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally 
 bright, counting the money of which his hands had robbed 
 her. 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. 
 
 With steps more faltering and unsteady than those 
 with which she had approached the room, the child with- 
 drew from the door, and groped her way back to her own 
 chamber. The terror she had lately felt was nothing com- 
 pared with that which now oppressed her. No strange 
 robber, no treacherous host conniving at the plunder of 
 his guests, or stealing to their beds to kill them in their 
 sleep, no nightly prowler, however terrible and cruel, 
 could have awakened in her bosom half the dread which 
 the recognition of her silent visitor inspired. The gray- 
 
198 
 
 headed old man gliding like a ghost into her room and 
 acting the thief while he supposed her fast asleep, then 
 bearing off his prize and hanging over it with the ghastly 
 exultation she had witnessed, was worse — immeasurably 
 worse, and far more dreadful, for the moment, to reflect 
 upon — than anything her wildest fancy could have sug- 
 gested. If he should return — there was no lock or bolt 
 upon the door, and if, distrustful of having left some 
 money yet behind, he should come back to seek for more 
 — a vague awe and horror surrounded the idea of his 
 slinking in again with stealthy tread, and turning his face 
 toward the empty bed, while she shrank down close at his 
 feet to avoid his touch, which was almost insupportable. 
 She sat and listened. Hark ! A footstep on the stairs, 
 and now the door was slowly opening. It was but im- 
 agination, yet imagination had all the terrors of reality ; 
 nay, it was worse, for the reality would have come and 
 gone, and there an end, but in imagination it was always 
 coming, and never went away. 
 
 The feeling which beset the child was one of dim un- 
 certain horror. She had no fear of the dear old grand- 
 father, in whose love for her this disease of the brain had 
 been engendered ; but the man she had seen that night, 
 wrapped in the game of chance, lurking in her room, and 
 counting the money by the glimmering light, seemed like 
 another creature in his shape, a monstrous distortion of 
 his image, a something to recoil from, and be the more 
 afraid of, because it bore a likeness to him, and kept close 
 about her, as he did. She could scarcely connect her own 
 affectionate companion, save by his loss, with this old man, 
 so like yet so unlike him. She had wept to see him dull 
 and quiet. How much greater cause she had for weeping 
 now ! 
 
 The child sat watching and thinking of these things, 
 until the phantom in her mind so increased in gloom and 
 
199 
 
 terror, that she felt it would be a relief to hear the old 
 man's voice, or, if he were asleep, even to see him, and 
 banish some of the fears that clustered round his image. 
 She stole down the stairs and passage again. The door 
 was still ajar as she had left it, and the candle burning as 
 before. 
 
 She had her own candle in her hand, prepared to say, if 
 he were waking, that she was uneasy and could not rest, 
 and had come to see if his were still alight. Looking 
 into the room, she saw him lying calmly on his bed, and 
 so took courage to enter. 
 
 Fast asleep — no passion in the face, no avarice, no 
 anxiety, no wild desire ; all gentle, tranquil, and at peace. 
 This was not the gambler, or the shadow in her room ; this 
 was not even the worn and jaded man whose face had so 
 often met her own in the gray morning light ; this was her 
 dear old friend, her harmless fellow-traveler, her good, 
 kind grandfather. 
 
 She had no fear as she looked upon his slumbering fea- 
 tures, but she had a deep and weighty sorrow, and it found 
 its relief in tears. 
 
 " God bless him ! " said the child, stooping softly to 
 kiss his placid cheek. " I see too well now that they 
 would indeed part us if they found us out, and shut him 
 up from the light of the sun and sky. He has only me to 
 help him. God bless us both ! " 
 
 Lighting her candle, she retreated as silently as she had 
 come, and, gaining her own room once more, sat up dur- 
 ing the remainder of that long, long, miserable night. 
 
 At last the day turned her waning candle pale, and she 
 fell asleep. She was quickly roused by the girl who had 
 shown her up to bed ; and, as soon as she was dressed, pre- 
 pared to go down to her grandfather. But first she 
 searched her pocket and found that her money was all 
 gone — not a sixpence remained, 
 
200 
 
 The old man was ready, and in a few seconds they were 
 on their road. The child thought he rather avoided her 
 eye, and appeared to expect that she would tell him of her 
 loss. She felt she must do that, or he might suspect the 
 truth. 
 
 " Grandfather," she said in a tremulous voice, after they 
 had walked about a mile in silence, " do you think they 
 are honest people at the house yonder?" 
 
 " Why ? " returned the old man trembling. " Do I think 
 them honest — yes, they played honestly." 
 
 " I'll tell you why I ask,", rejoined Nell. " I lost some 
 money last night — out of my bedroom I am sure. Unless 
 it was taken by somebody in jest — only in jest, dear 
 grandfather, which would make me laugh heartily if I 
 could but know it — " 
 
 " Who would take money in jest ? " returned the old 
 man in a hurried manner. " Those who take money, take 
 it to keep. Don't talk of jest.'' 
 
 " Then it was stolen out of my room, dear," said the 
 child, whose last hope was destroyed by the manner of 
 this reply. 
 
 " But is there no more, Nell ? " said the old man ; " no 
 more anywhere ? Was it all taken — every farthing of it — 
 was there nothing left ? " 
 
 " Nothing," replied the child. 
 
 " We must get more," said the old man, " we must earn 
 it, Nell, hoard it up, scrape it together, come by it some- 
 how. Never mind this loss. Tell nobody of it, and per- 
 haps we may regain it. Don't ask how ; — we may regain 
 it, and a great deal more ; — but tell nobody, or trouble 
 may come of it. And so they took it out of thy room, 
 when thou wert asleep ! " he added in a compassionate 
 tone, very different from the secret, cunning way in which 
 he had spoken until now. " Poor Nell, poor little Nell ! " 
 
 The child hung down her head and wept. The sym- 
 
201 
 
 pathizing tone in whibh he spoke was quite sincere ; she 
 was sure of that. It was not the lightest part of her sor- 
 row to know that this was done for her. 
 
 " Not a word about it to any one but me," said the old 
 man. " No, not even to me," he added hastily, " for it can 
 do no good. All the losses that ever were are not worth 
 tears from thy eyes, darling. Why should they be, when 
 we will win them back ? " 
 
 "Let them go," said the child looking up. "Let them 
 go, once and forever, and I would never shed another tear 
 if every penny had been a thousand pounds." 
 
 " Well, well," returned the old man, checking himself as 
 some impetuous answer rose to his lips, " she knows no 
 better. I ought to be thankful for it." 
 
 "But listen to me," said the child earnestly, "will you 
 listen to me ? " 
 
 " Ay, ay, I'll listen," returned the old man, still without 
 looking at her ; " a pretty voice. It has always a sweet 
 sound to me. It always had when it was her mother's, 
 poor child." 
 
 " Let me persuade you, then — oh, do let me persuade 
 you," said the child, " to think no more of gains or losses, 
 and to try no fortune but the fortune we pursue together." 
 
 " We pursue this aim together," retorted her grand- 
 father, still looking away and seeming to confer with him- 
 self. " Whose image sanctifies the game ? " 
 
 " Have we been worse off," resumed the child, " since 
 you forgot these cares, and we have been traveling on 
 together ? Have we not been much better and happier 
 without a home to shelter us, than ever we were in that 
 unhappy house, when they were on your mind ?" 
 
 " She speaks the truth," murmured the old man in the 
 same tone as before. " It must not turn me, but it is the 
 truth — no doubt it is." 
 
 " Only remember what we have been since that bright 
 
202 
 
 morning when we turned our backs upon it for the last 
 time," said Nell, " only remember what we have been since 
 we have been free of all those miseries — what peaceful 
 days and quiet nights we have had — what pleasant times 
 we have known — what happiness we have enjoyed. If we 
 have been tired or hungry, we have been soon refreshed, 
 and slept the sounder for it. Think what beautiful things 
 we have seen, and how contented we have felt. And 
 why was this blessed change ? " 
 
 He stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her 
 talk to him no more just then, for he was busy. After a 
 time he kissed her cheek, still motioning her to silence, 
 and walked on, looking far before him, and sometimes stop- 
 ping and gazing with a puckered brow upon the ground, 
 as if he were painfully trying to collect his disordered 
 thoughts. Once she saw tears in his eyes. When he had 
 gone on thus for some time, he took her hand in his as 
 he was accustomed to do, with nothing of the violence or 
 animation of his late manner ; and so, by degrees so fine 
 that the child could not trace them, settled down into his 
 usual quiet way, and suffered her to lead him where she 
 would. 
 
 When they presented themselves in the midst of the 
 stupendous collection, they found, as Nell had anticipated, 
 that Mrs. Jarley was not yet out of bed, and that, al- 
 though she had suffered some uneasiness on their account 
 overnight, and had indeed sat up for them until past 
 eleven o'clock, she had retired in the persuasion, that, be- 
 ing overtaken by storm at some distance from home, they 
 had sought the nearest shelter, and would not return be- 
 ,fore morning. Nell immediately applied herself with 
 great assiduity to the decoration and preparation of the 
 room, and had the satisfaction of completing her task, and 
 dressing herself neatly, before the beloved of the Royal 
 Family came down to breakfast, 
 
20,3 
 
 " We haven't had," said Mrs. Jarley when the meal was 
 over, " more than eight of Miss Monflathers's young ladies 
 all the time we've, been here, and there's twenty-six of 
 'em, as I was told by the cook when I ask her a question 
 or two and put her on the free list. We must try 'em 
 with a parcel of new bills, and you shall take it, my dear, 
 and see what effect that has upon 'em." 
 
 The proposed expedition being one of paramount im- 
 portance, Mrs, Jarley adjusted Nell's bonnet with her own 
 hands, and declaring that she certainly did look very 
 pretty, and reflected credit on the establishment, dis- 
 missed her with many commendations, and certain need- 
 ful directions as to the turnings on the right which she 
 was to take, and the turnings on the left which she was to 
 avoid. Thus instructed, Nell had no difficulty in finding 
 out Miss Monflathers's Boarding and Day Establishment, 
 which was a large house, with a high wall, and a large 
 garden gate with a large brass plate, and a small grating 
 through which Miss Monflathers's parlor maid inspected 
 all visitors before admitting them ; for nothing in the 
 shape of a man — no, not even a milkman — was suffered, 
 without special license, to pass that gate. Even the tax 
 gatherer, who was stout, and wore spectacles and a broad- 
 brimmed hat, had the taxes handed through the grating. 
 More obdurate than gate of adamant or brass, this gate 
 of Miss Monflathers's frowned on all mankind. The very 
 butcher respected it as a gate of mystery, and left off whis- 
 tling when he rang the bell. 
 
 As Nell approached the awful door, it turned slowly upon 
 its hinges with a creaking noise, and forth from the solemn 
 grove beyond, came a long file of young ladies, two and 
 two, all with open books in their hands, and some with 
 parasols likewise. And last of the goodly procession came 
 Miss Monflathers, bearing herself a parasol of lilac silk, 
 and supported by two smiling teachers, each mortally 
 envious of the other, and devoted unto Miss Monflathers. 
 
204 
 
 Confused by the looks and whispers of the girls, Nell 
 stood with downcast eyes and suffered the procession to 
 pass on, until Miss Monflathers, bringing up the rear, ap- 
 proached her, when she courtesied and presented her 
 little packet ; on receipt whereof Miss Monflathers com- 
 manded that the line should halt. 
 
 " You're the waxwork child, are you not ? " said Miss 
 Monflathers. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," replied Nell, coloring deeply, for the 
 young ladies had collected about her, and she was the 
 center on which all eyes were fixed. 
 
 " And don't you think you must be a very wicked little 
 child," said Miss Monflathers, who was of rather uncer- 
 tain temper, and lost no opportunity of impressing moral 
 truths upon the tender minds of the young -ladies, " to be 
 a waxwork child at all ? " 
 
 Poor Nell had never viewed her position in this light, 
 and not knowing what to say, remained silent, blushing 
 more deeply than before. 
 
 " Don't you know," said Miss Monflathers, " that it's 
 very naughty and unfeminine, and a perversion of the 
 properties wisely and benignantly transmitted to us, with 
 expansive powers to be roused from their dormant state 
 through the medium of cultivation ? " 
 
 The two teachers murmured their respectful approval 
 of this home thrust, and looked at Nell as though they 
 would have said that there indeed Miss Monflathers had 
 hit her very hard. Then they smiled and glanced at Miss 
 Monflathers, and then, their eyes meeting, they ex- 
 changed looks which plainly said that each considered 
 herself smiler in ordinary to Miss Monflathers, and re- 
 garded the other as having no right to smile, and that 
 her so doing was an act of presumption and impertinence. 
 
 " Don't you feel how naughty it is of you," resumed 
 Miss Monflathers, "to be a waxwork child, when you 
 
205 
 
 might have the proud consciousness of assisting, to the 
 extent of your infant powers, the manufactures of your 
 country ; of improving your mind by the constant con- 
 templation of the steam engine ; and of earning a comfort- 
 able and independent subsistence of from two-and-nine- 
 pence to three shillings per week ? Don't you know that 
 the harder you are at work, the happier you are ? " 
 
 " ' How doth the little — ' " murmured one of the teach- 
 ers, in quotation from Doctor Watts. 
 
 " Eh ? " said Miss Monfiathers, turning smartly round. 
 "Who said that?" 
 
 Of course the teacher who had not said it, indicated 
 the rival who had, whom Miss Monfiathers frowningly re- 
 quested to hold her peace ; by that means throwing the 
 informing teacher into raptures of joy. 
 
 " The little busy bee," said Miss Monfiathers, drawing 
 herself up, " is applicable only to genteel children. 
 ' In books, or work, or healthful play ' 
 
 is quite right as far as they are concerned ; and the work 
 means painting on velvet, fancy needlework, or embroi- 
 dery. In such cases as these," pointing to Nell, with her 
 parasol, " and in the case of all poor people's children, we 
 should read it thus : — 
 
 ' In work, work, work. In work alway 
 Let my first years be past, 
 That I may give for ev'ry day 
 Some good account at last.' " 
 
 A deep hum of applause rose not only from the two 
 teachers, but from all the pupils, who were equally aston- 
 ished to hear Miss Monfiathers improvising after this 
 brilliant style ; for although she had been long known as 
 a politician, she had never appeared before as an original 
 poet. Just then somebody happened to discover that Nell 
 was crying, and all eyes were again turned towards her. 
 
206 
 
 There were indeed tears in her eyes, and drawing out 
 her handkerchief to brush them away, she happened to 
 let it fall. Before she could stoop to pick it up, one 
 young lady of about fifteen or sixteen, who had been 
 standing a little apart from the others, as though she had 
 no recognized place among them, sprang forward and put 
 it in her hand. She was gliding timidly away again, when 
 she was arrested by the governess. 
 
 " It was Miss Edwards who did that, I know," said Miss 
 Monfiathers predictively. " Now I am sure that was Miss 
 Edwards." 
 
 It was Miss Edwards, and everybody said it was Miss 
 Edwards, and Miss Edwards herself admitted that it was. 
 
 " Is it not," said Miss Monfiathers, putting down her 
 parasol to take a severer view of the offender, " a most re- 
 markable thing, Miss Edwards, that you have an attach- 
 ment to the lower classes which always draws you to 
 their sides ; or, rather, is it not a most extraordinary 
 thing that all I say and do will not wean you from pro- 
 pensities which your original station in life have unhap- 
 pily rendered habitual to you, you extremely vulgar- 
 minded girl ? " 
 
 " I really intended no harm, ma'am," said a sweet voice. 
 "It was a momentary impulse, indeed." 
 
 " An impulse ! " repeated Miss Monfiathers scornfully. 
 " I wonder that you presume to speak of impluses to me ; " 
 — both the teachers assented — " I am astonished ; " — both 
 the teachers were astonished — " I suppose it is an impulse 
 which induces you to take the part of every groveling 
 and debased person that comes in your way ; '' — both the 
 teachers supposed so too. 
 
 "But I would have you know, Miss Edwards," resumed 
 the governess in a tone of increased severity, "that you 
 cannot be permitted — if it be only for the sake of preserv- 
 ing a proper example and decorum in this establishment — 
 
207 
 
 that you cannot be permitted, and that you shall not be 
 permitted, to fly in the face of your superiors in this 
 exceedingly gross manner. If you have no reason to feel 
 a becoming pride before waxwork children, there are 
 young ladies here who have, and you must either defer to 
 those young ladies or leave the establishment, Miss 
 Edwards." 
 
 This young lady, being motherless and poor, was 
 apprenticed at the school — taught for nothing — teaching 
 others what she learned, for nothing — boarded for nothing 
 — lodged for nothing — and set down and rated as some- 
 thing immeasurably less than nothing, by all the dwellers 
 in the house. The servant maids felt her inferiority, for 
 they were better treated ; free to come and go, and regarded 
 in their stations with much more respect. The teachers 
 were infinitely superior, for they had paid to go to school 
 in their time, and were paid now. The pupils cared little 
 for a companion who had no grand stories to tell about 
 home ; no friends to come with post horses, and be 
 received in all humility, with cake and wine, by the 
 governess ; no deferential servant to attend and bear her 
 home for the holidays ; nothing genteel to talk about, 
 and nothing to display. But why was Miss Monflathers 
 always vexed and irritated with the poor apprentice — how 
 did that come to pass ? 
 
 Why, the gayest feather in Miss Monflathers's cap and 
 the brightest glory of Miss Monflathers's school was a 
 baronet's daughter — the real, live daughter of a real, live 
 baronet — who, by some extraordinary reversal of the 
 Laws of Nature, was not only plain in features but dull in 
 intellect, while the poor apprentice had both a ready wit, 
 and a handsome face and figure. It seems incredible. 
 Here was Miss Edwards, who only paid a small premium 
 which had been spent long ago, every day outshining and 
 excelling the baronet's daughter, who learned all the 
 
2o8 
 
 extras (or was taught them all), and whose half-yearly 
 bill came to double that of any other young lady's in the 
 school, making no account of the honor and reputation 
 of her pupilage. Therefore, and because she was a de- 
 pendent, Miss Monflathers had a great dislike to Miss 
 Edwards, and was spiteful to her, and aggravated by her, 
 and, when she had compassion on little Nell, verbally fell 
 upon and maltreated her as we have already seen. 
 
 " You will not take the air to-day, Miss Edwards," said 
 Miss Monflathers. " Have the goodness to retire to your 
 own room, and not to leave it without permission." 
 
 The poor girl was moving hastily away, when she was 
 suddenly, in nautical phrase, " brought to " by a subdued 
 shriek from Miss Monflathers. 
 
 " She has passed me without any salute ! " cried the 
 governess, raising her eyes to the sky. " She has actually 
 passed me without the slightest acknowledgment of my 
 presence ! " 
 
 The young lady turned and courtesied. Nell could see 
 that she raised her dark eyes to the face of her superior, 
 and that their expression, and that of her whole. attitude 
 for the instant, was one of mute but most touching appeal 
 against this ungenerous usage. Miss Monflathers only 
 tossed her head in reply, and the great gate closed upon a 
 bursting heart. 
 
 " As for you, you wicked child," said Miss Monflathers, 
 turning to Nell, " tell your mistress that if she presumes 
 to take the liberty of sending to me any more, i will write 
 to the legislative authorities and have her put in the 
 stocks, or compelled to do penance in a white sheet ; and 
 you may depend upon it that you shall certainly experi- 
 ence the treadmill if you dare to come here again. Now, 
 ladies, on." 
 
 The procession filed off, two and two, with the books 
 and parasols, and Miss Monflathers, calling the baronet's 
 
209 
 
 daughter to walk with her and smooth her ruffled feelings, 
 discarded the two teachers — who by this time had ex- 
 changed their smiles for looks of sympathy — and left them 
 to bring up the rear, and hate each other a little more for 
 being obliged to walk together. 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH. 
 
 Mrs. Jarley's wrath, on first learning that she had been 
 threatened with the indignity of stocks and penance, 
 passed all description. The genuine and only Jarley ex- 
 posed to public scorn, jeered by children, and flouted by 
 beadles ! The delight of the Nobility and Gentry shorn 
 of a bonnet which a Lady Mayoress might have sighed to 
 wear, and arrayed in a white sheet as a spectacle of 
 mortification and humility ! And Miss Monflathers, the 
 audacious creature who presumed, even in the dimmest 
 and remotest distance of her imagination, to conjure up 
 the degrading picture, " I am a'most inclined," said Mrs. 
 Jarley, bursting with the fullness of her anger and the 
 weakness of her means of revenge, " to turn atheist when 
 I think of it ! 
 
 " For which of us is best off, I wonder," quoth Mrs. 
 Jarley, " she or me ! It's only talking, when all is said 
 and done, and if she talks of me in the stocks, why I can 
 talk of her in the stocks, which is a good deal funnier if 
 we come to that. Lord, what does it matter, after all ! " 
 
 Having arrived at this comfortable frame of mind, Mrs. 
 Jarley consoled Nell with many kind words, and requested 
 as a personal favor that whenever she thought of Miss 
 Monflathers she would do nothing else but laugh at her, 
 all the days of her life. 
 
 So ended Mrs. Jarley's wrath, which subsided long be- 
 fore the going down of the sun. Nell's anxieties, how- 
 
 Littlc Nell— 14. 
 
2IO 
 
 ever, were of a deeper kind, and the checks they imposed 
 upon her cheerfulness were not so easily removed. 
 
 That evening, as she had dreaded, her grandfather stole 
 away, and did not come back until the night was far spent. 
 Worn out as she was, and fatigued in mind and body, she 
 sat up alone, counting the minutes, until he returned — 
 penniless, broken-spirited, and wretched, but still hotly 
 bent upon his infatuation. 
 
 " Get me money," he said wildly, as they parted for 
 the night. " I must have money, Nell. It shall be paid 
 thee back with gallant interest one day, but all the money 
 that comes unto thy hands, must be mine — not for myself, 
 but to use for thee. Remember, Nell, to use for thee 1 " 
 
 What could the child do, with the knowledge she had, 
 but give him every penny that came into her hands, lest 
 he should be tempted on to rob their benefactress ? If 
 she told the truth (so thought the child) he would be 
 treated as a madman ; if she did not supply him with 
 money, he would supply himself ; supplying him, she fed 
 the fire that burned him up, and put him perhaps beyond 
 recovery. Distracted by these thoughts, borne down by 
 the weight of the sorrow which she dared not tell, tor- 
 tured by a crowd of apprehensions whenever the old man 
 was absent, and dreading alike his stay and his return, the 
 color forsook her cheek, her eye grew dim, and her heart 
 was oppressed and heavy. All her old sorrows had come 
 back upon her, augmented by new fears and doubts ; by 
 day they were ever present to her mind ; by night they 
 hovered round her pillow, and haunted her in dreams. 
 
 It was natural that, in the midst of her affliction, she 
 should often revert to that sweet young lady of whom she 
 had only caught a hasty glance, but whose sympathy, ex- 
 pressed in one slight brief action, dwelt in her memory 
 like the kindnesses of years. She would often think, if 
 she had such a friend as that to whom to tell her griefs, 
 
211 
 
 how much lighter her heart would be — that if she were 
 but free to hear that voice, she would be happier. Then 
 she would wish that she were something better, that she 
 were not quite so poor and humble, that she dared address 
 her without fearing a repulse ; and then feel that there 
 was an immeasurable distance between them, and have no 
 hope that the young lady thought of her any more. 
 
 It was now holiday time at the schoois, and the young 
 ladies had gone home, and Miss Monflathers was 
 reported to be flourishing in London and damaging the 
 hearts of middle-aged gentlemen, but nobody said any- 
 thing about Miss Edwards, whether she had gone home, 
 or whether she had any home to go to, whether she was 
 still at the school, or anything about her. But one even- 
 ing, as Nell was returning from a lonely walk, she 
 happened to pass the inn where the stage coaches 
 stopped, just as one drove up, and there was the beauti- 
 ful girl she so well remembered, pressing forward to 
 embrace a young child whom they were helping down 
 from the roof. 
 
 Well, this was her sister, her little sister, much younger 
 than Nell, whom she had not seen (so the story went 
 afterwards) for five years, and to bring whom to that 
 place on a short visit, she had been saving her poor means 
 all that time. Nell felt as if her heart would break when 
 she saw them meet. They went a little apart from the 
 knot of people who had congregated about the coach, 
 and fell upon each other's neck, and sobbed, and wept 
 with joy. Their plain and simple dress, the distance 
 which the child had come alone, their agitation and 
 delight, and the tears they shed, would have told their 
 history by themselves. 
 
 They became a little more composed in a short time, 
 and went away, not so much hand in hand as clinging to 
 each other. " Are you sure you're happy, sister ? " said 
 
212 
 
 the child as they passed where Nell was standing. 
 " Quite happy now," she answered. " But always ? " said 
 the child. "Ah, sister, why do you turn away your 
 face?" 
 
 Nell could" not help following at a little distance. 
 They went to the house of an old nurse, where the elder 
 sister had engaged a bedroom for the child. " I shall 
 come to you early every morning," she said, " and we can 
 be together all the day." — "Why not at nighttime too? 
 .Dear sister, would they be angry with you for that?" 
 
 Why were the eyes of little Nell wet, that night, with 
 
 tears like those of the two sisters ? Why did she bear a 
 
 grateful heart because they had met, and feel it pain to 
 
 think that they would shortly part ? Let us not believe 
 
 '*) that any selfish reference — unconscious though it might 
 
 have been — to her own trials awoke this sympathy, but 
 
 \ thank God that the innocent joys of others can strongly 
 
 1 move us, and that we, even in our fallen nature, have one 
 
 source of pure emotion which must be prized in Heaven ! 
 
 By morning's cheerful glow, but oftener still by even- 
 ing's gentle light, the child, with a respect for the short 
 and happy intercourse of these two sisters which forbade 
 her to approach and say a thankful word, although she 
 yearned to do so, followed them at a distance in their 
 walks and rambles, stopping when they stopped, sitting 
 on the grass when they sat down, rising when they went 
 on, and feeling, it a companionship and delight to be so 
 near them. Their evening walk was by the river's side. 
 Here, every night, the child . was too, unseen by them, 
 unthought of, unregarded ; but feeling as if they were 
 her friends, as if they had confidences and trusts together, 
 as if her load were lightened and less hard to bear ; as if 
 they mingled their sorrows, and found mutual consolation. 
 It was a weak fancy perhaps, the childish fancy of a 
 young and lonely creature ; but night after night, and 
 
213 
 
 still the sisters loitered in the same place, and still the 
 child followed with a mild and softened heart. 
 
 She was much startled, on returning home one night, 
 to find that Mrs. Jarley had commanded an announcement 
 to be prepared, to the effect that the stupendous collec- 
 tion would only remain in its present quarters one day 
 longer ; in fulfillment of which threat (for all announce- 
 ments connected with public amusements are well known 
 to be irrevocable and most exact), the stupendous collec- 
 tion shut up next day. 
 
 " Are we going from this place directly, ma'am ? " said 
 Nell. 
 
 " Look here, child," returned Mrs. Jarley, " that'll 
 inform you." And so saying, Mrs. Jarley produced 
 another announcement, wherein it was stated, that, in 
 consequence of numerous inquiries-at the waxwork door, 
 and in consequence of crowds having been disappointed in 
 obtaining admission, the Exhibition would be continued 
 for one week longer, and would reopen next day. 
 
 " For now that the schools are gone, and the regular 
 sight-seers exhausted," said Mrs. Jarley, "we come to* 
 the general public, and they want stimulating." 
 
 Upon the following day at noon, Mrs. Jarley established 
 herself behind the highly ornamented table, attended by 
 the distinguished effigies before mentioned, and ordered 
 the doors to be thrown open for the readmission of a dis- 
 cerning and enlightened public. But the first day's oper- 
 ations were by no means of a successful character, inas- 
 much as the general public, though they manifested a 
 lively interest in Mrs. Jarley personally, and such of her 
 waxen satellites as were to be seen for nothing, were not 
 affected by any impulses moving them to the payment of 
 sixpence a head. Thus, notwithstanding that a great 
 many people continued to stare at the entry and the 
 figures therein displayed, and remained there with great 
 
214 
 
 perseverance, by the hour at a time, to hear the barrel 
 organ played and to read the bills ; and notwithstanding 
 that they were kind enough to recommend their friends 
 to patronize the exhibition in the like manner, until the 
 doorway was regularly blockaded by half the population 
 of the town, who, when they went off duty, were relieved 
 by the other half ; it was not found that the treasury was 
 the richer, or that the prospects of the establishment were 
 any at all encouraging. 
 
 In this depressed state of the classical market, Mrs. 
 Jarley made extraordinary efforts to stimulate the popu- 
 lar taste, and whet the popular curiosity. The two carters 
 constantly passed in and out of the exhibition room, 
 under various disguises, protesting aloud that the sight 
 was better worth the money than anything they had 
 beheld in all their lives, and urging the bystanders, with 
 tears in their eyes, not to neglect such a brilliant gratifi- 
 cation. Mrs. Jarley sat in the pay place, chinking silver 
 moneys from noon till night, and solemnly calling upon 
 the crowd to take notice that the price of admission was 
 only sixpence, and that the departure of the whole collec- 
 tion, on a short tour among the Crowned Heads of 
 Europe, was positively fixed for that day week. 
 
 " So be in time, be in time, be in time," said Mrs. 
 Jarley, at the close of every such address. " Remember 
 that this is Jarley's stupendous collection of upwards of 
 one hundred figures, and that it is the only collection in 
 the world ; all others being imposters and deceptions. 
 Be in time, be in time, be in time ! " 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. 
 
 Kit — for it happens at this juncture, not only that we 
 have breathing time to follow his fortunes, but that the 
 
2IJ 
 
 necessities of these adventures so adapt themselves to 
 our ease and inclination as to call upon us imperatively to 
 pursue the track we most desire to take — Kit was, as the 
 reader may suppose, gradually familiarizing himself more 
 and more with Mr. and Mrs. Garland, Mr. Abel, the pony, 
 and Barbara, and gradually coming to consider them one 
 and all as his particular private friends, and Abel Cottage, 
 Finchley, as his own proper home. 
 
 Stay — the words are written, and may go, but if they 
 convey any notion that Kit, in the plentiful board and 
 comfortable lodging of his new abode, began to think 
 slightingly of the poor fare and furniture of his old 
 dwelling, they do their office badly and commit injustice. 
 Who so mindful of those he left at home — albeit they 
 were but a mother and two young babies — as Kit ? What 
 boastful father in the fullness of his heart ever related 
 such wonders of his infant prodigy, as Kit never wearied 
 of telling Barbara in the evening time, concerning little 
 Jacob ? Was there ever such a mother as Kit's mother, 
 on her son's showing ; or was there ever such comfort in 
 poverty as in the poverty of Kit's family, if any correct 
 judgment might be arrived at, from his own glowing 
 account! 
 
 Sometimes, being in the neighborhood, he had leisure 
 to call upon her, and then great was the joy and pride of 
 Kit's mother, and extremely noisy the satisfaction of little 
 Jacob and the baby, and cordial the congratulations of the 
 whole court, who listened with admiring ears to the 
 accounts of Abel Cottage, and could never be told too 
 much of its wonders and magnificence. 
 
 Although Kit was in the very highest favor with the 
 old lady and gentleman, and Mr. Abel, and Barbara, it is 
 certain that no member of the family evinced such a 
 remarkable partiality for him as the self-willed pony, who, 
 from being the most obstinate and opinionated pony on 
 
2l6 
 
 the face of the earth, was in his hands the meekest and 
 most tractable of animals. It is true that in exact pro- 
 portion as he became manageable by Kit he became 
 utterly ungovernable by anybody else (as if he had deter- 
 mined to keep him in the family at all risks and hazards), 
 and that, even under the guidance of his favorite, he 
 would sometimes perform a great variety of strange 
 freaks and capers, to the extreme discomposure of the old 
 lady's nerves ; but as Kit always represented that this 
 was only his fun, or a way he had of showing his attach- 
 ment to his employers, Mrs. Garland gradually suffered 
 herself to be persuaded into the belief, in which she at 
 last became so strongly confirmed that if in one of these 
 ebullitions he had overturned the chaise, she would have 
 been quite satisfied that he did it with the very best 
 intentions. 
 
 Besides becoming in a short time a perfect marvel in all 
 stable matters, Kit soon made himself a very tolerable 
 gardener, a handy fellow within doors, and an indispen- 
 sable attendant on Mr. Abel, who every day gave him 
 some new proof of his confidence and approbation. Mr. 
 Witherden, the notary, too, regarded him with a friendly 
 eye; and even Mr. Chuckster would sometimes condescend 
 to give him a slight nod, or to honor him with that pecu- 
 liar form of recognition which is called " taking a sight," 
 or to favor him with some other salute combining 
 pleasantry with patronage. 
 
 One morning Kit drove Mr. Abel to the notary's office, 
 as he sometimes did, and having set him down at the 
 house, was about to drive off to a livery stable hard by, 
 when this same Mr. Chuckster emerged from the office 
 door, and cried " Woa-a-a-a-a-a ! " — dwelling upon the 
 note a long time, for the purpose of striking terror into 
 the pony's heart, and asserting the supremacy of man 
 over the inferior animals, 
 
217 
 
 "Pull up, Snobby," cried Mr. Chuckster, addressing 
 himself to Kit. " You're wanted inside here." 
 
 " Has Mr. Abel forgotten anything, I wonder ? " said 
 Kit as he dismounted. 
 
 '-' Ask no questions, Snobby," returned Mr. Chuckster, 
 " but go and see. Woa-a-a then, will you ? If that pony 
 was mine, I'd break him." 
 
 "You must be very gentle with him, if you please," said 
 Kit, " or you'll find him troublesome. You'd better not 
 keep on pulling his ears, please. I know he won't like it.'' 
 
 To this remonstrance Mr. Chuckster deigned no other 
 answer, than addressing Kit with a lofty and distant air 
 as "young feller," and requesting him to cut and come 
 again with all speed. The "young feller" complying, 
 Mr. Chuckster put his hands in his pockets, and tried to 
 look as if he were not minding the pony, but happened to 
 be lounging there by accident. 
 
