I could not but understand her to refer to Mr. Quale, the young gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. I was saved the disagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject by Richard and Ada coming up at a round pace, laughing and asking us if we meant to run a race. Thus interrupted, Miss Jellyby became silent and walked moodily on at my side while I admired the long successions and varieties of streets, the quantity of people already going to and fro, the number of vehicles passing and repassing, the busy preparations in the setting forth of shop windows and the sweeping out of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in rags secretly groping among the swept-out rubbish for pins and other refuse.

I understood her to refer to Mr. Quale, the young gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. Richard and Ada came up, laughing and asking us if we meant to run a race. Thus interrupted, Miss Jellyby became silent and walked moodily at my side while I admired the streets and the people going to and fro, the number of vehicles passing, the sweeping out of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in rags secretly groping among the swept-out rubbish.


"So, cousin," said the cheerful voice of Richard to Ada behind me. "We are never to get out of Chancery! We have come by another way to our place of meeting yesterday, and--by the Great Seal, here's the old lady again!"

"So, cousin," said the cheerful voice of Richard behind me, "we are never to get out of Chancery! We have come to it by another way, and - by the Great Seal, here's the old lady again!"


Truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, curtsying, and smiling, and saying with her yesterday's air of patronage, "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!"

Truly, there she was, curtsying and smiling, and saying, "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!"


"You are out early, ma'am," said I as she curtsied to me.


"Ye-es! I usually walk here early. Before the court sits. It's retired. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day," said the old lady mincingly. "The business of the day requires a great deal of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to follow."

"Yes! I usually walk here early. Before the court sits. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day," said the old lady mincingly. "The business of the day requires a great deal of thought."


"Who's this, Miss Summerson?" whispered Miss Jellyby, drawing my arm tighter through her own.

"Who's this, Miss Summerson?" whispered Miss Jellyby.


The little old lady's hearing was remarkably quick. She answered for herself directly.

The little old lady heard, and answered for herself.


"A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to attend court regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure of addressing another of the youthful parties in Jarndyce?" said the old lady, recovering herself, with her head on one side, from a very low curtsy.

"A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to attend court regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure of addressing another of the youthful parties in Jarndyce?" said the old lady, with her head on one side.


Richard, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday, good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not connected with the suit.

Richard good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not connected with the suit.


"Ha!" said the old lady. "She does not expect a judgment? She will still grow old. But not so old. Oh, dear, no! This is the garden of Lincoln's Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bower in the summer-time. Where the birds sing melodiously. I pass the greater part of the long vacation here. In contemplation. You find the long vacation exceedingly long, don't you?"

"Ha!" said the old lady. "She does not expect a judgment? She will still grow old. But not so old. Oh, dear, no! This is the garden of Lincoln's Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bower in the summer-time. Where the birds sing. I pass the greater part of the long vacation here. You find the long vacation exceedingly long, don't you?"


We said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so.

We said yes, as she seemed to expect it.


"When the leaves are falling from the trees and there are no more flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the Lord Chancellor's court," said the old lady, "the vacation is fulfilled and the sixth seal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray come and see my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. Youth, and hope, and beauty are very seldom there. It is a long, long time since I had a visit from either."

"When the leaves are falling from the trees," said the old lady, "the vacation is fulfilled and the sixth seal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray come and see my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. Youth, and hope, and beauty very seldom visit."


She had taken my hand, and leading me and Miss Jellyby away, beckoned Richard and Ada to come too. I did not know how to excuse myself and looked to Richard for aid. As he was half amused and half curious and all in doubt how to get rid of the old lady without offence, she continued to lead us away, and he and Ada continued to follow, our strange conductress informing us all the time, with much smiling condescension, that she lived close by.

She had taken my hand, and was leading me and Miss Jellyby away. I did not know how to excuse myself and looked to Richard for aid. As he was half amused and half curious, he and Ada followed us.


It was quite true, as it soon appeared. She lived so close by that we had not time to have done humouring her for a few moments before she was at home. Slipping us out at a little side gate, the old lady stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part of some courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of the inn, and said, "This is my lodging. Pray walk up!"

The old lady lived close by, in a narrow back street.
"This is my lodging. Pray walk up!"


She had stopped at a shop over which was written KROOK, RAG AND BOTTLE WAREHOUSE. Also, in long thin letters, KROOK, DEALER IN MARINE STORES. In one part of the window was a picture of a red paper mill at which a cart was unloading a quantity of sacks of old rags. In another was the inscription BONES BOUGHT. In another, KITCHEN-STUFF BOUGHT. In another, OLD IRON BOUGHT. In another, WASTE-PAPER BOUGHT. In another, LADIES' AND GENTLEMEN'S WARDROBES BOUGHT. Everything seemed to be bought and nothing to be sold there. In all parts of the window were quantities of dirty bottles--blacking bottles, medicine bottles, ginger-beer and soda-water bottles, pickle bottles, wine bottles, ink bottles; I am reminded by mentioning the latter that the shop had in several little particulars the air of being in a legal neighbourhood and of being, as it were, a dirty hanger-on and disowned relation of the law. There were a great many ink bottles. There was a little tottering bench of shabby old volumes outside the door, labelled "Law Books, all at 9d." Some of the inscriptions I have enumerated were written in law-hand, like the papers I had seen in Kenge and Carboy's office and the letters I had so long received from the firm. Among them was one, in the same writing, having nothing to do with the business of the shop, but announcing that a respectable man aged forty-five wanted engrossing or copying to execute with neatness and dispatch: Address to Nemo, care of Mr. Krook, within. There were several second-hand bags, blue and red, hanging up. A little way within the shop-door lay heaps of old crackled parchment scrolls and discoloured and dog's-eared law-papers. I could have fancied that all the rusty keys, of which there must have been hundreds huddled together as old iron, had once belonged to doors of rooms or strong chests in lawyers' offices. The litter of rags tumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged wooden scale, hanging without any counterpoise from a beam, might have been counsellors' bands and gowns torn up. One had only to fancy, as Richard whispered to Ada and me while we all stood looking in, that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete.

