"Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the same room when he's on a visit here, Miss Summerson?" he inquired, glancing at Mr. Skimpole's usual chamber.
"You know Mr. Skimpole!" said I.
"What do you call him again?" returned Mr. Bucket, bending down his ear. "Skimpole, is it? I've often wondered what his name might be. Skimpole. Not John, I should say, nor yet Jacob?"

"Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the same room when he's on a visit here, Miss Summerson?" he inquired.
"You know Mr. Skimpole!" said I.
"What do you call him again?" returned Mr. Bucket, bending down his ear. "Skimpole, is it? I've often wondered what his name might be. Skimpole. Not John, I should say?"


"Harold," I told him.
"Harold. Yes. He's a queer bird is Harold," said Mr. Bucket, eyeing me with great expression.
"He is a singular character," said I.
"No idea of money," observed Mr. Bucket. "He takes it, though!"
I involuntarily returned for answer that I perceived Mr. Bucket knew him.

"Harold."
"Harold. Yes. He's a queer bird is Harold," said Mr. Bucket, eyeing me with great expression.
"He is a singular character," said I.
"No idea of money," observed Mr. Bucket. "He takes it, though!


"Why, now I'll tell you, Miss Summerson," he replied. "Your mind will be all the better for not running on one point too continually, and I'll tell you for a change. It was him as pointed out to me where Toughey was. I made up my mind that night to come to the door and ask for Toughey, if that was all; but willing to try a move or so first, if any such was on the board, I just pitched up a morsel of gravel at that window where I saw a shadow. As soon as Harold opens it and I have had a look at him, thinks I, you're the man for me. So I smoothed him down a bit about not wanting to disturb the family after they was gone to bed and about its being a thing to be regretted that charitable young ladies should harbour vagrants; and then, when I pretty well understood his ways, I said I should consider a fypunnote well bestowed if I could relieve the premises of Toughey without causing any noise or trouble. Then says he, lifting up his eyebrows in the gayest way, 'It's no use mentioning a fypunnote to me, my friend, because I'm a mere child in such matters and have no idea of money.' Of course I understood what his taking it so easy meant; and being now quite sure he was the man for me, I wrapped the note round a little stone and threw it up to him. Well! He laughs and beams, and looks as innocent as you like, and says, 'But I don't know the value of these things.

It was him as pointed out to me where the boy was. I just pitched up a morsel of gravel at that window where I saw a shadow. As soon as Harold opens it and I see him, thinks I, you're the man for me. So I smoothed him down a bit about its being regrettable that charitable young ladies should harbour vagrants; and then I said I should pay a five pound note if I could take away the boy without causing any noise or trouble. Then says he, lifting up his eyebrows in the gayest way, 'I'm a mere child in such matters, my friend, and have no idea of money.' Being now quite sure he was the man for me, I wrapped the note round a little stone and threw it up to him. Well! He laughs and beams, and looks as innocent as you like, and says, 'But I don't know the value of these things.


What am I to DO with this?' 'Spend it, sir,' says I. 'But I shall be taken in,' he says, 'they won't give me the right change, I shall lose it, it's no use to me.' Lord, you never saw such a face as he carried it with! Of course he told me where to find Toughey, and I found him."
I regarded this as very treacherous on the part of Mr. Skimpole towards my guardian and as passing the usual bounds of his childish innocence.

What am I to do with this?' 'Spend it, sir,' says I. He told me where to find the boy."
I regarded this as very treacherous of Mr. Skimpole.


"Bounds, my dear?" returned Mr. Bucket. "Bounds? Now, Miss Summerson, I'll give you a piece of advice that your husband will find useful when you are happily married and have got a family about you. Whenever a person says to you that they are as innocent as can be in all concerning money, look well after your own money, for they are dead certain to collar it if they can. Whenever a person proclaims to you 'In worldly matters I'm a child,' you consider that that person is only a-crying off from being held accountable and that you have got that person's number, and it's Number One. Now, I am not a poetical man myself, except in a vocal way when it goes round a company, but I'm a practical one, and that's my experience. So's this rule. Fast and loose in one thing, fast and loose in everything. I never knew it fail.

"Miss Summerson, I'll give you a piece of advice," returned Mr. Bucket. "Whenever a person says to you that they are innocent concerning money, look well after your own money, for they are dead certain to collar it if they can. Whenever a person proclaims to you 'In worldly matters I'm a child,' consider that that person is only a-crying off from being held accountable and that you have got that person's number, and it's Number One.


No more will you. Nor no one. With which caution to the unwary, my dear, I take the liberty of pulling this here bell, and so go back to our business."
I believe it had not been for a moment out of his mind, any more than it had been out of my mind, or out of his face. The whole household were amazed to see me, without any notice, at that time in the morning, and so accompanied; and their surprise was not diminished by my inquiries. No one, however, had been there. It could not be doubted that this was the truth.
"Then, Miss Summerson," said my companion, "we can't be too soon at the cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. Most inquiries there I leave to you, if you'll be so good as to make 'em. The naturalest way is the best way, and the naturalest way is your own way."

With which caution, my dear, I take the liberty of pulling this here bell, and so go back to our business."
The whole household were amazed to see me at that time in the morning; and their surprise was not diminished by my inquiries. No one, however, had been there.
"Then, Miss Summerson," said my companion, "we can't be too soon at the cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. Most inquiries there I leave to you, if you'll be so good as to make 'em. The naturalest way is the best way, and your own way."


We set off again immediately. On arriving at the cottage, we found it shut up and apparently deserted, but one of the neighbours who knew me and who came out when I was trying to make some one hear informed me that the two women and their husbands now lived together in another house, made of loose rough bricks, which stood on the margin of the piece of ground where the kilns were and where the long rows of bricks were drying. We lost no time in repairing to this place, which was within a few hundred yards; and as the door stood ajar, I pushed it open.
There were only three of them sitting at breakfast, the child lying asleep on a bed in the corner. It was Jenny, the mother of the dead child, who was absent. The other woman rose on seeing me; and the men, though they were, as usual, sulky and silent, each gave me a morose nod of recognition. A look passed between them when Mr. Bucket followed me in, and I was surprised to see that the woman evidently knew him.

We set off again immediately. On arriving at the cottage, we found it shut up and apparently deserted, but one of the neighbours who knew me came out and informed me that the two women and their husbands now lived together in another house near the ground where the kilns were and where the long rows of bricks were drying. We found this place a few hundred yards away; and as the door stood ajar, I pushed it open.
There were only three of them sitting at breakfast, the child lying asleep on a bed in the corner. It was Jenny, the mother of the dead child, who was absent. The other woman rose on seeing me; and the men, though they were sulky and silent, gave me morose nods of recognition. I was surprised to see that the woman evidently knew Mr. Bucket.


I had asked leave to enter of course. Liz (the only name by which I knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but I sat down on a stool near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bedstead. Now that I had to speak and was among people with whom I was not familiar, I became conscious of being hurried and giddy. It was very difficult to begin, and I could not help bursting into tears.
"Liz," said I, "I have come a long way in the night and through the snow to inquire after a lady--"
"Who has been here, you know," Mr. Bucket struck in, addressing the whole group with a composed propitiatory face; "that's the lady the young lady means. The lady that was here last night, you know."
"And who told YOU as there was anybody here?" inquired Jenny's husband, who had made a surly stop in his eating to listen and now measured him with his eye.
"A person of the name of Michael Jackson, with a blue welveteen waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons," Mr. Bucket immediately answered.

I sat down on a stool near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bedstead. Now that I had to speak, I became conscious of feeling hurried and giddy. It was very difficult to begin, and I could not help bursting into tears.
"Liz," said I, "I have come a long way in the night and through the snow to inquire after a lady-"
"Who has been here, you know," Mr. Bucket struck in. "The lady that was here last night, you know."
"And who told you as there was anybody here?" inquired Jenny's husband.
"A person called Jackson, with a blue welveteen waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons," Mr. Bucket answered.


"He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is," growled the man.
"He's out of employment, I believe," said Mr. Bucket apologetically for Michael Jackson, "and so gets talking."
The woman had not resumed her chair, but stood faltering with her hand upon its broken back, looking at me. I thought she would have spoken to me privately if she had dared. She was still in this attitude of uncertainty when her husband, who was eating with a lump of bread and fat in one hand and his clasp-knife in the other, struck the handle of his knife violently on the table and told her with an oath to mind HER own business at any rate and sit down.
"I should like to have seen Jenny very much," said I, "for I am sure she would have told me all she could about this lady, whom I am very anxious indeed--you cannot think how anxious--to overtake. Will Jenny be here soon? Where is she?"
The woman had a great desire to answer, but the man, with another oath, openly kicked at her foot with his heavy boot. He left it to Jenny's husband to say what he chose, and after a dogged silence the latter turned his shaggy head towards me.

"He had better mind his own business, whoever he is," growled the man.
The woman stood faltering, looking at me. I thought she would have spoken to me privately if she had dared. She was still in this attitude of uncertainty when her husband, who was eating with a lump of bread in one hand and his clasp-knife in the other, struck the knife violently on the table and told her with an oath to mind her own business and sit down.
"I should like to have seen Jenny very much," said I, "for I am sure she would have told me all she could about this lady, whom I am very anxious indeed to overtake. Will Jenny be here soon? Where is she?"
The woman had a great desire to answer, but the man, with an oath, openly kicked at her foot with his heavy boot. After a dogged silence Jenny's husband turned his shaggy head towards me.