 Kit scraped his shoes very carefully (for he had not yet 
 lost his reverence for the bundles of papers and the tin 
 boxes), and tapped at the office door, which was quickly 
 opened by the notary himself. 
 
 " Oh ! come in, Christopher," said Mr. Witherden. 
 
 " Is that the lad ? " asked an elderly gentleman, but of 
 a stout, bluff figure, who was in the room. 
 
 " That's the lad," said Mr. Witherden. " He fell in 
 with my client, Mr. Garland, Sir, at this very door. I 
 have reason to think he is a good lad, Sir, and that you 
 may believe what he says. Let me introduce Mr. Abel 
 Garland, Sir — his young master ; my articled pupil, Sir, 
 and most particular friend. My most particular friend, 
 Sir," repeated the notary, drawing out his silk handker- 
 chief and flourishing it about his face. 
 
 "Your servant, Sir," said the stranger gentleman. 
 
 " Yours, Sir, I'm sure," replied Mr. Abel mildly. " You 
 were wishing to speak to Christopher, Sir?" 
 
218 
 
 " Yes, I was. Have I your permission ?" 
 
 " By all means.'' 
 
 " My business is no secret ; or I should rather say it 
 need be no secret here," said the stranger, observing that 
 Mr. Abel and the notary were preparing to retire. " It 
 relates to a dealer in curiosities with whom he lived, and 
 in whom I am earnestly and warmly interested. I have 
 been a stranger to this country, gentlemen, for very.many 
 years, and if I am deficient in form and ceremony, I hope 
 you will forgive me." 
 
 "No forgiveness is necessary, Sir; — none whatever," 
 replied the notary, and so said Mr. Abel. 
 
 " I have been making inquiries in the neighborhood in 
 which his old master lived," said the stranger, " and I 
 learned that'he had been served by this lad. I found out 
 his mother's house, and was directed by her to this place 
 as the nearest in which I should be likely to find him. 
 That's the cause of my presenting myself here this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " I am very glad of any cause, Sir," said the notary, 
 " which procures me the honor of this visit." 
 
 " Sir," retorted the stranger, " you speak like a mere 
 man of the world, and I think you something better. 
 Therefore, pray do not sink your real character in paying 
 unmeaning compliments to me." 
 
 " Hem ! " coughed the notary. " You're a plain speaker, 
 Sir." 
 
 " And a plain dealer," returned the stranger. " It may 
 be my long absence and inexperience that lead me to the 
 conclusion, but if plain speakers are scarce in this part of 
 the world, I fancy that plain dealers are still scarcer. If 
 my speaking should offend you, Sir, my dealing, I hope, 
 will make amends." 
 
 Mr. Witherden seemed a little disconcerted by the 
 elderly gentleman's mode of conducting the dialogue ; and 
 
219 
 
 as for Kit, he looked at him in open-mouthed astonishment, 
 wondering what kind of language he would address to him, 
 if he talked in that free and easy way to a notary. It was 
 with no harshness, however, though with something of 
 constitutional irritability and haste, that he turned to Kit 
 and said : 
 
 " If you think, my lad, that I am pursuing these inquiries 
 with any other view than that of serving and reclaiming 
 those I am in search of, you do me a very great wrong, 
 and deceive yourself. Don't be deceived, I beg of you, 
 but rely upon my assurance. The fact is, gentlemen," he 
 added, turning again to the notary and his pupil, " that I 
 am in a very painful and wholly unexpected position. 
 I came to this city with a darling object at my heart, ex- 
 pecting to find no obstacle or difficulty in the way of its 
 attainment. I find myself suddenly checked and stopped 
 short in the execution of my design, by a mystery which 
 I cannot penetrate. Every effort I have made to penetrate 
 it has only served to render it darker and more obscure ; 
 and I am afraid to stir openly in the matter, lest those 
 whom I anxiously pursue should fly still farther from me. 
 I assure you that if you could give me any assistance, you 
 would not be sorry to do so, if you knew how greatly I 
 stand in need of it, and what a load it would relieve me 
 from." 
 
 There was a simplicity in this confidence which occa- 
 sioned it to find a quick response in the breast of the good- 
 natured notary, who replied, in the same spirit, that the 
 stranger had not mistaken his desire, and that if he could 
 be of service to him, he would most readily. 
 
 Kit was then put under examination and closely ques- 
 tioned by the unknown gentleman touching his old master 
 and the child, their lonely way of life, their retired habits, 
 and strict seclusion. The nightly absence of the old man, 
 the solitary existence of the child at those times, his illness 
 
220 
 
 and recovery, Quilp's possession of the house, and their 
 sudden disappearance, were all the subjects of much 
 questioning and answer. Finally, Kit informed the gentle- 
 man that the premises were now to let, and that a board 
 upon the door referred all inquirers to Mr. Sampson Brass, 
 Solicitor, of Bevis Marks, from whom he might perhaps 
 learn some further particulars. 
 
 " Not by inquiry," said the gentleman shaking his head. 
 " I live there." 
 
 " Live at Brass's the attorney's. ! " cried Mr. Witherden 
 in some surprise, having professional knowledge of the 
 gentleman in question. 
 
 " Ay," was the reply. " I entered upon his lodgings 
 t'other day, chiefly because I had seen this very board. 
 It matters little to me where I live, and I had a desperate 
 hope that some intelligence might be cast in my way there, 
 which would not reach me elsewhere. Yes, I live at 
 Brass's — more shame for me, I suppose ? " 
 
 " That's a mere matter of opinion," said the notary, 
 shrugging his shoulders. " He is looked upon as rather a 
 doubtful character." 
 
 " Doubtful ? " echoed the other. " I am glad to hear 
 there's any doubt about it. I supposed that had been 
 thoroughly settled, long ago. But will you let me speak 
 a word or two with you in private ? " 
 
 Mr. Witherden consenting, they walked into that gentle- 
 man's private closet, and remained there in close conver- 
 sation for some quarter of an hour, when they returned 
 into the outer office. The stranger had left his hat in Mr. 
 Witherden's room and seemed to have established himself 
 in this short interval on quite a friendly footing. 
 
 "I'll not detain you any longer now," he said, putting 
 a crown into Kit's hand, and looking towards the notary. 
 " You shall hear from me again. Not a word of this, you 
 know, except to your master and mistress." 
 
221 
 
 " Mother, Sir, would be glad to know — " said Kit, falter- 
 ing. 
 
 " Glad to know what ? " 
 
 " Anything — so that it was no harm — about Miss Nell." 
 
 " Would she ? Well then, you may tell her if she can 
 keep a secret. But mind, not a word of this to anybody 
 else. Don't forget that. Be particular." 
 
 " I'll take care, Sir," said Kit. " Thankee, Sir, and 
 good morning." 
 
 CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. 
 
 All that day, though he waited for Mr. Abel until 
 evening, Kit kept clear of his mother's house, determined 
 not to anticipate by the slightest approach the pleasures 
 of the morrow, but to let them come in their full rush of 
 delight ; for to-morrow was the great and long looked-for 
 epoch in his life — to-morrow was the end of his first 
 quarter — the day of receiving for the first time one fourth 
 of his annual income of six pounds in one vast sum of 
 thirty shillings — to-morrow was to be a half holiday de- 
 voted to a whirl of entertainments, and little Jacob was to 
 know what oysters meant, and to see a play. 
 
 All manner of incidents combined in favor of the oc- 
 casion : not only had Mr. and Mrs. Garland forewarned 
 him that they intended to make no deduction for his out- 
 fit from the great amount, but to pay it him unbroken in 
 all its gigantic grandeur ; not only had the unknown 
 gentleman increased the stock by the sum of five shill- 
 ings, which was a perfect godsend and in itself a fortune ; 
 not only had these things come to pass which nobody 
 could have calculated upon, or in their wildest dreams 
 have hoped ; but it was Barbara's quarter too — Barbara's 
 quarttr, that very day — and Barbara had a half holiday as 
 
222 
 
 well as Kit, and Barbara's mother was going to make one 
 of the party, and to take tea with Kit's mother, and culti- 
 vate her acquaintance. 
 
 To be sure Kit looked out of his window very early that 
 morning to see which way the clouds were flying, and to 
 be sure Barbara would have been at hers, too, if she had 
 not sat up so late overnight, starching and ironing small 
 pieces of muslin, and crimping them into frills, and sewing 
 them on to other pieces to form magnificent wholes for 
 next day's wear. But they were both up very early for 
 all that, and had small appetites for breakfast and less 
 for dinner, and were in a state of great excitement when 
 Barbara's mother came in with astonishing accounts of 
 the fineness of the weather out of doors (but with a very 
 large umbrella notwithstanding, for people like Barbara's 
 mother seldom make holiday without one), and when the 
 bell rang for them to go upstairs and receive their 
 quarter's money in gold and silver. 
 
 Well, wasn't Mr. Garland kind when he said " Christo- 
 pher, here's your money, and you have earned it well ; " 
 and wasn't Mrs. Garland kind when she said " Barbara, 
 here's yours, and I'm much pleased with you ; " and 
 didn't Kit sign his name bold to his receipt, and didn't 
 Barbara sign her name all a trembling to hers ; and wasn't 
 there plenty of laughing and talking among them as they 
 reviewed all these matters upon the top of the coach ; 
 and didn't they pity the people who hadn't got a holiday ! 
 
 But Kit's mother, again — wouldn't anybody have sup- 
 posed she had come of a good stock and been a lady all 
 her life ? There she was, quite ready to receive them, 
 with a display of tea things that might have warmed the 
 heart of a china shop ; and little Jacob and the baby in 
 such a state of perfection that their clothes looked as 
 good as new, though Heaven knows they were old 
 enough ! Didn't she say before they had sat down five 
 
223 
 
 minutes that Barbara's mother was exactly the sort of 
 lady she expected, and didn't Barbara's mother say that 
 Kit's mother was the very picture of what she had ex- 
 pected, and didn't Kit's mother compliment Barbara's 
 mother on Barbara, and didn't Barbara's mother compli- 
 ment Kit's mother on Kit, and wasn't Barbara herself 
 quite fascinated with little Jacob, and did ever a child 
 show off when he was wanted, as that child did, or make 
 such friends as he made ? 
 
 " And we are both widows too ! " said Barbara's 
 mother. "We must have been made to know each 
 other." 
 
 " I haven't a doubt about it," returned Mrs. Nubbles. 
 " And what a pity it is we didn't know each other sooner." 
 
 " But then you know it's such a pleasure,'' said Bar- 
 bara's mother, " to have it brought about by one's son 
 and daughter, that it's fully made up for, now, an't it ?" 
 
 To this, Kit's mother yielded her full assent, and trac- 
 ing things back from effects to causes, they naturally re- 
 verted to their deceased husbands, respecting whose 
 lives, deaths, and burials they compared notes, and dis- 
 covered sundry circumstances that tallied with wonderful 
 exactness ; such as Barbara's father having been exactly 
 four years and ten months older than Kit's father, and 
 one of them having died on a Wednesday and the other 
 on a Thursday, and both of them having been of a very 
 fine make and remarkably good-looking, with other ex- 
 traordinary coincidences. These recollections being of a 
 kind calculated to cast a shadow on the brightness of the 
 holiday, Kit diverted the conversation to general topics, 
 and they were soon in great force again, and as merry as 
 before. Among other things, Kit told them about his old 
 place, and the extraordinary beauty of Nell (of whom he 
 had talked to Barbara a thousand times already) ; but 
 the last named circumstance failed to interest his hearers 
 
224 
 
 to anything like the extent he had supposed, and even his 
 mother said (looking accidentally at Barbara at the same 
 time) that there was no doubt Miss Nell was very pretty, 
 but she was but a child after all, and there were many 
 young women quite as pretty as she ; and Barbara mildly 
 observed that she should think so, and that she never 
 could help believing Mr. Christopher must be under a 
 mistake — which Kit wondered at very much, not being 
 able to conceive what reason she had for doubting him. 
 Barbara's mother, too, observed that it was very common 
 for young folks to change at about fourteen or fifteen, 
 and whereas they had been very pretty before, to grow 
 up quite plain ; which truth she illustrated by many forci- 
 ble examples, especially one of a young man who, being a 
 builder with great prospects, had been particular in his 
 attentions to Barbara, but whom Barbara would have 
 nothing to say to ; which (though everything happened 
 for the best) she almost thought was a pity. Kit said 
 he thought so too, and so he did honestly, and he won- 
 dered what made Barbara so silent all at once, and why 
 his mother looked at him as if he shouldn't have said it. 
 However, it was high time now to be thinking of the 
 play ; for which great preparation was required in the 
 way of shawls and bonnets, not to mention one handker- 
 chief full of oranges and another of apples, which took 
 some time tying up, in consequence of the fruit having a 
 tendency to roll out at the corners. At length every- 
 thing was ready, and they went off very fast ; Kit's 
 mother carrying the baby, who was dreadfully wide 
 awake, and Kit holding little Jacob in one hand, and es- 
 corting Barbara with the other — a state of things which 
 occasioned the two mothers, who walked behind, to de- 
 clare that they looked quite family folks, and caused Bar- 
 bara to blush and say, "Now don't, mother ! " But Kit 
 said she had no call to mind what they said ; and indeed 
 
225 
 
 she need not have had, if she had known how very far 
 from Kit's thoughts any love-making was. Poor Barbara ! 
 
 At last they got to the theater, which was Astley's : 
 and in some two minutes after they had reached the yet 
 unopened door, little Jacob was squeezed flat, and the 
 baby had received divers concussions, and Barbara's 
 mother's umbrella had been carried several yards off and 
 passed back to her over the shoulders of the people, and 
 Kit had hit a man on the head with the handkerchief of 
 appltis for "scrowdging" his parent with unneccessary 
 violence, and there was a great uproar. But when they 
 were once past the pay place and tearing away for very 
 life with their checks in their hands ; and above all, when 
 they were fairly in the theater, and seated in such places 
 that they couldn't have had better if they had picked 
 them out and taken them beforehand ; all this was looked 
 upon as quite a capital joke, and an essential part of the 
 entertainment. 
 
 Dear, dear, what a place it looked, that Astley's ! with 
 all the paint, gilding, and looking-glass ; the vague smell 
 of horses suggestive of coming wonders ; the curtain that 
 hid such gorgeous mysteries ; the clean, white sawdust 
 down in the circus ; the company coming in and taking 
 their places ; the fiddlers looking carelessly up at them 
 while they tuned their instruments, as if they didn't want 
 the play to begin, and knew it all beforehand ! What a 
 glow was that which burst upon them all, when that long, 
 clear, brilliant row of lights came slowly up ; and what 
 the feverish excitement when the little bell rang and the 
 music began in good earnest, with strong parts for the 
 drums, and sweet effects for the triangles ! Well might 
 Barbara's mother say to Kit's mother that the gallery was 
 the place to see from, and wonder it wasn't much dearer 
 than the boxes ; and well might Barbara feel doubtful 
 whether to laugh or cry, in her flutter of delight. 
 
 Little Ndl.—\ 5. 
 
226 
 
 Then the play itself ! the horses which little Jacob 
 believed from the first to be alive, and- the ladies and 
 gentlemen of whose reality he could be by no means 
 persuaded, having never seen or heard anything at all like 
 them — the firing, which made Barbara wink— the forlorn 
 lady, who made her cry — the tyrant, who made ' her 
 tremble — the man who sang the song with the lady's maid 
 and danced the chorus, who made her laugh — the pony 
 who reared up on his hind legs when he saw the murderer, 
 and wouldn't hear of walking on all fours again until he 
 was taken into custody — the clown who ventured on such 
 familiarities with the military man in boots — the lady who 
 jumped over the nine-and-twenty ribbons and came down 
 safe upon the horse's back^-every thing was delightful, 
 splendid, and surprising. Little Jacob applauded till his 
 hands were sore ; Kit cried " an-kor " at the end of every- 
 thing, the three act piece included ; and Barbara's mother 
 beat her umbrella on th^ floor, in her ecstasies, until it 
 was nearly worn down to the gingham. 
 
 In the midst of all these fascinations, Barbara's thoughts 
 seemed to have*been still runriing upon what Kit had 
 said at tea time ; for when they were coming out of the 
 play, she asked him, with an hysterical simper, if Miss Nell 
 was as handsome as the lady who jumped over the ribbojis. 
 
 " As handsome as her ? " said Kit. " Double as hand- 
 some." 
 
 " Oh, Christopher ! I'm sure she was the beautifulest 
 creature ever was," said Barbara. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " returned Kit. " She was well enough, 
 I don't deny that ; but think how she was dressed and 
 painted, and what' a difference that made. Why you are 
 a good deal better looking than her, Barbara." 
 
 " Oh, Christopher ! " said Barbara, looking down. 
 
 " You are, any day," said Kit, — " and so's your mother." 
 Poor Barbara ! 
 
227 
 
 What was all this though— even all this — to the extraor- 
 dinary dissipation that ensued, when Kit, walking into 
 an oyster shop as bold as if he lived there, and not so 
 much as looking at the counter or the man behind it, led 
 his party into a box — a private box, fitted up with red cur- 
 tains, white tablecloth, and cruet stand complete — and 
 ordered a fierce gentleman with whiskers, who acted as 
 waiter and called him, Christopher Nubbles, " Sir," to 
 bring three dozen of his largest sized oysters, and to look 
 sharp about it ! Yes, Kit told this gentleman to look 
 sharp, and he not only said he would look sharp, but he 
 actually did, and presently came running back with the 
 newest loaves, and the freshest butter, and the largest oys- 
 ters, ever seen. And both Kit's mother and Barbara's 
 mother declared as he turned away that he was one of the 
 slimmest and gracefulest young men she had ever looked 
 upon. 
 
 Then they fell to work upon the supper in earnest ; and 
 there was Barbara, that foolish Barbara, declaring that 
 she couldn't eat more than two, and wanting more press- 
 ing than you would believe before she would eat four ; 
 though her mother and Kit's mother made up for it pretty . 
 well, and ate and laughed and enjoyed themselves so 
 thoroughly that it did Kit good to see them, and made 
 him laugh and eat likewise from strong sympathy. But 
 the greatest miracle of the night was little Jacob, who ate* 
 oysters as if he had been born and bred to the business, 
 sprinkled the pepper and the,, vinegar with a discretion be- 
 yond his years, and afterwards built a grotto on the table 
 with the shells. There was the baby, too, who had never 
 closed an eye all night, but had sat as good as gold, try- 
 ing to force a large orange into his mouth, and gazing 
 intently at the lights in the chandelier — there he was, 
 sitting up in his mother's lap, staring at the gas without 
 winking, and making indentations in his soft visage with 
 
228 
 
 an oyster shell, to that degree that a heart of iron must 
 have loved him ! In short, there never was a more suc- 
 cessful supper. 
 
 But all happiness has an end — hence the chief pleasure 
 of its next beginning — and as it was now growing late, 
 they agreed it was time to turn their faces homewards. 
 So, after going a little out of their way to see Barbara 
 and Barbara's mother safe to a friend's house where they 
 were to pass the night, Kit and his mother left them at the 
 door, with an early appointment for returning to Finch- 
 ley next morning, and a great many plans for next quarter's 
 enjoyment. Then Kit took little Jacob on his back, 
 and giving his arm to his mother, and a kiss to the baby, 
 they all trudged merrily home together. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. 
 
 Full of that vague kind of penitence which holidays 
 awaken next morning, Kit turned out at sunrise, and, with 
 his faith in last night's enjoyments a little shaken by cool 
 daylight and the return to everyday duties and occu- 
 pations, went to meet Barbara and her mother at the ap- 
 pointed place. And being careful not to awaken any of the 
 little household, who were yet resting from their unusual 
 fatigues, Kit left his money on the chimney piece, with an 
 inscription in chalk calling his mother's attention to the 
 circumstance, and informing her that it came from her 
 dutiful son ; and went his way, with a heart something 
 heavier than his pockets, but free from any very great op- 
 pression notwithstanding. 
 
 Who will wonder that Barbara had a headache, or that 
 Barbara's mother was disposed to be cross, or that she 
 slightly underrated Astley's, and thought the clown was 
 older than they had taken him to be last night ? Kit was 
 
229 
 
 not surprised to hear her say so — not he. He had already 
 had a misgiving that the inconstant actors in that dazzling 
 vision had been doing the same thing the night before 
 last, and would do it again that night, and the next, and 
 for weeks and months to come, though he would not be 
 there. Such is the difference between yesterday and to- 
 day. We are all going to the play, or coming home from 
 it. 
 
 However, the Sun. himself is weak when he first rises, 
 and gathers strength and courage as the day gets on. By 
 degrees, they began to recall circumstances more and 
 more pleasant in their nature, until, what between talking, 
 walking, and laughing, they reached Finchley in such 
 good heart, that Barbara's mother declared she never felt 
 less tired or in better spirits, and so said Kit. Barbara 
 had been silent all the way, but she said so, too. Poor 
 little Barbara ! she was very quiet. 
 
 They were at home in such good time that Kit had 
 rubbed down the pony and made him as spruce as a race 
 horse, before Mr. Garland came down to breakfast ; 
 which punctual and industrious conduct the old lady, and 
 the old gentleman, and Mr. Abel highly extolled. At his 
 usual hour (or rather at his usual minute and second, for 
 he was the soul of punctuality) Mr. Abel walked out, to 
 be overtaken by the London coach, and Kit and the old 
 gentleman went to work in the garden. 
 
 This was not the least pleasant of Kit's employments, 
 for on a fine day they were quite a family party ; the old 
 lady sitting hard by with her workbasket on a little 
 table ; the old gentleman digging, or pruning, or clipping 
 about with a large pair of shears, or helping Kit in some* 
 way or other with great assiduity ; and Whisker looking 
 on from his paddock in placid contemplation of them all. 
 To-day they were to trim the grape vine, so Kit mounted 
 halfway up a short ladder, and began to snip and hammer 
 
230 
 
 away, while the old gentleman, with a great interest in his 
 proceedings, handed up the nails and shreds of cloth as 
 he wanted them. The old lady and Whisker looked on 
 as usual. 
 
 " Well, Christopher," said Mr. Garland, " and so you 
 have made, a new friend, eh ?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Sir?" returned Kit, looking down 
 from the ladder. 
 
 " You have made a new friend, I hear from Mr. Abel," 
 said the old gentleman, " at the office." 
 
 " Oh — yes, Sir, yes. He behaved very handsome, Sir." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear it," returned the old gentleman with 
 a smile. " He is disposed to behave more handsomely 
 still though, Christopher." 
 
 "Indeed, Sir ! It's very kind in him, but I don't want 
 him to, I'm sure," said Kit, hammering stoutly at an 
 obdurate nail. 
 
 " He is rather anxious," pursued the old gentleman, " to 
 have you in his own service — take care what you're .. 
 doing, or you will fall down and hurt yourself." 
 
 " To have me in his service, Sir ! " cried Kit, who had 
 stopped short in his work and faced about upon the ladder 
 like some dexterous tumbler. " Why, Sir, I don't think 
 he can be in earnest when he says that." 
 
 « Oh-! But he is indeed," said Mr. Garland. " And he 
 has told Mr. Abel so." 
 
 " I never heard of such a thing ! " muttered Kit, look- 
 ing ruefully at his master and mistress. " I wonder at 
 him ; that I do." 
 
 "You see, Christopher," said Mr. Garland, " this is a 
 ■point of much importance to you, and you should under- 
 stand and consider it in that light. This gentleman is 
 able to give you more money than I — not, I hope, to 
 carry through the various relations of master and servant, 
 more kindness and confidence, but certainly, Christopher, 
 to give you more money." 
 
231 
 
 " Well," said Kit, " after that, Sir " 
 
 " Wait a moment," interposed Mr. Garland. " That is 
 not all. You were a very faithful servant to your old 
 employers, as I understand, and should this gentleman 
 recover them, as it is his purpose to attempt doing by 
 every means in his power, I have no doubt that you, 
 being in his service, would meet with your reward. 
 Besides," added the old gentleman with stronger em- 
 phasis, "besides having the pleasure of being again 
 brought into communication with those to whom you 
 seem to be so very strongly and disinterestedly attached. 
 You must think of all this, Christopher, and not be rash 
 or hasty in your choice." 
 
 Kit did suffer one twinge, one momentary pang in 
 keeping the resolution he had already formed, when this 
 last argument passed swiftly into his thoughts, and con- 
 jured up the realization of all his hopes and fancies. But 
 it was gone in a minute, and he sturdily rejoined that the 
 gentleman must look out for somebody else, as he did 
 think he might have done at first. 
 
 " He has no right to think that I'd be led away to go to 
 him, Sir," said Kit, turning round again after half a 
 minute's hammering. " Does he think I'm a fool ? " 
 
 " He may, perhaps, Christopher, if you refuse his offer," 
 said Mr. Garland gravely. 
 
 " Then let him, Sir," retorted Kit ; " what do I care, 
 Sir, what he thinks ? Why should I care for his thinking, 
 Sir, when I know that I should be a fool, and worse than a 
 fool, Sir, to leave the kindest master and mistress that 
 ever was or can be, who took me out of the streets a very 
 poor and hungry lad indeed — poorer and hungrier perhaps 
 than ever you think for, Sir — to go to him or anybody ? 
 If Miss Nell was to come back, ma'am," added Kit, turn- 
 ing suddenly to his Mistress, " why that would be another 
 thing, and perhaps if fhe wanted me, I might ask you now 
 
232 
 
 and then to let me work for her when all was done at 
 home. But when she comes back, I see now that she'll 
 be rich as old master always said she would, and being a 
 rich young lady, what could she want of me ? No, no," 
 added Kit, shaking his head sorrowfully, " she'll never 
 want me any more, and bless her, I hope she never may, 
 though I should like to see her, too ! " 
 
 Here Kit drove a nail into the wall, very hard — much 
 harder than was necessary — and having done so, faced 
 about again. 
 
 "There's the pony, Sir," said Kit — "Whisker, ma'am 
 (and he knows so well I'm talking about him that he be- 
 gins to neigh directly, Sir), — Would he let anybody come 
 near him but me, ma'am ? Here's the garden, Sir, and Mr. 
 Abel, ma'am. Would Mr. Abel part with me, Sir, or is 
 there anybody that could be fonder of the garden, ma'am ? 
 It would break mother's heart, Sir, and even little Jacob 
 would have sense enough to cry his eyes out, ma'am, if 
 he thought that Mr. Abel could wish to part with me so 
 soon, after having told me only the other day, that he 
 hoped we might be together for years to come — " 
 
 There is no telling how long Kit might have stood 
 upon the ladder, addressing his master and mistress by 
 turns, and generally turning towards the wrong person, if 
 Barbara had not at that moment come running up to say 
 that a messenger from the office had brought a note, 
 which, with an expression of some surprise at Kit's orator- 
 ical appearance, she put into her master's hand. 
 
 " Oh! " said the old gentleman after reading it, " ask 
 the messenger to walk this way." Barbara tripping off 
 to do as she was bid, he turned to Kit and said that they 
 would not pursue the subject any further, and that Kit 
 could not be more unwilling to part with them, than they 
 would be to part with Kit ; a sentiment which the old 
 lady very generously echoed. 
 
233 
 
 " At the same time, Christopher," added Mr. Garland, 
 glancing at the note in his hand, " if the gentleman should 
 want to borrow you now and then for an hour or so, or 
 even a day or so, at a time, we must consent to lend you, 
 and you must consent to be lent. — Oh ! here is the young 
 gentleman. How do you do, Sir ?" 
 
 This salutation was addressed to Mr. Chuckster, who, 
 with his hat extremely on one side, and his hair a long 
 way beyond it, came swaggering up the walk. 
 
 " Hope I see you well, Sir," returned that gentleman. 
 " Hope I see you well, ma'am. Charming box this, Sir. 
 Delicious country, to be sure." 
 
 " You want to take Kit back with you, I find ? " observed 
 Mr. Garland. 
 
 " I've got a chariot cab waiting on purpose," replied the 
 clerk. " A very spanking gray in that cab, Sir, if you're a 
 judge of horseflesh." 
 
 Declining to inspect the spanking gray, on the plea that 
 he was but poorly acquainted with such matters, and 
 would but imperfectly appreciate his beauties, Mr. Gar- 
 land invited Mr. Chuckster to partake of a slight repast 
 in the way of lunch, and that gentleman readily consent- 
 ing, certain cold viands were speedily prepared for his 
 refreshment. 
 
 At this repast, Mr. Chuckster exerted his utmost abil- 
 ities to enchant his entertainers, and impress them with 
 a conviction of the mental superiority of those who dwelt 
 in town ; entertaining them with theatrical chit-chat 
 and the court circular ; and so wound up a brilliant and 
 fascinating conversation which he had maintained alone, 
 and without any assistance whatever, for upwards of 
 three quarters of an hour. 
 
 " And now that the nag has got his wind again," said 
 Mr. Chuckster, rising in a graceful manner, " I'm afraid 
 I must cut my stick," 
 
234 
 
 Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Garland offered any opposition to 
 his tearing himself away (feeling, no doubt, that such a man 
 could ill be spared from his proper sphere of action), and 
 therefore Mr. Chuckster and Kit were shortly afterwards 
 upon their way to town ; Kit being perched upon the box 
 of the cabriolet beside the driver, and Mr. Chuckster 
 seated in solitary state inside, with one of his boots 
 sticking out at each of the front windows. 
 
 When they reached the notary's house, Kit followed 
 into the office, and was desired by Mr. Abel to sit down 
 and wait, for the gentleman who wanted him had gone 
 out, and perhaps might not return for some time. This 
 anticipation was strictly verified, for Kit had had his 
 dinner, and his tea, and had read all the lighter matter in 
 the Law List, and the Post Office Directory, and had 
 fallen asleep a great many times, before the gentleman 
 whom he had seen before, came in ; which he did at last 
 in a very great hurry. 
 
 He was closeted with Mr. Witherden for some little 
 time, and Mr. Abel had been called in to assist at the 
 conference, before Kit, wondering very much what he 
 was wanted for, was summoned to attend them. 
 
 " Christopher," said the gentleman, turning to him 
 directly he entered the room, " I have found your old 
 master and young mistress." 
 
 " No, Sir ! Have you, though ? " returned Kit, his eyes 
 sparkling with delight. " Where are they, Sir ? How 
 are they, Sir ? Are they — are they near here ? " 
 
 "A long way from here," returned the gentleman, 
 shaking his head. "But I am going away to-night to 
 bring them back, and I want you to go with me." 
 
 " Me, Sir ? " cried Kit, full of joy and surprise. 
 
 " The place," said the strange gentleman, turning 
 thoughtfully to the notary, " is — how far from here — 
 sixty miles ? " 
 
235 
 
 *' From sixty to seventy." 
 
 " Humph ! If we travel post all night, we shall reach 
 there in good time to-morrow morning. Now, the only 
 question is, as they will not know me, and the child, God 
 bless her, would think that any stranger pursuing them 
 had a design upon her grandfather's liberty, — can I do 
 better than take this lad, whom they both know and will 
 readily remember, as an assurance to them of my friendly 
 intentions ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," replied the notary. " Take Christo- 
 pher by all means." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Sir," said Kit, who had listened to 
 this discourse with a lengthening countenance, " but if 
 that's the reason, I'm afraid I should do more harm than 
 good — Miss Nell, Sir, she knows me, and would trust in 
 me, I am sure ; but old master — I don't know why, 
 gentlemen, nobody does — would not bear me in his sight 
 after he had been ill, and Miss Nell herself told me that 
 I must not go near him or let him see me any more. I 
 should spoil all that you were doing if I went, I'm afraid. 
 I'd give the world to go, but you had better not take me, 
 Sir." 
 
 " Another difficulty ! " cried the impetuous gentleman. 
 " Was ever man so beset as I ? Is there nobody else 
 that knew them, nobody else in whom they had any con- 
 fidence ? Solitary as their lives were, is there no one 
 person who would serve my purpose ? " 
 
 " Is there, Christopher ? '' said the notary. 
 
 " Not one, Sir," replied Kit.—" Yes, though— there's 
 my mother." 
 
 " Did they know her ? " said the single gentleman. 
 
 " Know her, Sir ! why, she was always coming back- 
 wards and forwards. They were as kind to her as they 
 were to me. Bless you, Sir, she expected they'd come 
 back to her house." 
 
236 
 
 " Then where is the woman ? " said the impatient 
 gentleman, catching up his hat. " Why isn't she here ? 
 Why is that woman always out of the way when she is 
 most wanted ? " 
 
 In a word, the single gentleman was bursting out of 
 the office, bent upon laying violent hands on Kit's mother, 
 forcing her into a post chaise, and carrying her off, when 
 this novel kind of abduction was with some difficulty pre- 
 vented by the joint efforts of Mr. Abel and the notary, 
 who restrained him by dint of their remonstrances, and 
 persuaded him to sound Kit upon the probability of her 
 being able and willing to undertake such a journey on so 
 short a notice. 
 
 This occasioned some doubts on the part of Kit, and 
 some violent demonstrations on that of the single gentle- 
 man, and a great many soothing speeches on that of 
 the notary and Mr. Abel. The upshot of the business 
 was, that Kit, after weighing the matter in his mind and 
 considering it carefully, promised, on behalf of his mother, 
 that she should be ready within two hours from that time 
 to undertake the expedition, and engaged to produce her 
 in that place, in all respects equipped and prepared for 
 journey, before the specified period had expired. 
 
 Having given this pledge, which was rather a bold one, 
 and not particularly easy of redemption, Kit lost no time 
 in sallying forth, and taking measures for its immediate 
 fulfillment. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST. 
 
 Kit made his way through the crowded streets, dividing 
 the stream of people, dashing across the busy roadways, 
 diving into lanes and alleys, and stopping or turning 
 
237 
 
 aside for nothing, until he came in front of the old curi- 
 osity shop, when he came to a stand ; partly from habit 
 and partly from being out of breath. 
 