She had stopped at a shop over which was written KROOK, RAG AND BOTTLE WAREHOUSE. Also, in long thin letters, KROOK, DEALER IN MARINE STORES. In one part of the window was the inscription BONES BOUGHT. In another, KITCHEN-STUFF BOUGHT. In another, OLD IRON BOUGHT. In another, WASTE-PAPER BOUGHT. In another, LADIES' AND GENTLEMEN'S WARDROBES BOUGHT. Everything seemed to be bought and nothing to be sold there.
In all parts of the window were quantities of dirty bottles - medicine bottles, ginger-beer and soda-water bottles, pickle bottles, wine bottles, and a great many ink bottles. The shop had the air of being a disowned relation of the law. There was a little tottering bench of shabby old volumes outside the door, labelled "Law Books, 9d." Some of the inscriptions were written in law-hand, like the letters I had received from Kenge and Carboy's office. One notice in the same writing announced that a respectable man aged forty-five wanted copying jobs, to execute with neatness and dispatch: Address to Nemo, care of Mr. Krook, within.
A little way inside the shop-door lay heaps of old cracked parchment scrolls, dog-eared law-papers and a litter of rags. One had only to fancy, as Richard whispered to Ada, that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete.


As it was still foggy and dark, and as the shop was blinded besides by the wall of Lincoln's Inn, intercepting the light within a couple of yards, we should not have seen so much but for a lighted lantern that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carrying about in the shop. Turning towards the door, he now caught sight of us. He was short, cadaverous, and withered, with his head sunk sideways between his shoulders and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his mouth as if he were on fire within. His throat, chin, and eyebrows were so frosted with white hairs and so gnarled with veins and puckered skin that he looked from his breast upward like some old root in a fall of snow.

We could only see all this by a lantern carried by an old man in the shop, in spectacles and a hairy cap. He was short, cadaverous, and withered, with his head sunk sideways between his shoulders and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his mouth as if he were on fire within. His puckered throat and chin were so frosted with white hairs that he looked like some old root in a fall of snow.


"Hi, hi!" said the old man, coming to the door. "Have you anything to sell?"


We naturally drew back and glanced at our conductress, who had been trying to open the house-door with a key she had taken from her pocket, and to whom Richard now said that as we had had the pleasure of seeing where she lived, we would leave her, being pressed for time. But she was not to be so easily left. She became so fantastically and pressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would walk up and see her apartment for an instant, and was so bent, in her harmless way, on leading me in, as part of the good omen she desired, that I (whatever the others might do) saw nothing for it but to comply. I suppose we were all more or less curious; at any rate, when the old man added his persuasions to hers and said, "Aye, aye! Please her! It won't take a minute! Come in, come in! Come in through the shop if t'other door's out of order!" we all went in, stimulated by Richard's laughing encouragement and relying on his protection.

We naturally drew back and glanced at the old lady, who had been trying to open the house-door with a key. She became so pressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would walk up and see her apartment, that I saw nothing for it but to comply. I suppose we were all curious; at any rate, when the old man said, "Aye, aye! Please her! It won't take a minute!" we all went in, stimulated by Richard's laughing encouragement and relying on his protection.


"My landlord, Krook," said the little old lady, condescending to him from her lofty station as she presented him to us. "He is called among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop is called the Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. He is very odd. Oh, I assure you he is very odd!"

"My landlord, Krook," said the little old lady. "He is called among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop is called the Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. Oh, very odd!"


She shook her head a great many times and tapped her forehead with her finger to express to us that we must have the goodness to excuse him, "For he is a little--you know--M!" said the old lady with great stateliness. The old man overheard, and laughed.

She shook her head and tapped her forehead with her finger. "For he is a little - you know - M!" The old man overheard, and laughed.


"It's true enough," he said, going before us with the lantern, "that they call me the Lord Chancellor and call my shop Chancery. And why do you think they call me the Lord Chancellor and my shop Chancery?"

"It's true enough," he said, going before us with the lantern, "that they call me the Lord Chancellor and call my shop Chancery. And why do you think that is?"


"I don't know, I am sure!" said Richard rather carelessly.

"I don't know, I am sure!" said Richard carelessly.


"You see," said the old man, stopping and turning round, "they--Hi! Here's lovely hair! I have got three sacks of ladies' hair below, but none so beautiful and fine as this. What colour, and what texture!"

"You see," said the old man, stopping and turning round, "they - Hi! Here's lovely hair! I have got three sacks of ladies' hair below, but none so beautiful as this!"


"That'll do, my good friend!" said Richard, strongly disapproving of his having drawn one of Ada's tresses through his yellow hand. "You can admire as the rest of us do without taking that liberty."


The old man darted at him a sudden look which even called my attention from Ada, who, startled and blushing, was so remarkably beautiful that she seemed to fix the wandering attention of the little old lady herself. But as Ada interposed and laughingly said she could only feel proud of such genuine admiration, Mr. Krook shrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it.

The old man darted him a sudden startling look.
But Ada, blushing, interposed and laughingly said she could only feel proud of such admiration. Mr. Krook shrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it.


"You see, I have so many things here," he resumed, holding up the lantern, "of so many kinds, and all as the neighbours think (but THEY know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and ruin, that that's why they have given me and my place a christening. And I have so many old parchmentses and papers in my stock. And I have a liking for rust and must and cobwebs. And all's fish that comes to my net. And I can't abear to part with anything I once lay hold of (or so my neighbours think, but what do THEY know?) or to alter anything, or to have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor cleaning, nor repairing going on about me. That's the way I've got the ill name of Chancery. I don't mind. I go to see my noble and learned brother pretty well every day, when he sits in the Inn. He don't notice me, but I notice him. There's no great odds betwixt us. We both grub on in a muddle. Hi, Lady Jane!"

"You see, I have so many things here," he resumed, "that the neighbours have given me and my place a christening. I have a liking for rust and cobwebs. And all's fish that comes to my net. I can't abear to part with anything I once lay hold of, or to have any sweeping or cleaning. That's how I've got the name of Chancery. I don't mind. I go to see my noble and learned brother pretty well every day, when he sits in the Inn. He don't notice me, but I notice him. Hi, Lady Jane!"


A large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on his shoulder and startled us all.

A large grey cat leaped from a shelf on to his shoulder and startled us all.


"Hi! Show 'em how you scratch. Hi! Tear, my lady!" said her master.

"Hi! Show 'em how you scratch, my lady!" said her master.