"I'm not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, as you've heerd me say afore now, I think, miss. I let their places be, and it's curious they can't let my place be. There'd be a pretty shine made if I was to go a-wisitin THEM, I think. Howsoever, I don't so much complain of you as of some others, and I'm agreeable to make you a civil answer, though I give notice that I'm not a-going to be drawed like a badger. Will Jenny be here soon? No she won't. Where is she? She's gone up to Lunnun."
"Did she go last night?" I asked.

"I'm not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, miss. I let their places be, and it's curious they can't let my place be. However, I'm agreeable to make you a civil answer. Will Jenny be here soon? No she won't. Where is she? She's gone up to Lunnun."
"Did she go last night?" I asked.


"Did she go last night? Ah! She went last night," he answered with a sulky jerk of his head.
"But was she here when the lady came? And what did the lady say to her? And where is the lady gone? I beg and pray you to be so kind as to tell me," said I, "for I am in great distress to know."
"If my master would let me speak, and not say a word of harm--" the woman timidly began.
"Your master," said her husband, muttering an imprecation with slow emphasis, "will break your neck if you meddle with wot don't concern you."
After another silence, the husband of the absent woman, turning to me again, answered me with his usual grumbling unwillingness.

"She went last night," he answered with a sulky jerk of his head.
"But was she here when the lady came? And what did the lady say to her? And where is the lady gone? I beg and pray you to be so kind as to tell me," said I, "for I am in great distress to know."
"If my master would let me speak, and not say a word of harm-" the woman timidly began.
"Your master," said her husband with slow emphasis, "will break your neck if you meddle with wot don't concern you."
After another silence, Jenny's husband said,


"Wos Jenny here when the lady come? Yes, she wos here when the lady come. Wot did the lady say to her? Well, I'll tell you wot the lady said to her. She said, 'You remember me as come one time to talk to you about the young lady as had been a-wisiting of you? You remember me as give you somethink handsome for a handkercher wot she had left?' Ah, she remembered. So we all did. Well, then, wos that young lady up at the house now? No, she warn't up at the house now.

"Yes, Jenny was here when the lady come. The lady said, 'You remember me as come one time to talk to you about the young lady as had been a-wisiting of you? You remember I gave you somethink handsome for a handkercher wot she had left?' Ah, she remembered. Well, then, wos that young lady up at the house now? No, she warn't.


Well, then, lookee here. The lady was upon a journey all alone, strange as we might think it, and could she rest herself where you're a setten for a hour or so. Yes she could, and so she did. Then she went--it might be at twenty minutes past eleven, and it might be at twenty minutes past twelve; we ain't got no watches here to know the time by, nor yet clocks. Where did she go? I don't know where she go'd. She went one way, and Jenny went another; one went right to Lunnun, and t'other went right from it. That's all about it. Ask this man. He heerd it all, and see it all.

Well, then, could the lady rest herself for a hour or so. Yes she could, and so she did. Then she went - it might be at twenty minutes past eleven, and it might be at twenty minutes past twelve; we ain't got no watches here to know the time by. Where did she go? I don't know. She went one way, and Jenny went another; one went right to Lunnun, and t'other went right from it. That's all."


He knows."
The other man repeated, "That's all about it."
"Was the lady crying?" I inquired.
"Devil a bit," returned the first man. "Her shoes was the worse, and her clothes was the worse, but she warn't--not as I see."
The woman sat with her arms crossed and her eyes upon the ground. Her husband had turned his seat a little so as to face her and kept his hammer-like hand upon the table as if it were in readiness to execute his threat if she disobeyed him.
"I hope you will not object to my asking your wife," said I, "how the lady looked."

The other man repeated, "That's all."
"Was the lady crying?" I inquired.
"Not as I see."
The woman sat with her eyes upon the ground. Her husband had kept his hammer-like hand upon the table as if ready to execute his threat if she disobeyed him.
"I hope you will not object to my asking your wife," said I, "how the lady looked."


"Come, then!" he gruffly cried to her. "You hear what she says. Cut it short and tell her."
"Bad," replied the woman. "Pale and exhausted. Very bad."
"Did she speak much?"
"Not much, but her voice was hoarse."
She answered, looking all the while at her husband for leave.

"Come, then!" he gruffly cried to her. "Cut it short and tell her."
"Very bad," replied the woman. "Pale and exhausted."
"Did she speak much?"
"Not much, but her voice was hoarse."
She answered, looking all the while at her husband for permission.


"Was she faint?" said I. "Did she eat or drink here?"
"Go on!" said the husband in answer to her look. "Tell her and cut it short."
"She had a little water, miss, and Jenny fetched her some bread and tea. But she hardly touched it."
"And when she went from here," I was proceeding, when Jenny's husband impatiently took me up.

"Was she faint?" said I. "Did she eat or drink here?"
"Go on!" said the husband. "Tell her."
"She had a little water, miss, and Jenny fetched her some bread and tea. But she hardly touched it."
"And when she went from here," I was proceeding, when Jenny's husband impatiently took me up.


"When she went from here, she went right away nor'ard by the high road. Ask on the road if you doubt me, and see if it warn't so. Now, there's the end. That's all about it."
I glanced at my companion, and finding that he had already risen and was ready to depart, thanked them for what they had told me, and took my leave. The woman looked full at Mr. Bucket as he went out, and he looked full at her.
"Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me as we walked quickly away. "They've got her ladyship's watch among 'em. That's a positive fact."

"When she went from here, she went right away north by the high road. Ask on the road if you doubt me. Now, there's the end. That's all."
I glanced at my companion, and finding that he had already risen to depart, thanked them, and took my leave. The woman looked full at Mr. Bucket as he went out, and he looked full at her.
"Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me as we walked quickly away. "They've got her ladyship's watch."


"Just as good as saw it," he returned. "Else why should he talk about his 'twenty minutes past' and about his having no watch to tell the time by? Twenty minutes! He don't usually cut his time so fine as that. If he comes to half-hours, it's as much as HE does. Now, you see, either her ladyship gave him that watch or he took it. I think she gave it him. Now, what should she give it him for? What should she give it him for?"
He repeated this question to himself several times as we hurried on, appearing to balance between a variety of answers that arose in his mind.

"As good as saw it," he returned. "Else why should he talk about his 'twenty minutes past' and about his having no watch? Twenty minutes! He don't usually cut his time so fine as that. I think her ladyship gave it him. Now, why?"
He repeated this question to himself several times as we hurried on.


"If time could be spared," said Mr. Bucket, "which is the only thing that can't be spared in this case, I might get it out of that woman; but it's too doubtful a chance to trust to under present circumstances. They are up to keeping a close eye upon her, and any fool knows that a poor creetur like her, beaten and kicked and scarred and bruised from head to foot, will stand by the husband that ill uses her through thick and thin. There's something kept back. It's a pity but what we had seen the other woman."
I regretted it exceedingly, for she was very grateful, and I felt sure would have resisted no entreaty of mine.
"It's possible, Miss Summerson," said Mr. Bucket, pondering on it, "that her ladyship sent her up to London with some word for you, and it's possible that her husband got the watch to let her go. It don't come out altogether so plain as to please me, but it's on the cards. Now, I don't take kindly to laying out the money of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, on these roughs, and I don't see my way to the usefulness of it at present. No! So far our road, Miss Summerson, is for'ard--straight ahead--and keeping everything quiet!"

"If time could be spared," said Mr. Bucket, "which it can't, I might get it out of that woman; but they are keeping a close eye upon her, and a poor creetur like her, though beaten and kicked and bruised from head to foot, will stand by the husband that ill uses her through thick and thin. There's something kept back. It's a pity we didn't see the other woman."
I regretted it exceedingly.
"It's possible, Miss Summerson," said Mr. Bucket, pondering on it, "that her ladyship sent her to London with some word for you, and it's possible that her husband got the watch to let her go. It's not so plain as to please me, but it's possible. Now, I don't take kindly to laying out the money of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, on these roughs, and I don't see the usefulness of it at present. No! So far our road, Miss Summerson, is straight ahead!"


We called at home once more that I might send a hasty note to my guardian, and then we hurried back to where we had left the carriage. The horses were brought out as soon as we were seen coming, and we were on the road again in a few minutes.
It had set in snowing at daybreak, and it now snowed hard. The air was so thick with the darkness of the day and the density of the fall that we could see but a very little way in any direction. Although it was extremely cold, the snow was but partially frozen, and it churned--with a sound as if it were a beach of small shells--under the hoofs of the horses into mire and water. They sometimes slipped and floundered for a mile together, and we were obliged to come to a standstill to rest them. One horse fell three times in this first stage, and trembled so and was so shaken that the driver had to dismount from his saddle and lead him at last.
I could eat nothing and could not sleep, and I grew so nervous under those delays and the slow pace at which we travelled that I had an unreasonable desire upon me to get out and walk. Yielding to my companion's better sense, however, I remained where I was. All this time, kept fresh by a certain enjoyment of the work in which he was engaged, he was up and down at every house we came to, addressing people whom he had never beheld before as old acquaintances, running in to warm himself at every fire he saw, talking and drinking and shaking hands at every bar and tap, friendly with every waggoner, wheelwright, blacksmith, and toll-taker, yet never seeming to lose time, and always mounting to the box again with his watchful, steady face and his business-like "Get on, my lad!"