 It was a gloomy autumn evening, and he thought the 
 old place had never looked so dismal as in its dreary twi- 
 light. He had not expected that the house would wear 
 any different aspect — had known indeed that it could 
 not — but coming upon it in the midst of eager thoughts 
 and expectations, it checked the current in its flow, and 
 darkened it with a mournful shadow. 
 
 So, almost wishing that he had not passed it, though 
 hardly knowing why, he hurried on again, making up by 
 his increased speed for the few moments he had lost. 
 
 " Now, if she should be out," thought Kit, as he ap- 
 proached the poor dwelling of his mother, " and I not 
 able to find her, this impatient gentleman would be in a 
 pretty taking. And v sure enough there's no light, and 
 the door's fast." 
 
 A second knock brought no reply from within the 
 house ; but caused a woman over the way to look out 
 and inquire who that was, wanting Mrs. Nubbles. 
 
 " Me," said Kit. " She's at — chapel I suppose ? " — 
 
 The neighbor nodded assent. 
 
 " Then pray tell me where it is," said Kit, " for I have 
 come on a pressing matter, and must fetch her out, even 
 if she was in the pulpit." 
 
 It was not very easy to procure a direction to the fold 
 in question, as none of the neighbors were of the flock 
 that resorted thither, and few knew anything of it. At last 
 a gossip of Mrs. Nubbles's, who had accompanied her to 
 chapel on one or two occasions, furnished the needful in- 
 formation, which Kit had no sooner obtained than he 
 started off again. 
 
 The chapel might have been nearer, and might have 
 been in a straighter road, though in that case the reverend ~> 
 
238 
 
 gentleman who presided over its congregation would have 
 lost his favorite allusion to the crooked way by which it 
 was approached, and which enabled him to liken it to 
 Paradise itself, in contradistinction to the parish church 
 and the broad thoroughfare leading thereunto. Kit 
 found it at last after some trouble, and pausing at the door 
 to take breath that he might enter with becoming decency, 
 passed into the chapel. 
 
 It was in truth a particularly little chapel — with a small 
 number of small pews, and a small pulpit, in which a small 
 gentleman was delivering in a by no means small voice, a 
 by no means small sermon, judging of its dimensions by 
 the condition of his audience, which, if their gross amount 
 were but small, comprised a still smaller number of hearers, 
 as the majority were slumbering. 
 
 Among these was Kit's mother, who, finding it matter 
 of extreme difficulty to keep her eyes open after the fa- 
 tigues of last night, and feeling their inclination to close 
 strongly backed and seconded by the arguments of the 
 preacher, and yielded to the drowsiness that overpowered 
 her, and fallen asleep ; though not so soundly but that 
 she could from time to time utter a slight and almost in- 
 audible groan, as if in recognition of the orator's doctrines. 
 The baby in her arms was as fast asleep as she ; and little 
 Jacob, whose youth prevented him from recognizing in this 
 prolonged spiritual nourishment anything half as interest- 
 ing as oysters, was alternately very fast asleep and very 
 wide awake, as his inclination to slumber, or his terror of 
 Deing personally alluded to in the discourse, gained the 
 mastery over him. 
 
 " And now I'm here," thought Kit, gliding into the 
 nearest empty pew which was opposite his mother's, and 
 on the other side of the little aisle, " how am I ever to 
 get at her, or persuade her to come out ! I might as 
 well be twenty miles off. She'll never wake till it's all 
 
239 
 
 over, and there goes the clock -again ! If he would but 
 leave off for a minute, or if they'd only sing ! " — 
 
 But there was little encouragement to believe that 
 either event would happen for a couple of hours to come. 
 The preacher went on telling them what he meant to con- 
 vince them of before he had done, and it was clear that if 
 he only kept to one half of his promises and forgot the 
 other, he was good for that time at least. 
 
 In his desperation and restlessness Kit cast his eyes 
 about the chapel, and happening to let them fall upon a 
 little seat in front of the clerk's desk, could scarcely be- 
 lieve them when they showed him — Quilp ! 
 
 He rubbed them twice or thrice, but still they insisted 
 that Quilp was there, and there indeed he was, sitting 
 with his hands upon his knees, and his hat between them 
 on a little wooden bracket, with the accustomed grin 
 upon his dirty face, and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. 
 He certainly did not glance at Kit or at his mother, and 
 appeared utterly unconscious of their presence ; still Kit 
 could not help feeling directly that the attention of the 
 sly little fiend was fastened upon them, and upon nothing 
 else. 
 
 But astounded as he was by the apparition of the dwarf 
 and not free from a misgiving that it was the forerunner 
 of some trouble or annoyance, he was compelled to subdue 
 his wonder and to take active measures for the withdrawal 
 of his parent, as the evening was now creeping on, and 
 the matter grew serious. Therefore the next time little 
 Jacob woke, Kit set himself to attract his wandering 
 attention, and this not being a very difficult task (one 
 sneeze effected it), he signed to him to rouse his mother. 
 
 Ill luck would have it, however, that just then the 
 preacher, in a forcible exposition of one head of his dis- 
 course, leaned over upon the pulpit desk so that very 
 little more of him than his legs remained inside; and, 
 
240 
 
 while he made vehement gestures with his right hand, and 
 held on with his left, stared, or seemed to stare, straight 
 into little Jacob's eyes, threatening him by his strained 
 look and attitude — so it appeared to the child — that if he 
 so much as moved a muscle, he, the preacher, would be 
 literally, and not figuratively, " down upon him " that 
 instant. In this fearful state of things, distracted by the 
 sudden appearance of Kit, and fascinated by the eyes of 
 the preacher, the miserable Jacob sat bolt upright, wholly 
 incapable of motion, strongly disposed to cry but afraid to 
 do so, and returning his pastor's gaze until his infant eyes 
 seemed starting from their sockets. 
 
 " If I must do it openly, I must," thought Kit. With 
 that, he walked softly out of his pew and into his mother's. 
 
 " Hush, mother ! " whispered Kit. " Come along with 
 me, I've got something to tell you." 
 
 " Where ami?" said Mrs. Nubbles. 
 
 " In this blessed chapel," returned her son, peevishly. 
 
 " Blessed indeed ! " cried Mrs. Nubbles, catching at the 
 word. " Oh, Christopher, how have I been edified this 
 night ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know," said Kit hastily ; " but come along, 
 mother, everybody's looking at us. Don't make a noise 
 — bring Jacob — that's right." 
 
 So saying, Kit marched out of the chapel, followed by 
 his mother and little Jacob, and found himself in the open 
 air, with an indistinct recollection of having seen the 
 people wake up and look surprised, and of Quilp having 
 remained throughout the interruption in his old attitude, 
 without moving his eyes from the ceiling, or appearing to 
 take the smallest notice of anything that passed. 
 
 Kit led them briskly forward ; and on the road home 
 he related what had passed at the notary's house, and the 
 purpose with which he had intruded on the solemnities of 
 the chapel. 
 
241 
 
 His mother was not a little startled on learning what 
 service was required of her, and presently fell into a con- 
 fusion of ideas, of which the most prominent were that it 
 was a great honor and dignity to ride in a post chaise, 
 and that it was a moral impossibility to leave the children 
 behind. But this objection, and a great many others, 
 founded upon certain articles of dress being at the wash, 
 and certain other articles having no existence in the 
 wardrobe of Mrs. Nubbles, were overcome by Kit, who 
 opposed to each and every of them, the pleasure of re- 
 covering Nell, and the delight it would be to bring her 
 back in triumph. 
 
 " There's only ten minutes now, mother " — said Kit 
 when they reached home. " There's a bandbox. Throw 
 in what you want, and we'll be off directly." 
 
 To tell how Kit then hustled into the box all sorts of 
 things which could by no remote contingency be wanted, 
 and how he left out everything likely to be of the smallest 
 use ; how a neighbor was persuaded to come and stop 
 with the children, and how the children at first cried dis- 
 mally, and then laughed heartily on being promised all 
 kinds of impossible and unheard-of toys ; how Kit's 
 mother wouldn't leave off kissing them, and how Kit 
 couldn't make up his mind to be vexed with her for doing 
 it ; would take more time and room than we can spare. 
 So, passing over all such matters, it is sufficient to say 
 that within a few minutes after the two hours had expired, 
 Kit and his mother arrived at the notary's door, where a 
 post chaise was already waiting. 
 
 " With four horses I declare ! " said Kit, quite aghast 
 at the preparations. " Well you are going to do it, mother ! 
 Here she is, Sir. Here's my mother. She's quite ready, 
 Sir." 
 
 " That's well " — returned the gentleman. " Now, don't 
 be in a flutter, ma'am ; you'll be taken great care of. 
 
 Little Nell. — 16. 
 
242 
 
 Where's the box with the new clothing and necessaries for 
 them?" 
 
 " Here it is," said the notary. " In with it, Christo- 
 pher." 
 
 " All right, Sir," replied Kit. " Quite ready now, Sir." 
 
 " Then come along," said the single gentleman. And 
 thereupon he gave his arm to Kit's mother, handed her 
 into the carriage as politely as you please, and took his 
 seat beside her. 
 
 Up went the steps, bang went the door, round whirled 
 the wheels, and off they rattled, with Kit's mother hang- 
 ing out at one window waving -a damp pocket handker- 
 chief and screaming out a great many messages to little 
 Jacob and the baby, of which nobody heard a word. 
 
 Kit stood in the middle of the road, and looked after 
 them with tears in his eyes — not brought there by the de- 
 parture he witnessed, but by the return to which he looked 
 forward. " They went away," he thought, " on foot with 
 nobody to speak to them or say a kind word at parting, 
 and they'll come back, drawn by four horses, with this 
 rich gentleman for their friend, and all their troubles 
 over ! She'll forget that she taught me to write — " 
 
 Whatever Kit thought about after this, took some time 
 to think of, for he stood gazing up the lines of shining 
 lamps, long after the chaise had disappeared, and did not 
 return into the house until the notary and Mr. Abel, who 
 had themselves lingered outside till the sound of the 
 wheels was no longer distinguishable, had several times 
 wondered what could possibly detain him. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND. 
 
 It behooves us to leave Kit for a while, thoughtful and 
 expectant, and to follow the fortunes of little Nell ; re- 
 
243 
 
 suming the thread of the narrative at the point where it 
 was left, some chapters back. 
 
 In one of those wanderings in the evening time, when, 
 following the two sisters at a humble distance, she felt, in 
 her sympathy with them and her recognition in their trials 
 of something akin to her own loneliness of spirit, a com- 
 fort and consolation which made such moments a time of 
 deep delight, though the softened pleasure they yielded 
 was of that kind which lives and dies in tears — in one of 
 those wanderings at the quiet hour of twilight, when sky, 
 and earth, and air, and rippling water, and sound of dis- 
 tant bells, claimed kindred with the emotions of the sol- 
 itary child, and inspired her with soothing thoughts, but 
 not of a child's world or its easy joys — in one of those 
 rambles which had now become her only pleasure or re- 
 lief from care, light had faded into darkness and evening 
 deepened into night, and still the young creature lingered 
 in the gloom ; feeling a companionship in Nature so serene 
 and still, when noise of tongues and glare of garish lights 
 would- have been solitude indeed. 
 
 Between the old man and herself there had come a 
 gradual separation, harder to bear than any former sorrow. 
 Every evening, and often in the daytime too, he was ab- 
 sent, alone ; and although she well knew where he went, 
 and why — too well from the constant drain upon her 
 scanty purse and from his haggard looks — he evaded all 
 inquiry, maintained a strict reserve, and even shunned 
 her presence. 
 
 She sat meditating sorrowfully upon this change, and 
 mingling it, as it were, with everything about her, when 
 the distant church clock bell struck nine. Rising at the 
 sound, she retraced her steps, and turned thoughtfully 
 towards the town. 
 
 She had gained a little wooden bridge, which, thrown 
 across the stream, led into a meadow in her way, when 
 
244 
 
 she came suddenly upon a ruddy light, and looking for- 
 ward more attentively, discerned that it proceeded from 
 what appeared to be an encampment of gypsies, who had 
 made a fire in one corner at no great distance from the 
 path, and were sitting or lying round it. As she was too 
 poor to have any fear of them, she did not alter her course 
 (which, indeed, she could not have done without going a 
 long way round), but quickened her pace a little, and kept 
 straight on. 
 
 A movement of timid curiosity impelled her, when she 
 approached the spot, to glance towards the fire. There 
 was a form between it and her, the outline strongly 
 developed against the light, which caused her to stop 
 abruptly. Then, as if she had reasoned with herself and 
 were assured that it could not be, or had satisfied herself 
 that it was not that of the person she had supposed, she 
 went on again. 
 
 But at that instant the conversation, whatever it was, 
 which had been carried on near this fire, was resumed, 
 and the tones of the voice that spoke — she could not dis- 
 tinguish words — sounded as familiar to her as her own. 
 
 She turned, and looked back. The person had been 
 seated before, but was now in a standing posture, and lean- 
 ing forward upon a stick on which he rested both hands. 
 The attitude was no less familiar to her than the tone of 
 voice had been. It was her grandfather. 
 
 Her first impulse was to call to him ; her next to won- 
 der who his associates could be, and for what purpose 
 they were together. Some vague apprehension suc- 
 ceeded, and, yielding to the strong inclination it awak- 
 ened, she drew nearer to the place ; not advancing across 
 the open field, however, but creeping towards it by the 
 hedge. 
 
 In this way she advanced within a few feet of the fire, 
 and standing among a few young trees, could both see 
 and hear, without much danger of being observed. 
 
245 
 
 There were no women or children, as she had seen in 
 other gypsy camps they had passed in their wayfaring, 
 and but one gypsy — a tall, athletic man, who stood with 
 his arms folded, leaning against a tree at a little distance 
 off, looking now at the fire, and now, under his black eye- 
 lashes, at three other men who were there, with a 
 watchful but half-concealed interest in their conversation. 
 Of these her grandfather was one ; the others she recog- 
 nized as the first card players at the public house on the 
 eventful night of the storm — the man whom they had 
 called Isaac List, and his gruff companion. One of the 
 low,' arched gypsy tents, common to that people, was 
 pitched hard by, but it either was, or appeared to be, 
 empty. 
 
 " Well, are you going ? " said the stout man, looking up 
 from the ground where he was lying at his ease, into her 
 grandfather's face. " You were in a mighty hurry a 
 minute ago. Go, if you like. You're your own master, I 
 hope ? " 
 
 " Don't vex him,'' returned Isaac List, who was squat- 
 ting like a frog on the other side of the fire, and had so 
 screwed himself up that he seemed to be squinting all 
 over ; " he didn't mean any offense." 
 
 "You keep me poor, and plunder me, and make a sport 
 and jest of me besides," said the old man, turning from 
 one to the other. " Ye'll drive me mad among ye." 
 
 The utter irresolution and feebleness of the gray-haired 
 child, contrasted with the keen and cunning looks of 
 those in whose hands he was, smote upon the little 
 listener's heart. But she constrained herself to attend to 
 all that passed, and to note each look and word. 
 
 " Confound you, what do you mean ? " said the stout 
 man rising a little, and supporting himself upon his elbow. 
 " Keep you poor ! You'd keep us poor if you could, 
 wouldn't you ? That's the way with you whining, puny, 
 
246 
 
 pitiful players. When you lose, you're martyrs ; but I 
 don't find that when you win, you look upon the other 
 losers in that light. As to plunder," cried the fellow, 
 raising his voice — " what do you mean by such ungentle- 
 manly language as plunder, eh ? " 
 
 The speaker laid himself down again at full length, and 
 gave one or two short, angry kicks, as if in further ex- 
 pression of his unbounded indignation. It was quite 
 plain that he acted the bully, and his friend the peace- 
 maker, for some particular purpose ; or rather, it would 
 have been to any one but the weak old man ; for they 
 exchanged glances quite openly, both with each other and 
 with the gypsy, who grinned his approval of the jest until 
 his white teeth shone again. 
 
 The old man stood helplessly among them for a little 
 time, and then said, turning to his assailant : 
 
 " You yourself were speaking of plunder just now, you 
 know. Don't be so violent with me. You were, were 
 you not ? " 
 
 " Not of plundering among present company ! Honor 
 among — among gentlemen, Sir," returned the other, who 
 seemed to have been very near giving an awkward termi- 
 nation to the sentence. 
 
 " Don't be hard upon him, Jowl," said Isaac List. 
 " He's very sorry for giving offense. There — go on with 
 what you were saying — go on." 
 
 " I'm a jolly old tender-hearted lamb, I am," cried Mr. 
 Jowl, " to be sitting here at my time of life giving advice 
 when I know it won't be taken, and that I shall get noth- 
 ing but abuse for my pains. But that's the way I've gone 
 through life. Experience has never put a chill upon my 
 warm-heartedness." 
 
 " I tell you he's very sorry, don't I ? " remonstrated 
 Isaac List, " and that he wishes you'd go on." 
 
 "Does he wish it? " said the other. 
 
247 
 
 " Ay," groaned the old man sitting down, and rocking 
 himself to and fro. " Go on, go on. It's in vain to fight 
 with it ; I can't do it ; go on." 
 
 " I go on then," said Jowl, " where I left off, when you 
 got up so quick. If you're persuaded that it's time for 
 luck to turn, as it certainly is, and find that you haven't 
 means enough to try it (and that's where it is, for you 
 know yourself that you never have the funds to keep on 
 long enough at a sitting), help yourself to what seems put 
 in your way on purpose. Borrow it, I say, and, when 
 you're able, pay it back again." 
 
 " Certainly," Isaac List struck in, " if this good lady as 
 keeps the waxworks has money, and does keep it in a tin 
 box when she goes to bed, and doesn't lock her door for 
 fear of fire, it seems a easy thing ; quite a Providence, / 
 should call it." 
 
 " You see, Isaac," said his friend, growing more eager, 
 and drawing himself closer to the old man, while he 
 signed to the gypsy not to come between them; "you 
 see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out every hour of 
 the day ; nothing would be more likely than for one of 
 these strangers to get under the good lady's bed, or lock 
 himself in the cupboard ; suspicion would be very wide, 
 and would fall a long way from the mark, no doubt. I'd 
 give him his revenge to the last farthing he brought, 
 whatever the amount was." 
 
 " But could you ? " urged Isaac List. " Is your bank 
 strong enough ? " 
 
 " Strong enough ! " answered the other, with assumed 
 disdain. " Here, you, Sir, give me that box out of the 
 straw ! " 
 
 This was addressed to the gypsy, who crawled into the 
 low tent on all fours, and after some rummaging and 
 rustling returned with a cash box, which the man who 
 had spoken opened with a key he wore about his person. 
 
248 
 
 " Do you see this ? " he said, gathering up the money 
 in his hand and letting it drop back into the box, between 
 his fingers, like water. " Do you hear it ? Do you know 
 the sound of gold ? There, put it back — and don't talk 
 about banks again, Isaac, till you've got one of your own." 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Isaac List rapturously, " the pleasures of 
 winning ! The delight of picking up the money— t-the 
 bright, shining yellow-boys — and sweeping 'em into one's 
 pocket ! The deliciousness of having a triumph at last, 
 and thinking that one didn't stop short and turn back, but 
 
 went half-way to meet it ! The but you're not 
 
 going, old gentleman ?" 
 
 " I'll do it," said the old man, who had risen and taken 
 two or three hurried steps away, and now returned as 
 hurriedly. " I'll have it, every penny." 
 
 " Why, that's brave," cried Isaac, jumping up and slap- 
 ping him on the shoulder ; " and I respect you for having 
 so much young blood left. Ha, ha, ha ! Joe Jowl's half 
 sorry he advised you now. We've got the laugh against 
 him. Ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " He gives me my revenge, mind," said the old man, 
 pointing to him eagerly with his shriveled hand : " mind 
 — he stakes coin against coin, down to the last one in the 
 box, be there many or few. Remember that ! " 
 
 " I'm witness," returned Isaac. " I'll see fair between 
 you." 
 
 " I have passed my word," said Jowl with feigned 
 reluctance, " and I'll keep it. When does this match 
 come off? I wish it was over. — To-night ? " 
 
 " I must have the money first," said the old man; " and 
 that I'll have to-morrow " 
 
 " Why not to-night ? " urged Jowl. 
 
 " It's late now, and I should be flushed and flurried," 
 said the old man. " It must be softly done. No, to-mor- 
 row night." 
 
249 
 
 " Then to-morrow be it," said Jowl. 
 
 " God be merciful to us ! " cried the child within her- 
 self, " and help us in this trying hour ! What shall I do 
 to save him ! " 
 
 The remainder of their conversation was carried on in a 
 lower tone of voice, and was sufficiently concise ; relating 
 merely to the execution of the project, and the best pre- 
 cautions for diverting suspicion. The old man then 
 shooks hands with his tempters, and withdrew. 
 
 They watched his bowed and stooping figure as it re- 
 treated slowly, and when he turned his head to look back, 
 which he often did, waved their hands, or shouted some 
 brief encouragement. It was not until they had seen him 
 gradually diminish into a mere speck upon the distant 
 road, that they turned to each other, and ventured to 
 laugh aloud. 
 
 " So," said Jowl, warming his hands at the fire, " it's 
 done at last. He wanted more persuading than I ex- 
 pected. It's three weeks ago since we first put this in 
 his head. What'll he bring, do you think ? " 
 
 "Whatever he brings, it's halved between us," returned 
 Isaac List. 
 
 The other man nodded. " We must make quick work 
 of it," he said, " and then cut his acquaintance, or we may 
 be suspected. Sharp's the word." 
 
 List and the gypsy acquiesced. When they had all three 
 amused themselves a little with their victim's infatuation, 
 they dismissed the subject as one which had been suffi- 
 ciently discussed, and began to talk in a jargon which the 
 child did not understand. As their discourse appeared to 
 relate to matters in which they were warmly interested, 
 however, she deemed it the best time for escaping unob- 
 served; and crept away with slow and cautious steps, keep- 
 ing in the shadow of the hedges, or forcing a path 
 through them or the dry ditches, until she could emerge 
 
2$0 
 
 upon the road at a point beyond their range of vision. 
 Then she fled homewards as quickly as she could, torn 
 and bleeding from the wounds of thorns and briars, but 
 more lacerated in mind, and threw herself upon her bed, 
 distracted. 
 
 The first idea that flashed upon her mind was flight, 
 instant flight ; dragging him from that place, and rather 
 dying of want upon the roadside, than ever exposing him 
 again to such terrible temptations. Then she remem- 
 bered that the crime was not to be committed until next 
 night, and there was the intermediate time for thinking, 
 and resolving what to do. Then she was distracted with 
 a horrible fear that he might be committing it at that mo- 
 ment ; with a dread of hearing shrieks and cries piercing 
 the silence of the night ; with fearful thoughts of what 
 he might be tempted and led on to do, if he were detected 
 in the act, and had but a woman to struggle with. It 
 was impossible to bear such torture. She stole to the 
 room where the money was, opened the door, and looked 
 in. God be praised ! He was not there, and she was 
 sleeping soundly. 
 
 She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare 
 herself for bed. But who could sleep — sleep ! who could 
 lie passively down, distracted by such terrors ? They 
 came upon her more and more strongly yet. Half un- 
 dressed, and with her hair in wild disorder, she flew to the 
 old man's bedside, clasped him by the wrist, and roused 
 him from his sleep. 
 
 "What's this ! " he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing 
 his eyes upon her spectral face. 
 
 " I have had a dreadful dream," said the child, with an 
 energy that nothing but such terrors could have inspired. 
 " A dreadful, horrible dream. I have had it once before. 
 It is a dream of gray-haired men like you, in darkened 
 rooms by night, robbing the sleepers of their gold. Up, 
 
251 
 
 up ! " The old man shook in every joint, and folded his 
 hands like one who prays. 
 
 " Not to me," said the child, " not to me — to Heaven, 
 to save us from such deeds ! This dream is too real. I 
 cannot sleep, I cannot stay here, I cannot leave you alone 
 under the roof where such dreams come. Up ! We must 
 fly." 
 
 He looked at her as if she were a spirit — she might 
 have been, for all the look of earth she had — and trembled 
 more and more. 
 
 " There is no time to lose ; I will not lose one minute," 
 said the child. " Up ! and away with me ! " 
 
 " To-night ! " murmured the old man. 
 
 " Yes, to-night," replied the child. " To-morrow night 
 will be too late. "The dream will have come again. 
 Nothing but flight can save us. Up ! " 
 
 The old man rose from his bed, his forehead bedewed 
 with the cold sweat of fear, and, bending before the child 
 as if she had been an angel messenger sent to lead him 
 where she would, made ready to follow her. She took 
 him by the hand and led him on. As they passed the 
 door of the room he had proposed to rob, she shuddered 
 and looked up into his face. What a white face was that, 
 and with what a look did he meet hers ! 
 
 She took him to her own chamber, and, still holding 
 him by the hand as if she feared to lose him for an in- 
 stant, gathered together the little stock she had, and hung 
 her basket on her arm. The old man took his wallet 
 from her hands and strapped it on his shoulders — his 
 staff, too, she had brought away — and then she led him 
 forth. 
 
 Through the strait streets, and narrow crooked out- 
 skirts, their trembling feet passed quickly. Up the steep 
 hill too, crowned by the old gray castle, they toiled with 
 rapid steps, and had not once looked behind. 
 
252 
 
 But as they drew nearer the ruined walls, the moon rose 
 in all her gentle glory, and, from their venerable age, gar- 
 landed with ivy, moss, and waving grass, the child looked 
 back upon the sleeping town, deep in the valley's shade, 
 and on the far-off river with its winding track of light, and 
 on the distant hills ; and as she did so, she clasped the 
 hand she held, less firmly, and, bursting into tears, fell 
 upon the old man's neck. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD. 
 
 Her momentary weakness past, the child- again sum- 
 moned the resolution which had until now sustained her, 
 and, endeavoring to keep steadily in her view the one 
 idea that they were flying from disgrace and crime, and 
 that her grandfather's preservation must depend solely 
 upon her firmness, unaided by one word of advice or any 
 helping hand, urged him onward and looked back no 
 more. 
 
 While he, subdued and abashed, seemed to crouch be- 
 fore her, and to shrink and cower down as if in the pres- 
 ence of some superior creature, the child herself was sensi- 
 ble of a new feeling within her, which elevated her nature, 
 and inspired her with an energy and confidence she had 
 never known. There was no divided responsibility now ; 
 the whole burden of their two lives had fallen upon her, 
 and henceforth she must think and act for both. " I have 
 saved him," she thought. " In all dangers and distresses, 
 I will remember that." 
 
 At any other time the recollection of having deserted 
 the friend who had shown them so much homely kindness, 
 without a word of justification — the thought that they 
 were guilty, in appearance, of treachery and ingratitude 
 — even the having parted from the two sisters — would 
 
253 
 
 have filled her with sorrow and regret. But now, all other 
 considerations were lost in the new uncertainties and 
 anxieties of their wild and wandering life ; and the very- 
 desperation of their condition roused and stimulated her. 
 
 In the pale moonlight, which lent a wanness of its own, 
 the delicate face where thoughtful' care already mingled 
 with the winning grace and loveliness of youth, the too 
 bright eye, the spiritual head, the lips that pressed each 
 other with such high resolve and courage of the heart, the 
 slight figure firm in its bearing and yet so very weak, told 
 their silent tale ; but told it only to the wind that rustled 
 by, which, taking up its burden, carried, perhaps to some 
 mother's pillow, faint dreams of childhood fading in its 
 bloom, and resting in the sleep that knows no waking. 
 
 The night crept on apace, the moon went down,, the 
 stars grew pale and dim, and morning, cold as they, slowly 
 approached. Then, from behind a distant hill, the noble 
 sup rose up, driving the mists in phantom shapes before 
 it, and clearing the earth of their ghostly forms till dark- 
 ness came again. When it had climbed higher into the 
 sky, and there was warmth in its cheerful beams, they laid 
 them down to sleep, upon a bank, hard by some water. ' 
 
 But Nell retained her grasp upon the old man's arm, 
 and long after he was slumbering soundly, watched him 
 with untiring eyes. Fatigue stole over her at last ; her 
 grasp relaxed, tightened, relaxed again, and they slept 
 side by side. 
 
 A confused sound of voices, mingling with her dreams, 
 awoke her. A man of very uncouth and rough appearance 
 was standing over them, and two of his companions were 
 looking on from a long, heavy boat which had come close 
 to the bank while they were sleeping. The boat had 
 neither oar nor sail, but was towed by a couple of horses, 
 who, with the rope to which they were harnessed slack 
 and dripping in the water, were resting on the path.. 
 
254 
 
 " Holloa ! " said the man roughly. " What's the matter 
 here, eh ? " 
 
 " We were only asleep, Sir," said Nell. " We have been 
 walking all night." 
 
 " A pair of queer travelers to be walking all night," 
 observed the man who had first accosted them. One of 
 you is a trifle too old for that sort of work, and the other 
 a trifle too young. Where are you going?" 
 
 Nell faltered, and pointed at hazard towards the west, 
 upon which the man inquired if she meant a certain town 
 which he named. Nell, to avoid further questioning, said 
 " Yes, that was the place." 
 
 " Where have you come from ? " was the next question ; 
 and this being an easier one to answer, Nell mentioned the 
 name of the village in which their friend the schoolmaster 
 dwelt, as being less likely to be known to the men or to 
 provoke further inquiry. 
 
 " I thought somebody had been robbing and ill-using 
 you, might be," said the man. " That's all. Good day." 
 
 Returning his salute and feeling greatly relieved by his 
 departure, Nell looked after him as he mounted one of 
 the horses, and the boat went on. It had not gone very 
 far, when it stopped again, and she saw the men beckoning 
 to her. 
 
 " Did you call to me ? " said Nell, running up to them. 
 
 "You may go with us if you like," replied one of those 
 in the boat. " We're going to the same place." 
 
 The child hesitated for a moment, and thinking, as she 
 had thought with great trepidation more than once before, 
 that the men whom she had seen with her grandfather 
 might perhaps, in their eagerness for the booty, follow 
 them, and, regaining their influence over him, set hers at 
 naught ; and that if they went with these men, all traces 
 of them must surely be lost at that spot ; determined to 
 accept the offer. The boat came close to the bank again, 
 
255 
 
 and before she had had any time for further considera- 
 tion, she and her grandfather were on board, and gliding 
 smoothly down the canal. 
 
 The sun shone pleasantly upon the bright water, which 
 was sometimes shaded by trees, and sometimes open to a 
 wide extent of country, intersected by running streams, and 
 rich with wooded hills, cultivated land, and sheltered farms. 
 Now and then a village with its modest spire, thatched roofs 
 and gable ends, would peep out from among the trees ; and 
 more than once a distant town, with great church towers 
 looming through its smoke, and high factories or work- 
 shops rising above the mass of houses, would come in view, 
 and, by the length of time it lingered in the distance, show 
 them how slowly they traveled. Their way lay for the 
 most part through the. low grounds, and open plains ; and 
 except these distant places, and occasionally some men 
 working in the fields, or lounging on the bridges under 
 which they passed, to see them creep along, nothing en- 
 croached oh their monotonous and secluded track. 
 
 Nell was rather disheartened, when they stopped at a 
 kind of wharf late in the afternoon, to learn from one of 
 the men that they would not reach their place of destina- 
 tion until next day, and that if she had no provision with 
 her she had better buy it there. She had but a few pence, 
 having already bargained with them for some bread, but 
 even of these it was necessary to be very careful, as they 
 were on their way to an utterly strange place, with no 
 resource whatever. A small loaf and a morsel of cheese, 
 therefore, were all she could afford, and with these she 
 took her place in the boat again, and, after half an hour's 
 delay, proceeded on the journey. 
 
 Avoiding the small cabin, which was very dark and 
 filthy, and to which they often invited both her and her 
 grandfather, Nell sat in the open air with the old man by 
 her side, listening to their boisterous hosts with a palpitat- 
 
256 
 
 ing heart, and almost wishing herself safe on shore again 
 though she should have to walk all night. 
 
 By this time it was night again, and though the child 
 felt cold, being but poorly clad, her anxious thoughts 
 were far removed from her own suffering or uneasiness, 
 and busily engaged in endeavoring to ' devise some 
 scheme for their joint subsistence. The same spirit, 
 which had supported her on the previous night, upheld 
 and sustained her now. . Her grandfather lay sleeping 
 safely at her side, and the crime, to which his madness 
 urged him, was not committed. That was her comfort. 
 
 How every circumstance of her short eventful life, 
 came thronging into her mind as they traveled on ! 
 Slight incidents, never thought of or remembered until 
 now ; faces seen once and ever since forgotten ; words 
 spoken and scarcely heeded at the time ; scenes of a year 
 ago and those of yesterday mixing up and linking them- 
 selves together ; familiar places shaping themselves out in 
 the darkness from things which, when approached, were 
 of all others the most remote and most unlike them ; 
 sometimes a strange confusion in her mind relative to 
 the occasion of her being there, and the place to which 
 she was going, and the people she was with ; and imagina- 
 tion suggesting remarks and questions which sounded so 
 plainly in her ears, that she would start, and turn, and be 
 almost tempted to reply ; — all the fancies and contradic- 
 tions common in watching and excitement and restless 
 change of place, beset the child. 
 
 She happened, while she was thus engaged, to encounter 
 the face of the man on deck, who, taking from his mouth 
 a short pipe, quilted over with a string for its longer pres- 
 ervation, requested that she would oblige him with a 
 song. 
 
 " You've got a very pretty voice, a very soft eye, and a 
 very strong memory," said this gentleman ; " the voice and 
 
257 
 
 eye I've got evidence for, and the memory's an opinion of 
 my own. And I'm never wrong. Let me hear a song 
 this minute." 
 
 " I don't think I know one, Sir," returned Nell. 
 
 "You know forty-seven songs," said the man, with a 
 gravity which admitted of no altercation on the subject. 
 " Forty-seven's, your number. Let me hear one of 'em — 
 the best. Give me a song this minute." 
 