The cat leaped down and ripped at a bundle of rags with her tigerish claws, with a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear.

The cat leaped down and ripped at a bundle of rags with her tigerish claws.


"She'd do as much for any one I was to set her on," said the old man. "I deal in cat-skins among other general matters, and hers was offered to me. It's a very fine skin, as you may see, but I didn't have it stripped off! THAT warn't like Chancery practice though, says you!"

"She'd do as much for anyone I was to set her on," said the old man.


He had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a door in the back part of it, leading to the house-entry. As he stood with his hand upon the lock, the little old lady graciously observed to him before passing out, "That will do, Krook. You mean well, but are tiresome. My young friends are pressed for time. I have none to spare myself, having to attend court very soon. My young friends are the wards in Jarndyce."

He had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a door at the back. The little old lady graciously observed,
"That will do, Krook. You mean well, but are tiresome. My young friends are pressed for time. They are the wards in Jarndyce."


"Jarndyce!" said the old man with a start.


"Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The great suit, Krook," returned his lodger.


"Hi!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of thoughtful amazement and with a wider stare than before. "Think of it!"

"Hi!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of thoughtful amazement. "Think of it!"


He seemed so rapt all in a moment and looked so curiously at us that Richard said, "Why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about the causes before your noble and learned brother, the other Chancellor!"

He looked so curiously at us that Richard said, "Why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about the causes set before your learned brother, the other Chancellor!"


"Yes," said the old man abstractedly. "Sure! YOUR name now will be--"

"Yes," said the old man abstractedly. "Sure! Your name now will be-"


"Carstone," he repeated, slowly checking off that name upon his forefinger; and each of the others he went on to mention upon a separate finger. "Yes. There was the name of Barbary, and the name of Clare, and the name of Dedlock, too, I think."

"Carstone," he repeated. "Yes. There was the name of Barbary, and the name of Clare, and the name of Dedlock, too, I think."


"He knows as much of the cause as the real salaried Chancellor!" said Richard, quite astonished, to Ada and me.

"He knows as much of the cause as the real Chancellor!" said Richard, quite astonished.


"Aye!" said the old man, coming slowly out of his abstraction. "Yes! Tom Jarndyce--you'll excuse me, being related; but he was never known about court by any other name, and was as well known there as--she is now," nodding slightly at his lodger. "Tom Jarndyce was often in here. He got into a restless habit of strolling about when the cause was on, or expected, talking to the little shopkeepers and telling 'em to keep out of Chancery, whatever they did. 'For,' says he, 'it's being ground to bits in a slow mill; it's being roasted at a slow fire; it's being stung to death by single bees; it's being drowned by drops; it's going mad by grains.' He was as near making away with himself, just where the young lady stands, as near could be."

"Aye!" said the old man. "Yes! Tom Jarndyce was often in here. He got into a habit of strolling about when the cause was on, talking to the shopkeepers and telling 'em to keep out of Chancery, whatever they did. 'For,' says he, 'it's being roasted at a slow fire; it's being stung to death by single bees; it's being drowned by drops; it's going mad by grains.' He was as near making away with himself as could be."


"He come in at the door," said the old man, slowly pointing an imaginary track along the shop, "on the day he did it--the whole neighbourhood had said for months before that he would do it, of a certainty sooner or later--he come in at the door that day, and walked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there, and asked me (you'll judge I was a mortal sight younger then) to fetch him a pint of wine. 'For,' says he, 'Krook, I am much depressed; my cause is on again, and I think I'm nearer judgment than I ever was.' I hadn't a mind to leave him alone; and I persuaded him to go to the tavern over the way there, t'other side my lane (I mean Chancery Lane); and I followed and looked in at the window, and saw him, comfortable as I thought, in the arm-chair by the fire, and company with him. I hadn't hardly got back here when I heard a shot go echoing and rattling right away into the inn. I ran out--neighbours ran out--twenty of us cried at once, 'Tom Jarndyce!'"

"He come in at the door," said the old man, "on the day he did it - the whole neighbourhood had said for months that he would do it, sooner or later - he come in that day, and sat himself on a bench there, and asked me (I was a mortal sight younger then) to fetch him a pint of wine. 'For,' says he, 'Krook, I am much depressed; my cause is on again.' I persuaded him to go to the tavern across the way; and I followed and looked in at the window, and saw him, comfortable in the arm-chair by the fire, and company with him. I hadn't hardly got back here when I heard a shot go echoing. I ran out - neighbours ran out - twenty of us cried at once, 'Tom Jarndyce!'"


The old man stopped, looked hard at us, looked down into the lantern, blew the light out, and shut the lantern up.

The old man stopped, looked hard at us, and blew the lantern out.


"We were right, I needn't tell the present hearers. Hi! To be sure, how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while the cause was on! How my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of 'em, grubbed and muddled away as usual and tried to look as if they hadn't heard a word of the last fact in the case or as if they had--Oh, dear me!--nothing at all to do with it if they had heard of it by any chance!"

"We were right. Hi! To be sure, how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while the cause was on! How my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of 'em, muddled away as usual and tried to look as if they'd heard nothing, or had nothing at all to do with it!"


Ada's colour had entirely left her, and Richard was scarcely less pale. Nor could I wonder, judging even from my emotions, and I was no party in the suit, that to hearts so untried and fresh it was a shock to come into the inheritance of a protracted misery, attended in the minds of many people with such dreadful recollections. I had another uneasiness, in the application of the painful story to the poor half-witted creature who had brought us there; but, to my surprise, she seemed perfectly unconscious of that and only led the way upstairs again, informing us with the toleration of a superior creature for the infirmities of a common mortal that her landlord was "a little M, you know!"

Ada's colour had entirely left her, and Richard was scarcely less pale. I could not wonder. To my surprise, the old lady seemed unaffected and led the way upstairs again, informing us that her landlord was "a little M, you know!"


She lived at the top of the house, in a pretty large room, from which she had a glimpse of Lincoln's Inn Hall. This seemed to have been her principal inducement, originally, for taking up her residence there. She could look at it, she said, in the night, especially in the moonshine. Her room was clean, but very, very bare. I noticed the scantiest necessaries in the way of furniture; a few old prints from books, of Chancellors and barristers, wafered against the wall; and some half-dozen reticles and work-bags, "containing documents," as she informed us. There were neither coals nor ashes in the grate, and I saw no articles of clothing anywhere, nor any kind of food. Upon a shelf in an open cupboard were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so forth, but all dry and empty. There was a more affecting meaning in her pinched appearance, I thought as I looked round, than I had understood before.