We called home once more so that I might send a hasty note to my guardian, and then we hurried back to the carriage, and were soon on the road again.
It had set in snowing at daybreak, and it now snowed hard. We could see only a very little way in any direction. Although it was extremely cold, the snow was but partially frozen, and it churned - with a sound as if it were a beach of small shells - under the hoofs of the horses into mire and water. They sometimes slipped and floundered until we were obliged to stop to rest them. One horse fell three times in this first stage, and trembled so that the driver had to dismount from his saddle and lead him.
I could eat nothing and could not sleep, and I grew so nervous at these delays that I had an unreasonable desire to get out and walk. Yielding to my companion's better sense, however, I remained where I was. All this time he was up and down at every house we came to, addressing people whom he had never beheld before as old acquaintances, running in to warm himself at every fire, talking and drinking and shaking hands at every bar and tap, friendly with every waggoner, wheelwright, blacksmith, and toll-taker, always mounting to the box again with his watchful, steady face and his "Get on, my lad!"


When we were changing horses the next time, he came from the stable-yard, with the wet snow encrusted upon him and dropping off him--plashing and crashing through it to his wet knees as he had been doing frequently since we left Saint Albans--and spoke to me at the carriage side.
"Keep up your spirits. It's certainly true that she came on here, Miss Summerson. There's not a doubt of the dress by this time, and the dress has been seen here."
"Still on foot?" said I.
"Still on foot. I think the gentleman you mentioned must be the point she's aiming at, and yet I don't like his living down in her own part of the country neither."
"I know so little," said I. "There may be some one else nearer here, of whom I never heard."

At the next change of horses he came from the stable-yard, with the wet snow encrusted upon him, and spoke to me at the carriage side.
"Keep up your spirits. It's certainly true that she came here, Miss Summerson. There's not a doubt of the dress, and the dress has been seen here."
"Still on foot?" said I.
"Yes. I think the Mr. Boythorn you mentioned must be the point she's aiming at, and yet I don't like his living in her own part of the country."
"I know so little," said I. "There may be some one else nearer here, of whom I never heard."


"That's true. But whatever you do, don't you fall a-crying, my dear; and don't you worry yourself no more than you can help. Get on, my lad!"
The sleet fell all that day unceasingly, a thick mist came on early, and it never rose or lightened for a moment. Such roads I had never seen. I sometimes feared we had missed the way and got into the ploughed grounds or the marshes. If I ever thought of the time I had been out, it presented itself as an indefinite period of great duration, and I seemed, in a strange way, never to have been free from the anxiety under which I then laboured.

"That's true. But whatever you do, don't you fall a-crying, my dear; and don't you worry no more than you can help. Get on, my lad!"
The sleet fell all that day unceasingly and thick mist came on early. Such roads I had never seen. I sometimes feared we had missed the way and got into the ploughed grounds or the marshes. It felt as if we had been out for a very long time, and I seemed, in a strange way, never to have been free from the anxiety under which I then laboured.


As we advanced, I began to feel misgivings that my companion lost confidence. He was the same as before with all the roadside people, but he looked graver when he sat by himself on the box. I saw his finger uneasily going across and across his mouth during the whole of one long weary stage. I overheard that he began to ask the drivers of coaches and other vehicles coming towards us what passengers they had seen in other coaches and vehicles that were in advance. Their replies did not encourage him. He always gave me a reassuring beck of his finger and lift of his eyelid as he got upon the box again, but he seemed perplexed now when he said, "Get on, my lad!"
At last, when we were changing, he told me that he had lost the track of the dress so long that he began to be surprised. It was nothing, he said, to lose such a track for one while, and to take it up for another while, and so on; but it had disappeared here in an unaccountable manner, and we had not come upon it since. This corroborated the apprehensions I had formed, when he began to look at direction-posts, and to leave the carriage at cross roads for a quarter of an hour at a time while he explored them. But I was not to be down-hearted, he told me, for it was as likely as not that the next stage might set us right again.

As we advanced, I began to feel misgivings that my companion lost confidence. He looked graver when he sat by himself on the box. I saw his finger uneasily going across and across his mouth during the whole of one long weary stage. I overheard him asking the drivers of coaches coming towards us what passengers they had passed. Their replies did not encourage him. He always gave me a reassuring lift of his eyelid as he got upon the box again, but he seemed perplexed now when he said, "Get on, my lad!"
At last he told me that he had lost the track of the dress so long that he began to be surprised. It had disappeared in an unaccountable manner. But I was not to be down-hearted, he told me, for it was as likely as not that the next stage might set us right again.


The next stage, however, ended as that one ended; we had no new clue. There was a spacious inn here, solitary, but a comfortable substantial building, and as we drove in under a large gateway before I knew it, where a landlady and her pretty daughters came to the carriage-door, entreating me to alight and refresh myself while the horses were making ready, I thought it would be uncharitable to refuse. They took me upstairs to a warm room and left me there.
It was at the corner of the house, I remember, looking two ways. On one side to a stable-yard open to a by-road, where the ostlers were unharnessing the splashed and tired horses from the muddy carriage, and beyond that to the by-road itself, across which the sign was heavily swinging; on the other side to a wood of dark pine-trees. Their branches were encumbered with snow, and it silently dropped off in wet heaps while I stood at the window. Night was setting in, and its bleakness was enhanced by the contrast of the pictured fire glowing and gleaming in the window-pane. As I looked among the stems of the trees and followed the discoloured marks in the snow where the thaw was sinking into it and undermining it, I thought of the motherly face brightly set off by daughters that had just now welcomed me and of MY mother lying down in such a wood to die.

The next stage, however, ended with no new clue. There was a spacious inn here, a comfortable substantial building, and as we drove in under a large gateway a landlady and her pretty daughters came to the carriage-door, entreating me to alight and refresh myself while the horses were made ready. They took me upstairs to a warm room and left me there.
It was at the corner of the house, I remember, looking two ways: on one side to a stable-yard with the road beyond it; on the other side to a wood of dark pine-trees. Their branches were encumbered with snow, and it silently dropped off in wet heaps while I stood at the window. Night was setting in. As I looked among the stems of the trees, I thought of the motherly face that had just now welcomed me with her daughters and of my mother lying down in such a wood to die.


I was frightened when I found them all about me, but I remembered that before I fainted I tried very hard not to do it; and that was some little comfort. They cushioned me up on a large sofa by the fire, and then the comely landlady told me that I must travel no further to-night, but must go to bed. But this put me into such a tremble lest they should detain me there that she soon recalled her words and compromised for a rest of half an hour.
A good endearing creature she was. She and her three fair girls, all so busy about me. I was to take hot soup and broiled fowl, while Mr. Bucket dried himself and dined elsewhere; but I could not do it when a snug round table was presently spread by the fireside, though I was very unwilling to disappoint them. However, I could take some toast and some hot negus, and as I really enjoyed that refreshment, it made some recompense.
Punctual to the time, at the half-hour's end the carriage came rumbling under the gateway, and they took me down, warmed, refreshed, comforted by kindness, and safe (I assured them) not to faint any more. After I had got in and had taken a grateful leave of them all, the youngest daughter--a blooming girl of nineteen, who was to be the first married, they had told me--got upon the carriage step, reached in, and kissed me. I have never seen her, from that hour, but I think of her to this hour as my friend.

I was frightened when I found them all around me, but I remembered that before I fainted I tried very hard not to do it. They cushioned me up on a large sofa by the fire, and the landlady told me that I must travel no further tonight, but must go to bed. But this put me into such a tremble lest they should detain me there that she compromised for a rest of half an hour.
A good endearing creature she was; she and her three girls, all busy about me. I was to take hot soup and broiled fowl, while Mr. Bucket dried himself and dined elsewhere; but when it was brought to me I could not eat, though I was very unwilling to disappoint them. However, I could take some toast and hot wine-and-water, which made some recompense.
At the half-hour's end the carriage came rumbling under the gateway, and they took me down, warmed, refreshed, and comforted by kindness. After I had got in and had taken a grateful leave of them all, the youngest daughter reached in, and kissed me. I have never seen her since then, but I think of her to this hour as my friend.


The transparent windows with the fire and light, looking so bright and warm from the cold darkness out of doors, were soon gone, and again we were crushing and churning the loose snow. We went on with toil enough, but the dismal roads were not much worse than they had been, and the stage was only nine miles. My companion smoking on the box--I had thought at the last inn of begging him to do so when I saw him standing at a great fire in a comfortable cloud of tobacco--was as vigilant as ever and as quickly down and up again when we came to any human abode or any human creature. He had lighted his little dark lantern, which seemed to be a favourite with him, for we had lamps to the carriage; and every now and then he turned it upon me to see that I was doing well. There was a folding-window to the carriage-head, but I never closed it, for it seemed like shutting out hope.
We came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was not recovered. I looked at him anxiously when we stopped to change, but I knew by his yet graver face as he stood watching the ostlers that he had heard nothing. Almost in an instant afterwards, as I leaned back in my seat, he looked in, with his lighted lantern in his hand, an excited and quite different man.