 Not knowing what might be the consequences of irritat- 
 ing her friend, and trembling with fear of doing so, poor 
 Nell sang him some little ditty which she had learned in 
 happier times, and which was so agreeable to his ear, that 
 on its conclusion he, in the same peremptory manner, 
 requested to be favored with another, to which he was 
 so obliging as to roar a chorus to no particular tune, and 
 with no words at all, but which amply made up in its 
 amazing energy for its deficiency in other respects. The 
 noise of this vocal performance awakened the other man, 
 who swore that singing was his pride and joy and chief 
 delight, and that he desired no better entertainment. 
 With a third call, more imperative than either of the two 
 former, Nell felt obliged to comply, and this time a 
 chorus was maintained not only by the two men together, 
 but also by the third man on horseback, who, being by 
 his position debarred from a nearer participation in the 
 revels of the night, roared when his companions roared, 
 and rent the very air. In this way, with little cessation, 
 and singing, the same songs again and again, the tired 
 and exhausted child kept them in good humor all that 
 .night ; and many a cottager, who was roused from 'his 
 soundest sleep by the discordant chorus as it floated 
 away upon the wind, hid his head beneath the bedclothes 
 and trembled at the sounds. 
 
 At length the morning dawned. It was no sooner light 
 than it began to rain heavily. As the child could not 
 
 Little Nell.— \T. 
 
258 
 
 endure the intolerable vapors of the cabin, they covered 
 her, in return for her exertions, with some pieces of sail- 
 cloth and ends of tarpaulin, which sufficed to keep her 
 tolerably dry and to shelter her grandfather besides. As 
 the day advanced the rain increased. At noon it poured 
 down more hopelessly and heavily than ever, without the 
 faintest promise of abatement. 
 
 They had for some time been gradually approaching the 
 place for which they were bound. The water had become 
 thicker and dirtier ; other barges coming from it passed 
 them frequently ; the paths of coal ash and huts of staring 
 brick marked the vicinity of some great manufacturing 
 town ; while scattered streets and houses, and smoke from 
 distant furnaces, indicated that they were already in the 
 outskirts. Now, the clustered roofs, and piles of buildings 
 trembling with, the working of engines, and dimly resound- 
 ing with their shrieks and throbbings ; the tall chimneys 
 vomiting forth a black vapor, which hung in a dense ill- 
 favored cloud above the housetops and filled the air with 
 gloom ; the clank of hammers beating upon iron, the roar 
 of busy streets and noisy crowds, gradually augmenting 
 until all the various sounds blended into one and none 
 was distinguishable for itself, announced the termination 
 of their journey. 
 
 The boat floated into the wharf to which it belonged. 
 The men were occupied directly. The child and her grand- 
 father, after waiting in vain to thank them, or ask them 
 whither they should go, passed through a dirty lane into 
 a crowded street, and stood amid its din and tumult, and 
 in the pouring rain, as strange, bewildered, and confused, 
 as if they had lived a thousand years before, and were 
 raised from the dead and placed there by a miracle. 
 
259 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH. 
 
 The throng of people hurried by, in two opposite 
 streams, with no symptom of cessation or exhaustion ; 
 intent upon their own affairs ; and undisturbed in their 
 business speculations, by the roar of carts and wagons 
 laden with clashing wares, the slipping of horses' feet 
 upon the wet and greasy pavement, the rattling of the 
 rain on windows and umbrella tops, the jostling of the 
 more impatient passengers, and all the noise and tumult 
 of a crowded street in the high tide of its occupation : 
 while the two poor strangers, stunned and bewildered by 
 the hurry they beheld but had no part in, looked mourn- 
 fully on ; feeling amidst the crowd a solitude which has 
 no parallel but in the thirst of the shipwrecked mariner, 
 who, tossed to and fro upon the billows of a mighty 
 ocean, his red eyes blinded by looking on the water which 
 hems him in on every side, has not one drop to cool his 
 burning tongue. 
 
 They withdrew into a low archway for shelter from the 
 rain, and watched the faces of those who passed, to find 
 in one among them a ray of encouragement or hope. 
 
 Falling into that kind of abstraction which such a 
 solitude awakens, the child continued to gaze upon the 
 passing crowd with a wondering interest, amounting 
 almost to a temporary forgetfulness of her own condition. 
 But cold, wet, hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place 
 in which to lay her aching head, soon brought her 
 thoughts back to the point whence they had strayed. 
 No one passed who seemed to notice them, or to whom 
 she durst appeal. After some time, they left their place 
 of refuge from the weather and mingled with the con- 
 course. 
 
 Evening came on. They were still wandering up and 
 
260 
 
 down, with fewer people about them, but with the same 
 sense of solitude in their own breasts, and the same in- 
 difference from all round. The lights in the streets and 
 shops made them feel yet more desolate, for with their 
 help, night and darkness seemed to come on faster. 
 Shivering with the cold and damp, ill in body, and sick 
 to death at heart, the child needed her utmost firmness 
 and resolution even to creep along. 
 
 Why had they ever come to this noisy town, when there 
 were peaceful country places, in which, at least, they 
 might have hungered and thirsted, with less suffering 
 than in its squalid strife ! They were but an atom, here, 
 in a mountain heap of misery, the very sight of which in- 
 creased their hopelessness and suffering. 
 
 The child had not only to endure the accumulated 
 hardships of their destitute condition, but to bear the re- 
 proaches of her grandfather, who began to murmur at 
 having been led away from their late abode, and demand 
 that they should return to it. Being now penniless, and 
 no relief or prospect of relief appearing, they retraced their 
 steps through the deserted streets, and went back to the 
 wharf, hoping to find the boat in which they had come, 
 and to be allowed to sleep on board that night. But here 
 again they were disappointed, for the gate was closed, 
 and some fierce dogs, barking at their approach, obliged 
 them to retreat. 
 
 "We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear," said the 
 child in a weak voice, as they turned away from this last 
 repulse; " and to-morrow we will beg our way to some 
 quiet part of the country, and try to earn our bread in 
 very humble work." 
 
 " Why did you bring me here ? " returned the old man 
 fiercely. " I cannot bear these close, eternal streets. We 
 came from a quiet part. Why did you force me to leave 
 it?" 
 
26 1 
 
 " Because I must have that dream I told you of no 
 more," said the child, with a momentary firmness that 
 lost itself in tears ; " and we must live among poor 
 people, or it will come again. Dear grandfather, you are 
 old and weak, I know ; but look at me. I never will com- 
 plain if you will not, but I have some suffering indeed." 
 
 " Ah ! poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child ! " 
 cried the old man, clasping his hands and gazing as if for 
 the first time upon her anxious face, her travel-stained 
 dress, and bruised and swollen feet. " Has all my agony 
 of care brought her to this at last ! Was I a happy man 
 once, and haVe I lost happiness and all I had, for this ! " 
 
 " If we were in the country now," said the child, with 
 assumed cheerfulness, as they walked on looking about 
 them for a shelter, " we should find some good old tree, 
 stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nod- 
 ding and rustling as if he would have us fall asleep, think- 
 ing of him while he watched. Please God, we shall be 
 there soon — to-morrow or next day at the farthest — and 
 in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good 
 thing we came here ; for we are lost in the crowd and 
 hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue 
 us, they could surely never trace us further. There's com- 
 fort in that. And here's a deep old doorway — very dark, 
 but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind doesn't blow in 
 here— What's that ! " 
 
 Uttering a half shriek, she recoiled from a black figure 
 which came suddenly out of the dark recess in which they 
 were about to take refuge, and stood still looking at 
 them. 
 
 " Speak again,'' it said ; " do I know the voice ? " 
 
 " No,'' replied the child timidly ; " we are strangers, 
 and having no money for a night's lodging, were going to 
 rest here." 
 
 There was a feeble lamp at no great distance ; the only 
 
262 
 
 one in the place, which was a kind of square yard, but 
 sufficient to show how poor and mean it was. To this, the 
 figure beckoned them, at the same time drawing within 
 its rays, as if "to show that it had no desire to conceal 
 itself or take them at an advantage. 
 
 The form was that of a man, miserably clad and be- 
 grimed with smoke, which, perhaps by its contrast with 
 the natural color of his skin, made him look paler than 
 he really was. That he was naturally of a very wan and 
 pallid aspect, however, his hollow cheeks, sharp features, 
 and sunken eyes, no less than a certain look of patient 
 endurance, sufficiently testified. His voice was harsh by 
 nature, but not brutal ; and though his face, besides 
 possessing the characteristics already mentioned, was 
 overshadowed by a quantity of long dark hair, its expres- 
 sion was neither ferocious nor cruel. 
 
 " How came you to think of resting there ? " he said. 
 " Or how," he added, looking more attentively at the 
 child, " do you come to want a place of rest at this time 
 of night ? " 
 
 " Our misfortunes," the grandfather answered, " are 
 the cause." 
 
 " Do you know," said the man, looking still more 
 earnestly at Nell, " how wet she is, and that the damp 
 streets are not a place for her ? " 
 
 " I know it well, God help me," he replied. " What can 
 I do ! " 
 
 The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her 
 garments, from which the rain was running off in little 
 streams. " I can give you warmth," he said, after a 
 pause, " nothing else. Such lodging as I have is in that 
 house," pointing to the doorway from which he had em- 
 erged, " but she is safer and better there than here. The 
 fire is in a rough place, but you can pass the night beside 
 it safely, if you'll trust yourselves to me. You see that 
 red light yonder ? " 
 
263 
 
 They raised their eyes, and saw a lurid glare hanging 
 Jn the dark sky ; the dull reflection of some distant fire. 
 
 " It's not far," said the man. " Shall I take you there ? 
 You were going to sleep upon cold bricks ; I can give you 
 a bed of warm ashes — nothing better." 
 
 Without waiting for any further reply than he saw in 
 their looks, he took Nell in his arms, and bade the old 
 man follow. 
 
 Carrying her as tenderly, and as easily too, as if she had 
 been an infant, and showing himself both swift and sure 
 of foot, he led the way through what appeared to be the 
 poorest and most wretched quarter of the town ; not 
 turning aside to avoid the overflowing kennels or running 
 waterspouts, but holding his course, regardless of such 
 obstructions, and making his way straight through them. 
 They had proceeded thus in silence for some quarter of 
 an hour, and had lost sight of the glare to which he had 
 pointed, in the dark and narrow ways by which they bad 
 come, when it suddenly burst upon them again, stream- 
 ing up from the high chimney of a building close before 
 them. 
 
 "This is the place," he said, pausing at a door to put 
 Nell down and take her hand. " Don't be afraid. There's 
 nobody here will harm you." 
 
 •It needed a strong confidence in this assurance to in- 
 duce them to enter, and what they saw inside did not 
 diminish their apprehension and alarm. In a large and 
 lofty building, supported by pillars of iron, with great 
 black apertures in the upper walls, open to the external 
 air ; echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and 
 roar of furnaces, mingled with the hissing of red-hot 
 metal plunged in water, and a hundred strange unearthly 
 noises never heard elsewhere ; in this gloomy place, 
 moving like demons among the flame and smoke, dimly 
 and fitfully seen, flushed and tprmented by the burning 
 
264 
 
 fires, and wielding great weapons, a faulty blow from any 
 one of which must have crushed some workman's skull, a 
 number of men labored like giants. Others, reposing 
 upon heaps of coals or ashes with their faces turned to 
 the black vault above, slept or rested from their toil. 
 Others again, opening the white-hot furnace doors, cast 
 fuel on the flames, which came rushing and roaring forth 
 to meet it, and licked it up like oil. Others drew forth, 
 with clashing noise upon the ground, great sheets of 
 glowing steel, emitting an insupportable heat, and a dull 
 deep light like that which reddens in the eyes of savage 
 beasts. 
 
 Through these bewildering sights and deafening sounds, 
 their conductor led them to where, in a dark portion of 
 the building, one furnace burned by night and day — so at 
 least they gathered from the motion of his lips, for as 
 yet they could only see him speak : not hear him. The 
 man who had been watching this fire, and whose task was 
 ended for the present, gladly withdrew, and left them 
 with their friend, who, spreading Nell's little cloak upon 
 a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang 
 her outer clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to 
 lie down and sleep. For himself, he took his station on a 
 rugged mat before the furnace door, and resting his chin 
 upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the 
 iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their 
 bright, hot grave below. 
 
 The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, 
 combined with the great fatigue she had undergone, soon 
 caused the tumult of the place to fall with a gentler sound 
 upon the child's tired ears, and was not long in lulling her 
 to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and 
 with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed. 
 
 It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know 
 how long, or how short a time, she had slept. But she 
 
26s 
 
 found herself protected, both from any cold air that might 
 find its way into the building, and from the scorching 
 heat, by some of the workmen's clothes ; and glancing at 
 their friend saw that he sat in exactly the same attitude, 
 looking with a fixed earnestness of attention towards the 
 fire, and keeping so very still that he did not even seem 
 to breathe. She lay in the state between sleeping and 
 waking, looking so long at his motionless figure that at 
 length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and, 
 softly rising and drawing close to him, ventured to 
 whisper in his ear. 
 
 He moved, and glancing from her to the place she had 
 lately occupied, as if to assure himself that it was really 
 the child so near him, looked inquiringly into her face. 
 
 " I feared you were ill," she said. " The other men are 
 all in motion, and you are so very quiet." 
 
 "They leave me to myself," he replied. " They know 
 my humor. They laugh at me, but don't harm me in it. 
 See yonder there — that's my friend." 
 
 " The fire ? " said the child. 
 
 " It has been alive as long as I have," the man made 
 answer. " We talk and think together all night long." 
 
 The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he 
 had turned his eyes in their former direction, and was mus- 
 ing as before. 
 
 " It's like a book to me," he said — " the only book I 
 ever learned to read ; and many an old story it tells me. 
 It's music, for I should know its voice among a thousand, 
 and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures, 
 too. You don't know how many strange faces and differ- 
 ent scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. It's my memory, 
 that fire, and shows me all my life." 
 
 The child, bending down to listen to his words, could 
 not help remarking with what brightened eyes he con- 
 tinued to speak and muse. 
 
266 
 
 " Yes," he said, with a faint smile, " it was the same 
 when I was quite a baby, and crawled about it, till I fell 
 asleep. My father watched it then." 
 
 " Had you no mother ? " asked the child. 
 
 " No, she was dead. Women worked hard in these 
 parts. She worked herself to death they told me, and, as 
 they said so then, the fire has gone on saying the same 
 thing ever since. I suppose it was true. I have always 
 believed it." 
 
 " Were you brought up here, then ? " said the child. 
 
 " Summer and winter," he replied. " Secretly at first, 
 but when they found it out, they let him keep me here. 
 So the fire nursed me — the same fire. It has never gone 
 out." 
 
 " You are fond of it ? " said the child. 
 
 " Of course I am. He died before it. I saw him fall 
 down — just there, where those ashes are burning now — 
 and wondered, I remember, why it didn't help him." 
 
 " Have you been here ever since ? " asked the child. 
 
 " Ever since I came to watch it ; but there was a while 
 between, and a very cold, dreary while it was. It burned 
 all the time though, and roared and leaped when I came 
 back, as it used to do in our play days. You may guess 
 from looking at me what kind of child I was, but for all 
 the difference between us I was a child, and when I saw 
 you in the street to-night, you put me in mind of myself 
 as I was after he died, and made me wish to bring you to 
 the old fire. I thought of those old times again when I 
 saw you sleeping by it. You should be sleeping now. 
 Lie down again, poor child, lie down again." 
 
 With that he led her to her rude couch, and covering 
 her with the clothes with which she had found herself en- 
 veloped when she woke, returned to his seat, whence be 
 moved no more unless to feed the furnace, but remained 
 motignless as a statue. The child continued to watch 
 
267 
 
 him for a little time, but soon yielded to the drowsiness 
 that came upon her, and, in the dark, strange place and on 
 the heap of ashes, slept as peacefully as if the room had 
 been a palace chamber, and the bed, a bed of down. 
 
 When she awoke again, broad day was shining through 
 the lofty openings in the walls, and, stealing in slanting 
 rays but midway down, seemed to make the building 
 darker than it had been at night. The clang and tumult 
 were still going on, and the remorseless fires were burning 
 fiercely as before ; for few changes of night and day 
 brought rest or quiet there. 
 
 Her friend parted his breakfast — a scanty mess of cof- 
 fee and some coarse bread — with the child and her grand- 
 father, and inquired whither they were going. She told 
 him that they sought some distant country place remote 
 from towns or even other villages, and with a faltering 
 tongue inquired what road they would do best to take. 
 
 " I know little of the country," he said, shaking his 
 head, " for such as I pass all our lives before our furnace 
 doors, and seldom go forth to breathe. But there are 
 such places yonder." 
 
 " And far from here ? " said Nell. 
 
 " Ay surely. How could they be near us, and be green 
 and fresh ? The road lies too, through miles and miles, 
 all lighted up by fires like ours — a strange black road, and 
 one that would frighten you by night." 
 
 " We are here and must go on," said the child boldly ; 
 for she saw that the old man listened with anxious ears 
 to this account. 
 
 " Rough people — paths never made for little feet like 
 yours — a dismal, blighted way — is there no turning back, 
 my child ? " 
 
 "There is none," cried Nell, pressing forward. " If 
 you can direct us, do. If not, pray do not seek to turn us 
 from our purpose. Indeed you do not know the danger 
 
268 
 
 that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from 
 it, or you would not try to stop us, I am sure you would 
 not." 
 
 " God forbid, if it is so ! " said their uncouth protector, 
 glancing from the eager child to her grandfather, who 
 hung his head and bent his eyes upon the ground. " I'll 
 direct you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could 
 do more." 
 
 He showed them, then, by which road they must leave 
 the town, and what course they should hold when they 
 had gained it. He lingered so long on these instructions, 
 that the child, with a fervent blessing, tore herself away, 
 and stayed to hear no more. 
 
 But before they had reached the corner of the lane, the 
 man came running after them, and, pressing her hand, 
 left something in it — two old, battered, smoke-incrusted 
 penny pieces. Who knows but they shone as brightly in 
 the eyes of angels as golden gifts that have been chroni- 
 cled on tombs ? 
 
 And thus they separated ; the child to lead her sacred 
 charge farther from guilt and shame ; and the laborer to 
 attach a fresh interest to the spot where his guests had 
 slept, and read new histories in his furnace fire. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH. 
 
 In all their journeying, they had never longed so 
 ardently, they had never so pined and wearied, for the 
 freedom of pure air and open country, as now. No, not 
 even on that memorable morning, when, deserting their 
 old home, they abandoned themselves to the mercies of a 
 strange world, and left all the dumb and senseless things 
 they had known and loved, behind — not even then, had they 
 so yearned for the fresh solitudes of wood, hillside, and 
 
269 
 
 field, as now, when the noise and dirt and vapor of the 
 great manufacturing town, reeking with lean misery and 
 hungry wretchedness, hemmed them in on every side, and 
 seemed to shut out hope, and render escape impossible. 
 
 " Two days and nights ! " thought the child. " He said 
 two days and nights we should have to spend among such 
 scenes as these. Oh ! if we live to reach the country 
 once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places, 
 though it is only to lie down and die, with what a grate- 
 ful heart I shall thank God for so much mercy ! " 
 
 With thoughts like this, and with some vague design of 
 traveling to a great distance among streams and moun- 
 tains, where only very poor and simple people lived, and 
 where they might maintain themselves by very humble 
 helping work in farms, free from such terrors as that from 
 which they fled, — the child, with no resource but the poor 
 man's gift, and no encouragement but that which flowed 
 from her own heart, and its sense of the truth and right 
 of what she did, nerved herself to this last journey and 
 boldly pursued her task. 
 
 " We shall be very slow to-day, dear," she said, as they 
 toiled painfully through the streets ; " my feet are sore, 
 and I have pains in all my limbs from the wet of yester- 
 day. I saw that he looked at us and thought of that, 
 when he said how long we should be upon the road." 
 
 " It was a dreary way he told us of," returned her 
 grandfather, piteously. " Is there no other road ? Will 
 you not let me go some other way than this ?" 
 
 " Places lie beyond these," said the child, firmly, 
 " where we may live in peace, and be tempted to do no 
 harm. We will take the road that promises to have that 
 end, and we would not turn out of it, if it were a hundred 
 times worse than our fears lead us to expect. We would 
 not, dear, would we ? " 
 
 " No," replied the old man, wavering in his voice, no 
 
2/0 
 
 less than in his manner. " No. Let us go on. I am 
 ready. I am quite ready, Nell." 
 
 The child walked with more difficulty than she had led 
 her companion to expect, for the pains that racked her 
 joints were of no common severity, and every exertion 
 increased them. But they wrung from her no complaint, . 
 or look of suffering ; and, though the two travelers pro- 
 ceeded very slowly, they did proceed ; and clearing the 
 town in course of time, began to feel that they were fairly 
 on their way. 
 
 With less and less of hope or strength, as they went on, 
 but with an undiminished resolution not to betray by any 
 word or sign her sinking state, so long as she had energy 
 to move, the child throughout the remainder of that hard 
 day compelled herself to proceed ; not even stopping to 
 rest as frequently as usual, to compensate in some measure 
 for the tardy pace at which she was obliged to walk. 
 Evening was drawing on, but had not closed in, when — 
 still traveling among the same dismal objects — they came 
 to a busy town. 
 
 Faint and spiritless as they were, its streets were in- 
 supportable. After humbly asking for relief at some few 
 doors and being repulsed, they agreed to make their way 
 out of it as speedily as they could, and try if the inmates 
 of any lone house beyond would have more pity on their 
 exhausted state. 
 
 They were dragging themselves along through the last 
 street, and the child felt that the time was close at hand 
 when her enfeebled powers would bear no more. There 
 appeared before them, at this juncture, going in the same 
 direction as themselves, a traveler on foot, who, with a 
 portmanteau strapped to his back, leaned upon a stout 
 stick as he walked, and read from a book which he held in 
 his other hand. 
 
 It was not an easy matter to come up with him, and 
 
271 
 
 beseech his aid, for he walked fast, and was a little dis- 
 tance in advance. At length he stopped to look more 
 attentively at some passage in his book. Animated with 
 a ray of hope, the child shot on before her grandfather, 
 and, going close to the stranger without rousing him by 
 the sound of her footsteps, began in a few faint words to 
 implore his help. 
 
 He turned his head, the child clapped her hands to- 
 gether, uttered a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his 
 feet. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH. 
 
 It was the poor schoolmaster. No other than the 
 poor schoolmaster. Scarcely less moved and surprised 
 by the sight of the child than she had been on recogniz- 
 ing him, he stood for a moment silent and confounded by 
 this unexpected apparition, without even the presence of 
 mind to raise her from the ground. 
 
 But quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw 
 down his stick and book, and dropping on one knee be- 
 side her, endeavored, by such simple means as occurred 
 to him, to restore her to herself ; while her grandfather, 
 standing idly by, wrung his hands, and implored her with 
 many endearing expressions to speak to him, were it only 
 a word. 
 
 " She is quite exhausted," said the schoolmaster, glanc- 
 ing upward into his face. "You have taxed her powers 
 too far, friend." 
 
 " She is perishing of want," rejoined the old man. " I 
 never thought how weak and ill she was, till now." 
 
 Casting a look upon him, half reproachful and half 
 compassionate, the schoolmaster took the child in his 
 arms, and, bidding the old man gather up her little bas- 
 
^^^ 
 
 ket and follow him directly, bore her away at his utmost 
 speed. 
 
 There was a small inn within sight, to which it would 
 seem he had been directing his steps when so unex- 
 pectedly overtaken. Towards this place he hurried with 
 his unconscious burden, and rushing into the kitchen, and 
 calling upon the company there assembled to make way 
 for God's sake, deposited it on a chair before the fire. 
 
 The company, who rose in confusion upon the school- 
 master's entrance, did as people usually do under such 
 circumstances. Everybody called for his or her favorite 
 remedy, which nobody brought; each cried for more air, at 
 the same time carefully excluding what air there was, by 
 closing round the object of sympathy ; and all wondered 
 why somebody else didn't do what it never appeared to 
 occur to them might be done by themselves. 
 
 The landlady, however, who possessed more readiness 
 and activity than any of them, and who had withal a 
 quicker perception of the merits of the case, soon came 
 running in, with a little hot brandy and water, followed by 
 her servant girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn, smelling salts, 
 and such other restoratives ; which, being duly adminis- 
 tered, recovered the child so far as to enable her to thank 
 them in a faint voice, and to extend her hand to the poor 
 schoolmaster, who stood with an anxious face, hard by. 
 Without suffering her to speak another word, or so much 
 as to stir a finger any more, the women straightway 
 carried her off to bed ; and having covered her up warm, 
 bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel, they 
 despatched a messenger for the doctor. 
 
 The doctor, who was a red-nosed gentleman with a 
 great bunch of seals dangling below a waistcoat of ribbed 
 black satin, arrived with all speed, and taking his seat by 
 the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his watch, and felt her 
 pulse. Then he looked at her tongue, then he felt her 
 
pulse again, and while he did so, he eyed the half-emptied 
 wineglass as if in profound abstraction. 
 
 " I should give her — " said the doctor at length, " a tea- 
 spoonful, every now and then, of hot brandy and water.'' 
 
 " Why, that's exactly what we've done, Sir ! " said the 
 delighted landlady. 
 
 " I should also," observed the doctor, who had passed 
 the footbath on the stairs, " I should also," said the doc- 
 tor, in the voice of an oracle, " put her feet in hot water, 
 and wrap them up in flannel. " I should likewise," said 
 the doctor with increased solemnity, " give her some- 
 thing ligh-t for supper — the wing of a roasted fowl now — " 
 
 " Why, goodness gracious me, Sir, it's cooking at the 
 kitchen fire this instant 1 " cried the landlady. And so 
 indeed it was, for the schoolmaster had .ordered it to be 
 put down, and it was getting on so well that the doctor 
 might have smelt it if he had tried — perhaps he did. 
 
 " You may then," said the doctor, rising gravely, " give 
 her a glass of hot, mulled port wine, if she likes wine — " 
 
 " And a toast, Sir ? " suggested the landlady. 
 
 " Ay," said the doctor, in the tone of a man who makes 
 a dignified concession. " And a toast — of bread. But be 
 very particular to make it of bread, if you please, ma'am." 
 
 With which parting injunction, slowly and portentously 
 delivered, the doctor departed, leaving the whole house in 
 admiration of that wisdom which tallied so closely with 
 their own. Everybody said he was a very shrewd doctor 
 indeed, and knew perfectly what people's constitutions 
 were ; which there appears some reason to suppose he did. 
 
 While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a re- 
 freshing sleep, from which they were obliged to rouse her 
 when it was ready. As she evinced extraordinary un- 
 easiness on learning that her grandfather was below stairs, 
 and as she was greatly troubled at the thought of their 
 being apart, he took his supper with her. Finding her 
 
 Little Nett.—xi. 
 
274 
 
 still very restless on this head, they made him up a bed in 
 an inner room, to which he presently retired. The key 
 of this chamber happened by good fortune to be on that 
 side of the door which was in Nell's room ; she turned it 
 on him when the landlady had withdrawn, and crept to 
 bed again with a thankful heart. 
 
 The schoolmaster sat for a long time smoking his pipe 
 by the kitchen fire, which was now deserted, thinking, 
 with a very happy face, on the fortunate chance which 
 had brought him so opportunely to the child's assistance, 
 and parrying, as well as in his simple way he could, the 
 inquisitive cross-examination of the landlady, who had a 
 great curiosity to be made acquainted with every particu- 
 lar of Nell's life and history. The poor schoolmaster was 
 so open-hearted, and so little versed in the most ordinary 
 cunning or deceit, that she could not have failed to suc- 
 ceed in the first five minutes, but that he happened to be 
 unacquainted with what she wished to know ; and so he 
 told her. The landlady, by no means satisfied with this 
 assurance, which she considered an ingenious evasion of 
 the question, rejoined that he had his reasons of course. 
 Heaven forbid that she- should wish to pry into the affairs 
 or her customers, which indeed were no business of hers, 
 who had so many of her own. She had merely asked a 
 civil question, and to be sure she knew it would meet with 
 a civil answer. She was quite satisfied — quite. She had 
 rather perhaps that he would have said at once that he 
 didn't choose to be communicative, because that would 
 have been plain and intelligible. However, she had no 
 right to be offended, of course. He was the best judge, 
 and had a perfect right to say what he pleased ; nobody 
 could dispute that, for a moment. Oh dear, no ! 
 
 " I assure you, my good lady," said the mild school- 
 master, " that I have told you the plain truth — as I hope 
 to be saved, I have told you the truth." 
 
275 
 
 " Why then, I do believe you are in earnest," rejoined 
 the landlady, with ready good humor, " and I'm very 
 sorry I have teased you. But curiosity, you know, is the 
 curse of our sex, and that's the fact," 
 
 The landlord scratched his head, as if he thought the 
 curse sometimes involved the other sex likewise ; but he 
 was prevented from making any remark to that effect, if 
 he had it in contemplation to do so, by the schoolmaster's 
 rejoinder. 
 
 " You should question me for half-a-dozen hours at a 
 sitting, and welcome, and I would answer you patiently 
 for the kindness of heart you have shown to-night, if I 
 could," he said. " As it is, please to take care of her in 
 the morning, and let me know early how she is ; and to 
 understand that I am paymaster for the three." 
 
 So, parting with them on most friendly terms, not the 
 less cordial perhaps for this last direction, the school- 
 master went to his bed, and the host and hostess to 
 theirs. 
 
 The report in the morning was, that the child was bet- 
 ter, but was extremely weak, and would at least require a 
 day's rest, and careful nursing, before she could proceed 
 upon her journey. The schoolmaster received this com- 
 munication with perfect cheerfulness, observing that he 
 had a day to spare — two days for that matter — and could 
 very well afford to wait. As the patient was to sit up in 
 the evening, he appointed to visit her in her room at 
 a certain hour, and rambling out with his book, did not 
 return until the hour arrived. 
 
 Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone ; 
 whereat, and at sight of her pale face and wasted figure, 
 the simple schoolmaster shed a few tears himself, at the 
 same time showing in very energetic language how foolish 
 it was to do so, and how very easily it could be avoided, 
 if one tried. 
 
2?6 
 
 " It makes me . unhappy even in the midst of all this 
 kindness," said the child, " to think that we should be a 
 burden upon you. How can I ever thank you ? If I had 
 not met you so far from home, I must have died, and he 
 would have been left alone." 
 
 " We'll not talk about dying," said the schoolmaster ; 
 " and as to burdens, I have made my fortune since you 
 slept at my cottage." 
 
 " Indeed ! " cried the child joyfully. 
 
 "Oh yes," returned her friend. "I have been ap- 
 pointed clerk and schoolmaster to a village a long way 
 from here — and a long way from the old one as you may 
 suppose — at five-and-thirty pounds a year. Five-and- 
 thirty pounds ! " 
 
 "I am very glad," said the child — "so very, very 
 glad." 
 
 " I am on my way there now," resumed the school- 
 master. " They allowed me the stagecoach hire — outside 
 stagecoach hire all the way. Bless you, they grudge me 
 nothing. But as the time at which I am expected there 
 left me ample leisure, I determined to walk instead. How 
 glad I am to think I did so !*' 
 
 " How glad should we be ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster, moving restlessly in 
 his chair, " certainly, that's very true. But you — where 
 are you going, where are you coming from, what have you 
 been doing since you left me, what had you been doing 
 before ? Now, tell me — do tell me. I know very little 
 of the world, and perhaps you are better fitted to advise 
 me in its affairs than I am qualified to give advice to you ; 
 but I am very sincere, and I have a reason (you have not 
 forgotten it) for loving you. I have felt since that time 
 as if my love for him who died had been transferred to 
 you who stood beside his bed. If this," he added, look- 
 ing upwards, " is the beautiful creation that springs from 
 
2J7 
 
 ashes, let its peace prosper with- me, as I deal tenderly 
 and compassionately by this young child ! " 
 
 The plain, frank kindness of the honest schoolmaster, 
 the affectionate earnestness of his speech and manner, 
 the truth which was stamped upon his every word and 
 look, gave the child a confidence in him, which the ut- 
 most arts of treachery and dissimulation could never have 
 awakened in her breast. She told him all — that they had 
 no friend or relative^that she had fled with the old man, 
 to save him from a madhouse and all the miseries he 
 dreaded — that she was flying now, to save him from him- 
 self — and that she sought an asylum in some remote and 
 primitive place, where the temptation before which he fell 
 would never enter, and her late sorrows and distresses 
 could have no place. 
 
 The schoolmaster heard her with astonishment. " This 
 child ! " — he thought — " Has this child heroically per- 
 severed under all doubts and dangers, struggled with 
 poverty and suffering, upheld and sustained by strong 
 affection and the consciousness of rectitude alone ! And 
 yet the world is full of such heroism. Have I yet to learn 
 that the hardest and best borne trials are those which are 
 never chronicled in any earthly record, and are suffered 
 every day ! And should I be surprised to hear the story 
 of this child ! " 
 
 What more he thought or said, matters not. It was 
 concluded that Nell and her grandfather should accom- 
 pany him to the village whither he was bound, and that 
 he should endeavor to find them some humble occupation 
 by which they could subsist. " We shall be sure to suc- 
 ceed," said the schoolmaster, heartily. " The cause is too 
 good a one to fail." 
 
 They arranged to proceed upon their journey next 
 evening, as a stage wagon, which traveled for some dis- 
 tance on the same road as they must take, would stop at 
 
278 
 
 the inn to change horses, and the driver for a small grat- 
 uity would give Nell a place inside. A bargain was soon 
 struck when the wagon came ; and in due time it rolled 
 away, with the child comfortably bestowed among the 
 softer packages, her grandfather and the schoolmaster 
 walking on beside the driver, and the landlady and all the 
 good folks of the inn screaming out their good wishes and 
 farewells. 
 