She lived at the top of the house, in a large room, from which she had a glimpse of Lincoln's Inn Hall. Her room was clean, but very, very bare. There were no coals nor ashes in the grate, and no articles of clothing anywhere, nor any kind of food. Upon a shelf were a plate or two, a cup or two, but all dry and empty. I thought, as I looked round, than I understood her pinched appearance better than before.


"Extremely honoured, I am sure," said our poor hostess with the greatest suavity, "by this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. And very much indebted for the omen. It is a retired situation. Considering. I am limited as to situation. In consequence of the necessity of attending on the Chancellor. I have lived here many years. I pass my days in court, my evenings and my nights here. I find the nights long, for I sleep but little and think much. That is, of course, unavoidable, being in Chancery. I am sorry I cannot offer chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly and shall then place my establishment on a superior footing. At present, I don't mind confessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidence) that I sometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. I have felt the cold here. I have felt something sharper than cold. It matters very little. Pray excuse the introduction of such mean topics."

"Extremely honoured, I am sure," said our poor hostess, "by this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. And very much indebted for the omen. I have lived here many years. I pass my days in court, my evenings and my nights here. I find the nights long, for I sleep little and think much. That is, of course, unavoidable, being in Chancery. I am sorry I cannot offer chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly and shall then place my establishment on a superior footing. At present, I don't mind confessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidence) that I sometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. I have felt the cold here. It matters very little."


She partly drew aside the curtain of the long, low garret window and called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there, some containing several birds. There were larks, linnets, and goldfinches--I should think at least twenty.

She partly drew aside the curtain of the low garret window and called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there, containing at least twenty larks, linnets, and goldfinches.


"I began to keep the little creatures," she said, "with an object that the wards will readily comprehend. With the intention of restoring them to liberty. When my judgment should be given. Ye-es! They die in prison, though. Their lives, poor silly things, are so short in comparison with Chancery proceedings that, one by one, the whole collection has died over and over again. I doubt, do you know, whether one of these, though they are all young, will live to be free! Ve-ry mortifying, is it not?"

"I began to keep the little creatures," she said, "with the intention of restoring them to liberty. When my judgment should be given. Yes! They die in prison, though. Their lives are so short in comparison with Chancery proceedings that, one by one, the whole collection has died over and over again. Very mortifying, is it not?"


Although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to expect a reply, but rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing so when no one but herself was present.

She did not seem to expect a reply, but rambled on:


"Indeed," she pursued, "I positively doubt sometimes, I do assure you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth or Great Seal still prevails, I may not one day be found lying stark and senseless here, as I have found so many birds!"

"Indeed, I doubt sometimes, I do assure you, whether I may not one day be found lying stark and senseless here, as I have found so many birds!"


Richard, answering what he saw in Ada's compassionate eyes, took the opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, on the chimney-piece. We all drew nearer to the cages, feigning to examine the birds.

Ada looked at Richard, who softly laid some money on the chimney-piece, unobserved.


"I can't allow them to sing much," said the little old lady, "for (you'll think this curious) I find my mind confused by the idea that they are singing while I am following the arguments in court. And my mind requires to be so very clear, you know! Another time, I'll tell you their names. Not at present. On a day of such good omen, they shall sing as much as they like. In honour of youth," a smile and curtsy, "hope," a smile and curtsy, "and beauty," a smile and curtsy. "There! We'll let in the full light."

"I can't allow the birds to sing much," said the little old lady, "for they confuse my mind. And my mind needs to be so very clear in court, you know! Another time, I'll tell you their names. On a day of such good omen, they shall sing as much as they like. In honour of youth, hope, and beauty," with a smile and curtsy. "There! We'll let in the light."


"I cannot admit the air freely," said the little old lady--the room was close, and would have been the better for it--"because the cat you saw downstairs, called Lady Jane, is greedy for their lives. She crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours. I have discovered," whispering mysteriously, "that her natural cruelty is sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. In consequence of the judgment I expect being shortly given. She is sly and full of malice. I half believe, sometimes, that she is no cat, but the wolf of the old saying. It is so very difficult to keep her from the door."

"I cannot admit the air freely," said the little old lady, "because the cat you saw downstairs, called Lady Jane, is greedy for their lives. She crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours. She is jealous of their regaining their liberty. In consequence of the judgment that will be shortly given. She is sly and full of malice."


Some neighbouring bells, reminding the poor soul that it was half-past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to an end than we could easily have done for ourselves. She hurriedly took up her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon the table on coming in, and asked if we were also going into court. On our answering no, and that we would on no account detain her, she opened the door to attend us downstairs.

Some neighbouring bells reminded the poor soul that it was half-past nine. She hurriedly took up her little bag of documents, and asked if we were also going into court. On our answering no, she opened the door to attend us downstairs.


"With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I should be there before the Chancellor comes in," said she, "for he might mention my case the first thing. I have a presentiment that he WILL mention it the first thing this morning."

"With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I should be there before the Chancellor comes in," said she, "for he might mention my case the first thing. I have a feeling that he will."


She stopped to tell us in a whisper as we were going down that the whole house was filled with strange lumber which her landlord had bought piecemeal and had no wish to sell, in consequence of being a little M. This was on the first floor. But she had made a previous stoppage on the second floor and had silently pointed at a dark door there.

She stopped on the second floor and silently pointed at a dark door.


"The only other lodger," she now whispered in explanation, "a law-writer. The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to the devil. I don't know what he can have done with the money. Hush!"

"The only other lodger," she whispered in explanation, "a law-writer. The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to the devil. Hush!"


She appeared to mistrust that the lodger might hear her even there, and repeating "Hush!" went before us on tiptoe as though even the sound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had said.

She went before us down the stairs on tiptoe.


Passing through the shop on our way out, as we had passed through it on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity of packets of waste-paper in a kind of well in the floor. He seemed to be working hard, with the perspiration standing on his forehead, and had a piece of chalk by him, with which, as he put each separate package or bundle down, he made a crooked mark on the panelling of the wall.