The fire-lit windows, looking so bright and warm from outside, were soon gone, and again we were crushing and churning the loose snow. The stage was only nine miles; and my companion was as vigilant as ever and as quickly down and up again when we came to any house or person. He had lighted his lantern, and every now and then he turned it upon me to see that I was doing well.
We came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was not recovered. I looked at him anxiously when we stopped to change, but I knew by his grave face that he had heard nothing. An instant afterwards, as I leaned back in my seat, he looked in, with his lantern in his hand, an excited and quite different man.


"What is it?" said I, starting. "Is she here?"
"No, no. Don't deceive yourself, my dear. Nobody's here. But I've got it!"
The crystallized snow was in his eyelashes, in his hair, lying in ridges on his dress. He had to shake it from his face and get his breath before he spoke to me.

"What is it?" said I, starting. "Is she here?"
"No, no, my dear. Nobody's here. But I've got it!"
The crystallized snow was in his eyelashes and his hair. He had to shake it from his face before he spoke.


"Now, Miss Summerson," said he, beating his finger on the apron, "don't you be disappointed at what I'm a-going to do. You know me. I'm Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me. We've come a long way; never mind. Four horses out there for the next stage up! Quick!"
There was a commotion in the yard, and a man came running out of the stables to know if he meant up or down.

"Now, Miss Summerson," said he, "don't you be disappointed at what I'm a-going to do. You know me. I'm Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me. Four horses out there for the next stage up! Quick!"
A man came running out of the stables to know if he meant up or down.


"Up, I tell you! Up! Ain't it English? Up!"
"Up?" said I, astonished. "To London! Are we going back?"

"Up, I tell you! Up!"
"Up?" said I, astonished. "To London! Are we going back?"


"Miss Summerson," he answered, "back. Straight back as a die. You know me. Don't be afraid. I'll follow the other, by G----"
"The other?" I repeated. "Who?"

"Miss Summerson," he answered, "straight back as a die. Don't be afraid. I'll follow the other, by G__!"
"The other?"


"You called her Jenny, didn't you? I'll follow her. Bring those two pair out here for a crown a man. Wake up, some of you!"
"You will not desert this lady we are in search of; you will not abandon her on such a night and in such a state of mind as I know her to be in!" said I, in an agony, and grasping his hand.

"You called her Jenny, didn't you? I'll follow her!"
"You will not desert the lady we are in search of; you will not abandon her on such a night and in such a state of mind!" said I, in an agony, and grasping his hand.


"You are right, my dear, I won't. But I'll follow the other. Look alive here with them horses. Send a man for'ard in the saddle to the next stage, and let him send another for'ard again, and order four on, up, right through. My darling, don't you be afraid!"
These orders and the way in which he ran about the yard urging them caused a general excitement that was scarcely less bewildering to me than the sudden change. But in the height of the confusion, a mounted man galloped away to order the relays, and our horses were put to with great speed.
"My dear," said Mr. Bucket, jumping to his seat and looking in again, "--you'll excuse me if I'm too familiar--don't you fret and worry yourself no more than you can help. I say nothing else at present; but you know me, my dear; now, don't you?"

"You are right, my dear, I won't. But I'll follow the other. Look alive with them horses. My darling, don't you be afraid!"
I was bewildered by the sudden change. But our horses were put to with great speed.
"My dear," said Mr. Bucket, looking in again, "don't you fret and worry yourself. I say nothing else at present; but you know me, my dear, don't you?"


I endeavoured to say that I knew he was far more capable than I of deciding what we ought to do, but was he sure that this was right? Could I not go forward by myself in search of--I grasped his hand again in my distress and whispered it to him--of my own mother.
"My dear," he answered, "I know, I know, and would I put you wrong, do you think? Inspector Bucket. Now you know me, don't you?"
What could I say but yes!
"Then you keep up as good a heart as you can, and you rely upon me for standing by you, no less than by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Now, are you right there?"
"All right, sir!"

I tried to say that he was far more capable than I of deciding what we ought to do, but was he sure that this was right? Could I not go forward by myself in search of - I grasped his hand again in my distress and whispered - of my own mother?
"My dear," he answered, "would I put you wrong, do you think? You keep up as good a heart as you can, and rely upon me for standing by you.


"Off she goes, then. And get on, my lads!"
We were again upon the melancholy road by which we had come, tearing up the miry sleet and thawing snow as if they were torn up by a waterwheel.

Off she goes. Get on, my lads!"
We were again upon the melancholy road by which we had come, tearing up the miry sleet and thawing snow like a waterwheel.


Sir Leicester Dedlock has got the better, for the time being, of the family gout and is once more, in a literal no less than in a figurative point of view, upon his legs. He is at his place in Lincolnshire; but the waters are out again on the low-lying grounds, and the cold and damp steal into Chesney Wold, though well defended, and eke into Sir Leicester's bones. The blazing fires of faggot and coal--Dedlock timber and antediluvian forest--that blaze upon the broad wide hearths and wink in the twilight on the frowning woods, sullen to see how trees are sacrificed, do not exclude the enemy. The hot-water pipes that trail themselves all over the house, the cushioned doors and windows, and the screens and curtains fail to supply the fires' deficiencies and to satisfy Sir Leicester's need. Hence the fashionable intelligence proclaims one morning to the listening earth that Lady Dedlock is expected shortly to return to town for a few weeks.
It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor relations. Indeed great men have often more than their fair share of poor relations, inasmuch as very red blood of the superior quality, like inferior blood unlawfully shed, WILL cry aloud and WILL be heard. Sir Leicester's cousins, in the remotest degree, are so many murders in the respect that they "will out." Among whom there are cousins who are so poor that one might almost dare to think it would have been the happier for them never to have been plated links upon the Dedlock chain of gold, but to have been made of common iron at first and done base service.

Sir Leicester Dedlock has got the better, for the time being, of the family gout and is once more upon his legs. He is at his place in Lincolnshire; but the waters lie again on the low grounds, and the cold and damp steal into Chesney Wold, and into Sir Leicester's bones. The blazing fires do not exclude the enemy. The hot-water pipes that trail themselves all over the house, the cushioned doors and windows, and the screens and curtains fail to satisfy Sir Leicester's need. Hence Lady Dedlock is expected shortly to return to town for a few weeks.
It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor relations; often more than their fair share. Amongst Sir Leicester's cousins are those who are so poor that one might almost think it would have been happier for them never to have been links upon the Dedlock chain of gold, but to have been made of common iron from the start and been of service.


Service, however (with a few limited reservations, genteel but not profitable), they may not do, being of the Dedlock dignity. So they visit their richer cousins, and get into debt when they can, and live but shabbily when they can't, and find--the women no husbands, and the men no wives--and ride in borrowed carriages, and sit at feasts that are never of their own making, and so go through high life. The rich family sum has been divided by so many figures, and they are the something over that nobody knows what to do with.
Everybody on Sir Leicester Dedlock's side of the question and of his way of thinking would appear to be his cousin more or less. From my Lord Boodle, through the Duke of Foodle, down to Noodle, Sir Leicester, like a glorious spider, stretches his threads of relationship. But while he is stately in the cousinship of the Everybodys, he is a kind and generous man, according to his dignified way, in the cousinship of the Nobodys; and at the present time, in despite of the damp, he stays out the visit of several such cousins at Chesney Wold with the constancy of a martyr.

Service, however, they may not do, being of the Dedlock dignity. So they visit their richer cousins, and get into debt when they can, and live shabbily when they can't, and ride in borrowed carriages, and sit at other people's feasts.
Sir Leicester, like a glorious spider, stretches his threads of relationship to countless cousins. But he is a kind and generous man, according to his dignified way, in the cousinship of the Nobodys; and at present, in spite of the damp, he tolerates the visit of several such cousins at Chesney Wold with the constancy of a martyr.


Of these, foremost in the front rank stands Volumnia Dedlock, a young lady (of sixty) who is doubly highly related, having the honour to be a poor relation, by the mother's side, to another great family. Miss Volumnia, displaying in early life a pretty talent for cutting ornaments out of coloured paper, and also for singing to the guitar in the Spanish tongue, and propounding French conundrums in country houses, passed the twenty years of her existence between twenty and forty in a sufficiently agreeable manner. Lapsing then out of date and being considered to bore mankind by her vocal performances in the Spanish language, she retired to Bath, where she lives slenderly on an annual present from Sir Leicester and whence she makes occasional resurrections in the country houses of her cousins. She has an extensive acquaintance at Bath among appalling old gentlemen with thin legs and nankeen trousers, and is of high standing in that dreary city. But she is a little dreaded elsewhere in consequence of an indiscreet profusion in the article of rouge and persistency in an obsolete pearl necklace like a rosary of little bird's-eggs.
In any country in a wholesome state, Volumnia would be a clear case for the pension list. Efforts have been made to get her on it, and when William Buffy came in, it was fully expected that her name would be put down for a couple of hundred a year. But William Buffy somehow discovered, contrary to all expectation, that these were not the times when it could be done, and this was the first clear indication Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him that the country was going to pieces.