 What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of traveling, to 
 lie inside that slowly moving mountain, listening to the 
 tinkling of the horses' bells, the occasional smacking of the 
 carter's whip, the smooth rolling of the great broad 
 wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery good nights 
 of passing travelers jogging past on little short-stepped 
 horses — all made pleasantly indistinct by the thick awn- 
 ing, which seemed made for lazy listening under, till one 
 fell asleep ! The very going to sleep, still with an indis- 
 tinct idea, as the head jogged to and fro upon the pillow, 
 of moving onward with no trouble or fatigue, and hearing 
 all these sounds like dreamy music, lulling to the senses 
 — and the slow waking up, and finding one's self staring 
 out through the breezy curtain half-opened in the front, 
 far up into the cold bright sky with its countless stars, 
 and downward at the driver's lantern dancing on like its 
 namesake Jack of the swamps and marshes, and sideways 
 at the dark, grim trees, and forward at the long, bare road 
 rising up, up, up, until it stopped abruptly at a sharp high 
 ridge as if there were no more road, and all beyond was 
 sky — and the stopping at the inn to bait, and being helped 
 out, and going into a room with fire and candles, and 
 winking very much, and being agreeably reminded that 
 the night was cold, and anxious for very comfort's sake to 
 think it colder than it was ! — What a delicious journey 
 was that journey in the wagon ! 
 
 Then the going on again — so fresh at first, and shortly 
 
279 
 
 afterwards so sleepy. The waking from a sound nap as 
 the mail came dashing past like a highway comet, with 
 gleaming lamps and rattling hoofs, and visions of a guard 
 behind, standing up to keep his feet warm, and of a 
 gentleman in a fur cap opening his eyes and looking wild 
 and stupefied — the stopping at the turnpike where the man 
 was gone to bed, and knocking at the door until he an- 
 swered with a smothered shout from under the bedclothes 
 in the little room above, where the faint light was burning, 
 and presently came down, night-capped and shivering, to 
 throw the gate wide open, and wish all wagons off the 
 road except by day. The cold, sharp interval between 
 night and morning — the distant streak of light widening 
 and spreading, and turning from gray to white, and from 
 white to yellow, and from yellow to burning red — the pres- 
 ence of day, with all its cheerfulness and life — men and 
 horses at the p!ow — birds in the trees and hedges, and 
 boys in solitary fields, frightening them away with rattles. 
 The coming to a town — people busy in the markets ; light 
 carts and chaises round the tavern yard ; tradesmen 
 standing at their doors; men running horses up and down 
 the street for sale ; pigs plunging and grunting in the 
 dirty distance, getting off with long strings at their legs, 
 running into clean chemists' shops and being dislodged 
 with brooms by 'prentices; the night coach changing 
 horses — the passengers cheerless, cold, ugly, and discon- 
 tented, with three months' growth of hair in one night — 
 the coachman fresh as from a bandbox, and exquisitely 
 beautiful by contrast : — so much bustle, so many things 
 in motion, such a variety of incidents — when was there 
 a journey with so many delights as that journey in the 
 wagon ! 
 
 Sometimes, walking for a mile or two while her grand- 
 father rode inside, and sometimes even prevailing upon 
 the schoolmaster to take her place and lie down to rest, 
 
28o 
 
 Nell traveled on very happily until they came to a large 
 town, where the wagon stopped, and where they spent a 
 night. They passed a large church ; and in the streets 
 were a number of old houses, built of a kind of earth or 
 plaster, crossed and recrossed in a great many directions 
 with black beams, which gave them a remarkable and. very 
 ancient look. The doors, too, were arched and low, some 
 with oaken portals and quaint benches, where the former 
 inhabitants had sat on summer evenings. The windows 
 were latticed in little diamond panes, that seemed to wink 
 and blink upon the passengers as if they were dim of 
 sight. They had long since got clear of the smoke and 
 furnaces, except in one or two solitary instances, where a 
 factory planted among fields withered the space about it, 
 like a burning mountain. When they had passed through 
 this town, they entered again upon the country, and be- 
 gan to draw near their place of destination. 
 
 It was not so near, however, but that they spent another 
 night upon the road ; not that their doing so was quite an 
 act of necessity, but that the schoolmaster, when they 
 approached within a few miles of his village, had a fidgety 
 sense of his dignity as the new clerk, and was unwilling 
 to make his entry in dusty shoes, and travel-disordered 
 dress. It was a fine, clear, autumn morning, when they 
 came upon the scene of his promotion, and stopped to 
 contemplate its beauties. 
 
 " See — here's the church ! " cried the delighted school- 
 master, in a low voice ; " and that old building close be- 
 side it, is the schoolhouse, I'll be sworn. Five-and-thirty 
 pounds a year in this beautiful place ! '* 
 
 They admired everything — the old gray porch, the 
 mullioned windows, the venerable gravestones dotting 
 the green churchyard, the ancient tower, the very 
 weathercock ; the brown thatched roofs of cottage, barn, 
 and homestead, peeping from among the trees ; the 
 
28l 
 
 stream that rippled by the distant watermill ; the blue 
 Welsh mountains far away. It was for such a spot the 
 child had wearied in the dense, dark, miserable haunts of 
 labor. Upon her bed of ashes, and amidst the squalid 
 horrors through which they had forced their way, visions 
 of such scenes — beautiful indeed, but not more beautiful 
 than this sweet reality — had been always present to her 
 mind. They had seemed to melt into a dim and airy dis- 
 tance, as the prospect of ever beholding them again grew 
 fainter ; but, as they receded, she had loved and panted 
 for them more. 
 
 " I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes," said 
 the schoolmaster, at length breaking the silence into 
 which they had fallen in their gladness. " I have a letter 
 to present, and inquiries to make, you know. Where shall 
 I take you ? To the little inn yonder ? " 
 
 " Let us wait here," rejoined Nell. " The gate is open. 
 We will sit in the church porch till you come back." 
 
 " A good place, too," said the schoolmaster, leading the 
 way towards it, disencumbering himself of his portman- 
 teau, and placing it on the stone seat. " Be sure that I 
 come back with good news, and am not long gone." 
 
 So the happy schoolmaster put on a brand-new pair of 
 gloves which he had carried in a little parcel in his pocket 
 all the way, and hurried off, full of ardor and excitement. 
 
 The child watched him from the porch until the inter- 
 vening foliage hid him from her view, and then stepped 
 softly out into the old churchyard — so solemn and quiet, 
 that every rustle of her dress upon the fallen leaves, 
 which strewed the path and made her footsteps noiseless, 
 seemed an invasion of its silence. It was a very aged, 
 ghostly place ; the church had been built many hundreds 
 of years ago, and had once had a convent or monastery 
 attached ; for arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows, 
 and fragments of blackened walls, were yet standing ; 
 
282 
 
 while other portions of the old building, which had crum- 
 bled away and fallen down, were mingled with the church- 
 yard earth and overgrown with grass, as if they, too, 
 claimed a burying place and sought to mix their ashes 
 with the dust of men. Hard by these gravestones of 
 dead years, and forming a part of the ruin which some 
 pains had been taken to render habitable in modern times, 
 were two small dwellings with sunken windows and oaken 
 doors, fast hastening to decay, empty and desolate. 
 
 Upon these tenements, the attention of the child be- 
 came exclusively riveted. She knew not why. The 
 church, the ruin, the antiquated graves, had equal claims 
 at least upon a stranger's thoughts, but from the moment 
 when her eyes first rested on these two dwellings, she 
 could turn to nothing else. Even when she had made the 
 circuit of the inclosure, and, returning to the porch, sat 
 pensively waiting for their friend, she took her station 
 where she could still look upon them, and felt as if fasci- 
 nated towards that spot. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH. 
 
 Kit's mother and the single gentleman — upon whose 
 track it is expedient to follow with hurried steps, lest this 
 history should be chargeable with inconstancy, and the 
 offense of leaving its characters in situations of uncer- 
 tainty and doubt — Kit's mother and the single gentleman, 
 speeding onward in the post chaise and four whose de- 
 parture from the notary's door we have already witnessed, 
 soon left the town behind them, and struck fire from the 
 flints of the broad highway. 
 
 The good woman, being not a little embarrassed by the 
 novelty of her situation, and certain maternal apprehen- 
 sions that perhaps by this time little Jacob, or the baby, 
 
283 
 
 or both, had fallen into the fire, or tumbled downstairs, 
 or had been squeezed behind doors, or had scalded their 
 windpipes in endeavoring to allay their, thirst at the 
 spouts of teakettles, preserved an uneasy silence ; and 
 meeting from the window the eyes of turnpike men, omni- 
 bus drivers, and others, felt, in the new dignity of her 
 position, like a mourner at a funeral, who, not being greatly 
 afflicted by the loss of the departed, recognizes his every- 
 day acquaintance from the window of the mourning coach, 
 but is constrained to preserve a decent solemnity, and the 
 appearance of being indifferent to all external objects. 
 
 To have been indifferent to the companionship of the 
 single gentleman would have been tantamount to being 
 gifted with nerves of steel. Never did chaise inclose, or 
 horses draw, such a restless gentleman as he. He never 
 sat in the same position for two minutes together, but was 
 perpetually tossing his arms and legs about, pulling up 
 the sashes and letting them violently down, or thrusting 
 his head out of one window to draw it in again and thrust 
 it out of another. He carried in his pocket, too, a fire box 
 of mysterious and unknown construction ; and as sure as 
 ever Kit's mother closed her eyes, so surely — whisk, rattle, 
 fizz — there was the single gentleman consulting his watch 
 by a flame of fire, and letting the sparks fall down among 
 the straw as if they were no such thing as a possibility of 
 himself and Kit's mother being roasted alive before the 
 boys could stop their horses. Whenever they halted to 
 change, there he was — out of the carriage without letting 
 down the steps, bursting about the inn yard like a lighted 
 cracker, pulling out his watch by lamplight and forget- 
 ting to look at it before he put it up again, and in short 
 committing so many extravagances that Kit's mother was 
 quite afraid of him. Then, when the horses were to, in he 
 came like a harlequin, and before they had gone a mile, 
 out came the watch and the fire box together, and Kit's 
 
284 
 
 mother was wide awake again, with no hope of a wink of 
 sleep for that stage. 
 
 In this way they traveled on until near midnight, when 
 they stopped to supper, for which meal the single gentle- 
 man ordered everything eatable that the house contained ; 
 and because Kit's mother didn't eat everything at once, 
 and eat it all, he took it into his head that she must be 
 ill. 
 
 "You're faint," said the single gentleman, who did 
 nothing himself but walk about the room. " I see what's 
 the matter with you, ma'am. You're faint." 
 
 "Thank you, Sir, I'm not indeed." 
 
 " I know you are. I'm sure of it. I drag this poor 
 woman from the bosom of her family at a minute's notice, 
 and she goes on getting fainter and fainter before my 
 eyes. I'm a pretty fellow ! How many children have 
 you got, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Two, Sir, besides Kit." 
 
 " Boys, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Yes, Sir." 
 
 " Are they christened ?" 
 
 " Only half baptized, as yet, Sir." 
 
 " I'm godfather to both of 'em. Remember that, if you 
 please, ma'am. You had better have some mulled wine." 
 
 " I couldn't touch a drop, indeed, Sir." 
 
 "You must," said the single gentleman. "I see you 
 want it. I ought to have thought of it before." 
 
 Immediately flying to the bell, and calling for mulled 
 wine as impetuously as if it had been wanted for instant 
 use in the recovery of some person apparently drowned, 
 the single gentleman made Kit's mother swallow a bumper 
 of it at such a high temperature that the tears ran down 
 her face, and then hustled her off to the chaise again, 
 where — not impossibly from the effects of this agreeable 
 sedative — she soon became insensible to his restlessness, 
 
285 
 
 and fell fast asleep. Nor were the happy effects of this 
 prescription of a transitory nature, as, notwithstanding 
 that the distance was greater, and the journey longer, 
 than the single gentleman had anticipated, she did not 
 awake until it was broad day, and they were clattering 
 over the pavement of a town. 
 
 "This fe the place ! "cried her companion, letting down 
 all the glasses. " Drive to the waxwork ! " 
 
 The boy on the wheeler touched his hat, and setting 
 spurs to his horse, to the end that they might go in bril- 
 liantly, all four broke into a smart canter, and dashed 
 through the streets with a noise that brought the good 
 folks wondering to their doors and windows, and drowned 
 the sober voices of the town clocks as they chimed out 
 half-past eight. They drove up to a door round which a 
 crowd of persons were collected, and there stopped. 
 
 "What's this ?" said the single gentleman thrusting out 
 his head. " Is anything the matter here ?" 
 
 " A wedding, Sir, a wedding ! " cried several voices. 
 " Hurrah ! " 
 
 The single gentleman, rather bewildered by finding 
 himself the center of this noisy throng, alighted with the 
 assistance of one of the postilions, and handed out Kit's 
 mother, at sight of whom the populace cried out, " Here's 
 another wedding ! " and roared and leaped for joy. 
 
 "The world has gone mad, I think," said the single 
 gentleman, pressing through the concourse with his sup- 
 posed bride. " Stand back here, will you, and let me 
 knock." 
 
 Anything that makes a noise is satisfactory to a crowd. 
 A score of dirty hands were raised directly to knock for 
 him, and seldom has a knocker of equal powers been 
 made to produce more deafening sounds than this particu- 
 lar engine on the occasion in question. Having rendered 
 these voluntary services, the throng modestly retired a 
 
286 
 
 little, preferring that the single gentleman should bear 
 their consequences alone. 
 
 " Now, Sir, what do you want ? " said a man with a large 
 white bow at his buttonhole, opening the door, and con- 
 fronting him with a very stoical aspect. 
 
 " Who has been married here, my friend ? " said the 
 single gentleman. 
 
 " I have." 
 
 "You! And to whom?" 
 
 "What right have you to ask?" returned the bride- 
 groom, eyeing him from top to toe. 
 
 " What right ! " cried the single gentleman, drawing the 
 arm of Kit's mother more tightly through his own, for 
 that good woman evidently had it in contemplation to 
 run away. "Aright you little dream of. Mind, good 
 people, if this fellow has been marrying a minor — tut, 
 tut, that can't be. Where is the child you have here, my 
 good fellow. You call her Nell. Where is she ? " 
 
 As he propounded this question, which Kit's mother 
 echoed, somebody in a room near at hand uttered a great 
 shriek, and a stout lady in a white dress came running to 
 the door, and supported herself upon the bridegroom's arm. 
 
 " Where is she ! " cried this lady. " What news have 
 you brought me ? What has become of her ? " 
 
 The single gentleman started back, and gazed upon the 
 face of the late Mrs. Jarley (that morning wedded to the 
 philosophic George, to the eternal wrath and despair of 
 Mr. Slum, the poet) with looks of conflicting apprehension, 
 disappointment, and incredulity. At length he stammered 
 out, 
 
 " I ask you where she is ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Oh, Sir ! " cried the bride, " if you have come here to do 
 her any good, why weren't you here a week ago ? " 
 
 " She is not — not dead ? " said the person to whom she 
 addressed herself, turning very pale. 
 
287 
 
 " No, not so bad as that." 
 
 " I thank God ! " cried the single gentleman feebly. 
 " Let me come in." 
 
 They drew back to admit him, and when he had entered, 
 closed the door. 
 
 " You see in me, good people," he said, turning to the 
 newly-married couple, " one to whom life itself is not dearer 
 than the two persons whom I seek. They would not know 
 me. My features are strange to them, but if they or either 
 of them are here, take this good woman with you, and let 
 them see her first, for her they both know. If you deny 
 them from any mistaken regard or fear for them, judge of 
 my intentions by their recognition of this person as their 
 old, humble friend." 
 
 " I always said it !" cried the bride, "I knew she was 
 not a common child ! Alas, Sir ! we have no power to 
 help you, for all that we could do has been tried in vain." 
 
 With that, they related to him, without disguise or 
 concealment, all that they knew of Nell and her grand- 
 father, from their first meeting with them, down to the 
 time of their sudden disappearance ; adding (which was 
 quite true) that they had made every possible effort to 
 trace them, but without success ; having been at first in 
 great alarm for their safety, as well as on account of the 
 suspicions to which they themselves might one day be ex- 
 posed in consequence of their abrupt departure. They 
 dwelt upon the old man's imbecility of mind, upon the 
 uneasiness the child had always testified when he was 
 absent, upon the company he had been supposed to keep, 
 and upon the increased depression which had gradually 
 * crept over her and changed her both in health and 
 spirits. Whether she had missed the old man in the 
 night, and, knowing or conjecturing whither he had bent 
 his steps, had gone in pursuit, or whether they had left 
 the house together, they had no means of determining. 
 
288 
 
 Certain they considered it, that there was but slender 
 prospect left of hearing of them again, and that whether 
 their flight originated with the old man, or with the child, 
 there was now no hope of their return. 
 
 To all this, the single gentleman listened with the air 
 of a man quite borne down by grief and disappointment. 
 He shed tears when he spoke of the grandfather, and ap- 
 peared in deep affliction. 
 
 Not to protract this portion of our narrative, and to 
 make short work of a long story, let it be briefly written 
 that before the interview came to a close, the single 
 gentleman deemed he had sufficient evidence of having 
 been told the truth, and that he endeavored to force 
 upon the bride and bridegroom an acknowledgment of 
 their kindness to the unfriended child, which, however, 
 they steadily declined accepting. In the end, the happy 
 couple jolted away in the caravan to spend their honey- 
 moon in a country excursion ; and the single gentleman 
 and Kit's mother stood ruefuly before their carriage door. 
 
 " Where shall we drive you, Sir ? " said the post boy. 
 
 " You may drive me," said the single gentleman, " to the 
 — inn," and to the inn they went. 
 
 Rumors had already got abroad that the little girl 
 who used to show the waxwork was the child of great 
 people who had been stolen from her parents in infancy, 
 and had only just been traced. Opinion was divided 
 whether she was the daughter of a prince, a duke, an earl, 
 a viscount, or a baron, but all agreed upon the main fact, 
 and that the single gentleman was her father ; and all 
 bent forward to catch a glimpse, though it were only of 
 the tip of his noble nose, as he rode away, desponding, in 
 his four-horse chaise. 
 
 What would he have givea to know, and what sorrow 
 would have been saved if he had only known, that at that 
 moment both child and grandfather were seated in the 
 
289 
 
 old church porch, patiently awaiting the schoolmaster's 
 return ! 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH. 
 
 Popular rumor concerning the single gentleman and 
 his errand, traveling from mouth to mouth, and waxing 
 stronger in the marvelous as it was bandied about — for 
 your popular rumor, unlike the rolling stone of the prov- 
 erb, is one which gathers a deal of moss in its wanderings 
 up and down, — occasioned his dismounting at the inn 
 door to be looked upon as an exciting and attractive 
 spectacle, which could scarcely be enough admired ; and 
 drew together a large concourse of idlers, who having 
 recently been, as it were, thrown out of employment by 
 the closing of the waxwork and the completion of the 
 nuptial ceremonies, considered his arrival as little else 
 than a special providence, and hailed it with demonstra- 
 tions of the liveliest joy. 
 
 Not at all participating in the general sensation, but 
 wearing the depressed and wearied look of one who 
 sought to meditate on his disappointment in silence and 
 privacy, the single gentleman alighted, and handed out 
 Kit's mother with a gloomy politeness which impressed 
 the lookers-on extremely. That done, he gave her his 
 arm and escorted her into the house, while several active 
 waiters ran on before as a skirmishing party, to clear the 
 way and to show the room which was ready for their 
 reception. 
 
 " Any room will do," said the single gentleman. " Let 
 it be near at hand, that's all." 
 
 " Close here, Sir, if you please to walk this way." 
 
 " Would the gentleman like this room ? " said a voice 
 as a little out of the way door at the foot of the well 
 
 Little Nell.— ig. 
 
290 
 
 staircase flew briskly open and a head popped out. 
 "He's quite welcome to it. He's as welcome as flowers 
 in May, or coals at Christmas. Would you like this room, 
 Sir ? Honor me by walking in. Do me the favor, pray." 
 
 " Goodness gracious me ! " cried Kit's mother, falling 
 back in extreme surprise, " Only think of this ! " 
 
 She had some reason to be astonished, for the person 
 who proffered the gracious invitation was no other than 
 Daniel Quilp. The little door out of which he had thrust 
 his head was close to the inn larder ; and there he stood, 
 bowing with grotesque politeness, as much at his ease as 
 if the door were that of his own house, blighting all the 
 legs of mutton and cold roast fowls by his close com- 
 panionship, and looking like the evil genius of the cellars 
 come from under ground upon some work of mischief. 
 
 " Would you do me the honor ? " said Quilp. 
 
 " I prefer being alone," replied the single gentleman. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Quilp. And with that, he darted in again 
 with one jerk and clapped the little door to, like a figure 
 in a Dutch clock when the hour strikes. 
 
 "Why it was only last night, Sir," whispered Kit's 
 mother, " that I left him in the chapel." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said her fellow-passenger. " When did 
 that person come here, waiter ? " 
 
 " Come down by the night coach this morning, Sir." 
 
 " Humph ! And when is he going ? " 
 
 " Can't say, Sir, really." 
 
 " Beg him to walk this way," said the single gentleman. 
 "I should be glad to exchange a word with him, tell him. 
 Beg him to come at once, do you hear ? " • 
 
 The man stared on receiving these instructions, for the 
 single gentleman had not only displayed as much aston- 
 ishment as Kit's mother at sight of the dwarf, but, stand- 
 ing in no fear of him, had been at less pains to conceal 
 his dislike and repugnance. He departed on his errand, 
 
291 
 
 however, and immediately returned, ushering in its object. 
 
 " Your servant, Sir," said the dwarf. " I encountered 
 your messenger halfway. I thought you'd allow me to 
 pay my compliments to you. I hope you're well. I hope 
 you're very well." 
 
 There was a short pause, while the dwarf, with half- 
 shut eyes and puckered face, stood waiting for an answer. 
 Receiving none, he turned towards his more familiar ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 " Christopher's mother ! " he cried. " Such a dear lady, 
 such a worthy woman, so blessed in her honest son ! How 
 is Christopher's mother ? Have change of air and scene 
 improved her ? Her little family too, and Christopher ? 
 Do they thrive ? Do they flourish ? Are they growing 
 into worthy citizens, eh ? " 
 
 Making his voice ascend in the scale with every suc- 
 ceeding question, Mr. Quilp finished in a shrill squeak, 
 and subsided into the panting look which was customary 
 with him, and which, whether it were assumed or natural, 
 had equally the effect of banishing all expression from 
 his face, and rendering it, as far as it afforded any index 
 to his mood or meaning, a perfect blank. 
 
 " Mr. Quilp," said the single gentleman. 
 
 The dwarf put his hand to his great flapped ear, and 
 counterfeited the closest attention. 
 
 " We two have met before — " 
 
 '* Surely," cried Quilp, nodding his head. " Oh surely, 
 Sir. Such an honor and pleasure — it's both, Christopher's 
 mother, it's both — is not to be forgotten so soon. By no 
 means ! " 
 
 "You may remember that the day I arrived in London, 
 and found the house to which I drove, empty and deserted, 
 I was directed by some of the neighbors to you, and 
 waited upon you without stopping for rest or refresh- 
 ment ? " 
 
292 
 
 " How precipitate that was, and yet what an earnest and 
 vigorous measure ! " 
 
 " I found," said the single gentleman, " you, most un- 
 accountably, in possession of everything that had so 
 recently belonged to another man, and that other man, 
 who up to the time of your entering upon his property 
 had been looked upon as affluent, reduced to sudden beg- 
 gary, and driven from house and home." 
 
 " We had warrant for what we did, my good Sir," re- 
 joined Quilp, " we had our warrant. Don't say driven 
 either. He went of his own accord — vanished in the 
 night, Sir." 
 
 " No matter," said the single gentleman angrily. " He 
 was gone." 
 
 "Yes, he was gone," said Quilp, with the same exasper- 
 ating composure. " No doubt he was gone. The only 
 question was, where. And it's a question still." 
 
 " Now, what am I to think," said the single gentleman, 
 sternly regarding him, " of you, who, plainly indisposed 
 to give me any information then — nay, obviously holding 
 back, and sheltering yourself with all kinds of cunning, 
 trickery, and evasion, — are dogging my footsteps now ? " 
 
 " I dogging ! " cried Quilp. 
 
 "•Why, are you not ? " returned his questioner, fretted 
 into a state of the utmost irritation. " Were you not, a 
 few hours since, sixty miles off, and in the chapel to which 
 this good woman goes to say her prayers ? " 
 
 " She was there too, I think ? " said Quilp, still perfectly 
 unmoved. " I might say, if I was inclined to be rude, how 
 do I know but you are dogging my footsteps. Yes, I was 
 at chapel. What then ? I've read in books that pilgrims 
 were used to go to chapel before they went on journeys, 
 to put up petitions for their safe return. Wise men ! 
 journeys are very perilous — especially outside the coach. 
 Wheels come off, horses take fright, coachmen drive too 
 
293 
 
 fast, coaches overturn. I always go to chapel before I 
 start on journeys. It's the last thing I do on such occa- 
 sions, indeed." 
 
 That Quilp lied most heartily in this speech, it needed 
 no very great penetration to discover, although for any- 
 thing that he suffered to appear in his face, voice or man- 
 ner, he might have been clinging to the truth with the 
 quiet constancy of a martyr. 
 
 " In the name of all that's calculated to drive one crazy, 
 man," said the unfortunate single gentleman, " have you 
 not, for some reason of your own, taken upon yourself 
 my errand ? Don't you know with what object I have come 
 here, and if you do know, can you throw no light upon 
 it?" 
 
 " You think I'm a conjurer, Sir," replied Quilp, shrug- 
 ging up his shoulders. " If I was, I should tell my own 
 fortune — and make it." 
 
 " Ah ! we have said all we need say, I see," returned the 
 other, throwing himself impatiently upon a sofa. " Pray 
 leave us, if you please." 
 
 " Willingly," returned Quilp. " Most willingly. Chris- 
 topher's mother, my good soul, farewell. A pleasant 
 journey — back, Sir. Ahem ! " 
 
 With these parting words, and with a grin upon his 
 features altogether indescribable, but which seemed to be 
 compounded of every monstrous grimace of which men or 
 monkeys are capable, the dwarf slowly retreated and 
 closed the door behind him. 
 
 " Oho ! " he said when he had regained his own room, 
 and sat himself down in a chair with his arms akimbo. 
 " Oho ! Are you there, my friend ? In-deed ! '' 
 
 Chuckling as though in very great glee, and recompens- 
 ing himself for the restraint he had lately put upon his 
 countenance by twisting it into all imaginable varieties of 
 ugliness, Mr. Quilp, rocking himself to and fro in his chair 
 
294 
 
 and nursing his left leg at the same time, fell into certain 
 meditations, of which it may be neccessary to relate the 
 substance. 
 
 First, he reviewed the circumstances which had led to 
 his repairing to that spot, which were briefly these. 
 Dropping in at Mr. Sampson Brass's office on the previous 
 evening, he learned that that gentleman had made strange 
 discoveries in connection with the single gentleman who 
 lodged above, that the single gentleman had been seen in 
 communication with Kit. 
 
 Possessed of this piece of information, Mr. Quilp directly 
 supposed that the single gentleman above stairs must be 
 the same individual who had waited on him, and having 
 assured himself by further inquiries that this surmise was 
 correct, had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion 
 that the intent and object of his correspondence with Kit 
 was the recovery of his old client and the child. Burning 
 with curiosity to know what proceedings were afoot, he 
 resolved to pounce upon Kit's mother as the person least 
 able to resist his arts, and consequently the most likely 
 to be entrapped into such revelations as he sought ; 
 so taking an abrupt leave, he hurried to her house. The 
 good woman being from home, he made inquiries of a 
 neighbor, as Kit himself did soon afterwards, and being 
 directed to the chapel betook himself there, in order to 
 waylay her, at the conclusion of the service. 
 
 He had not sat in the chapel more than a quarter of an 
 hour, and with his eyes piously fixed upon the ceiling was 
 chuckling inwardly over the joke of his being there at all, 
 when Kit himself appeared. Watchful as a .lynx, one 
 glance showed the dwarf that he had come on business. 
 Absorbed in appearance, as we have seen, and feigning a 
 profound abstraction, he noted every circumstance of his 
 behavior, and when he withdrew with his family, shot 
 out after him. In fine, he traced them to the notary's 
 
2 9 5 
 
 house ; learned the destination of the carriage from one of 
 the postilions ; and knowing that a fast night coach started 
 for the same place, at the very hour which was on the 
 point of striking, from a street hard by, darted round to 
 the coach office without more ado, and took his seat upon 
 the roof. After passing and repassing the carriage on 
 the road, and being passed and repassed by it sundry times 
 in the course of the night, according as their stoppages 
 were longer or shorter, or their rate of traveling varied, 
 they reached the town almost together. Quilp kept the 
 chaise in sight, mingled with the crowd learned the single 
 gentleman's errand, and its failure, and having possessed 
 himself of all that it was material to know, hurried off, 
 reached the inn before him, had the interview just now 
 detailed, and shut himself up in the little room in which 
 he hastily reviewed all these occurrences. 
 
 " You are there, are you, my friend ? " he repeated, 
 greedily biting his nails. " I am suspected and thrown 
 aside, and Kit's the confidential agent, is he ? But for 
 the lad and his mother, I could get this fiery gentleman 
 as comfortable into my net as our old friend — our mutual 
 friend, ha ! ha ! — and chubby, rosy Nell. At the worst, 
 it's a golden opportunity, not to be lost. Let us find them 
 first, and I'll find means of draining you of some of your 
 superfluous cash, Sir, I hate your virtuous people ! " said 
 the dwarf, " Ah ! I hate 'em every one ! " 
 
 This was not a mere empty vaunt, but a deliberate 
 avowal of his real sentiments ; for Mr. Quilp, who loved 
 nobody, had by little and little come to hate everybody 
 nearly or remotely connected with his ruined client : — 
 the old man himself, because he had been able to deceive 
 him and elude his vigilance — the child, because she was 
 the object of Mrs. Quilp's commiseration and constant 
 self-reproach — the single gentleman, because of his un- 
 concealed aversion to himself — Kit and his mother, most 
 
296 
 
 mortally, for the reasons already shown. Above and be- 
 yond that general feeling of opposition to them, which 
 would have been inseparable from his ravenous desire to 
 enrich himself by these altered circumstances, Daniel 
 Quilp hated them every one. 
 
 In this amiable mood, Mr. Quilp withdrew to an ob- 
 scure alehouse, under cover of which seclusion he in- 
 stituted all possible inquiries that might lead to the dis- 
 covery of the old man and his grandchild. But all was 
 in vain. Not the slightest trace or clue could be obtained. 
 They had left the town by night ; no one had seen them 
 go ; no one had met them on the road ; the driver of no 
 coach, cart, or wagon, had seen any travelers answering 
 their description; nobody had fallen in with them, or 
 heard of them. Convinced at last that for the present all 
 such attempts were hopeless, he appointed two or three 
 scouts, with promises of large rewards in case of their 
 forwarding him any intelligence, and returned to London 
 by next day's coach. 
 
 It was some gratification to Mr. Quilp to find, as he 
 took his place upon the roof, that Kit's mother was alone 
 inside ; from which circumstance he derived in the course 
 of the journey much cheerfulness of spirit, inasmuch as 
 her solitary condition enabled him to terrify her with 
 many extraordinary annoyances ; such as hanging over 
 the side of the coach at the risk of his life, and staring in 
 with his great, goggle eyes, which seemed in hers the more 
 horrible from his face being upside down ; dodging her in 
 this way from one window to another ; getting nimbly 
 down whenever they changed horses ' and thrusting his 
 head in at the window with a dismal squint ; which in- 
 genious tortures had such an effect upon Mrs. Nubbles, 
 that she was quite unable for the time to resist the belief 
 that Mr. Quilp did in his own person represent and em- 
 body some evil power. 
 
297 
 
 Kit, having been apprised by letter of Iris-mother's in- 
 tended return, was waiting for her at the coach office ; 
 and great was his surprise when he saw, leering over the 
 coachman's shoulder like some familiar demon invisible 
 to all eyes but his, the well-known face of Quilp. 
 
 " How are you, Christopher ? " croaked the dwarf from 
 the coach top. "AH right, Christopher. Mother's in- 
 side." 
 
 " Why, how did he come here, mother ? " whispered Kit. 
 
 " I don't know how he came or why, my dear," re- 
 joined Mrs. Nubbles, dismounting with her son's assis- 
 tance, "but he has been a terrifying of me out of my 
 seven senses all this blessed day." 
 
 " He has ? " cried Kit. 
 
 " You wouldn't believe it, that you wouldn't," replied 
 his mother ; " but don't say a word to him, for I really 
 don't believe he's human. Hush ! Don't turn round as 
 if I was talking of him, but he's a squinting at me now in 
 the full blaze of the coach lamp, quite awful 1 " 
 
 In spite of his mother's injunction, Kit turned sharply 
 round to look. Mr. Quilp was serenely gazing at the 
 stars, quite absorbed in celestial contemplation. 
 
 " Oh, he's the artfulest creetur ! " cried Mrs. Nubbles. 
 " But come away. Don't speak to him for the world." 
 
 "Yes I will, mother. What nonsense. I say, Sir " 
 
 Mr. Quilp affected to start, and looked smilingly round. 
 
 " You let my mother alone, will you ? " said Kit. " How 
 dare you tease a poor, lone woman like her, making her 
 miserable and melancholy as if she hadn't got enough to 
 make her so, without you. An't you ashamed of yourself, 
 you little monster ? " 
 
 " Monster ! " said Quilp inwardly, with a smile. " Ug- 
 liest dwarf that could be seen anywhere for a penny — 
 monster — ah ! " 
 
 "You show her any of your impudence again," resumed 
 
298 
 
 Kit, shouldering the bandbox, " and I tell you what, Mr. 
 Quilp, I won't bear with you any more. You have no 
 right to do it ; I'm sure we never interfered with you. 
 This isn't the first time ; and if ever you worry or frighten 
 her again, you'll oblige me (though I should be very sorry 
 to do it, on account of your size) to beat you." 
 