Passing through the shop on our way out, we found the old man storing a quantity of packets of waste-paper in a kind of well in the floor. He had a piece of chalk, with which, as he put each package down, he made a crooked mark on the wall.


Richard and Ada, and Miss Jellyby, and the little old lady had gone by him, and I was going when he touched me on the arm to stay me, and chalked the letter J upon the wall--in a very curious manner, beginning with the end of the letter and shaping it backward. It was a capital letter, not a printed one, but just such a letter as any clerk in Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's office would have made.

The others had all gone past, when he touched me on the arm to stop me, and chalked the letter J upon the wall, in a very curious manner, shaping it backward.


"Can you read it?" he asked me with a keen glance.


With another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed it out and turned an "a" in its place (not a capital letter this time), and said, "What's that?"

With another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed it out and wrote an "a" in its place, and said, "What's that?"


I told him. He then rubbed that out and turned the letter "r," and asked me the same question. He went on quickly until he had formed in the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms of the letters, the word Jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on the wall together.

I told him. He rubbed that out and wrote the letter "r," and asked the same question. He went on this way until he had formed the word Jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on the wall together.


When I told him, he laughed. In the same odd way, yet with the same rapidity, he then produced singly, and rubbed out singly, the letters forming the words Bleak House. These, in some astonishment, I also read; and he laughed again.

When I told him, he laughed. In the same odd way, he then produced singly, and rubbed out, the letters forming the words Bleak House. These, in some astonishment, I also read; and he laughed again.


"Hi!" said the old man, laying aside the chalk. "I have a turn for copying from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read nor write."

"Hi!" said he. "I can copy from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read nor write."


He looked so disagreeable and his cat looked so wickedly at me, as if I were a blood-relation of the birds upstairs, that I was quite relieved by Richard's appearing at the door and saying, "Miss Summerson, I hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair. Don't be tempted. Three sacks below are quite enough for Mr. Krook!"

He looked so disagreeable that I was quite relieved by Richard's appearing at the door and saying, "Miss Summerson, I hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair. Don't be tempted. Three sacks are quite enough for Mr. Krook!"


I lost no time in wishing Mr. Krook good morning and joining my friends outside, where we parted with the little old lady, who gave us her blessing with great ceremony and renewed her assurance of yesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on Ada and me. Before we finally turned out of those lanes, we looked back and saw Mr. Krook standing at his shop-door, in his spectacles, looking after us, with his cat upon his shoulder, and her tail sticking up on one side of his hairy cap like a tall feather.

Wishing Mr. Krook good morning, I joined my friends outside, where we parted with the little old lady. Before we left, we looked back and saw Mr. Krook standing at his shop-door, in his spectacles, looking after us, with his cat upon his shoulder.


"Quite an adventure for a morning in London!" said Richard with a sigh. "Ah, cousin, cousin, it's a weary word this Chancery!"

"Quite an adventure!" said Richard with a sigh. "Ah, cousin, it's a weary word, this Chancery!"


"It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember," returned Ada. "I am grieved that I should be the enemy--as I suppose I am--of a great number of relations and others, and that they should be my enemies--as I suppose they are--and that we should all be ruining one another without knowing how or why and be in constant doubt and discord all our lives. It seems very strange, as there must be right somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest has not been able to find out through all these years where it is."

"It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember," returned Ada. "I am grieved that I and my relations should be enemies - as I suppose we are - and that we should all be ruining one another without knowing how or why. It seems very strange that an honest judge has not been able to find out what the right thing is."


"Ah, cousin!" said Richard. "Strange, indeed! All this wasteful, wanton chess-playing IS very strange. To see that composed court yesterday jogging on so serenely and to think of the wretchedness of the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartache both together. My head ached with wondering how it happened, if men were neither fools nor rascals; and my heart ached to think they could possibly be either. But at all events, Ada--I may call you Ada?"

"Ah, cousin!" said Richard. "Strange, indeed! All this wasteful, wanton chess-playing is very strange. To see that composed court yesterday and to think of the wretchedness of the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartache both together. But at all events, Ada - I may call you Ada?"


"At all events, Chancery will work none of its bad influences on US. We have happily been brought together, thanks to our good kinsman, and it can't divide us now!"

"At all events, Chancery will work none of its bad influences on us. We have been brought together, thanks to our good kinsman, and it can't divide us now!"


"Never, I hope, cousin Richard!" said Ada gently.


Miss Jellyby gave my arm a squeeze and me a very significant look. I smiled in return, and we made the rest of the way back very pleasantly.

Miss Jellyby gave me a very significant look. I smiled in return, and we made our way back.


In half an hour after our arrival, Mrs. Jellyby appeared; and in the course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfast straggled one by one into the dining-room. I do not doubt that Mrs. Jellyby had gone to bed and got up in the usual manner, but she presented no appearance of having changed her dress. She was greatly occupied during breakfast, for the morning's post brought a heavy correspondence relative to Borrioboola-Gha, which would occasion her (she said) to pass a busy day. The children tumbled about, and notched memoranda of their accidents in their legs, which were perfect little calendars of distress; and Peepy was lost for an hour and a half, and brought home from Newgate market by a policeman. The equable manner in which Mrs. Jellyby sustained both his absence and his restoration to the family circle surprised us all.

Half an hour after our arrival, Mrs. Jellyby appeared; and the various things necessary for breakfast straggled one by one into the dining-room. Mrs. Jellyby did not seem to have changed her dress. She was greatly occupied during breakfast, for the morning's post brought a heavy correspondence about Borrioboola-Gha. The children tumbled about; and Peepy was lost for an hour and a half, and brought home from Newgate market by a policeman. The equable manner in which Mrs. Jellyby sustained both his absence and his restoration surprised us all.


She was by that time perseveringly dictating to Caddy, and Caddy was fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found her. At one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us, and a cart for our luggage. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her good friend Mr. Jarndyce; Caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed me in the passage, and stood biting her pen and sobbing on the steps; Peepy, I am happy to say, was asleep and spared the pain of separation (I was not without misgivings that he had gone to Newgate market in search of me); and all the other children got up behind the barouche and fell off, and we saw them, with great concern, scattered over the surface of Thavies Inn as we rolled out of its precincts.