Of these, foremost is Volumnia Dedlock, a young lady (of sixty) who is doubly highly related, having the honour to be a poor relation, by the mother's side, to another great family. Miss Volumnia, displaying in early life a pretty talent for cutting ornaments out of coloured paper, and also for singing to the guitar in the Spanish tongue, and propounding French riddles in country houses, passed the years between twenty and forty in an agreeable manner. Lapsing then out of date, she retired to Bath, where she lives slenderly on an annual present from Sir Leicester and makes occasional resurrections in the country houses of her cousins. She has an extensive acquaintance at Bath among appalling old gentlemen with thin legs and nankeen trousers, and is of high standing in that dreary city. But she is a little dreaded elsewhere because of an indiscreet use of rouge and persistency in an old pearl necklace like a rosary of little bird's-eggs.


There is likewise the Honourable Bob Stables, who can make warm mashes with the skill of a veterinary surgeon and is a better shot than most gamekeepers. He has been for some time particularly desirous to serve his country in a post of good emoluments, unaccompanied by any trouble or responsibility. In a well-regulated body politic this natural desire on the part of a spirited young gentleman so highly connected would be speedily recognized, but somehow William Buffy found when he came in that these were not times in which he could manage that little matter either, and this was the second indication Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him that the country was going to pieces.
The rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various ages and capacities, the major part amiable and sensible and likely to have done well enough in life if they could have overcome their cousinship; as it is, they are almost all a little worsted by it, and lounge in purposeless and listless paths, and seem to be quite as much at a loss how to dispose of themselves as anybody else can be how to dispose of them.
In this society, and where not, my Lady Dedlock reigns supreme. Beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and powerful in her little world (for the world of fashion does not stretch ALL the way from pole to pole), her influence in Sir Leicester's house, however haughty and indifferent her manner, is greatly to improve it and refine it. The cousins, even those older cousins who were paralysed when Sir Leicester married her, do her feudal homage; and the Honourable Bob Stables daily repeats to some chosen person between breakfast and lunch his favourite original remark, that she is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud.

There is likewise the Honourable Bob Stables, who can make warm mashes for horses with the skill of a veterinary surgeon and is a better shot than most gamekeepers. He has wished for some time to serve his country in a post of good salary, unaccompanied by any trouble or responsibility. Somehow this has never been forthcoming.
The rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various ages and capacities, mostly amiable and sensible and likely to have done well enough in life if they could have overcome their cousinship. As it is, they lounge in purposeless and listless paths, quite at a loss as to how to dispose of themselves.
In this society my Lady Dedlock reigns supreme. Beautiful, elegant and accomplished, her influence in Sir Leicester's house, however haughty and indifferent her manner, is greatly to improve it and refine it. The cousins do her feudal homage; and the Honourable Bob Stables daily repeats that she is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud.


Such the guests in the long drawing-room at Chesney Wold this dismal night when the step on the Ghost's Walk (inaudible here, however) might be the step of a deceased cousin shut out in the cold. It is near bed-time. Bedroom fires blaze brightly all over the house, raising ghosts of grim furniture on wall and ceiling. Bedroom candlesticks bristle on the distant table by the door, and cousins yawn on ottomans. Cousins at the piano, cousins at the soda-water tray, cousins rising from the card-table, cousins gathered round the fire. Standing on one side of his own peculiar fire (for there are two), Sir Leicester. On the opposite side of the broad hearth, my Lady at her table. Volumnia, as one of the more privileged cousins, in a luxurious chair between them. Sir Leicester glancing, with magnificent displeasure, at the rouge and the pearl necklace.
"I occasionally meet on my staircase here," drawls Volumnia, whose thoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, after a long evening of very desultory talk, "one of the prettiest girls, I think, that I ever saw in my life."

Such are the guests in the long drawing-room at Chesney Wold this dismal night. It is near bed-time. Bedroom fires blaze brightly all over the house, bedroom candlesticks bristle on the distant table by the door, and cousins yawn on ottomans. Cousins at the piano, cousins at the soda-water tray, cousins rising from the card-table, cousins gathered round the fire. Volumnia, as one of the more privileged cousins, sits in a luxurious chair between Sir Leicester and my Lady, Sir Leicester glancing, with magnificent displeasure, at the rouge and the pearl necklace.
"I occasionally meet on the staircase here," drawls Volumnia, "one of the prettiest girls, I think, that I ever saw in my life."


"A PROTEGEE of my Lady's," observes Sir Leicester.
"I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have picked that girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly sort of beauty perhaps," says Miss Volumnia, reserving her own sort, "but in its way, perfect; such bloom I never saw!"
Sir Leicester, with his magnificent glance of displeasure at the rouge, appears to say so too.
"Indeed," remarks my Lady languidly, "if there is any uncommon eye in the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell's, and not mine. Rosa is her discovery."
"Your maid, I suppose?"

"A protge of my Lady's," observes Sir Leicester.
"I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have picked that girl out. She really is a marvel. Such bloom I never saw!"
"Indeed," remarks my Lady languidly, "if there is any uncommon eye in the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell's. Rosa is her discovery."
"Your maid, I suppose?"


"No. My anything; pet--secretary--messenger--I don't know what."
"You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a flower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle--no, not a poodle, though--or anything else that was equally pretty?" says Volumnia, sympathizing. "Yes, how charming now! And how well that delightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking. She must be an immense age, and yet she is as active and handsome! She is the dearest friend I have, positively!"

"No. My pet - secretary - messenger - I don't know what."
"You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a flower, or a bird, or anything else that was equally pretty?" says Volumnia, sympathizing. "Yes, how charming! And how well that delightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking. She must be an immense age, and yet she is so active and handsome! She is the dearest friend I have!"


Sir Leicester feels it to be right and fitting that the housekeeper of Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. Apart from that, he has a real regard for Mrs. Rouncewell and likes to hear her praised. So he says, "You are right, Volumnia," which Volumnia is extremely glad to hear.
"She has no daughter of her own, has she?"
"Mrs. Rouncewell? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, she had two."
My Lady, whose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly aggravated by Volumnia this evening, glances wearily towards the candlesticks and heaves a noiseless sigh.
"And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the present age has fallen; of the obliteration of landmarks, the opening of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions," says Sir Leicester with stately gloom, "that I have been informed by Mr. Tulkinghorn that Mrs. Rouncewell's son has been invited to go into Parliament."

Sir Leicester feels it fitting that the housekeeper of Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. And he has a real regard for Mrs. Rouncewell and likes to hear her praised. So he says, "You are right, Volumnia," which Volumnia is extremely glad to hear.
"She has no daughter of her own, has she?"
"Mrs. Rouncewell? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, she had two."
My Lady glances wearily towards the candlesticks and heaves a noiseless sigh.
"And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the present age has fallen," says Sir Leicester with stately gloom, "that I have been informed by Mr. Tulkinghorn that Mrs. Rouncewell's son has been invited to go into Parliament."


Miss Volumnia utters a little sharp scream.
"Yes, indeed," repeats Sir Leicester. "Into Parliament."
"I never heard of such a thing! Good gracious, what is the man?" exclaims Volumnia.
"He is called, I believe--an--ironmaster." Sir Leicester says it slowly and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure but that he is called a lead-mistress or that the right word may be some other word expressive of some other relationship to some other metal.
Volumnia utters another little scream.

Miss Volumnia utters a little sharp scream. "I never heard of such a thing! Good gracious, what is the man?" she exclaims.
"He is called, I believe - an - ironmaster." Sir Leicester says it with gravity and doubt.
Volumnia utters another little scream.


"He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr. Tulkinghorn be correct, as I have no doubt it is. Mr. Tulkinghorn being always correct and exact; still that does not," says Sir Leicester, "that does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught with strange considerations--startling considerations, as it appears to me."
Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, Sir Leicester politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings one, and lights it at my Lady's shaded lamp.
"I must beg you, my Lady," he says while doing so, "to remain a few moments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this evening shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note"--Sir Leicester, with his habitual regard to truth, dwells upon it--"I am bound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, the favour of a short interview with yourself and MYself on the subject of this young girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, I replied that we would see him before retiring."
Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing her hosts--O Lud!--well rid of the--what is it?--ironmaster!
The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. Sir Leicester rings the bell, "Make my compliments to Mr. Rouncewell, in the housekeeper's apartments, and say I can receive him now."

"He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr. Tulkinghorn is correct, as I have no doubt it is. Still," says Sir Leicester, "that does not lessen the strangeness of it."
Miss Volumnia rising with a look at the candles, Sir Leicester politely brings one, and lights it at my Lady's lamp.
"I must beg you, my Lady," he says, "to remain a few moments, for this very man arrived this evening and requested in, I am bound to say, a very becoming note, the favour of a short interview with us both on the subject of this young girl. I replied that we would see him before retiring."
Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight. The other cousins soon disperse, and Sir Leicester rings the bell.
"My compliments to Mr. Rouncewell, and say I can receive him now."