 Quilp said not a word in reply, but walking up so close 
 to Kit as to bring his eyes within two or three inches of 
 his face, looked fixedly at him, retreated a little distance 
 without averting his gaze, approached again, again with- 
 drew, and so on for half-a-dozen times, like a head in a 
 phantasmagoria. Kit stood his ground as if in expecta- 
 tion of an immediate assault, but finding that nothing came 
 of these gestures, snapped his fingers and walked away; his 
 mother dragging him off as fast as she could, and, even in 
 the midst of his news of little Jacob and the baby, looking 
 anxiously over her shoulder to see if Quilp were following. 
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRTY-NINTH. 
 
 We left Nell and her grandfather in the porch of the 
 old church waiting for the return of the schoolmaster, 
 who had gone to present a letter and make some inquiries. 
 After a long time he appeared at the wicket gate of the 
 churchyard, and hurried towards them, jingling in his 
 hand, as he came along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was 
 quite breathless with pleasure and haste when he reached 
 the porch, and at first could only point towards the old 
 building which the child had been contemplating so 
 earnestly. 
 
 " You see those two old houses," he said at last. 
 
 " Yes surely," replied Nell. " I have been looking at 
 them nearly all the time you have been away." 
 
 " And you would have looked at them more curiously 
 
299 
 
 yet, if you could have guessed what I have to tell you," 
 said the friend. " One of those houses is mine." 
 
 Without saying any more, or giving the child time to 
 reply, the schoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest 
 face quite radiant with exultation, led her to the place of 
 which he spoke. 
 
 They stopped before its low arched door. After trying 
 several of the keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one 
 to fit the huge lock, which turned back, creaking, and 
 admitted them into the house. 
 
 The room into which they entered was a vaulted 
 chamber once nobly ornamented by cunning architects, 
 and still retaining, in its beautiful groined roof and rich 
 stone tracery, choice remnants of its ancient splendor. 
 Foliage carved in the stone, and emulating the mastery 
 of Nature's hand, yet remained to tell how many times 
 the leaves outside had come and gone, while it lived on 
 unchanged. The broken figures supporting the burden 
 of the chimney-piece, though mutilated, were still dis- 
 tinguishable for what they had been — far different from 
 the dust without — and showed sadly by the empty hearth, 
 like creatures who had outlived their kind, and mourned 
 their own too slow decay. 
 
 In some old time — for even change was old in that old 
 place — a wooden partition had been constructed in one 
 part of the chamber to form a sleeping closet, into which 
 the light was admitted at the same period by a rude win- 
 dow, or rather niche, cut in the solid wall. This screen, 
 together with two seats in the broad chimney, had at 
 some forgotten date been part of the church or convent ; 
 for the oak, hastily appropriated to its present purpose, 
 had been little altered from its former shape, and pre- 
 sented to the eye a pile of fragments of rich carving from 
 old monkish stalls. 
 
 An open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with 
 
300 
 
 the light that came through leaves of ivy, completed the 
 interior of this portion of the ruin. It was not quite 
 destitute of furniture. A few strange chairs, whose arms_ 
 and legs looked as though they had dwindled away with 
 age ; a table, the very specter of its race ; a great old 
 chest that had once held records in the church, with 
 other quaintly-fashioned domestic necessaries, and store 
 of firewood for the winter, were scattered around, and 
 gave evident tokens of its occupation as a dwelling place 
 at no very distant time. 
 
 The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling 
 with which we contemplate the work of ages that have 
 become but drops of water in the great ocean of eternity. 
 The old man had followed them, but they were all three 
 hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if 
 they feared to break the silence even by so slight a sound. 
 
 " It is a very beautiful place ! " said the child, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " I almost feared you thought otherwise," returned the 
 schoolmaster. " You shivered when we first came in, as 
 if you felt it cold or gloomy." 
 
 " It was not that," said Nell, glancing round with a 
 slight shudder. " Indeed I cannot tell you what it was, 
 but when I saw the outside, from the church porch, the 
 same feeling came over me. It is its being so old and 
 gray perhaps." 
 
 " A peaceful place to live in, don't you think so ? " said 
 her friend. 
 
 " Oh yes," rejoined the child, clasping her hands 
 earnestly. " A quiet, happy place — a place to live and 
 learn to die in ! " She would have said more, but 
 that the energy of her thoughts caused her voice to falter, 
 and come in trembling whispers from her lips. 
 
 "A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of 
 mind and body in," said the schoolmaster ; "for this old 
 house is yours." 
 
3oi 
 
 " Ours ! " cried the child. 
 
 " Aye," returned the schoolmaster gaily, " for many a 
 merry year to come, I hope. I shall be a close neighbor 
 — only next door — but this house is yours." 
 
 Having now disburdened himself of his great surprise, 
 the schoolmaster sat down, and drawing Nell to his side, 
 told her how he had learned that that ancient tenement had 
 been occupied for a very long time by an old person, 
 nearly a hundred years of age, who kept the keys of the 
 church, opened and closed it for the services, and showed 
 it to strangers; how she had died not many weeks ago, 
 and nobody had yet been found to fill the office; how, 
 learning all this in an interview with the sexton, who was 
 confined to his bed by rheumatism, he had been bold to 
 make mention of his fellow-traveler, which had been so 
 favorably received by that high authority, that he had 
 taken courage, acting on his advice, to propound the mat- 
 ter to the clergyman. In a word, the result of his exer- 
 tions was, that Nell and her grandfather were to be carried 
 before the last-named gentleman next day; and, his ap- 
 proval of their conduct and appearance reserved as a 
 matter of form, that they were already appointed to the 
 ■ vacant post. 
 
 " There's a small allowance of money," said the school- 
 master. " It is not much, but still enough to live upon 
 in this retired spot. By clubbing our funds together, we 
 shall do bravely; no fear of that." 
 
 " Heaven bless and prosper you ! " sobbed the child. 
 
 " Amen, my dear," returned her friend cheerfully; " and 
 all of us, as it will, and has, in leading us through sorrow 
 and trouble to this tranquil life. But we must look at my 
 house now. Come ! " 
 
 They repaised to the other tenement; tried the rusty 
 keys as before; at length found the right one; and opened 
 the worm-eaten door. It led into a chamber, vaulted and 
 
302 
 
 old, like that from which they had come, but not so spa- 
 cious, and having only one other little room attached. It 
 was not difficult to divine that the other house was of right 
 the schoolmaster's, and that he had chosen for himself 
 the least commodious, in his care and regard for them. 
 Like the adjoining habitation, it held such old articles of 
 furniture as were absolutely necessary, and had its stack 
 of firewood. 
 
 To make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort 
 as they could, was now their pleasant care. In a short 
 time, each had its cheerful fire glowing and crackling on 
 the hearth, and reddening the pale old wall with a hale 
 and healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her needle, repaired 
 the tattered window hangings, drew together the rents 
 that time had worn in the threadbare scraps of carpet, 
 and made them whole and decent. The schoolmaster 
 swept and smoothed the ground before the door, trimmed 
 the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants which 
 hung their drooping heads in melancholy neglect; and 
 gave to the outer walls a cheery air of home. The old 
 man, sometimes by his side and sometimes with the child, 
 lent his aid to both, went here and there on little patient 
 services, and was happy. Neighbors, too, as they came • 
 from work, proffered their help; or sent their children 
 with such small presents or loans as the strangers needed 
 most. It was a busy day; and night came on, and found 
 them wondering that there was yet so much.-to do, and. 
 that it should be dark so soon. 
 
 They took their supper together, in the house which 
 may be henceforth called the child's; and when they had 
 finished their meal drew round the fire, and almost in 
 whispers — their hearts were too quiet and glad for loud 
 expression — discussed their future plans. Before they 
 separated, the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud; and 
 then, full of gratitude and happiness, they parted for the 
 night. 
 
3©3 
 
 At that silent hour, when her grandfather was sleeping 
 peacefully in bis bed, and every sound was hushed, the 
 child lingered before the dying embers, and thought of 
 her past fortunes as if they had been a dream and she 
 only now awake. The glare of the sinking flame, reflected 
 in the oaken panels whose carved tops were dimly seen 
 in the gloom of the dusky roof — the aged walls, where 
 strange shadows came and went with every flickering of 
 the fire — the solemn presence, within, of that decay which 
 falls on senseless things the most enduring in their nature ; 
 and, without, and round about on every side, of Death — 
 filled her with deep and thoughtful feelings, but with none 
 of terror or alarm. A change had been gradually stealing 
 over her, in the time of her loneliness and sorrow. With 
 failing strength and heightening resolution, there had 
 sprung up a purified and altered mind; there had grown 
 in her bosom blessed thoughts and hopes, which are the 
 portion of few but the weak and drooping. There were 
 none to see the frail, perishable figure, as it glided from 
 the fire and leaned pensively at the open casement ; none 
 but the stars, to look into the upturned face and read its 
 history. The old church bell rang out the hour with a 
 mournful sound, as if it had grown sad from so much 
 communing with the dead and unheeded warning to the 
 living; the fallen leaves rustled; the grass stirred upon 
 the graves; all else was still and sleeping. 
 
 With the brightness and joy of morning, came the re- 
 newal of yesterday's labors, the revival of its pleasant 
 thoughts, the restoration of its energies, cheerfulness, and 
 hope. They worked gaily in ordering and arranging 
 their houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergy- 
 man. 
 
 He was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a shrinking, 
 subdued spirit, accustomed to retirement, and very little 
 acquainted with the world, which he had left many years 
 
304 
 
 before to come and settle in that place. His wife had 
 died in the house in which he still lived, and he had long 
 since lost sight of any earthly cares or hopes beyond it. 
 
 He received them very kindly, and at once showed an 
 interest in Nell ; asking her name, and age, her birth- 
 place, the circumstances which had led her there, and so 
 forth. The schoolmaster had already told her story. 
 They had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and 
 had come to share his fortunes. He loved the child as 
 though she were his own. 
 
 " Well, well," said the clergyman. " Let it be as you 
 desire. She is very young." 
 
 "Old in adversity and trial, Sir," replied the school, 
 master. 
 
 " God help her ! Let her rest, and forget them," said 
 the old gentleman. " But an old church is a dull and 
 gloomy place for one so young as you, my child." 
 
 " Oh no, Sir," returned Nell. " I have no such 
 thoughts, indeed." 
 
 " I would rather see her dancing on the green at 
 nights," said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon her 
 head, and smiling sadly, " than have her sitting in the 
 shadow of our moldering arches. You must look to 
 this, and see that her heart does not grow heavy among 
 these solemn ruins. Your request is granted, friend." 
 
 After more kind words, they withdrew, and repaired to 
 the child's house ; where they were yet in conversation 
 on their happy fortune, when another friend appeared. 
 
 This was a little old gentleman, who lived in the par- 
 sonage house, and had resided there (so they learned soon 
 afterwards) ever since the death of the clergyman's wife, 
 which had happened fifteen years before. He had been 
 his college friend and always his close companion ; in the 
 first shock of his grief had come to console and comfort 
 him ; and from that time they had never parted company. 
 
305 
 
 The little old gentleman was the active spirit of the 
 place ; the adjuster of all differences, the promoter of all 
 merrymakings, the dispenser of his friend's bounty, and 
 of no small charity of his own besides ; the universal 
 mediator, comforter, and friend. None of the simple 
 villagers had cared to ask his name, or, when they knew 
 it, to store it in their memory. Perhaps from some vague 
 rumor of his college honors which had been whispered 
 abroad on his first arrival, perhaps because he was an un- 
 married, unencumbered gentleman, he had been called 
 the Bachelor. The name pleased him, or suited him as 
 well as any other, and the Bachelor he had ever since re- 
 mained. And the Bachelor it was, it may be added, who 
 with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which the 
 wanderers had found in their new habitation. 
 
 The Bachelor, then — to call him by his usual appella- 
 tion — lifted the latch, showed his little, round, mild face 
 for a moment at the door, and stepped into the room like 
 one who was no stranger to it. 
 
 " You are Mr. Marton, the new schoolmaster ? " he said, 
 greeting Nell's kind friend. 
 
 "I am, Sir." 
 
 " You cOme well recommended, and I am glad to see 
 you. I should have been in the way yesterday, expecting 
 you, but I rode across the country to carry a message 
 from a sick mother to her daughter in service some miles 
 off, and have but just now returned. This is our young 
 church keeper ? You are not the less welcome, friend, for 
 her sake, or for this old man's ; nor the worst teacher for 
 having learned humanity." 
 
 " She has been ill, Sir, very lately," said the school- 
 master, in answer to the look with which their visitor re- 
 garded Nell when he had kissed her cheek. 
 
 "Yes, yes. I know she has," he rejoined. "There 
 have been suffering and heartache here." 
 
 Little Nell.— 20. 
 
3°6 
 
 " Indeed there have, Sir." 
 
 The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, 
 and back again at the child, whose hand he took tenderly 
 in his, and held. 
 
 "You will be happier here," he said; "we will try, at 
 least, to make you so. You have made great improve- 
 ments here already. Are they the work of your hands ? " 
 
 " Yes, Sir." 
 
 " We may make some others — not b,etter in themselves, 
 but with better means perhaps," said the Bachelor. " Let 
 us see now, let us see." 
 
 Nell accompanied him into the other little rooms, and 
 over both the houses, in which he found various small 
 comforts wanting, which he engaged to supply from a 
 certain collection of odds and ends he had at home, and 
 which must have been a very miscellaneous and extensive 
 one, as it comprehended the most opposite articles imagin- 
 able. They all came, however, and came without loss of 
 time ; for the little old gentleman, disappearing for some 
 five or ten minutes, presently returned, laden with old 
 shelves, rugs, blankets, and other household gear, and 
 followed by a boy bearing a similar load. These being 
 cast on the floor in a promiscuous heap, yielded a quantity 
 of occupation in arranging, erecting, and putting away ; 
 the superintendence of which task evidently afforded the 
 old gentleman extreme delight, and engaged him for some 
 time with great briskness and activity. When nothing 
 more was left to be done, he charged the boy to run off 
 and bring his schoolmates to be marshaled before their 
 new master, and solemnly reviewed. 
 
 " As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd wish to 
 see," he said, turning to the schoolmaster when the boy 
 was gone ; " but I don't let 'em know I think so. That 
 wouldn't do, at all." 
 
 The messenger soon returned at the head of a long row 
 
3°7 
 
 of urchins, great and small, who, being confronted by the 
 Bachelor at the house door, fell into various convulsions 
 of politeness ; clutching their hats and caps, squeezing 
 them into the smallest possible dimensions, and making 
 all manner of bows and scrapes, which the little old gentle- 
 man contemplated with excessive satisfaction, and ex- 
 pressed his approval of by a great many nods and smiles. 
 Indeed, his approbation of the boys was by no means so 
 scrupulously disguised as he had led the schoolmaster to 
 suppose, inasmuch as it broke out in sundry loud whis- 
 pers and confidential remarks which were perfectly 
 audible to them every one. 
 
 " This first boy, schoolmaster,'* said the Bachelor, " is 
 John Owen ; a lad of good parts, Sir, and frank, honest 
 temper ; but too thoughtless, too playful, too light-headed 
 by far. That boy, my good Sir, would break his neck 
 with pleasure, and deprive his parents of their chief com- 
 fort — and between ourselves, when you come to see him 
 at hare and hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the 
 finger post, and sliding down the face of the little quarry, 
 you'll never forget it. It's beautiful ! " 
 
 John Owen having been thus rebuked, and being in 
 perfect possession of the speech aside, the Bachelor 
 singled out another boy. 
 
 " Now, look at that lad, Sir," said the Bachelor. "You 
 see that fellow ? Richard Evans his name is, Sir. An 
 amazing boy to learn, blessed with a good memory, and a 
 ready understanding, and moreover with a good voice and 
 ear for psalm singing, in which he is the best among us. 
 Yet, Sir, that boy will come to a bad end ; he'll never die 
 in his bed ; he's always falling asleep in church in sermon 
 time— and to tell you the truth, Mr. Marton, I always did 
 the same at his age, and feel quite certain that it was 
 natural to my constitution and I couldn't help it." 
 
 This hopeful pupil edified by the above terrible re- 
 proval, the Bachelor turned to another. 
 
3o8 
 
 " But if we talk of examples to be shunned," said he, 
 "if we come to boys that should be a warning and a 
 beacon to all their fellows, here's the one, and I hope you 
 won't spare him. This is the lad, Sir, this one with the 
 blue eyes and light hair. This is a swimmer, Sir, this 
 fellow — a diver, Lord save us ! This is a boy, Sir, who 
 had a fancy for plunging into eighteen feet of water, with 
 his clothes on, and bringing up a blind man's dog, who 
 was being drowned by the weight of his chain and collar, 
 while his master stood wringing his hands upon the bank, 
 bewailing the loss of his guide and friend. I sent the boy 
 two guineas anonymously, Sir," added the Bachelor, in his 
 peculiar whisper, " directly I heard of it ; but never 
 mention it on any account, for he hasn't the least idea that 
 it came from me." 
 
 Having disposed of this culprit, the Bachelor turned to 
 another, and from him to another, and so on through the 
 whole array, laying, for their wholesome restriction within 
 due bounds, the same cutting emphasis on such of their 
 propensities as were dearest to his heart and were un- 
 questionably referable to his own precept and example. 
 Thoroughly persuaded, in the end, that he had made them 
 miserable by his severity, he dismissed them with a small 
 present, and an admonition to walk quietly home, without 
 any leapings, scufflings, or turnings out of the way ; which 
 injunction (he informed the schoolmaster in the same 
 audible confidence) he did not think he could have obeyed 
 when he was a boy, had his life depended on it. 
 
 Hailing these little tokens of the Bachelor's disposition 
 as so many assurances of his own welcome course from 
 that time, the schoolmaster parted from him with a light 
 heart and joyous spirits, and deemed himself one of the 
 happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old 
 houses were ruddy again that night with the reflection of 
 the cheerful fires that burned within ; and the Bachelor and 
 
3°9 
 
 his friend, pausing to look upon them as they returned 
 from their evening walk, spoke softly together of the 
 beautiful child, and looked round upon the churchyard 
 with a sigh. 
 
 CHAPTER THE FORTIETH. 
 
 Nell was stirring early in the morning; and having 
 discharged her household tasks, and put everything in 
 order for the good schoolmaster (though sorely against his 
 will, for he would have spared her the pains), took down, 
 from its nail by the fireside, a little bundle of keys with 
 which the Bachelor had formally invested her on the pre- 
 vious day, and went out alone to visit the old church. 
 
 Here was the broken pavement, worn so long ago by 
 pious feet, that Time, stealing on the pilgrims' steps, had 
 trodden out their track, and left but crumbling stones. 
 Here were the rotten beam, the sinking arch, the sapped 
 and moldering wall, the lowly trench of earth, the stately 
 tomb on which no epitaph remained, — all, — marble, stone, 
 iron, wood, and dust, one common monument of ruin. 
 The best work and the worst, the plainest and the richest, 
 the stateliest and the least imposing — both of Heaven's 
 work and Man's — all found one common level here, and 
 told one common tale. 
 
 Some part of the edifice had been a baronial chapel, and 
 here were effigies of warriors stretched upon their beds of 
 stone with folded hands, cross-legged — those who had 
 fought in the Holy Wars — girded with their swords, and 
 cased in armor as they had lived. Some of these knights 
 had their own weapons, helmets, coats of mail, hanging 
 upon the walls hard by, and dangling from rusty hooks. 
 Broken and dilapidated as they were, they yet retained 
 their ancient form, and something of their ancient aspect. 
 
3io 
 
 Thus violent deeds live after men upon the earth, and 
 traces of war and bloodshed will survive in mournful 
 shapes, long after those who worked the desolation are but 
 atoms of earth themselves. 
 
 The child sat down in this old, silent place, among the 
 stark figures on the tombs — they made it more quiet there, 
 than elsewhere, to her fancy — and gazing round with a 
 feeling of awe, tempered with a calm delight, felt that now 
 she was happy, and at rest. She took a Bible from the 
 shelf, and read ; then, laying it down, thought of the 
 summer days and the bright springtime that would come 
 — of the rays of sun that would fall in aslant upon the 
 sleeping forms — of the leaves that would flutter at the 
 window, and play in glistening shadows on the pavement 
 — of the songs of birds, and growth of buds and blossoms 
 out of doors — of the sweet air, that would steal in and 
 gently wave the tattered banners overhead. 
 
 She left the chapel — very slowly and often turning back 
 to gaze again — and coming to a low door, which plainly 
 led into the tower, opened it, and climbed the winding 
 stair in darkness ; save where she looked down through 
 narrow loopholes on the place she had left, or caught a 
 glimmering vision of the dusty bells. At length she gained 
 the end of the ascent and stood upon the turret top. 
 
 Oh ! the glory of the sudden burst of light ; the fresh- 
 .ness of the fields and woods, stretching away on every 
 side and meeting the bright blue sky ; the cattle grazing 
 in the pasturage ; the smoke, that, coming from among 
 the trees, seemed to rise upward from the green earth ; 
 the children yet at their gambols down below — all, every- 
 thing, so beautiful and happy ! It was like passing from 
 death to life ; it was drawing nearer Heaven. 
 
 The children were gone by the time she emerged into 
 the porch, and locked the door. As she passed the 
 schoolhouse she could hear the busy hum of voices. Her 
 
3" 
 
 friend had begun his labors only that day. The noise 
 grew louder, and, looking back, she saw the boys come 
 trooping out and disperse themselves with merry shouts 
 and play. " It's a good thing," thought the child, " I am 
 very glad they pass the church." And then she stopped, 
 to fancy how the noise would sound inside, and how gently 
 it would seem to die away upon the ear. 
 
 Again that day, yes, twice again, she stole back to the 
 old chapel, and in her former seat read from the same 
 book, or indulged the same quiet train of thought. Even 
 when it had grown dusk, and the shadows of coming night 
 made it more solemn still, the child remained like one 
 rooted to the spot, and had no fear, or thought of stirring. 
 
 They found her there at last, and took her home. 
 She looked pale but very happy, until they separated for 
 the night ; and then, as the poor schoolmaster stooped 
 down to kiss her cheek, he thought he felt a tear upon 
 his face. 
 
 CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST. 
 
 The Bachelor, among his various occupations, found in 
 the old church a constant source of interest and amuse- 
 ment. Taking that pride in it which men conceive for 
 the wonders of their own little world, he had made its 
 history his study ; and many a summer day within its 
 walls, and many a winter's night beside the parsonage 
 fire, had found the Bachelor still poring over and adding 
 to his goodly store of tale and legend. 
 
 As he was not one of those rough spirits who would strip 
 fair Truth of every little shadowy vestment in which time 
 and teeming fancies love to array her — and some of 
 which become her pleasantly enough, serving, like the 
 waters of her well, to add new graces to the charms they 
 
v 312 
 
 half conceal and half suggest, and to awaken interest 
 and pursuit rather than languor and indifference — as, un- 
 like this stern and obdurate class, he loved to see the 
 goddess crowned with those garlands of wild flowers 
 which tradition wreathes for her gentle wearing, and 
 which are often freshest in 'their homeliest shapes, — he 
 trod with a light step and bore with a light hand upon 
 the dust of centuries, unwilling to demolish any of the 
 airy shrines that had been raised above it, if one good 
 feeling or affection of the human heart were hiding there- 
 abouts. Thus, in the case of an ancient coffin of rough 
 stone, supposed for many generations to contain the 
 bones of a certain baron, who, after ravaging, with cut, 
 and thrust, and plunder, in foreign lands, came back with 
 a penitent and sorrowing heart to die at home, but which 
 had been lately shown by learned antiquaries to be no 
 such thing, as the baron in question (so they contended) 
 had died hard in battle, gnashing his teeth and cursing 
 with his latest breath, — the Bachelor stoutly maintained 
 that the old tale was the true one ; that the baron, repent- 
 ing him of the evil, had done great charities and meekly 
 given up the ghost ; and that, if ever baron went to 
 heaven, that baron was then at peace. In like manner, 
 when the aforesaid antiquaries did argue and contend 
 that a certain secret vault was not the tomb of a gray- 
 haired lady who had been hanged and drawn and quar- 
 tered by glorious Queen Bess for succoring a wretched 
 priest who fainted of thirst and hunger at her door, the 
 Bachelor did solemnly maintain against all comers that 
 the church was hallowed by the said poor lady's ashes ; 
 that her remains had been collected in the night from 
 four of the city's gates, and thither in secret brought, 
 and there deposited ; and the Bachelor did further 
 (being highly excited at such times) deny the glory of 
 Queen Bess, and assert the immeasurably greater glory 
 
3^3 
 
 of the meanest woman in her realm who had a merciful 
 and tender heart. As to the assertion that the flat stone 
 near the door was not the grave of the miser who had 
 disowned his only child and left a sum of money to the 
 church to buy a peal of bells, the Bachelor did readily 
 admit the same, and that the place had given birth to 
 no such man. In a word, he would have had every stone, 
 and plate of brass, the monument only of deeds whose 
 memory should survive. All others he was willing to 
 forget. They might be buried in consecrated ground, 
 but he would have had them buried deep, and never 
 brought to light again. 
 
 It was from the lips of such a tutor, that the child 
 learned her easy task. Already impressed, beyond all 
 telling, by the silent building and the peaceful beauty 
 of the spot in which it stood — majestic age surrounded 
 by perpetual youth — it seemed to her, when she heard 
 these things, sacred to all goodness and virtue. It was 
 another world, where sin and sorrow never came ; a 
 tranquil place of rest, where nothing evil entered. 
 
 When the Bachelor had given her in connection with 
 almost every tomb and flat gravestone some history of 
 its own, he took her down into the old crypt, now a 
 mere dull vault, and showed her how it had been lighted 
 up in the time of the monks, and how, amid lamps de- 
 pending from the roof, and swinging censers exhaling 
 scented odors, and habits glittering with gold and silver, 
 and pictures, and precious stuffs, and jewels all flashing 
 and glistening through the low arches, the chant of 
 aged voices had been many a time heard there at mid- 
 night in old days, while hooded figures knelt and prayed 
 around, and told their rosaries of beads. Thence, he 
 took her above ground again, and showed her, high up 
 in the old walls, small galleries, where the nuns had been 
 wont to glide along — dimly seen in their dark dresses so 
 
3H 
 
 far off — or to pause like gloomy shadows, listening to 
 the prayers. He showed her too, how the warriors, 
 whose figures rested on the tombs, had worn those rotting 
 scraps of armor up above — how this had been a helmet, 
 and that a shield, and that a gauntlet — and how they had 
 wielded the great two-handed swords, and beaten men 
 down with yonder iron mace. All that he told the child 
 she treasured in her mind ; and sometimes, when she 
 woke at night from dreams of those old times, and rising 
 from her bed looked out at the dark church, she almost 
 hoped to see the windows lighted up, and hear the organ's 
 swell, and sound of voices, on the rushing wind. 
 
 From the old sexton the child learned many other things, 
 though of a different kind. He was not able to work, 
 but one day there was a grave to be made, and he came to 
 overlook the man who dug it. He was in a talkative 
 mood ; and the child, at first standing by his side, and 
 afterwards sitting on the grass at his feet, with her 
 thoughtful face raised towards his, began to converse 
 with him. 
 
 " You were telling me," she said, " about your garden- 
 ing. Do you ever plant things here ? '' 
 
 " In the churchyard ? " returned the sexton, " Not I." 
 
 " I have seen some flowers and little shrubs about," 
 the child rejoined ; " there are some over there, you see. 
 I thought they were of your rearing, though indeed they 
 grow but poorly." 
 
 " They grow as Heaven wills," said the old man ; " and 
 it kindly ordains that they shall never flourish here." 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " Why, this it is," said the sexton. " They mark the 
 graves of those who had very tender, loving friends." 
 
 " I was sure they did ! " the child exclaimed. " I am 
 very glad to know they do !" 
 
 " Ay," returned the old man, " but stay. Look at 
 
315 
 
 them. See how they hang their heads, and droop, and 
 wither. Do you guess the reason ? " 
 
 " No," the child replied. 
 
 " Because the memory of those who lie below passes 
 away so soon. At first they tend them, morning, noon, 
 and night ; they soon begin to come less frequently; 
 from once a day to once a week ; from once a week to 
 once a month; then, at long and uncertain intervals; 
 then, not at all. Such tokens seldom flourish long. I 
 have known the briefest summer flowers outlive them." 
 
 " I grieve to hear it," said the child. 
 
 "Ah! so say the gentlefolks who come down here to 
 look about them," returned the old man, shaking his 
 head, " but I say otherwise. ' It's a pretty custom you 
 have in this part of the country,' they say to me some- 
 times, ' to plant the graves, but it's melancholy to see 
 these things all withering or dead.' I crave their pardon 
 and tell them that, as I take it, 'tis a good sign for the 
 happiness of the living. And so it is. It's nature." 
 
 "Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by 
 day, and to the stars by night, and to think that the dead 
 are there, and not in graves," said the child in an earnest 
 voice 
 
 " Perhaps so," replied the old man doubtfully. " It 
 may be." 
 
 " Whether it be as I believe it is, or no," thought the 
 child within herself, " I'll make this place my garden. It 
 will be no harm at least to work here day by day, and 
 pleasant thoughts will come of it, I am sure." 
 
 At length she turned away, and walking thoughtfully 
 through the churchyard, came unexpectedly upon the 
 schoolmaster, who was sitting on a green grave in the 
 sun, reading. 
 
 " Nell here ? " he said cheerfully, as he closed his book. 
 " It does me good to see you in the air and light. I 
 
3i6 
 
 feared you were again in the church, where you so often 
 are." 
 
 " Feared ! " replied the child, sitting down beside him. 
 " Is it not a good place ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster. " But you must be 
 gay sometimes — nay, don't shake your head and smile so 
 very sadly." 
 
 " Not sadly, if you knew my heart. Do not look at me 
 as if you thought me sorrowful. There is not a happier 
 creature on the earth than I am now." 
 
 Full of grateful tenderness, the child took his hand, and 
 folded it between her own. " It's God's will ! " she said, 
 when they had been silent for some time. 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " All this," she rejoined ; " all this about us. But which 
 of us is sad now ? You see that I am smiling." 
 
 " And so am I," said the schoolmaster ; " smiling to 
 think how often we shall laugh in this same place. Were 
 you not talking yonder ? " 
 
 " Yes," the child rejoined. 
 
 " Of something that has made you sorrowful I" 
 
 There was a long pause. 
 
 " What was it ? " said the schoolmaster, tenderly. 
 " Come. Tell me what it was." 
 
 " I rather grieve — I do rather grieve to think," said the 
 child, bursting into tears, " that those who die about us 
 are so soon forgotten." 
 
 " And do you think," said the schoolmaster, marking 
 the glance she had thrown around, " that an unvisited 
 grave, a withered tree, a faded flower or two, are tokens 
 of f orgetfulness or cold neglect ? Do you think there are 
 no deeds far away from here, in which these dead may 
 be best remembered ? Nell, Nell, there may be people 
 busy in the world at this instant, in whose good actions 
 and good thoughts these very graves — neglected as they 
 look to us — are the chief instruments." 
 
3i7 
 
 " Tell me no more," said the child quickly. " Tell me no 
 more. I feel, I know it. How could I be unmindful of it, 
 when I thought of you ? " 
 
 " There is nothing," cried her friend, " no, nothing inno- 
 cent or good, that dies, and is forgotten. Let us hold to that 
 faith, or none. An infant, a prattling child, dying in its 
 cradle, will live again in the better thoughts of those who 
 loved it, and play its part, through them, in the redeem- 
 ing actions of the world, though its body be burned to 
 ashes or drowned in the deepest sea. There is not an 
 angel added to the Host of Heaven but does its blessed 
 work on earth in those that loved it here. Forgotten ! 
 Oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could be tfaced 
 to their source, how beautifully would even death appear ; 
 for how much charity, mercy, and purified affection, would 
 be seen to have their growth in dusty graves ! " 
 
 " Yes," said the child, " it is the truth ; I know it is. 
 Who should feel its force so much as I, in whom your little 
 scholar lives again ! Dear, dear, good friend, if you knew 
 the comfort you have given me ! " 
 
 The poor schoolmaster made her no answer, but bent 
 over her in silence ; for his heart was full. 
 
 They were yet seated in the same place, when the 
 grandfather approached. Before they had spoken many 
 words together, the church clock struck the hour of school, 
 and their friend withdrew. 
 
 "A good man," said the grandfather, looking after him ; 
 " a kind man. Surely he will never harm us, Nell. We 
 are safe here, at last — eh ? We will never go away from 
 here?" 
 
 The child shook her head and smiled. 
 
 " She needs rest," said the old man, patting her cheek ; 
 " too pale — too pale. She is not like what she was." 
 
 " When ? " asked the child. 
 
 " Ha ! " said the old man, " to be sure-^when ? How 
 
3i8 
 
 many weeks ago ? Could I count them on my fingers ? 
 Let them rest though ; they're better gone." 
 
 "Much better, dear," replied the child. " We will forget 
 them ; or, if we ever call them to mind, it shall be only as 
 some uneasy dream that has passed away." 
 
 " Hush ! " said the old man, motioning hastily to hen 
 with his hand and looking over his shoulder ; " No more 
 talk of the dream, and all the miseries it brought. There 
 are no dreams here. Tis a quiet place, and they keep 
 away. Let us never think about them, lest they should 
 pursue us again. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks — wet, 
 cold, and famine — and horrors before them all, that were 
 even worse — we must forget such things if we would be 
 tranquil here." 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! " inwardly exclaimed the child, " for 
 this most happy change ! " 
 
 " I will be patient," said the old man, " humble, very 
 thankful and obedient, if you will let me stay. But do not 
 hide from me ; do not steal away alone ; let me keep be- 
 side you. Indeed, I will be very true and faithful, 
 Nell." 
 