She was by that time dictating to Caddy, and Caddy was fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found her. At one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her good friend Mr. Jarndyce; Caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed me, and stood sobbing on the steps. Peepy, I am happy to say, was asleep and spared the pain of separation (I feared that he had gone to Newgate market in search of me); and all the other children got up behind the barouche and fell off. We saw them, with great concern, scattered over the ground as we rolled away.


Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fields, though the evening is hot, for both Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open, and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not be desirable characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet or January with ice and snow, but they have their merits in the sultry long vacation weather. They enable Allegory, though it has cheeks like peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool to-night.

In Lincoln's Inn Fields, the evening is hot, and Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open.


Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows, and plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick everywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lost its way takes fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law--or Mr. Tulkinghorn, one of its trustiest representatives--may scatter, on occasion, in the eyes of the laity.

Plenty of dust comes in at them, and plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick everywhere.


In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into which his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth, animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one of the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and heralded by a remote reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back encircled by an earthy atmosphere and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two score and ten years old, that blushes in the glass to find itself so famous and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern grapes.

In his atmosphere of dust, beneath the figure of Allegory, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one of the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined today, he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and comes back with a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, fifty years old, that fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern grapes.


Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than ever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy, pondering at that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history, and his money, and his will--all a mystery to every one--and that one bachelor friend of his, a man of the same mould and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of life until he was seventy-five years old, and then suddenly conceiving (as it is supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gave his gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walked leisurely home to the Temple and hanged himself.

Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight, enjoys his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. He sits, and drinks, and ponders on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history, and his money, and his will - all a mystery to everyone.


But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usual length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild, shining man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass.

But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone tonight. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass.


"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd story again."

"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "go over this odd story again."


"You told me when you were so good as to step round here last night--"


"For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--"

"I remembered, sir, that you had taken an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that you might - just - wish-"


Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or to admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr. Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "I must ask you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure."

Mr. Tulkinghorn does not help him. Mr. Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "Excuse the liberty, sir."


"Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, that you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to your wife. That was prudent I think, because it's not a matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned."

"Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, that you came round without mentioning your intention to your wife. That was prudent, because it's not a matter of such importance that it needs to be mentioned."


"Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see, my little woman is--not to put too fine a point upon it--inquisitive. She's inquisitive. Poor little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her to have her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it--I should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it concerns her or not--especially not. My little woman has a very active mind, sir."

"Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see, my little woman is - not to put too fine a point upon it - inquisitive. My little woman has a very active mind, sir."


Mr. Snagsby drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his hand, "Dear me, very fine wine indeed!"


"Therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "And to-night too?"

"Therefore you kept your visit to yourself?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.


"Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in--not to put too fine a point on it--in a pious state, or in what she considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the name they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not quite favourable to his style myself. That's neither here nor there. My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to step round in a quiet manner."

"Yes, sir. My little woman is at present in a pious state, and attends the Evening Exertions of the Reverend Chadband. My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to step round quietly."


Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. "Fill your glass, Snagsby."


"Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer with his cough of deference. "This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!"


"It is a rare wine now," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It is fifty years old."


"Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure. It might be--any age almost." After rendering this general tribute to the port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind his hand for drinking anything so precious.


"Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair.

Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" Mr. Tulkinghorn leans back in his chair.


Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationer repeats Jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house. On coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start and breaks off with, "Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any other gentleman present!"

The law-stationer repeats Jo's statement made to the guests at his house. On coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start and breaks off with, "Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any other gentleman present!"


Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face between himself and the lawyer at a little distance from the table, a person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he himself came in and has not since entered by the door or by either of the windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges have not creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet this third person stands there with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener. He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of about the middle-age. Except that he looks at Mr. Snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is nothing remarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner of appearing.

Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing attentively at a little distance from the table, a person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he came in and who has not entered since. There is a wardrobe in the room, but its hinges have not creaked, nor has a step been audible. Yet this third person stands there with his hat and stick in his hands, a composed and quiet listener. He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed middle-aged man in black. There is nothing remarkable about him but his ghostly manner of appearing.


"Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet way. "This is only Mr. Bucket."

"Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "This is only Mr. Bucket."


"Oh, indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.


"I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because I have half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very intelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?"

"I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because he is very intelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?"


"It's very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on, and he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don't object to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point him out, we can have him here in less than a couple of hours' time. I can do it without Mr. Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way."

"It's very plain, sir. If Mr. Snagsby don't object to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point this boy out, we can have him here in a couple of hours. I can do it without Mr. Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way."


"Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the lawyer in explanation.


"Is he indeed, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby with a strong tendency in his clump of hair to stand on end.

"Is he indeed, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby with some alarm.


"And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the place in question," pursues the lawyer, "I shall feel obliged to you if you will do so."

"And if you have no objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the place in question," pursues the lawyer, "I shall feel obliged if you will do so."


In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dips down to the bottom of his mind.

As Mr. Snagsby hesitates, Bucket reads his mind.


"Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. "You won't do that. It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, and he'll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It'll be a good job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him; you an't going to do that."

"Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," says Bucket. "You won't do that. We shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so, and he'll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It'll be a good job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him."


"Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!" cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully. And reassured, "Since that's the case--"

"Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!" cries Mr. Snagsby, reassured.


"Yes! And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking him aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a confidential tone. "You're a man of the world, you know, and a man of business, and a man of sense. That's what YOU are."

"And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking him by the arm, and speaking in a confidential tone. "You're a man of the world, and a man of business, and a man of sense."


"I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returns the stationer with his cough of modesty, "but--"

"I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returns the stationer with his cough of modesty, "but-"


"That's what YOU are, you know," says Bucket. "Now, it an't necessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had an uncle in your business once)--it an't necessary to say to a man like you that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. Don't you see? Quiet!"

"That's what you are, you know," says Bucket. "Now, it an't necessary to say to a man like you that it's best and wisest to keep little matters like this quiet. Quiet!"


"Certainly, certainly," returns the other.


"I don't mind telling YOU," says Bucket with an engaging appearance of frankness, "that as far as I can understand it, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that property, don't you see?"

"I don't mind telling you," says Bucket with an engaging appearance of frankness, "that as far as I can understand, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that property, don't you see?"


"Oh!" says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.


"Now, what YOU want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is that every person should have their rights according to justice. That's what YOU want."