My Lady, who has heard all this with slight attention outwardly, looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little over fifty perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clear voice, a broad forehead from which his dark hair has retired, and a shrewd though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentleman dressed in black, portly enough, but strong and active. Has a perfectly natural and easy air and is not in the least embarrassed by the great presence into which he comes.
"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apologized for intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief. I thank you, Sir Leicester."
The head of the Dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa between himself and my Lady. Mr. Rouncewell quietly takes his seat there.
"In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are in progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places that we are always on the flight."

My Lady, who has heard all this with little apparent attention, looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little over fifty, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clear voice, a broad forehead, and a shrewd though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentleman dressed in black, portly, but strong and active. He has a perfectly natural air and is not in the least embarrassed by the great presence into which he comes.
"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, I apologize for intruding on you. I will be very brief."
The head of the Dedlocks motions him to take a seat.
"In these busy times, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places that we are always on the move."


Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel that there is no hurry there; there, in that ancient house, rooted in that quiet park, where the ivy and the moss have had time to mature, and the gnarled and warted elms and the umbrageous oaks stand deep in the fern and leaves of a hundred years; and where the sun-dial on the terrace has dumbly recorded for centuries that time which was as much the property of every Dedlock--while he lasted--as the house and lands. Sir Leicester sits down in an easy-chair, opposing his repose and that of Chesney Wold to the restless flights of ironmasters.
"Lady Dedlock has been so kind," proceeds Mr. Rouncewell with a respectful glance and a bow that way, "as to place near her a young beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen in love with Rosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her and to their becoming engaged if she will take him--which I suppose she will. I have never seen Rosa until to-day, but I have some confidence in my son's good sense--even in love. I find her what he represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks of her with great commendation."
"She in all respects deserves it," says my Lady.
"I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so, and I need not comment on the value to me of your kind opinion of her."
"That," observes Sir Leicester with unspeakable grandeur, for he thinks the ironmaster a little too glib, "must be quite unnecessary."

Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel that there is no hurry there, in that ancient house, rooted in that quiet park, where the elms and the shady oaks stand deep in the fern and leaves of a hundred years. Sir Leicester sits down in an easy-chair, contrasting his repose to the restless flights of ironmasters.
"Lady Dedlock has been so kind," proceeds Mr. Rouncewell with a respectful bow, "as to place near her a young beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen in love with Rosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her. I have never seen Rosa until today, but I have some confidence in my son's good sense. I find her what he represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks of her with great commendation."
"She in all respects deserves it," says my Lady.
"I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so.


"Quite unnecessary, Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very young man, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my son must make his; and his being married at present is out of the question. But supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself to this pretty girl, if this pretty girl will engage herself to him, I think it a piece of candour to say at once--I am sure, Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, you will understand and excuse me--I should make it a condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold. Therefore, before communicating further with my son, I take the liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any way inconvenient or objectionable, I will hold the matter over with him for any reasonable time and leave it precisely where it is."
Not remain at Chesney Wold! Make it a condition! All Sir Leicester's old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler and the people in the iron districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight come in a shower upon his head, the fine grey hair of which, as well as of his whiskers, actually stirs with indignation.
"Am I to understand, sir," says Sir Leicester, "and is my Lady to understand"--he brings her in thus specially, first as a point of gallantry, and next as a point of prudence, having great reliance on her sense--"am I to understand, Mr. Rouncewell, and is my Lady to understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too good for Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?"
"Certainly not, Sir Leicester,"

Now, my son is a very young man, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my son must make his; and his being married at present is out of the question. But supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself to this pretty girl, I think I should say at once - I am sure you will understand and excuse me - I should make it a condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold. Therefore, before speaking further with my son, I take the liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any way inconvenient or objectionable, I will leave the matter precisely where it is."
Not remain at Chesney Wold! Make it a condition! All Sir Leicester's old misgivings about the people in the iron districts who do nothing but turn out to riot by torchlight come in a shower upon his indignant head.
"Am I to understand, sir," he says, "that you consider this young woman too good for Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?"
"Certainly not, Sir Leicester,"


"I am glad to hear it." Sir Leicester very lofty indeed.
"Pray, Mr. Rouncewell," says my Lady, warning Sir Leicester off with the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly, "explain to me what you mean."
"Willingly, Lady Dedlock. There is nothing I could desire more."
Addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, is too quick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness, however habitual, to the strong Saxon face of the visitor, a picture of resolution and perseverance, my Lady listens with attention, occasionally slightly bending her head.
"I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed my childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a century and will die here I have no doubt. She is one of those examples--perhaps as good a one as there is--of love, and attachment, and fidelity in such a nation, which England may well be proud of, but of which no order can appropriate the whole pride or the whole merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides--on the great side assuredly, on the small one no less assuredly."
Sir Leicester snorts a little to hear the law laid down in this way, but in his honour and his love of truth, he freely, though silently, admits the justice of the ironmaster's proposition.

"I am glad to hear it." Sir Leicester very lofty indeed.
"Pray, Mr. Rouncewell," says my Lady, warning Sir Leicester off with the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly, "explain to me what you mean."
"Willingly, Lady Dedlock."
My Lady listens attentively, with composed face, but with a quick intelligence.
"I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed my childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a century and will die here, I have no doubt. She is one of those examples of love, attachment, and fidelity, which England may well be proud of, although such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides - on the great side assuredly, on the small one no less assuredly."
Sir Leicester snorts a little, but silently admits the justice of this statement.


"Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn't have it hastily supposed," with the least turn of his eyes towards Sir Leicester, "that I am ashamed of my mother's position here, or wanting in all just respect for Chesney Wold and the family. I certainly may have desired--I certainly have desired, Lady Dedlock--that my mother should retire after so many years and end her days with me. But as I have found that to sever this strong bond would be to break her heart, I have long abandoned that idea."
Sir Leicester very magnificent again at the notion of Mrs. Rouncewell being spirited off from her natural home to end her days with an ironmaster.
"I have been," proceeds the visitor in a modest, clear way, "an apprentice and a workman. I have lived on workman's wages, years and years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself. My wife was a foreman's daughter, and plainly brought up. We have three daughters besides this son of whom I have spoken, and being fortunately able to give them greater advantages than we have had ourselves, we have educated them well, very well. It has been one of our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any station."

"I wouldn't have it supposed that I am ashamed of my mother's position here, or lacking in respect for Chesney Wold. I certainly may have desired, Lady Dedlock, that my mother should retire and end her days with me. But as I have found that this would break her heart, I have long abandoned that idea."
Sir Leicester very magnificent again at the notion of Mrs. Rouncewell being spirited off from her natural home to end her days with an ironmaster.
"I have been," proceeds the visitor in a modest, clear way, "an apprentice and a workman. I have lived on workman's wages for years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself. My wife was a foreman's daughter, and plainly brought up. We have three daughters besides our son, and fortunately have been able to educate them well. It has been one of our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any station."


A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here, as if he added in his heart, "even of the Chesney Wold station." Not a little more magnificence, therefore, on the part of Sir Leicester.

A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here; and more magnificence, therefore, on the part of Sir Leicester.


"All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, and among the class to which I belong, that what would be generally called unequal marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us as elsewhere. A son will sometimes make it known to his father that he has fallen in love, say, with a young woman in the factory. The father, who once worked in a factory himself, will be a little disappointed at first very possibly. It may be that he had other views for his son. However, the chances are that having ascertained the young woman to be of unblemished character, he will say to his son, 'I must be quite sure you are in earnest here. This is a serious matter for both of you. Therefore I shall have this girl educated for two years,' or it may be, 'I shall place this girl at the same school with your sisters for such a time, during which you will give me your word and honour to see her only so often. If at the expiration of that time, when she has so far profited by her advantages as that you may be upon a fair equality, you are both in the same mind, I will do my part to make you happy.' I know of several cases such as I describe, my Lady, and I think they indicate to me my own course now."

"All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, that what would be generally called unequal marriages are not so rare as elsewhere. A son will sometimes tell his father that he has fallen in love, say, with a young woman in the factory. The father, who once worked in a factory himself, may be a little disappointed at first. However, if he finds the young woman to be of unblemished character, he may have the girl educated for two years, or he may place her at the same school with his daughters, until they are of a fair equality. I know of several such cases, my Lady, and I think they indicate to me my own course now."


Sir Leicester's magnificence explodes. Calmly, but terribly.
"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester with his right hand in the breast of his blue coat, the attitude of state in which he is painted in the gallery, "do you draw a parallel between Chesney Wold and a--" Here he resists a disposition to choke, "a factory?"
"I need not reply, Sir Leicester, that the two places are very different; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel may be justly drawn between them."
Sir Leicester directs his majestic glance down one side of the long drawing-room and up the other before he can believe that he is awake.
"Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady--my Lady--has placed near her person was brought up at the village school outside the gates?"
"Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is, and handsomely supported by this family."
"Then, Mr. Rouncewell," returns Sir Leicester, "the application of what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible."
"Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Leicester, if I say," the ironmaster is reddening a little, "that I do not regard the village school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son's wife?"