 " I steal away alone ! Why that," replied the child, with 
 assumed gaiety, " would be a pleasant jest indeed. See 
 here, dear grandfather, we'll make this place our garden 
 —why not ? It is a very good one — and to-morrow we'll 
 begin and work together, side by side." 
 
 " It is a brave thought ! " cried her grandfather. 
 " Mind, darling — we begin to-morrow ! " 
 
 Who so delighted as the old man, when they next day 
 began their labor ! Who so unconscious of all associa- 
 tions connected with the spot, as he ! They plucked the 
 long grass and nettles from the tombs, thinned the poor 
 shrubs and roots, made the turf smooth, and cleared it of 
 the leaves and weeds. They were yet in the ardor of 
 their woik, when the child, raking her head from the 
 
319 
 
 ground over which she bent, observed that the Bachelor 
 was sitting on the stile close by, watching them in silence. 
 
 " A kind office," said the little gentleman, nodding to 
 Nell as she courtesied to him. " Have you done all that, 
 this morning ? " 
 
 " It is very little, Sir," returned the child, with down- 
 cast eyes, " to what we mean to do." 
 
 " Good work, good work,'' said the Bachelor. " But do 
 you only labor at the graves of children, and young 
 people ? " 
 
 " We shall come to the others in good time, Sir,'' 
 replied Nell, turning her head aside, and speaking softly. 
 
 It was a slight incident, and might have been design or 
 accident, or the child's unconscious sympathy with youth. 
 But it seemed to strike upon her grandfather, though he 
 had not noticed it before. He looked in a hurried man- 
 ner at the graves, then anxiously at the child, then 
 pressed her to his side, and bade her stop to rest. Some- 
 thing he had long forgotten appeared to struggle faintly 
 in his mind. It did not pass away, as weightier things 
 had done ; but came uppermost again, and yet again, and 
 many times that day, and often afterwards. Once, while 
 they were yet at work, the child, seeing that he often 
 turned and looked uneasily at her, as though he were try- 
 ing to resolve some painful doubts or collect some scat- 
 tered thoughts, urged him to'tell the reason. But he said 
 it was nothing — nothing — and, laying her head upon his 
 arm, patted her fair cheek with his hand, and muttered 
 that she grew stronger every day, and would be a woman, 
 soon. 
 
320 
 
 CHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND 
 
 From that time, there sprang up in the old man's mind 
 a solicitude about the child which never slept or left him. 
 He would follow her up and down, waiting till she should 
 tire and lean upon his arm — he would sit opposite to her 
 in the'chimney corner, content to watch, and look, until 
 she raised her head and smiled upon him as of old — he 
 would discharge, by stealth, those household duties which 
 tasked her powers too heavily — he would rise, in the cold 
 dark nights, to listen to her breathing in her sleep, and 
 sometimes crouch for hours by her bedside only to touch 
 her hand. He who knows all, can only know what hopes, 
 and fears, and thoughts of deep affection, were in that 
 one disordered brain, and what a change had fallen on 
 the poor old man. 
 
 Sometimes — weeks had crept on, then — the child, 
 exhausted, though with little fatigue, would pass whole 
 evenings on a couch beside the fire. At such times, the 
 schoolmaster would bring in books, and read to her aloud ; 
 and seldom an evening passed, but the Bachelor came in, 
 and took his turn of reading. The old man sat and listened, 
 — with little understanding for the words, but with his 
 eyes fixed upon the child, — and if she smiled or bright- 
 ened with the story, he would say it was a good one, and 
 conceive a fondness for the very book. When, in their 
 evening talk, the Bachelor told some tale that pleased her 
 (as his tales were sure to do), the old man would painfully 
 try to store it in his mind ; nay, when the Bachelor left 
 them, he would sometimes slip out after him, and humbly 
 beg that he would tell him such a part again, that he 
 might learn to win a smile from Nell. 
 
 But these were rare occasions, happily ; for the child 
 yearned to be out of doors, and walking in her solemn 
 
321 
 
 garden. Parties, too, would come to see the church ; and 
 those who came, speaking to others of the child, sent more ; 
 so that even at that season of the year they had visitors 
 almost daily. The old man would follow them at a little 
 distance through the building, listening to the voice he 
 loved so well ; and when the strangers left, and parted from 
 Nell, he would mingle with them to catch up fragments of 
 their conversation ; or he would stand for the same pur- 
 pose, with his gray head uncovered, at the gate, as they 
 passed through. They always praised the child, her 
 sense and beauty, and he was proud to hear them ! But 
 what was that, so often added, which wrung his heart, 
 and made him sob and weep alone, in some dull corner ! 
 Alas ! even careless strangers — they who had no feeling 
 for her, but the interest of the moment — they who would 
 go away and forget next week that such a being lived — . 
 even they saw it — even they pitied her — even they bade 
 him good day compassionately, and whispered as they 
 passed. 
 
 The people of the village, too, of whom there was not 
 one but grew to have a fondness for poor Nell ; even 
 among them, there was the same feeling ; a tenderness 
 towards her — a compassionate regard for her, increasing 
 every day. The very schoolboys, light-hearted and 
 thoughtless as they were, even they cared for her. The 
 roughest among them was sorry if he missed her in the 
 usual place upon his way to school, and would turn out 
 of the path to ask for her at the latticed window. If she 
 were sitting in the church, they perhaps might peep in 
 softly at the open door ; but they never spoke to her, un- 
 less she rose and went to speak to them. Some feeling 
 was abroad which raised the child above them all. 
 
 So, when Sunday came. They were all poor country 
 people in the church, for the castle in which the old 
 family had lived was an empty ruin, and there were none 
 
 Little Nell.— 21. 
 
322 
 
 but humble folks for seven miles around. There, as else- 
 where, they had an interest in Nell. They would gather 
 round her in the porch, before and after service ; young 
 children would cluster at her skirts ; and aged men and 
 women forsake their gossips, to give her kindly greeting. 
 None of them, young or old, thought of passing the child 
 without a friendly word. Many who came from three or 
 four miles distant, brought her little presents ; the hum- 
 blest and rudest had good wishes to bestow. 
 
 She had sought out some young children whom she had 
 seen playing in the churchyard, and hiding' from each 
 other with laughing faces. One of these was her little 
 favorite and friend, and often sat by her side in the 
 church, or climbed with her to the tower top. It was his 
 delight to help her, or to fancy that he did so, and they 
 soon became close companions. 
 
 It happened, that, as she was reading in the old spot by 
 herself one day, this child came running in with his eyes 
 full of tears, and after holding her from him and looking 
 at her eagerly for a moment, clasped his little arms pas- 
 sionately about her neck. 
 
 " What now ? " said Nell, soothing him. " What is the 
 matter ? " 
 
 " She is not one yet ! " cried the boy, embracing her 
 still more closely. " No, no. Not yet." 
 
 She looked at him wonderingly, and putting his hair 
 
 back from his face, and kissing him, asked what he meant, 
 
 "You must not be one, dear Nell," cried the boy. 
 
 " We can't see them. They never come to play with us, 
 
 or talk to us. Be what you are. You are better so." 
 
 " I do not understand you," said the child. " Tell me 
 what you mean," 
 
 " Why, they say," replied the boy, looking up into her 
 face, " that you will be an angel, before the birds sing 
 again. But you won't be, will you ? Don't leave us. 
 Nell, though the sky is bright. Do not leave us ! " 
 
323 
 
 The child drooped her head, and put her hands before 
 her face. 
 
 " She cannot bear the thought ! " cried the boy, exult- 
 ing through his tears. " You will not go. You know 
 how sorry we should be. Dear Nell, tell me that you'll 
 stay amongst us. Oh, pray, pray, tell me that you will ! " 
 
 The little creature folded his hands, and knelt down at 
 her feet. 
 
 " Only look at me, Nell," said the boy, " and tell me 
 that you'll stop, and then I shall know that they are 
 wrong, and will cry no more. Won't you say yes, Nell ? " 
 
 Still the drooping head and hidden face, and the child 
 quite silent — save for her sobs. 
 
 " After a time," pursued the boy, trying to draw away 
 her hand, " the kind angels will be glad to think that you 
 are not among them, and that you stayed here to be with 
 us. Willy went away, to join them ; but if he had known 
 how I should miss him in our little bed at night, he never 
 would have left me, I am sure." 
 
 Yet the child could make him no answer, and sobbed 
 as though her heart were bursting. 
 
 " Why would you go, dear Nell ? I know you would 
 not be happy when you heard that we were crying for 
 your loss. They say that Willy is in Heaven now, and 
 that it's always summer there, and yet I'm sure he grieves 
 when I lie down upon his garden bed, and he cannot turn 
 to kiss me. But if you do go, Nell," said the boy, caress- 
 ing her, and pressing his face to hers, " be fond of him, 
 for my sake. Tell him how I love him still, and how 
 much I loved you ; and when I think that you two are 
 together, and are happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give 
 you pain by doing wrong — indeed I never will ! " . 
 
 The child suffered him to move her hands, and put them 
 round his neck. There was a tearful silence, but it was 
 not long before she looked upon him with a smile, and 
 
324 
 
 promised him, in a very gentle, quiet voice, that she 
 would stay, and be his friend, as long as Heaven would 
 let her. He clapped -his hands for joy, and thanked her 
 many times; and being charged to tell no person what had 
 passed between them, gave her an earnest promise that he 
 never would. 
 
 Nor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her 
 quiet companion in all her walks and musings, and never 
 again adverted to the theme, which he felt had given her 
 pain, although he was unconscious of its cause. Some- 
 thing of distrust lingered about him still; for he would 
 often come, even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid 
 voice outside the door to know if she were safe within; 
 and being answered yes, and bidden to enter, would take 
 his station on a low stool at her feet, and sit there 
 patiently until they came to seek, and take him home. 
 Sure as the morning came, it found him lingering near the 
 house to ask if she were well; and, morning, noon, or 
 night, go where she would, he would forsake his playmates 
 and his sports to bear her company. 
 
 CHAPTER THE FORTY-THIRD. 
 
 We will again take up the narrative of Kit, whom we 
 left escorting his mother home from the coach office on 
 her return from the journey which the single gentleman 
 had taken her in his search for the old man and child. 
 
 One evening some time after that fruitless expedition, 
 Mr. Garland called Kit to him, and taking him into a room 
 where they could be alone, told him that he had something 
 yet to say, which would surprise him greatly. Kit looked 
 so anxious and turned so pale on hearing this, that the old 
 gentleman hastened to add, he would be agreeably sur- 
 
3 2 S 
 
 prised; and asked him if he would be ready next morning 
 for a journey. 
 
 " For a journey, Sir ! " cried Kit. 
 
 " In company with me and my friend in the next room. 
 Can you guess its purpose ? " 
 
 Kit turned paler yet, and shook his head. 
 
 "Oh yes. I think you do already," said his master. 
 "Try." 
 
 Kit murmured something rather rambling and unintel- 
 ligible, but he plainly pronounced the words " Miss Nell," 
 three or four times — shaking his' head while he did so, as 
 if he would add there was no hope of that. 
 
 But Mr. Garland, instead of saying " Try again," as 
 Kit had made sure he would, told him very seriously that 
 he had guessed right. 
 
 " The place of their retreat is indeed discovered," he 
 said, " at last. And that is our journey's end." 
 
 Kit faltered out such questions as, where was it, and 
 how had it been found, and how long since, and was she 
 well, and happy. 
 
 " Happy she is, beyond all doubt," said Mr. Garland. 
 "And well, I — I trust she will be soon. She has been 
 weak and ailing, as I learn, but she was better when I 
 heard this morning, and they were full of hope. Sit you 
 down, and you shall hear the rest." 
 
 Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did as he 
 was told. Mr. Garland then related to him, how he had 
 a brother (of whom he would remember to have heard 
 him speak, and whose picture, taken when he was a young 
 man, hung in the best room), and how this brother lived a 
 long way off in a country place, with an old clergyman who 
 had been his early friend. How, although they loved 
 each other as brothers should, they had not met for many 
 years, but had communicated by letter from time to time, 
 always looking forward to some period when they would 
 
326 
 
 take each other by the hand once more, and still letting 
 the present time steal on, as it was the habit of men to do, 
 and suffering the future to melt into the past. How 
 this brother whose temper was very mild and quiet and 
 retiring — such as Mr. Abel's — was greatly beloved by the 
 simple people among whom he dwelt, who quite revered 
 the Bachelor (for so they called him), and had every one 
 experienced his charity and benevolence. How even 
 those slight circumstances had come to his knowledge, 
 very slowly and in course of years, for the Bachelor was 
 one of those whose goodness shuns the light, and who 
 have more pleasure in discovering and extolling the good 
 deeds of others, than in trumpeting their own, be they 
 never so commendable. How, for that reason, he seldom 
 told them of his village friends ; but how, for all that, his 
 mind had become so full of two among them — a child 
 and an old man, to whom he had been very kind — that, in 
 a letter received a few days before, he had dwelt upon 
 them from first to last, and had told there such a tale of 
 their wanderings, and mutual love, that few could read it 
 without being moved to tears. How he, the recipient of 
 that letter, was directly led to the belief that these must 
 be the very wanderers for whom so much search had been 
 made, and whom Heaven had directed to his brother's 
 care. How he had written for such further information 
 as would put the fact beyond all doubt ; how it had that 
 morning arrived ; had confirmed his first impression into 
 a certainty ; and was the immediate cause of that journey 
 being planned, which. they were to take to-morrow. 
 
 " In the meantime," said the old gentleman rising, and 
 laying his hand on Kit's shoulder, " you have great need 
 of rest. Good night, and Heaven send our journey may 
 have a prosperous ending ! " 
 
w 
 
 CHAPTER THE FORTY-FOURTH. 
 
 Kit was no sluggard next morning, but, springing from 
 his bed some time before day, began to prepare for his 
 welcome expedition. The hurry of spirits consequent 
 upon the unexpected intelligence he had heard at night, 
 had troubled his sleep through the long dark hours, and 
 summoned such uneasy dreams about his pillow that it 
 was rest to rise. 
 
 But had it been the beginning of some great labor with 
 the same end in view — had it been the commencement of 
 a long journey, to be performed on foot in that inclement 
 season of the year ; to be pursued under every privation 
 and difficulty, and to be achieved only with great dis- 
 tress, fatigue, and suffering — had it been the dawn of 
 some painful enterprise, certain to task his utmost powers 
 of resolution and endurance, and to need his utmost 
 fortitude, but only likely to end, if happily achieved, in 
 good fortune and delight to Nell — Kit's cheerful zeal 
 would have been as highly roused, Kit's ardor and im- 
 patience would have been at least the same. 
 
 Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before he had 
 been up a quarter of an hour the whole house were astir 
 and busy. Everybody hurried to do something towards 
 facilitating the preparations. The single gentleman, it is 
 true, could do nothing himself, but he overlooked every- 
 body else and was more locomotive than anybody. The 
 work of packing and making ready went briskly on, and 
 by daybreak every preparation for the journey was com- 
 pleted. Then Kit began to wish they had not been quite 
 so nimble ; for the traveling carriage which had been 
 hired for the occasion was not to arrive until nine o'clock, 
 and there was nothing but breakfast to fill up the inter- 
 vening blank of one hour and a half. 
 
328 
 
 Yes there was, though. There was Barbara. Barbara 
 was busy, to be sure, but so much the better — Kit could 
 help her, and that would pass away the time better than 
 any means that could be devised. Barbara had no objec- 
 tion to this arrangement, and Kit began to think that 
 surely Barbara was fond of him, and surely he was fond 
 of Barbara. 
 
 Now, Barbara, if the truth must be told — as it must and 
 ought to be — Barbara seemed, of all the little household, 
 to take least pleasure in the bustle of the occasion ; and 
 when Kit, in the openness of his heart, told her how glad 
 and overjoyed it made him, Barbara became more down- 
 cast still, and seemed to have even less pleasure in it than 
 before ! 
 
 " You'll say she has the sweetest and beautifulest face 
 you ever saw, I know," said Kit, rubbing his hands. " I'm 
 sure you'll say that ! " 
 
 Barbara tossed her head again. 
 
 " What's the matter, Barbara ? " said Kit. 
 
 " Nothing," cried Barbara. And Barbara pouted — not 
 sulkily, or in an ugly manner, but just enough to make 
 her look more cherry-lipped than ever. 
 
 " Barbara," said Kit, " you're not cross with me ? " 
 
 Oh dear no ! Why should Barbara be cross ? And what 
 right had she to be cross ? And what did it matter 
 whether she was cross or no ? Who minded her ! 
 
 " Why, / do," said Kit. " Of course I do." 
 
 Barbara didn't see why it was of course, at all. 
 
 Kit was sure she must. Would she think again ? 
 
 Certainly, Barbara would think again. No, she didn't 
 see why it was of course. She didn't understand what 
 Christopher meant. And besides she was sure they 
 wanted her upstairs by this time, and she must go, in- 
 deed — 
 
 " No, but Barbara," said Kit, detaining her gently, " let 
 us part friends." 
 
329 
 
 Goodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was when she 
 colored — and when she trembled, like a little shrinking 
 bird ! 
 
 " I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my word, 
 but not half so strong as I could wish," said Kit, earn- 
 estly. "When I want you to be pleased to see Miss Nell, 
 it's only because I like you to be pleased with what pleases 
 me — that's all. As to her, Barbara, I think I could al- 
 most die to do her service, but you would think so too if 
 you knew her as I do. I am sure you would." 
 
 Barbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared in- 
 different. 
 
 " I have been used, you see," said Kit, " to talk and 
 think of her, almost as if she was an angel. When I look 
 forward to meeting her again, I think of her smiling as 
 she used to do, and being glad to see me, and putting out 
 her hand and saying, ' It's my own old Kit,' or some such 
 words as those — like what she used to say. I think of 
 seeing her happy, and with friends about her, and brought 
 up as she deserves, and as she ought to be. When I think 
 of myself, it's as her old servant, and one that loved her 
 dearly, as his kind, good, gentle mistress ; and who would 
 have gone — yes, and still would go — through any harm to 
 serve her. Once I couldn't help being afraid that if she 
 came back with friends about her she might forget, or be 
 ashamed of having known, a humble lad like me, and so 
 speak coldly, which would have cut me, Barbara, deeper 
 than I can tell. But when I came to think again, I felt 
 sure that I was doing her wrong in this ; and so I went 
 on as I did at first, hoping to see her once more, just as 
 she used to be. Hoping this, and remembering what she 
 was, has made me feel as if I would always try to please 
 her, and always be what I should like to seem to her if I 
 was still her servant. If I'm the better for that — and I 
 don't think I'm the worse — I am grateful to her for it, and 
 
330 
 
 love and honor her the more. That's the plain honest 
 truth, dear Barbara, upon my word it is ! " 
 
 Little Barbara was not of a wayward or capricious 
 nature, and, being full of remorse, melted into tears. To 
 what further conversation this might have led, we need 
 not stop to inquire ; for the wheels of the carriage were 
 heard at that moment, and, being followed by a smart ring 
 at the garden gate, caused the bustle in the house, which 
 had lain dormant for a short time, to burst again into ten- 
 fold life and vigor. 
 
 Simultaneously with the traveling equipage, arrived Mr. 
 Chuckster in a hackney cab, with certain papers and 
 supplies of money for the single gentleman, into whose 
 hands he delivered them. This duty discharged, he sub- 
 sided into the bosom of the family, and entertaining him- 
 self with a strolling or peripatetic breakfast, watched 
 with a genteel indifference the process of loading the 
 carriage. 
 
 Barbara was the subject of Mr. Chuckster's commenda- 
 tions ; and as she was lingering near the carriage (all be- 
 ing now ready for its departure), that gentleman was 
 suddenly seized with a strong interest in the proceedings, 
 which impelled him to swagger down the garden, and take 
 up his position at a convenient ogling distance. Having 
 had great experience of the sex, and being perfectly ac- 
 quainted with all those little artifices which find the readi- 
 est road to their hearts, Mr. Chuckster, on taking his 
 ground, planted one hand on his hip, and with the other 
 adjusted his flowing hair. This is a favorite attitude in 
 the polite circles, and accompanied with a graceful whis- 
 tling has been known to do immense execution. 
 
 Such, however, is the difference between town and 
 country, that nobody took the smallest notice of this in- 
 sinuating figure ; the wretches being wholly engaged in 
 bidding the travelers farewell, in kissing hands to each 
 
33i 
 
 other, waving handkerchiefs, and the like tame and vulgar 
 practices. For now the single gentleman and Mr. Gar- 
 land were in the carriage, and the post boy was in the sad- 
 dle, and Kit, well wrapped and muffled up, was in the 
 rumble behind ; and Mrs. Garland was there, and Mr. 
 Abel was there, and Kit's mother was there, and little 
 Jacob was there, and Barbara's mother was visible in 
 remote perspective, nursing the ever-wakeful baby ; and 
 all were nodding, beckoning, courtesying, or crying out 
 " Good bye ! " with all the energy they could express. In 
 another minute, the carriage was out of sight ; and Mr. 
 Chuckster remained alone upon the spot where it had 
 lately been, with a vision of Kit standing up in the rumble 
 waving his hand to Barbara, and of Barbara in the full 
 light and luster of his eyes — his eyes — Chuckster's — 
 Chuckster the successful — on whom ladies of quality had 
 looked with favor from phaetons in the parks on Sundays 
 —waving hers to Kit ! 
 
 How Mr. Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact, 
 stood for some time rooted to the earth, protesting within 
 himself that Kit was the very Emperor or Great Mogul of 
 Snobs, and how he clearly traced this revolting circum- 
 stance back to that old villainy of the shilling, are matters 
 foreign to our purpose ; which is to track the rolling 
 wheels, and bear the travelers company on their cold, 
 bleak journey. 
 
 It was a bitter day. A keen wind was blowing, and 
 rushed against them fiercely, bleaching the hard ground, 
 shaking the white frost from the trees and hedges, and 
 whirling it away like dust. But little cared Kit for 
 weather. There was a freedom and freshness in the wind, 
 as it came howling by, which, let it cut never so sharp, was 
 welcome. As it swept on with its cloud of frost, bearing 
 down the dry twigs and boughs and withered leaves, and 
 carrying them away pell-mell, it seemed as though some 
 
332 
 
 general sympathy had got abroad, and everything was in 
 a hurry like themselves. The harder the gusts, the better 
 progress they appeared to make. It was a good thing to 
 go struggling and fighting forward, vanquishing them one 
 by one ; to watch them driving up, gathering strength and 
 fury as they came along ; to bend for a moment as they 
 whistled past ; and then to look back and see them speed 
 away, their hoarse noise dying in the distance, and the 
 stout trees cowering down before them. 
 
 All day long it blew without cessation. The night was 
 clear and starlight, but the wind had not fallen, and the 
 cold was piercing. Sometimes — towards the end of a 
 long stage — Kit could not help wishing it were a little 
 warmer: but when they stopped to change horses, and he 
 had had a good run ; and what with that, and the bustle of 
 paying the old postilion, and rousing the new one, and 
 running to and fro again until the horses were put to, he 
 was so warm that the blood tingled and smarted in his 
 fingers' ends; then he felt as if to have it one degree less 
 cold would be to lose half the delight and glory of the 
 journey: and up he jumped again right cheerily, singing 
 to the merry music of the wheels as they rolled away, and, 
 leaving the townspeople in their warm beds, pursued their 
 course along the lonely road. 
 
 Meantime the two gentlemen inside, who were little 
 disposed to sleep, beguiled the time with conversation. 
 As both were anxious and expectant, it naturally turned 
 upon the subject of their expedition, on the manner in 
 which it had been brought about, and on the hopes and 
 fears they entertained respecting it. Of the former they 
 had many, of the latter few — none perhaps beyond that 
 indefinable uneasiness which is inseparable from suddenly 
 awakened hope, and protracted expectation. 
 
 In one of the pauses of their discourse, and when half 
 the night had worn away, the single gentleman, who had 
 
333 
 
 gradually become more and more silent and thoughtful, 
 turned to his companion and said abruptly: 
 
 " Are you a good listener ? " 
 
 " Like most other men, I suppose," returned Mr. Gar- 
 land, smiling. " I can be, if I am interested; and if not 
 interested I should still try to appear so. Why do you 
 ask?" 
 
 "I have a short narrative on my lips," rejoined his 
 friend, " and will try you with it. It is very brief." 
 
 Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentle- 
 man's sleeve, and proceeded thus: 
 
 " There were once two brothers, who loved each other 
 dearly. There was a disparity in their ages — some twelve 
 years. I am not sure but they may insensibly have loved 
 each other the better for that reason. Wide as the inter- 
 val between them was, however, they became rivals too 
 soon. The deepest and strongest affection of both their 
 hearts settled upon one object. 
 
 " The youngest — there were reasons for his being sensi- 
 tive and watchful — was the first to find this out. I will 
 not tell you what misery he underwent, what agony of 
 soul he knew, how great his mental struggle was. He had 
 been a sickly child. His brother, patient and considerate 
 in the midst of his own high health and strength, had 
 many and many a day denied himself the sports he loved, 
 to sit beside his couch, telling him old stories till his pale 
 face lighted up with an unwonted glow; to carry him in 
 his arms to some green spot, where he could tend the 
 poor, pensive boy as he looked upon the bright summer 
 day, and saw all nature healthy but himself; to be in any 
 way his fond and faithful nurse. I may not dwell on all 
 he did, to make the poor, weak creature love him, or my 
 tale would have no end. But when the time of trial came, 
 the younger brother's heart was full of those old days. 
 Heaven strengthened it to repay the sacrifices of incon- 
 
334 
 
 siderate youth by one of thoughtful manhood. He left 
 his brother to be happy. The truth never passed his lips, 
 and he quitted the country, hoping to die abroad. 
 
 " The elder brother married her. She was in Heaven 
 before long, and left him with an infant daughter. 
 
 " If you have seen the picture gallery of any one old 
 family, you will remember how the same face and figure — 
 often the fairest and slightest of them all — come upon you 
 in different generations; and how you trace the same 
 sweet girl through a long line of portraits — never growing 
 old or changing — the good angel of the race — abiding by 
 them in all reverses — redeeming all their sins — 
 
 " In this daughter the mother lived again. You may 
 judge with what devotion he who lost that mother almost 
 in the winning, clung to this girl, her breathing image. 
 She grew to womanhood, and gave her heart to one who 
 could not know its worth. Well ! Her fond father could 
 not see her pine and droop. He might be more deserving 
 than he thought him. He surely might become so with a 
 wife like her. He joined their hands, and they were 
 married. 
 
 "Through all the misery that followed this union; 
 through all the cold neglect and undeserved reproach; 
 through all the poverty he brought upon her; through all 
 the struggles of their daily life, too mean and pitiful to tell, 
 but dreadful to endure; she toiled on, in the deep devotion 
 of her spirit, and in her better nature, as only women can. 
 Her means and substance wasted; her father nearly beg- 
 gared by her husband's hand, and the hourly witness (for 
 they lived now under one roof) of her ill-usage and un- 
 happiness, — she never, but for him, bewailed her fate. 
 Patient, and upheld by strong affection to the last, she 
 died a widow of some three weeks' date, leaving to her 
 father's care two orphans; one a son of ten or twelve 
 years old ; the other a girl — such another -infant child — 
 
335 
 
 the same in helplessness, in age, in form, in feature — as 
 she had been herself when her young mother died. 
 
 " The older brother, grandfather to these two children, 
 was now a broken man ; crushed and borne down, less by 
 the weight of years than by the heavy hand of sorrow. 
 With the wreck of his possessions, he began to trade — in 
 pictures first, and then in curious, ancient things. He had 
 entertained a fondness for such matters from a boy, and 
 the tastes he had cultivated were now to yield him an 
 anxious and precarious subsistence. 
 
 " The boy grew like his father in mind and person ; 
 the girl so like her mother, that when the old man had 
 her on his knee, and looked into her mild blue eyes, he 
 felt as if awakening from a wretched dream, and his 
 daughter were a little child again. The wayward boy 
 soon spurned the shelter of his roof, and sought associates 
 more congenial to his taste. The old man and the child 
 dwelt alone together. 
 
 " It was then, when the love of two dead people who 
 had been nearest and dearest to his heart, was all trans- 
 ferred to this slight creature ; when her face, constantly 
 before him, reminded him from hour to hour of the too 
 early change he had seen in such another — of all the suf- 
 fering he had watched and known, and all his child had 
 undergone ; when the young man's profligate and hard- 
 ened course drained him of money as his father's had, and 
 even sometimes occasioned them temporary privation and 
 distress ; it was then that there began to beset him, 
 and to be ever in his mind, a gloomy dread of poverty 
 and want. He had no thought for himself in this. His 
 fear was for the child. It was a specter in his house, and 
 haunted him night and day. 
 
 "The younger brother had been a traveler in many 
 countries, and had made his pilgrimage through life alone. 
 His voluntary banishment had been miscontrued, and he 
 
336 
 
 had borne (not without pain) reproach and slight for do- 
 ing that which had wrung his heart, and cast a mournful 
 shadow on his path. Apart from this, communication be- 
 tween him and the elder was difficult, and uncertain, and 
 often failed ; still it was not so wholly broken off but 
 that he learned — with long blanks and gaps between each 
 interval of information — all that I have told you now. 
 
 "Then, dreams of their young, happy life — happy to 
 him though laden with pain and early care — visited his 
 pillow yet oftener than before ; and every night, a boy 
 again, he was at his brother's side. With the utmost 
 speed he could exert, he settled his affairs ; converted 
 into money all the goods he had ; and, with honorable 
 wealth enough for both, with open heart and hand, with 
 limbs that trembled as they bore him on, with emotion 
 such as men can hardly bear and live, arrived one evening 
 at his brother's door ! " 
 
 The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped. 
 "The rest," said Mr. Garland, pressing his hand, "I 
 know.'' 
 
 " Yes," rejoined his friend, after a pause, " we may 
 spare ourselves the sequel. You know the poor result of 
 all my search. Even when, by dint of such inquiries as 
 the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on foot, we 
 found they had been seen with two poor, traveling show- 
 men ; and in time, the actual place of their retreat ; even 
 then, we were too late. Pray God we are not too late 
 again ! " 
 
 "We cannot be," said Mr. Garland. "This time we 
 must succeed." 
 
 " I have believed and hoped so," returned the other. 
 " I try to believe and hope so still. But a heavy weight 
 has fallen on my spirits, my good friend, and the sadness 
 that gathers over me will yield to neither hope nor rea- 
 son." 
 
337 
 
 "That does not surprise me," said Mr. Garland ; "it Is 
 a natural consequence of the events you have recalled ; 
 of this dreary time and place ; and above all, of this wild 
 and dismal night. A dismal night, indeed ! Hark ! how 
 the wind is howling I " 
 
 CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIFTH. 
 
 Day broke, and found them still upon their way. Since 
 leaving home, they had halted here and there for neces- 
 sary refreshment, and had frequently been delayed, 
 especially in the night time, by waiting for fresh horses. 
 They had made no other stoppages, but the weather con- 
 tinued rough, and the roads were often steep and heavy. 
 It would be night again before they reached their place 
 of destination. 
 
 Kit, all bluff and hardened with the cold, went on man- 
 fully ; and having enough to do to keep his blood circulat- 
 ing, to picture to himself the happy end of this adven- 
 turous journey, and to look about him and be amazed at 
 everything, .had little spare time for thinking of discom- 
 forts. Though his impatience, and that of his fellow- 
 travelers, rapidly increased as the day waned, the hours 
 did not stand still. The short daylight of winter soon 
 faded away, and it was dark again when they had yet 
 many miles to travel. 
 
 As it grew dusk, the wind fell ; its distant moanings 
 were more low and mournful ; and as it came creeping up 
 the road, and rattling covertly among the dry brambles on 
 either hand, it seemed like some great phantom for whom 
 the way was narrow, whose garments rustled as it stalked 
 along. By degrees it lulled and died away ; and then it 
 came on to snow. 
 
 Little Mil.— 22. 
 
338 
 
 The flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering the ground 
 some inches deep, and spreading abroad a solemn still- 
 ness. The rolling wheels were noiseless ; and the sharp 
 ring and clatter of the horses' hoofs became a dull, muf- 
 fled tramp. The life of their progress seemed to be 
 slowly hushed, and something deathlike to usurp its 
 place. 
 
 Shading his eyes from the falling snow, which froze 
 upon their lashes and obscured his sight, Kit often tried 
 to catch the earliest glimpse of twinkling lights denoting, 
 their approach to some not distant town. He could des- 
 cry objects enough at such times, but none correctly. 
 Now a tall church spire appeared in view, which presently 
 became a tree, a barn, a shadow on the ground, thrown 
 on it by their own bright lamps. Now there were horse- 
 men, foot-passengers, carriages, going on before, or meet- 
 ing them in narrow ways ; which, when they were close 
 upon them, turned to shadows too. A wall, a ruin, a 
 sturdy gable end, would rise up in the road ; and when 
 they were plunging headlong at it, would be the road 
 itself. Strange turnings, too, bridges, and sheets of 
 water, appeared to start up here and there, making the 
 way doubtful and uncertain-; and yet they were on the 
 same bare road, and these things, like the others, as they 
 were passed, turned into dim illusions. 
 
 He descended slowly from his seat — for his limbs were 
 numbed — when they arrived at a lone posting house, and 
 inquired how far they had to go to reach their journey's 
 end. It was a late hour in such by-places, and the people 
 were abed ; but a voice answered from an upper window, 
 Ten miles. The ten minutes that ensued appeared an 
 hour ; but at the end of that time, a shivering figure led 
 out the horses they required, and after another brief de- 
 lay they were again in motion. 
 