"Now, what you want," pursues Bucket, tapping Mr. Snagsby on the breast in a comfortable manner, "is that every person should have their rights according to justice."


"To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod.


"On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you call it, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle used to call it."


"Why, I generally say customer myself," replies Mr. Snagsby.


"You're right!" returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quite affectionately. "--On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to Tom-all-Alone's and to keep the whole thing quiet ever afterwards and never mention it to any one. That's about your intentions, if I understand you?"

"On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to Tom-all-Alone's and to keep the whole thing quiet afterwards and never mention it to anyone. That's your intention, if I understand you?"


"You are right, sir. You are right," says Mr. Snagsby.


"Then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimate with it as if he had made it; "and if you're ready, I am."

"Then here's your hat," returns his new friend; "and if you're ready, I am."


They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of his unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into the streets.

They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn drinking his old wine, and go down into the streets.


"You don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of Gridley, do you?" says Bucket in friendly converse as they descend the stairs.

"You don't happen to know a good sort of person of the name of Gridley, do you?" says Bucket in friendly converse as they descend the stairs.


"No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering, "I don't know anybody of that name. Why?"

"No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering. "Why?"


"Nothing particular," says Bucket; "only having allowed his temper to get a little the better of him and having been threatening some respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant I have got against him--which it's a pity that a man of sense should do."

"Nothing particular," says Bucket; "only having allowed his temper to get a little the better of him and having been threatening some respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant I have got against him."


As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, that however quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed purpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply, at the very last moment. Now and then, when they pass a police-constable on his beat, Mr. Snagsby notices that both the constable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come towards each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, and to gaze into space. In a few instances, Mr. Bucket, coming behind some under-sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleek hair twisted into one flat curl on each side of his head, almost without glancing at him touches him with his stick, upon which the young man, looking round, instantly evaporates. For the most part Mr. Bucket notices things in general, with a face as unchanging as the great mourning ring on his little finger or the brooch, composed of not much diamond and a good deal of setting, which he wears in his shirt.

As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes that however quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is going to turn right or left, he pretends to have a fixed purpose of going straight ahead, and wheels off sharply at the very last moment.
Now and then, when they pass a police-constable on his beat, Mr. Snagsby notices that both the constable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come towards each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, and to gaze into space. In a few instances, Mr. Bucket, coming behind some under-sized young man with a shining hat on his sleek hair, almost without glancing at him touches him with his stick, upon which the young man, looking round, instantly evaporates.


When they come at last to Tom-all-Alone's, Mr. Bucket stops for a moment at the corner and takes a lighted bull's-eye from the constable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his own particular bull's-eye at his waist. Between his two conductors, Mr. Snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street, undrained, unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water--though the roads are dry elsewhere--and reeking with such smells and sights that he, who has lived in London all his life, can scarce believe his senses. Branching from this street and its heaps of ruins are other streets and courts so infamous that Mr. Snagsby sickens in body and mind and feels as if he were going every moment deeper down into the infernal gulf.

When they come at last to Tom-all-Alone's, Mr. Bucket stops for a moment at the corner and takes a lighted bull's-eye lantern from the constable on duty there, who then accompanies him. Between his two conductors, Mr. Snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street, undrained, unventilated, deep in black mud, and filthy, reeking with such smells and sights that he, who has lived in London all his life, can scarce believe his senses. Branching from this street and its heaps of ruins are other streets and courts so infamous that Mr. Snagsby sickens in body and mind and feels as if he were going down into the infernal gulf.


"Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket as a kind of shabby palanquin is borne towards them, surrounded by a noisy crowd. "Here's the fever coming up the street!"

"Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket as a kind of shabby litter is carried towards them, surrounded by a noisy crowd. "Here's the fever coming up the street!"


As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object of attraction, hovers round the three visitors like a dream of horrible faces and fades away up alleys and into ruins and behind walls, and with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning, thenceforth flits about them until they leave the place.

As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd hovers round the three visitors like a dream of horrible faces and then fades away up alleys and into ruins and behind walls.


"Are those the fever-houses, Darby?" Mr. Bucket coolly asks as he turns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins.

"Are those the fever-houses, Darby?" Mr. Bucket coolly asks.


Darby replies that "all them are," and further that in all, for months and months, the people "have been down by dozens" and have been carried out dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." Bucket observing to Mr. Snagsby as they go on again that he looks a little poorly, Mr. Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathe the dreadful air.

Darby replies that for months, the people "have been down by dozens" and have been carried out dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." Mr. Snagsby feels as if he can't breathe.


There is inquiry made at various houses for a boy named Jo. As few people are known in Tom-all-Alone's by any Christian sign, there is much reference to Mr. Snagsby whether he means Carrots, or the Colonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or the Brick. Mr. Snagsby describes over and over again. There are conflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. Some think it must be Carrots, some say the Brick. The Colonel is produced, but is not at all near the thing. Whenever Mr. Snagsby and his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and from its squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to Mr. Bucket. Whenever they move, and the angry bull's-eyes glare, it fades away and flits about them up the alleys, and in the ruins, and behind the walls, as before.

Inquiry is made at various houses for a boy named Jo. Mr. Snagsby is asked whether he means Carrots, or the Colonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or the Brick. Mr. Snagsby describes him over and over again. Some think it must be Carrots, some say the Brick. Whenever the three are stationary, the crowd flows round them. Whenever they move, the crowd flits away up alleys, and into ruins, and behind walls, as before.


At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the Tough Subject, lays him down at night; and it is thought that the Tough Subject may be Jo. Comparison of notes between Mr. Snagsby and the proprietress of the house--a drunken face tied up in a black bundle, and flaring out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-hutch which is her private apartment--leads to the establishment of this conclusion. Toughy has gone to the doctor's to get a bottle of stuff for a sick woman but will be here anon.

At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the Tough Subject, lays him down at night; it is thought that he may be Jo. The proprietress of the house says Toughy has gone to the doctor's to get a bottle of stuff for a sick woman but will be here soon.


"And who have we got here to-night?" says Mr. Bucket, opening another door and glaring in with his bull's-eye. "Two drunken men, eh? And two women? The men are sound enough," turning back each sleeper's arm from his face to look at him. "Are these your good men, my dears?"