Sir Leicester's magnificence explodes. Calmly, but terribly.
"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester in a stately attitude, "do you draw a parallel between Chesney Wold and a - a factory?"
"Of course the two places are very different; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel may be justly drawn between them."
"Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady has placed near her person was brought up at the village school outside the gates?"
"Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is, and handsomely supported by this family."
"Then, Mr. Rouncewell," returns Sir Leicester, "what you have said is incomprehensible."
"Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Leicester, if I say," the ironmaster is reddening a little, "that I do not regard the village school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son's wife?"


From the village school of Chesney Wold, intact as it is this minute, to the whole framework of society; from the whole framework of society, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracks in consequence of people (iron-masters, lead-mistresses, and what not) not minding their catechism, and getting out of the station unto which they are called--necessarily and for ever, according to Sir Leicester's rapid logic, the first station in which they happen to find themselves; and from that, to their educating other people out of THEIR stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, and opening the floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is the swift progress of the Dedlock mind.
"My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment!" She has given a faint indication of intending to speak. "Mr. Rouncewell, our views of duty, and our views of station, and our views of education, and our views of--in short, ALL our views--are so diametrically opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be repellent to your feelings and repellent to my own. This young woman is honoured with my Lady's notice and favour. If she wishes to withdraw herself from that notice and favour or if she chooses to place herself under the influence of any one who may in his peculiar opinions--you will allow me to say, in his peculiar opinions, though I readily admit that he is not accountable for them to me--who may, in his peculiar opinions, withdraw her from that notice and favour, she is at any time at liberty to do so. We are obliged to you for the plainness with which you have spoken. It will have no effect of itself, one way or other, on the young woman's position here. Beyond this, we can make no terms; and here we beg--if you will be so good--to leave the subject."

From the village school of Chesney Wold to the whole framework of society; to that framework cracking due to people like iron-masters getting out of the station unto which they are called - which is, according to Sir Leicester's rapid logic, the first station in which they happen to find themselves; and from that, to their educating other people out of their stations, and so opening the floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is the swift progress of the Dedlock mind.
"Mr. Rouncewell, our views of duty, and of station, and of education - in short, all our views - are so opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be repellent to both of us. This young woman is honoured with my Lady's notice and favour. If she wishes to withdraw herself from that favour, or to allow anyone with peculiar opinions to withdraw her from that favour, she is free to do so. We are obliged to you for the plainness with which you have spoken. We beg - if you will be so good - to leave the subject."


The visitor pauses a moment to give my Lady an opportunity, but she says nothing. He then rises and replies, "Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, allow me to thank you for your attention and only to observe that I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his present inclinations. Good night!"
"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester with all the nature of a gentleman shining in him, "it is late, and the roads are dark. I hope your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Lady and myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to-night at least."
"I hope so," adds my Lady.
"I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order to reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointed time in the morning."
Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure, Sir Leicester ringing the bell and my Lady rising as he leaves the room.
When my Lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully by the fire, and inattentive to the Ghost's Walk, looks at Rosa, writing in an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her.

The visitor pauses to give my Lady an opportunity to speak, but she says nothing. He then rises and replies, "Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, thank you for your attention. I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his present inclinations. Good night!"
"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester, "it is late, and the roads are dark. I hope you will allow my Lady and myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for tonight at least."
"I hope so," adds my Lady.
"I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order to reach a distant part of the country for an appointment in the morning."
The ironmaster takes his departure. My Lady goes to her boudoir, sits down thoughtfully by the fire, and looks at Rosa, writing in an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her.


"Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?"
"Oh! My Lady!"
My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling, "Who is it? Is it Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson?"
"Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don't know that I am in love with him--yet."

"Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?"
"Oh! My Lady!"
My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling, "Who is it? Is it Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson?"
"Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don't know that I am in love with him - yet."


"Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves YOU, yet?"
"I think he likes me a little, my Lady." And Rosa bursts into tears.
Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smoothing her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyes so full of musing interest? Aye, indeed it is!
"Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe you are attached to me."
"Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the world I wouldn't do to show how much."

"Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves you, yet?"
"I think he likes me a little, my Lady." And Rosa bursts into tears.
Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smoothing her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyes so full of interest? Aye, indeed it is!
"Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe you are attached to me."
"Indeed I am, my Lady."


"And I don't think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, even for a lover?"
"No, my Lady! Oh, no!" Rosa looks up for the first time, quite frightened at the thought.
"Confide in me, my child. Don't fear me. I wish you to be happy, and will make you so--if I can make anybody happy on this earth."
Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. My Lady takes the hand with which she has caught it, and standing with her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between her own two hands, and gradually lets it fall. Seeing her so absorbed, Rosa softly withdraws; but still my Lady's eyes are on the fire.

"And I don't think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, even for a lover?"
"Oh, no, my Lady!" Rosa looks quite frightened at the thought.
"Confide in me, my child. I wish you to be happy, and will make you so - if I can make anybody happy on this earth."
Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. My Lady holds her hand between her own, and then gradually lets it fall, absorbed with her eyes on the fire.


In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any hand that never was, of any touch that might have magically changed her life? Or does she listen to the Ghost's Walk and think what step does it most resemble? A man's? A woman's? The pattering of a little child's feet, ever coming on--on--on? Some melancholy influence is upon her, or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit alone upon the hearth so desolate?

In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any touch that might have magically changed her life? Does she listen to the Ghost's Walk and think what step it most resembles? A man's? A woman's? The pattering of a little child's feet? Some melancholy influence is upon her, or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit alone upon the hearth so desolate?


Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered before dinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear from Sir Leicester at breakfast-time of the obliteration of landmarks, and opening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society, manifested through Mrs. Rouncewell's son. Not a cousin of the batch but is really indignant, and connects it with the feebleness of William Buffy when in office, and really does feel deprived of a stake in the country--or the pension list--or something--by fraud and wrong. As to Volumnia, she is handed down the great staircase by Sir Leicester, as eloquent upon the theme as if there were a general rising in the north of England to obtain her rouge-pot and pearl necklace. And thus, with a clatter of maids and valets--for it is one appurtenance of their cousinship that however difficult they may find it to keep themselves, they MUST keep maids and valets--the cousins disperse to the four winds of heaven; and the one wintry wind that blows to-day shakes a shower from the trees near the deserted house, as if all the cousins had been changed into leaves.

Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered before dinner. They are amazed to hear from Sir Leicester at breakfast-time of the opening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society, as manifested through Mrs. Rouncewell's son. The cousins are really indignant; and as to Volumnia, she is as eloquent upon the theme as if there were a general rising in the north of England to obtain her rouge-pot and pearl necklace.
And thus, with a clatter of maids and valets, the cousins disperse to the four winds; and the one wintry wind that blows today shakes a shower from the trees near the deserted house, as if all the cousins had been changed into leaves.


In a rather ill-favoured and ill-savoured neighbourhood, though one of its rising grounds bears the name of Mount Pleasant, the Elfin Smallweed, christened Bartholomew and known on the domestic hearth as Bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which the office and its contingencies have no claim. He dwells in a little narrow street, always solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all sides like a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump of an old forest tree whose flavour is about as fresh and natural as the Smallweed smack of youth.
There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for several generations. Little old men and women there have been, but no child, until Mr. Smallweed's grandmother, now living, became weak in her intellect and fell (for the first time) into a childish state. With such infantine graces as a total want of observation, memory, understanding, and interest, and an eternal disposition to fall asleep over the fire and into it, Mr. Smallweed's grandmother has undoubtedly brightened the family.

In a rather ill-favoured neighbourhood, the Elfin Smallweed, christened Bartholomew and known at home as Bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which the office has no claim. He dwells in a little narrow street, solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all sides like a tomb, but where there lingers the stump of an old tree whose flavour is about as fresh and natural as the Smallweed smack of youth.
There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for several generations. Little old men and women there have been, but no child, until Mr. Smallweed's grandmother became weak in her intellect and fell (for the first time) into a childish state.


Mr. Smallweed's grandfather is likewise of the party. He is in a helpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper, limbs, but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it ever held, the first four rules of arithmetic and a certain small collection of the hardest facts. In respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and other such phrenological attributes, it is no worse off than it used to be. Everything that Mr. Smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. In all his life he has never bred a single butterfly.

Mr. Smallweed's grandfather is in a helpless condition as to his lower limbs, but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it ever held, the rules of arithmetic and a small collection of the hardest facts.


The father of this pleasant grandfather, of the neighbourhood of Mount Pleasant, was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting species of spider who spun webs to catch unwary flies and retired into holes until they were entrapped. The name of this old pagan's god was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died of it. Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in which all the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke something--something necessary to his existence, therefore it couldn't have been his heart--and made an end of his career. As his character was not good, and he had been bred at a charity school in a complete course, according to question and answer, of those ancient people the Amorites and Hittites, he was frequently quoted as an example of the failure of education.
His spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always preached of "going out" early in life and whom he made a clerk in a sharp scrivener's office at twelve years old. There the young gentleman improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character, and developing the family gifts, gradually elevated himself into the discounting profession. Going out early in life and marrying late, as his father had done before him, he too begat a lean and anxious-minded son, who in his turn, going out early in life and marrying late, became the father of Bartholomew and Judith Smallweed, twins. During the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this family tree, the house of Smallweed, always early to go out and late to marry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, has discarded all amusements, discountenanced all story-books, fairy-tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born to it and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds.