 It was a cross-country road, full, after the first three or 
 
339 
 
 four miles, of holes and cart ruts, which, being covered 
 by the snow, were so many pitfalls to the trembling 
 horses, and obliged them to keep a footpace. As it was 
 next to impossible for men so much agitated as they were 
 by this time, to sit still and move so slowly, all three got 
 out and plodded on behind the carriage. The distance 
 seemed interminable, and the walk was most laborious. 
 As each was thinking within himself that the driver must 
 have lost his way, a church bell, close at hand, struck the 
 hour of midnight, and the carriage stopped. It had 
 moved softly enough, but when it ceased to crunch the 
 snow, the silence was as' startling as if some great noise 
 had been replaced by perfect stillness. 
 
 "This is the place, gentlemen," said the driver, dis- 
 mounting from his horse, and knocking at the door of a 
 little inn. " Halloa ! Past twelve o'clock is the dead of 
 night here." 
 
 The knocking was loud and long, but it failed to rouse 
 the drowsy inmates. All continued dark and silent as 
 before. They fell back a little, and looked up at the 
 windows, which were mere black patches in the whitened 
 house front. No light appeared. The house might have 
 been deserted, or the sleepers dead, for any air of life it 
 had about it. 
 
 They spoke together, with a strange inconsistency, in 
 whispers ; unwilling to disturb again the dreary echoes 
 they had just now raised. 
 
 " Let us go on," said the younger brother, " and leave 
 this good fellow to wake them, if he can. I cannot rest 
 until I know that we are not too late. Let us go on, in 
 the name of Heaven ! " 
 
 They did so, leaving the postilion to order such accom- 
 modation as the house afforded, and to renew his knock, 
 ing. Kit accompanied them with a little bundle, which 
 he had hung in the carriage when they left home, and had 
 
34Q 
 
 not forgotten since — the bird in his old cage — just as she 
 had left him. She would be glad to see her bird, he knew' 
 
 The road wound gently downward. As they proceeded, 
 they lost sight of the church whose clock they had heard, 
 and of the small village clustering round it. The knock- 
 ing, which was now renewed, and which in that stillness 
 they could plainly hear, troubled them. They wished the 
 man would forbear, or that they had told him not to break 
 the silence until they returned. 
 
 The old church tower, clad in a ghostly garb of pure, 
 cold white, again rose up before them, and a few moments 
 brought them close beside it. A venerable building — 
 gray, even in the midst of the hoary landscape. An 
 ancient sundial on the belfry wall was nearly hidden by 
 the snowdrift, and scarcely to be known for what it was. 
 Time itself seemed to have grown dull and old, as if no 
 day were ever to displace the melancholy night. 
 
 A wicket gate was close at hand, but there was more 
 than one path across the churchyard to which it led, and, 
 uncertain which to take, they came to a stand again. 
 
 The village street — if street that could be called which 
 was an irregular cluster of poor cottages of many heights 
 and ages, some with their fronts, some with their backs, 
 and some with gable ends towards the road, with here 
 and there a signpost, or a shed encroaching on the path — 
 was close at hand. There was a faint light in a chamber 
 window not far off, and Kit ran towards that house to 
 ask their way. 
 
 His first shout was answered by an old man within, 
 who presently appeared at the casement, wrapping some 
 garment round his throat as a protection from the cold, 
 and demanded who was abroad at that unseasonable hour, 
 wanting him. 
 
 " 'Tis hard weather this," he grumbled, " and not a 
 night to call me up in. My trade is not of that kind that 
 
341 
 
 I need be roused from bed. The business on which folks 
 want me, will keep cold, especially at this season. What 
 do you want ?" 
 
 " I would not have roused you, if I had known you were 
 old and ill," said Kit. 
 
 " Old ! " repeated the other peevishly. " How do you 
 know I- am old ? Not so old as you think, friend, perhaps. 
 As to being ill, you will find many young people in worse 
 case than I am. More's the pity that it should be so — not 
 that I should be strong and hearty for my years, I mean, 
 but that they should be weak and tender. I ask your 
 pardon though," said the old man, " if I spoke rather 
 rough at first. My eyes are not good at night — that's 
 neither age nor illness ; they never were — and I didn't 
 see you were a stranger." 
 
 " I am sorry to call you from your bed," said Kit, " but 
 those gentlemen you may see by the churchyard gate are 
 strangers too, who have just arrived from a long journey, 
 and seek the parsonage house. You can direct us ?" 
 
 " I should be able to," answered the old man, in a 
 trembling voice, " for next summer I have been sexton 
 here good fifty years. The right-hand path, friend, is the 
 road. — There is no ill news for our good gentleman, I 
 hope ? " 
 
 Kit thanked him, and made him a hasty answer in the 
 negative ; he was turning back, when his attention was 
 caught by the voice of a child. Looking up, he saw a 
 very little creature at a neighboring window. 
 
 "What is that? " cried the child, earnestly. " Has my 
 dream come true ? Pray speak to me, whoever that is, 
 awake and up." 
 
 " Poor boy! " said the sexton, before Kit could answer, 
 " how goes it, darling ? " 
 
 "Has my dream come true?" exclaimed the child 
 again, in a voice so fervent that it might have thrilled to 
 
342 
 
 the heart of any listener. " But no, that can never be. 
 How could it be — Oh ! how could it ! " 
 
 " I guess his meaning," said the sexton. " To thy bed 
 again, dear boy! " 
 
 " Ay ! " cried the child, in a burst of despair. " I 
 knew it could never be, I felt too sure of that, before I 
 asked. But, all to-night and last night too, it was the 
 same. I never fall asleep, but that cruel dream comes 
 back." 
 
 "Try to sleep again," said the old man, soothingly. 
 " It will go, in time." 
 
 " No, no, I would rather that it stayed — cruel as it is, I 
 would rather that it stayed," rejoined the child. " I am not 
 afraid to have it in my sleep, but I am so sad — so very, 
 very sad." 
 
 The old man blessed him, the child in tears replied 
 good night, and Kit was again alone. 
 
 He hurried back, moved by what he had heard, though 
 more by the child's manner than by anything he had said, 
 as his meaning was hidden from him. They took the path 
 indicated by the sexton, and soon arrived before the 
 parsonage wall. Turning round to look about them when 
 they had got thus far, they saw, among some ruined 
 buildings at a distance, one single solitary light. 
 
 It shone from what appeared to be an old oriel window, 
 and being surrounded by the deep shadows of overhang- 
 ing walls, sparkled like a star. Bright and glimmering as 
 the stars above their heads, lonely and motionless as 
 they, it seemed to claim some kindred with the eternal 
 lamps of Heaven, and to burn in fellowship with them. 
 
 "What light is that?" exclaimed the younger brother. 
 
 "It is surely," said Mr. Garland, "in the ruin where 
 they live. I see no other ruin hereabouts." 
 
 " They cannot," returned the brother hastily, " be wak- 
 ing at this late hour — " 
 
343 
 
 Kit interposed directly, and begged that, while they 
 rang and waited at the gate, they would let him make his 
 way to where this light was, shining and try to ascertain 
 if any people were about. Obtaining the permission he 
 desired, he darted off with breathless eagerness, and, still 
 carrying the bird cage in his hand, made straight towards 
 the spot. 
 
 It was not easy to hold that pace among the graves, 
 and at another time he might have gone more slowly, or 
 round by the path. Unmindful of all obstacles, however, 
 he pressed forward without slackening his speed, and soon 
 arrived within a few yards of the window. 
 
 He approached as softly as he could, and advancing so 
 near the wall as to brush the whitened ivy with his dress, 
 listened. There was no sound inside. The church itself 
 was not more quiet. Touching the glass with his cheek, 
 he listened again. No. And yet there was such a silence 
 all around, that he felt sure he could have heard even the 
 breathing of a sleeper, if there had been one there. 
 
 A strange circumstance, a light in such a place at that 
 time of night, with no one near it. 
 
 A curtain was drawn across the lower portion of the 
 window, and he could not see into the room. But there 
 was no shadow thrown upon it from within. To have 
 gained a footing on the wall and tried to look in from 
 above, would have been attended with some danger — cer- 
 tainly with some noise, and the chance of terrifying the 
 child, if that really were her habitation. Again and again 
 he listened ; again and again the same wearisome blank. 
 
 Leaving the spot with slow and cautious steps, and 
 skirting the ruin for a few paces, he came at length to a 
 door. He knocked. No answer. But there was a curi- 
 ous noise inside. It was difficult to determine what it was. 
 It bore a resemblance to the low moaning of one in pain, 
 but it was not that, being far too regular and constant. 
 
344 
 
 Now it seemed a kind of song, now a wail — seemed, that 
 is, to his changing fancy, for the sound itself was never 
 changed or checked. It was unlike anything he had ever 
 heard; and in its tone there was something fearful, chill- 
 ing, and unearthly. 
 
 The listener's blood ran colder now than ever it had 
 done in frost and snow, but he knocked again. There 
 was no answer, and the sound went on without any inter- 
 ruption. He laid his hand softly upon the latch, and put 
 his knee against the door. It was not secured on the in- 
 side, but yielded to the pressure, and turned upon its 
 hinges. He saw the glimmering of a fire upon the old 
 walls, and entered. 
 
 CHAPTER THE FORTY-SIXTH. 
 
 The dull, red glow of a wood fire — for no lamp or can- 
 dle burned within the room — showed him a figure/ seated 
 on the hearth with his back towards him, bending over 
 the fitful light. The attitude was that of one who sought 
 the heat. It was, and yet was not. The stooping posture 
 and the cowering form were there, but no hands were 
 stretched out to meet the grateful warmth, no shrug or 
 shiver compared its luxury with the piercing cold outside. 
 With limbs huddled together, head bowed down, arms 
 crossed upon the breast, and fingers tightly clenched, it 
 rocked to and fro upon its seat without a moment's pause, 
 accompanying the action with the mournful sound he had 
 heard. 
 
 The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, 
 with a crash that made him start. The figure neither 
 spoke nor turned to look, nor gave in any other way the 
 faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form was 
 that of an old man, his white head akin in color to the 
 
345 
 
 moldering embers upon which he gazed. He, and the 
 failing light and dying fire, the time-worn room, the soli- 
 tude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all in fellowship. 
 Ashes, and dust, and ruin ! 
 
 Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, 
 though what they were he scarcely knew. Still the same 
 terrible, low cry went on— still the same rocking in the 
 chair — the same stricken figure was there, unchanged and 
 heedless of his presence. 
 
 He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the 
 form — distinctly seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it 
 fell, blazed up — arrested it. He returned to where he had 
 stood before — advanced a pace — another — another still. 
 Another, and he saw the face. Yes ! Changed as it was, 
 he knew it well. 
 
 " Master ! " he cried, stooping on one knee and catch- 
 ing at his hand. " Dear master. Speak to me ! " 
 
 The old man turned slowly towards him, and muttered 
 in a hollow voice : 
 
 '' This is another ! — How many of these spirits there 
 have been to-night ! " 
 
 " No spirit, master. No one but your old servant. 
 You know me now, I am sure ? Miss Nell — where is she 
 — where is she ? " 
 
 " They all say that ! " cried the old man. " They all 
 ask the same question. A spirit ! " 
 
 "Where is she?" demanded Kit. "Oh tell me but 
 that — but that, dear master ! " 
 
 " She is asleep — yonder — in there." 
 
 " Thank God ! " 
 
 " Ay ! Thank God ! " returned the old man. " I have 
 prayed to Him many, and many, and many a livelong 
 night, when she has been asleep, He knows. Hark ! 
 Did she call?" 
 
 " I heard no voice," 
 
346 
 
 " You did. You hear her now. Do you tell me that 
 you don't hear that I " 
 
 He started up, and listened again. 
 
 " Nor that ? " he cried, with a triumphant smile. " Can 
 anybody know that voice so well as I ! Hush ! hush ! " 
 
 Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into an- 
 other chamber. After a short absence (during which he 
 could be heard to speak in a softened, soothing tone) he 
 returned, bearing in his hand a lamp. 
 
 " She is still asleep,'! he whispered. " You were right, 
 She did not call — unless she did so in her slumber. She 
 has called to me in her sleep before now, Sir. As I sat by, 
 watching, I have seen her lips move, and have known, 
 though no sound came from them, that she spoke of me. 
 I feared the light might dazzle her eyes and wake her, so 
 I brought it here." 
 
 He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but when 
 he had put the lamp upon the table, he- took it up, as if 
 impelled by some momentary recollection or curiosity, and 
 held it near his face. Then, as if forgetting his motive in 
 the very action, he turned away and put it down again. 
 
 " She is sleeping soundly," he said ; " but no wonder. 
 Angel hands have strewn the ground deep with snow, that 
 the lightest footstep may be lighter yet ; and the very 
 birds are dead, that they may not wake her. She used 
 to feed them, Sir. Though never so cold and hungry, 
 the timid things would fly from us. They never flew 
 from her ! " 
 
 Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath, 
 listened for a long, long time. That fancy past, he opened 
 an old chest, took out some clothes as fondly as if they 
 had been living things, and began to smooth and brush 
 them with his hand. 
 
 " Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell," he mur- 
 mured, " when there are bright red berries out of doors 
 
347 
 
 waiting for thee to pluck them ! Why dost thou lie so 
 idle there, when thy little friends come creeping to the 
 door, crying ' Where is Nell — sweet Nell ? ' — and sob, and 
 weep, because they do not see thee ? She was always 
 gentle with children. The wildest would do her bidding 
 — she had a tender way with them, indeed she had ! " 
 
 Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with 
 tears. 
 
 " Her little homely dress, — her favorite ! " cried the 
 old man, pressing it to his breast, and patting it with his 
 shriveled hand. " She will miss it when she wakes. They 
 have hid it here in sport, but she shall have it — she shall 
 have it. I would not vex my darling, for the wide world's 
 riches. See here — these shoes — how worn they are — she 
 kept them to remind her of our last long journey. You 
 see where the little feet were bare upon the ground. They 
 told me, afterwards, that the stones had cut and bruised 
 them. She never told me that. No, no, God bless her ! 
 And, I have remembered since, she walked behind me, Sir, 
 that I might not see how lame she was — but yet she had 
 my hand in hers, and seemed to lead me still." 
 
 He pressed them to his lips, and having carefully put 
 them back again, went on communing with himself — 
 looking wistfully from time to time towards the chamber 
 he had lately visited. 
 
 " She was not wont to be a lie-abed ; but she was well 
 then. We must have patience. When she is well again, 
 she will rise early, as she used to do, and ramble abroad 
 in the healthy morning time. I often tried to track the 
 way she had gone, but her small fairy footstep left no 
 print upon the dewy ground, to guide me. Who is that? 
 Shut the door ! Quick ! — Have we not enough to do to 
 drive away the marble cold, and keep her warm ! " 
 
 The door was indeed opened, for the entrance of Mr. Gar- 
 land and his friend, accompanied by two other persons. 
 
348 
 
 These were the schoolmaster, and the Bachelor. The 
 former held a light in his hand. He had, it seemed, but 
 gone to his own cottage to replenish the exhausted lamp, 
 at the moment when Kit came up and found the old man 
 alone. 
 
 He softened again at sight of these two friends, and, 
 laying aside the angry manner — if to anything so feeble 
 and so sad the term can be applied — in which he had 
 spoken when the door opened, resumed his former seat, 
 and subsided, by little and little, into the old action, and 
 the old, dull, wandering sound. 
 
 Of the strangers he took no heed whatever. He had 
 seen them, but appeared quite incapable of interest or 
 curiosity. The younger brother stood apart. The Bach- 
 elor drew a chair towards the old man, and sat down close 
 beside him. After a long silence, he ventured to speak. 
 
 " Another night, and not in bed ! " he said softly ; " I 
 hoped you would be more mindful of your promise to me. 
 Why do you not take some rest ? " 
 
 " Sleep has left me," returned the old man. " It is all 
 with her ! " 
 
 " It would pain her very much to know that you were 
 watching thus," said the Bachelor. " You would not give 
 her pain ? " 
 
 " I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her. 
 She has slept so very long. And yet I am rash to say so. 
 It is a good and happy sleep — eh ? " 
 
 " Indeed it is," returned the Bachelor. " Indeed, in- 
 deed, it is ! " 
 
 " That's well !— And the waking,"— faltered the old 
 man. 
 
 " Happy too. Happier than tongue can tell, or heart 
 of man conceive." 
 
 They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the 
 other chamber where the lamp had been replaced. They 
 
349 
 
 listened as he spoke again within its silent walls. They 
 looked into the faces of each other, and no man's cheek 
 was free from tears. He came back, whispering that she 
 was still asleep, but that he thought she had moved. It 
 was her hand, he said — a little — a very, very little — but he 
 was pretty sure she had moved it — perhaps in seeking 
 his. He had known her to do that before now, though in 
 the deepest sleep the while. And when he had said this, 
 he dropped into his chair again, and clasping his hands 
 above his head, uttered a cry never to be forgotten. 
 
 The poor schoolmaster motioned to the Bachelor that 
 he would come upon the other side, and speak to him. 
 They gently unlocked his fingers, which he had twisted in 
 his gray hair, and pressed them in their own. 
 
 " He will hear me," said the schoolmaster, " I am sure. 
 He will hear either me or you if we beseech him. She 
 would, at all times." 
 
 " I will hear any voice she liked to hear," cried the old 
 man. " I love all she loved ! " 
 
 " I know you do," returned the schoolmaster. " I am 
 certain of it. Think of her ; think of all the sorrows and 
 afflictions you have shared together ; of all the trials, and 
 all the peaceful pleasures, you have jointly known." 
 
 " I do. I do. I think of nothing else." 
 
 " I would have you think of nothing else to-night — of 
 nothing but those things which will soften your heart, dear 
 friend, and open it to old affections and old times. It is 
 so that she would speak to you herself, and in her name 
 it is that I speak now." 
 
 "You do well to speak softly," said the old man. "We 
 will not wake her. I should be glad to see her eyes again, 
 and to see her smile. There is a smile upon her young 
 face now, but it is fixed and changeless. I would have it 
 come and go. That shall be in Heaven's good time. We 
 will not wake her." 
 
35° 
 
 " Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to 
 be when you were journeying together, far away — as she 
 was at home, in the old house from which you fled to- 
 gether—as she was in the old, cheerful time," said the 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 " She was always cheerful — very cheerful," cried the 
 old man, looking steadfastly at him. " There was ever 
 something mild and quiet about her, I remember, from the 
 first ; but she was of a happy nature." 
 
 " We have heard you say," pursued the schoolmaster, 
 " that in this, and in all goodness, she was like her mother. 
 You can think of, and remember her ? " 
 
 He maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer. 
 
 " Or even one before her," said the Bachelor. " It is 
 many years ago, and affliction makes the time longer, but 
 you have not forgotten her whose death contributed to 
 make this child so dear to you, even before you knew her 
 worth or could read her heart ? Say, that you could carry 
 back your thoughts to very distant days — to the time of 
 your early life — when, unlike this fair flower, you did not 
 pass your youth alone. Say, that you could remember, 
 long ago, another child who loved you dearly, you being 
 but a child yourself. Say, that you had a brother, long 
 forgotten, long unseen, long separated from you, who now, 
 at last in your utmost need came back to comfort and 
 console you " — 
 
 " To be to you what you were once to him," cried the 
 younger, falling on his knee before him ; " to repay your 
 old affection, brother dear, by constant care, solicitude, 
 and love ; to be at your right hand, what he never ceased 
 to be when oceans rolled between us ; to call to witness 
 his unchanging truth and mindfulness of bygone days, 
 whole years of desolation. Give me but one word of 
 recognition, brother — and never — no never, in the 
 brightest moment of our youngest days, when, poor, silly 
 
35i 
 
 boys, we thought to pass our lives together — have we been 
 half as dear and precious to each other as we shall be 
 from this time hence ! " 
 
 The old man looked from face to face, and his lips 
 moved ; but no sound came from them in reply. 
 
 " If we were knit together then," pursued the younger 
 brother, " what will be the bond between us now ! Out 
 love and fellowship began in childhood, when life was all 
 before us, and will be resumed when we have proved it, 
 and are but children at the last. As many restless spirits, 
 who have hunted fortune, fame, or pleasure through the 
 world, retire in their decline to where they first drew 
 breath, vainly seeking to be children once again before 
 they die, so we, less fortunate than they in early life, but 
 happier in its closing scenes, will set up our rest again 
 among our boyish haunts ; and going home with no hope 
 realized, that had its growth in manhood — carrying back 
 nothing that we brought away, but our old yearnings to 
 each other — saving no fragment from the wreck of life, 
 but that which first endeared it — may be indeed but 
 children as at first. And even," he added in an altered 
 voice, "even if what I dread to name has come to pass — 
 even if that be so, or is to be (which Heaven forbid and 
 spare us ! ) — still, dear brother, we are not apart, and have 
 that comfort in our great affliction." 
 
 By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards 
 the inner chamber, while these words were spoken. He 
 pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips, 
 
 " You plot among you to wean my heart from her. 
 You never will do that — never while I have life. I have 
 no relative or friend but her — I never had — I never will 
 have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us 
 now." 
 
 Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to 
 her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were 
 
352 
 
 left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered 
 words — not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered — fol- 
 lowed him. They moved so gently, that their footsteps 
 made no noise ; but there were sobs from among the 
 group, and sounds of grief and mourning. 
 
 For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay 
 at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. 
 
 She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free 
 from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a 
 creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the 
 breath of life ; not one who had lived and suffered death, 
 
 Her couch was dressed with here and there some win- 
 ter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had 
 been used to favor. " When I die, put near me something 
 that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." 
 Those were her words. 
 
 She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was 
 dead. Her little bird — a poor slight thing the pressure 
 of a finger would have crushed — was stirring nimbly in its 
 cage ; and the strong heart of its child mistress was mute 
 and motionless forever. 
 
 Where were the traces of her early cares, her suffer- 
 ings, and fatigues ? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed 
 in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born ; 
 imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. 
 
 And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this 
 change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon that 
 same sweet face ; it had passed like a dream through 
 haunts of misery and care ; at the door of the poor school- 
 master on the summer evening ; before the furnace fire 
 upon the cold, wet night; at the still bedside of the dying 
 boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall 
 we know the angels in their majesty, after death. 
 
 The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the 
 small hand tight folded to his breast, for warmth. It was 
 
353 
 
 the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile 
 — the hand that had led him on through all their wander- 
 ings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips ; then 
 hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was 
 warmer now ; and as he said it he looked, in agony, to 
 those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her. 
 
 She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The 
 ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while 
 her own was waning fast — the garden she had tended — 
 the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts of many 
 a thoughtful hour — the paths she had trodden as it were 
 but yesterday — could know her no more. 
 
 " It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to 
 kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, " it is 
 not on earth that Heaven's justice ends. Think what it 
 is, compared with the World to which her young spirit 
 has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish 
 expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her 
 back to life, which of us would utter it ! " 
 
 CHAPTER THE FORTY-SEVENTH. 
 
 The child who had been her little friend came there 
 almost as soon as it was day, with an offering of dried 
 flowers which he begged them to lay upon her breast. It 
 was he who had come to the window overnight and spoken 
 to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces of small 
 feet, where he had been lingering near the room in which 
 she lay before he went to bed. He had a fancy, it seemed, 
 that they had left her there alone ; and could not bear 
 the thought. 
 
 He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her. 
 being restored to them, just as she used to be. He 
 begged hard to see her, saying that he would be very 
 
 Little Nell.—zz. 
 
3S4 
 
 quiet, and that they need not fear his being alarmed, for 
 he had sat alone by his young brother all day long, when 
 he was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They 
 let him have his wish ; and indeed he kept his word, and 
 was in his childish way a lesson to them all. 
 
 Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once — 
 except to her — or stirred from the bedside. But. when he 
 saw her little favorite, he was moved as they had not seen 
 him yet, and made as though he would have him come 
 nearer. Then pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for 
 the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the 
 sight of this child had done him good, left them alone 
 together. 
 
 Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child per- 
 suaded him to take some rest, to walk abroad, to do 
 almost as he desired him. And when the day came on, 
 which must remove her in her earthly shape from earthly 
 eyes forever, he led him away, that he might not know 
 when she was taken from him. 
 
 It was late when the old man came home. The boy had 
 led him to his own dwelling, under some pretense, on their 
 way back ; and, rendered drowsy by his long ramble and 
 late want of rest, he had sunk into a deep sleep by the 
 fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they were care- 
 ful not to rouse him. The slumber held him a long time, 
 and when he at length awoke the moon was shining. 
 
 The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, 
 was watching at the door for his coming, when he appeared 
 in the pathway with his little guide. He advanced to 
 meet them, and tenderly obliging the old man to lean upon 
 his arm, conducted him with slow and trembling steps 
 towards the house. 
 
 He repaired to her chamber, straight. Not finding 
 what he had left there, he returned with distracted looks 
 to the room in which they were assembled. From that, 
 
355 
 
 he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage, calling her 
 name. They followed close upon him, and when he had 
 vainly searched it, brought him home. 
 
 With such persuasive words as pity and affection could 
 suggest, they prevailed upon him to sit among them and 
 hear what they should tell him. Then, endeavoring by 
 every little artifice to prepare his mind for what must 
 come, and dwelling with many fervent words upon the 
 happy lot to which she had been removed, they told him, 
 at last, the truth. The moment it had passed their lips, 
 he fell down among them like a murdered man. 
 
 For many hours, they had little hope of his surviving ; 
 but grief is strong, and he recovered. 
 
 Whatever power of thought or memory he retained was 
 all bound up in her. He never understood, or seemed to 
 care to understand, about his brother. To every endear- 
 ment and attention he continued listless. If they spoke 
 to him on this, or any other theme — save one — he would 
 hear them patiently for awhile, then turn away, and go on 
 seeking as before. 
 
 They bethought them of a removal from the scene of 
 this last sorrow ; of trying whether change of place would 
 rouse or cheer him. His brother sought the advice of 
 those who were accounted skillful in such matters, and 
 they came and saw him. Some of the number stayed upon 
 the spot, conversed with him when he would converse, 
 and watched him as he wandered up and down, alone and 
 silent. Move him where they might, they said, he would 
 ever seek to get back there. His mind would run upon 
 that spot. If they confined him closely, and kept a strict 
 guard upon him, they might hold him prisoner, but if he 
 could by any means escape, he would surely wander 
 back to that place, or die upon the road. 
 
 The boy, to whom he had submitted at first, had no 
 longer any influence with him. At times he would suffer 
 
356 
 
 the child to walk by his side,' or would even take such 
 notice of his presence as giving him his hand, or would 
 stop to kiss his cheek, or pat him on the head. At other 
 times, he would entreat him — not unkindly — to be gone 
 and would not brook him near, But whether alone ; or 
 with this pliant friend ; or with those who would have 
 given him, at any cost or sacrifice, some consolation or 
 some peace of mind, if happily the means could have been 
 devised ; he was at all times the same — with no love or 
 care for anything in life— a broken-hearted man. 
 
 At length they found one day that he had risen early, 
 and, with his knapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her 
 own straw hat, and little basket full of such things as she 
 had been used to carry, was gone. As they were making 
 ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened schoolboy 
 came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in 
 ■ the church — upon her grave, he said. 
 
 They hastened there, and going softly to the door, 
 .espied him in the attitude of one who waited patiently. 
 They did not disturb him then, but kept a watch upon 
 him all that day. When it grew quite dark, he rose and 
 returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself, 
 " She will come to-morrow ! " 
 
 Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until 
 night ; and still at night he laid him down to rest, and 
 muttered, " She will come to-morrow ! " 
 
 And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited 
 at her grave for her. How many pictures of new journeys 
 over pleasant country, of resting places under the free, 
 broad sky, of rambles in the fields and woods, and paths 
 not often trodden — how many tones of that one well- 
 remembered voice — how many glimpses of the form, the 
 fluttering dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind — 
 how many visions of what had been, and what he hoped 
 was yet to be — rose up before him, in the old, dull, silent 
 
357 
 
 church ! He never told them whathe thought, or where 
 he went. He would sit with them at night, pondering 
 with a secret satisfaction, they could see, upon the flight 
 that he and she would take before night came again ; and 
 still they would hear him whisper in his prayers, " Oh 
 let her come to-morrow ! " 
 
 The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did 
 not return at the usual hour, and they went to seek him. 
 He was lying dead upon the stone. 
 
 They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so 
 well ; and, in the church where they had often prayed, 
 and mused, and lingered hand in hand, the child and the 
 old man slept together. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 complicated sentences. The explanatory matter is made 
 clear by the use of simple language, by the elimination of 
 unnecessary technical terms, and by the frequent introduction 
 of illustrative sentences. The definitions are simple and pre- 
 cise. The exercises are abundant and peculiarly ingenious. 
 A novel device for parsing and analysis permits these two 
 subjects to be combined in one exercise for purposes of drill. 
 TJThe SCHOOL GRAMMAR contains everything needed 
 by students in upper grammar grades and secondary schools. 
 It covers fully the requirements of the Syllabus in English 
 issued by the New York State Education Department. 
 ^f The book treats of grammar only, and presents many 
 exercises which call for considerable reflection on the mean- 
 ing of the expressions to be analyzed. Throughout, stress 
 is laid on the broader distinctions of thought and expression. 
 The common errors of written and spoken language are so 
 classified as to make it comparatively easy for pupils to 
 detect and correct them through the application of the rules 
 of grammar. The book ends with an historical sketch of 
 the English language, an article on the formation of words, 
 and a list of equivalent terms employed by other grammari- 
 ans. The full index makes the volume useful for reference. 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
 (78) 
 
UNITED STATES HISTORIES 
 
 By JOHN BACH McMASTER, Professor of American 
 History, University of Pennsylvania 
 
 Primary History, $o. 60 School History, $1. 00 Brief History, $1. 00 
 
 THESE standard histories are remarkable for their 
 freshness and vigor, their authoritative statements, 
 and their impartial treatment. They give a well- 
 proportioned and interesting narrative of the chief events 
 in our history, and are not loaded down with extended 
 and unnecessary bibliographies. The illustrations are his- 
 torically authentic, and show, besides well-known scenes 
 and incidents, the implements and dress characteristic of the 
 various periods. The maps are clear and full, and well 
 executed. 
 
 ^[ The PRIMARY HISTORY is simply and interestingly 
 written, with no long or involved sentences. Although brief, 
 it touches upon all matters of real importance to schools in 
 the founding and building of our country, but copies beyond 
 the understanding of children are omitted. The summaries 
 at the end of the chapters, besides serving to emphasize the 
 chief events, are valuable for review. 
 
 ^f In the SCHOOL HISTORY by far the larger part of 
 the book has been devoted to the history of the United States 
 since 1783. From the beginning the attention of the student 
 is directed to causes and results rather than to isolated events. 
 Special prominence is given to the social and economic 
 development of the country. 
 
 % In the BRIEF HISTORY nearly one-half the book 
 is devoted to the colonial period. The text proper, while 
 brief, is complete in itself; and footnotes in smaller type 
 permit of a more comprehensive course if desired. Short 
 summaries, and suggestions for collateral reading, are provided 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 (life) 
 
DAVISON'S HEALTH SERIES 
 
 By ALVIN DAVISON, M.S., A.M., Ph.D., Professor of 
 Biology in Lafayette College. 
 
 Human Body and Health : 
 
 Elementary, $0.40 Intermediate, #0.50 Advanced, $0.80 
 
 Health Lessons : 
 
 Book One . $0.35 Book Two . . $0.60 
 
 THE object of these books is to promote health and pre- 
 vent disease ; and at the same time to do it in such 
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 and fix in their minds the essentials of right living. They are 
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 ful, sanitary living, and the prevention of disease, which do not 
 waste time on the names of bones and organs, which furnish 
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 practical in their application and interesting in their presentation. 
 ^[ These books make clear: 
 
 ^[ That the teaching of physiology in our schools can be made 
 more vital and serviceable to humanity. 
 ^| That anatomy and physiology are of little value to young 
 people, unless they help them to practice in their daily lives 
 the teachings of hygiene and sanitation. 
 ^| That both personal and public health can be improved by 
 teaching certain basal truths, thus decreasing the death rate, 
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 ^f That such instruction should show how these diseases, 
 colds, pneumonia, tuberculosis, typhoid fever, diphtheria, and 
 malaria are contracted and how they can be prevented. 
 ^| That the foundation for much of the illness in later life is 
 laid by the boy and girl during school years, and that in- 
 struction which helps the pupils to understand the care of the 
 body, and the true value of fresh air, proper food, exercise, and 
 cleanliness, will add much to the wealth of a nation and the 
 happiness of its people. 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
RODDY'S GEOGRAPHIES 
 
 By JUSTIN RODDY, M.S., Department of Geography, 
 First Pennsylvania State Normal School, Millersville, Pa. 
 
 Elementary Geography . $0.50 
 
 Complete Geography . . $1.00 
 
 THIS "information" series meets a distinct demand for 
 new geographies which are thoroughly up to date, and 
 adapted for general use, rather than for a particular use 
 in a highly specialized and organized ideal system. While 
 . not too technical and scientific, it includes sufficient physio- 
 graphic information for the needs of most teachers. 
 ^[ An adequate amount of material is included in each book 
 to meet the requirements of those grades for which it is designed. 
 This matter is presented so simply that the pupil can readily 
 understand it, and so logically that it can easily be taugh. by 
 the average teacher. 
 
 ^[ The simplicity of the older methods of teaching this subject 
 is combined with just so much of the modern scientific methods 
 of presentation as is thoroughly adapted to elementary grades. 
 Only enough physiography is included to develop the funda- 
 mental relations of geography, and to animate and freshen the 
 study, without overloading it in this direction. 
 ^f The physical maps of the grand divisions are drawn to the 
 same scale, thus enabling the pupil to form correct concepts 
 of the relative size of countries. The political and more de- 
 tailed maps are not mere skeletons, giving only the names 
 which are required by the text, but are full enough to serve 
 all ordinary purposes for reference. In addition, they show 
 the principal railroads and canals, the head of navigation on 
 all important rivers, and the standard divisions of time. 
 *([ The illustrations are new and fresh, reproduced mostly 
 from photographs collected from all parts of the world. 
 Formal map studies or questions accompany each map, direct- 
 ing attention to the most important features. 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
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