The father of this pleasant grandfather was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting species of spider who spun webs to catch unwary flies. The name of this old pagan's god was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died of it. Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in which all the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke something - it couldn't have been his heart - and made an end of his career.
His spirit shone through his son, whom he made a clerk in a sharp scrivener's office at twelve years old. There the young gentleman improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character, and gradually elevated himself into the discounting profession. Going out early in life and marrying late, as his father had done before him, he too begat a lean and anxious-minded son, who in his turn became the father of Bartholomew and Judith Smallweed, twins.
During this whole time, the house of Smallweed has discarded all amusements, fairy-tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born to it and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds.


At the present time, in the dark little parlour certain feet below the level of the street--a grim, hard, uncouth parlour, only ornamented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest of sheet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no bad allegorical representation of Grandfather Smallweed's mind--seated in two black horsehair porter's chairs, one on each side of the fire-place, the superannuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed while away the rosy hours. On the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles which it is Grandfather Smallweed's usual occupation to watch, and projecting from the chimney-piece between them is a sort of brass gallows for roasting, which he also superintends when it is in action. Under the venerable Mr. Smallweed's seat and guarded by his spindle legs is a drawer in his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a spare cushion with which he is always provided in order that he may have something to throw at the venerable partner of his respected age whenever she makes an allusion to money--a subject on which he is particularly sensitive.
"And where's Bart?" Grandfather Smallweed inquires of Judy, Bart's twin sister.
"He an't come in yet," says Judy.
"It's his tea-time, isn't it?"
"No."
"How much do you mean to say it wants then?"

At the present time, in the grim, dark little parlour some feet below the level of the street, seated in two black horsehair porter's chairs, one on each side of the fire-place, the oldest Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed while away the hours. On the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles which it is Grandfather Smallweed's usual occupation to watch. Under his seat and guarded by his spindle legs is a drawer in his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a spare cushion, provided in order that he may have something to throw at his venerable partner whenever she mentions money - a subject on which he is particularly sensitive.
"Where's Bart?" Grandfather Smallweed inquires of Judy, Bart's twin sister.
"He an't come in yet," says Judy.
"It's his tea-time, isn't it?"
"


"Ten minutes."
"Hey?"
"Ten minutes." (Loud on the part of Judy.)
"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Ten minutes."
Grandmother Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her head at the trivets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them with money and screeches like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, "Ten ten-pound notes!"
Grandfather Smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her.

Not for ten minutes."
"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Ten minutes."
Grandmother Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her head, hearing figures mentioned, screeches like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, "Ten ten-pound notes!"
Grandfather Smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her.


"Drat you, be quiet!" says the good old man.
The effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. It not only doubles up Mrs. Smallweed's head against the side of her porter's chair and causes her to present, when extricated by her granddaughter, a highly unbecoming state of cap, but the necessary exertion recoils on Mr. Smallweed himself, whom it throws back into HIS porter's chair like a broken puppet. The excellent old gentleman being at these times a mere clothes-bag with a black skull-cap on the top of it, does not present a very animated appearance until he has undergone the two operations at the hands of his granddaughter of being shaken up like a great bottle and poked and punched like a great bolster. Some indication of a neck being developed in him by these means, he and the sharer of his life's evening again fronting one another in their two porter's chairs, like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on their post by the Black Serjeant, Death.
Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is so indubitably sister to Mr. Smallweed the younger that the two kneaded into one would hardly make a young person of average proportions, while she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned family likeness to the monkey tribe that attired in a spangled robe and cap she might walk about the table-land on the top of a barrel-organ without exciting much remark as an unusual specimen. Under existing circumstances, however, she is dressed in a plain, spare gown of brown stuff.

"Drat you, be quiet!" says the good old man.
This exertion recoils on Mr. Smallweed himself, throwing him back into his chair like a broken puppet. His granddaughter shakes him up again, poking and punching him like a great bolster.
Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is so indubitably sister to Mr. Smallweed the younger; she so happily exemplifies the family likeness to the monkey tribe, that attired in a spangled robe and cap she might walk on top of a barrel-organ without exciting much remark. At present, however, she is dressed in a plain brown gown.


Judy never owned a doll, never heard of Cinderella, never played at any game. She once or twice fell into children's company when she was about ten years old, but the children couldn't get on with Judy, and Judy couldn't get on with them. She seemed like an animal of another species, and there was instinctive repugnance on both sides. It is very doubtful whether Judy knows how to laugh. She has so rarely seen the thing done that the probabilities are strong the other way. Of anything like a youthful laugh, she certainly can have no conception. If she were to try one, she would find her teeth in her way, modelling that action of her face, as she has unconsciously modelled all its other expressions, on her pattern of sordid age. Such is Judy.


And her twin brother couldn't wind up a top for his life. He knows no more of Jack the Giant Killer or of Sinbad the Sailor than he knows of the people in the stars. He could as soon play at leap-frog or at cricket as change into a cricket or a frog himself. But he is so much the better off than his sister that on his narrow world of fact an opening has dawned into such broader regions as lie within the ken of Mr. Guppy. Hence his admiration and his emulation of that shining enchanter.
Judy, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet-iron tea-trays on the table and arranges cups and saucers. The bread she puts on in an iron basket, and the butter (and not much of it) in a small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hard after the tea as it is served out and asks Judy where the girl is.
"Charley, do you mean?" says Judy.

And her twin brother likewise has learnt no games or fairy-stories. But he is better off than his sister, in that on his narrow world an opening has dawned into the broader regions inhabited by Mr. Guppy. Hence his admiration of that shining enchanter.
Judy, with a clash and clatter, sets an iron tea-tray on the table and arranges cups and saucers. She puts the bread in an iron basket, and the meagre butter in a small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hard at the tea and asks Judy where the girl is.
"Charley, do you mean?" says Judy.


"Hey?" from Grandfather Smallweed.
"Charley, do you mean?"
This touches a spring in Grandmother Smallweed, who, chuckling as usual at the trivets, cries, "Over the water! Charley over the water, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley!" and becomes quite energetic about it. Grandfather looks at the cushion but has not sufficiently recovered his late exertion.


"Ha!" he says when there is silence. "If that's her name. She eats a deal. It would be better to allow her for her keep."
Judy, with her brother's wink, shakes her head and purses up her mouth into no without saying it.
"No?" returns the old man. "Why not?"
"She'd want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less," says Judy.

"Ha!" says Grandfather. "She eats a deal. It would be better to just pay her for her keep."
Judy shakes her head and purses up her mouth. "She'd want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less," says she.


"Sure?"
Judy answers with a nod of deepest meaning and calls, as she scrapes the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste and cuts it into slices, "You, Charley, where are you?" Timidly obedient to the summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a large bonnet, with her hands covered with soap and water and a scrubbing brush in one of them, appears, and curtsys.
"What work are you about now?" says Judy, making an ancient snap at her like a very sharp old beldame.
"I'm a-cleaning the upstairs back room, miss," replies Charley.

"Sure?"
Judy answers with a nod and calls, as she scrapes the butter on the loaf, "Charley, where are you?" Timidly obedient, a little girl in a rough apron appears, with her hands covered with soap and water and a scrubbing brush in one of them.
"What work are you about now?" says Judy, like a sharp old woman.
"I'm a-cleaning the upstairs back room, miss," replies Charley.


"Mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. Shirking won't do for me. Make haste! Go along!" cries Judy with a stamp upon the ground. "You girls are more trouble than you're worth, by half."
On this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping the butter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother, looking in at the window. For whom, knife and loaf in hand, she opens the street-door.

"Mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. Make haste! Go along!" cries Judy with a stamp.
As she returns to her task, her brother arrives home.


"Aye, aye, Bart!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Here you are, hey?"
"Here I am," says Bart.
"Been along with your friend again, Bart?"
Small nods.
"Dining at his expense, Bart?"
Small nods again.

"Aye, aye, Bart!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Been along with your friend again, Bart?"
Small nods.
"Dining at his expense, Bart?"
Small nods again.


"That's right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and take warning by his foolish example. That's the use of such a friend. The only use you can put him to," says the venerable sage.
His grandson, without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as he might, honours it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight wink and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four old faces then hover over teacups like a company of ghastly cherubim, Mrs. Smallweed perpetually twitching her head and chattering at the trivets and Mr. Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a large black draught.

"That's right. Live at his expense as much as you can. That's the only use of such a friend," says the venerable sage.
His grandson receives this good advice with a wink and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four old faces hover over teacups like a company of ghastly cherubim, Mrs. Smallweed perpetually twitching her head and chattering and Mr. Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up.


"Yes, yes," says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson of wisdom. "That's such advice as your father would have given you, Bart. You never saw your father. More's the pity. He was my true son." Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was particularly pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear.
"He was my true son," repeats the old gentleman, folding his bread and butter on his knee, "a good accountant, and died fifteen years ago."

"Yes, yes," says the good old gentleman. "That's fatherly advice, Bart. You never saw your father. More's the pity. He was my true son, and died fifteen years ago."