"And who have we got here tonight?" says Mr. Bucket, opening another door and glaring in with his lantern. "Two drunken men, eh? And two women? Are these your good men, my dears?"


"Yes, sir," returns one of the women. "They are our husbands."


"What are you doing here? You don't belong to London."


"We walked up yesterday. There's no work down with us at present, but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, I expect."

"We walked up yesterday. There's no work there, but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, I expect."


"That's not the way to do much good," says Mr. Bucket, turning his head in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground.

"That's not the way to do much good," says Mr. Bucket, turning his head towards the unconscious figures on the ground.


"It an't indeed," replies the woman with a sigh. "Jenny and me knows it full well."


The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so low that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the blackened ceiling if he stood upright. It is offensive to every sense; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the polluted air. There are a couple of benches and a higher bench by way of table. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken is a very young child.

The room is so low that the head of the tallest visitor would touch the blackened ceiling if he stood upright. The candle burns sickly in the polluted air. There are a couple of benches and a table. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken is a baby.


"Why, what age do you call that little creature?" says Bucket. "It looks as if it was born yesterday." He is not at all rough about it; and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr. Snagsby is strangely reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that he has seen in pictures.

"What age is that little creature?" says Bucket. "It looks as if it was born yesterday." He turns his light gently on the infant.


"He is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman.


The other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, stoops down again and kisses it as it lies asleep.

The other woman stoops down and kisses it as it lies asleep.


"You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself," says Mr. Bucket.


"I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died."


"Ah, Jenny, Jenny!" says the other woman to her. "Better so. Much better to think of dead than alive, Jenny! Much better!"

"Ah, Jenny, Jenny!" says the other woman to her. "Better so. Much better!"


"Why, you an't such an unnatural woman, I hope," returns Bucket sternly, "as to wish your own child dead?"


"God knows you are right, master," she returns. "I am not. I'd stand between it and death with my own life if I could, as true as any pretty lady."

"I am not, master," she returns. "I'd stand between it and death with my own life if I could, as true as any lady."


"Then don't talk in that wrong manner," says Mr. Bucket, mollified again. "Why do you do it?"

"Then why do you talk in that wrong manner?" says Mr. Bucket.


"It's brought into my head, master," returns the woman, her eyes filling with tears, "when I look down at the child lying so. If it was never to wake no more, you'd think me mad, I should take on so. I know that very well. I was with Jenny when she lost hers--warn't I, Jenny?--and I know how she grieved. But look around you at this place. Look at them," glancing at the sleepers on the ground. "Look at the boy you're waiting for, who's gone out to do me a good turn. Think of the children that your business lays with often and often, and that YOU see grow up!"

"If it was never to wake no more, you'd think me mad, I should take on so," returns the woman, her eyes filling with tears. "I know that very well. I was with Jenny when she lost hers, and I know how she grieved. But look around you at this place. Look at the boy you're waiting for, who's gone out to do me a good turn. Think of the children that you come across in your business, and that you see grow up!"


"Well, well," says Mr. Bucket, "you train him respectable, and he'll be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, you know."

"Well, well," says Mr. Bucket, "you train him respectable, and he'll be a comfort to you."


"I mean to try hard," she answers, wiping her eyes. "But I have been a-thinking, being over-tired to-night and not well with the ague, of all the many things that'll come in his way. My master will be against it, and he'll be beat, and see me beat, and made to fear his home, and perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him ever so much, and ever so hard, there's no one to help me; and if he should be turned bad 'spite of all I could do, and the time should come when I should sit by him in his sleep, made hard and changed, an't it likely I should think of him as he lies in my lap now and wish he had died as Jenny's child died!"

"I mean to try hard," she answers, wiping her eyes. "But I have been a-thinking, being over-tired and ill with the ague, of all the things that'll come in his way. My master will be against it, and he'll be beat, and see me beat, and made to fear his home, and perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him ever so much, there's no one to help me; and if he should be turned bad in spite of all I could do, and made hard and changed, an't it likely I should think of him as he lies in my lap now and wish he had died!"


"There, there!" says Jenny. "Liz, you're tired and ill. Let me take him."


In doing so, she displaces the mother's dress, but quickly readjusts it over the wounded and bruised bosom where the baby has been lying.

In doing so, she moves the mother's dress, but quickly readjusts it over the bruised bosom where the baby has been lying.


"It's my dead child," says Jenny, walking up and down as she nurses, "that makes me love this child so dear, and it's my dead child that makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of its being taken away from her now. While she thinks that, I think what fortune would I give to have my darling back. But we mean the same thing, if we knew how to say it, us two mothers does in our poor hearts!"

"It's my dead child," says Jenny, walking up and down as she nurses, "that makes us both love this child so dear. She thinks of its being taken away from her, and I think what fortune would I give to have my darling back. But we mean the same thing in our poor hearts!"


As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathy, a step is heard without. Mr. Bucket throws his light into the doorway and says to Mr. Snagsby, "Now, what do you say to Toughy? Will HE do?"

As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathy, a step is heard outside. Mr. Bucket shines his light into the doorway and says to Mr. Snagsby, "Now, what do you say to Toughy? Will he do?"


Jo stands amazed in the disk of light, like a ragged figure in a magic-lantern, trembling to think that he has offended against the law in not having moved on far enough. Mr. Snagsby, however, giving him the consolatory assurance, "It's only a job you will be paid for, Jo," he recovers; and on being taken outside by Mr. Bucket for a little private confabulation, tells his tale satisfactorily, though out of breath.

Jo stands amazed in the disk of light, trembling to think that he has offended against the law in not having moved on far enough. Mr. Snagsby, however, assuring him, "It's only a job you will be paid for, Jo," he recovers; and on being taken outside by Mr. Bucket, tells his tale satisfactorily.


"I have squared it with the lad," says Mr. Bucket, returning, "and it's all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby, we're ready for you."

"I have squared it with the lad," says Mr. Bucket, returning, "and it's all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby, we're ready to go."


First, Jo has to complete his errand of good nature by handing over the physic he has been to get, which he delivers with the laconic verbal direction that "it's to be all took d'rectly." Secondly, Mr. Snagsby has to lay upon the table half a crown, his usual panacea for an immense variety of afflictions. Thirdly, Mr. Bucket has to take Jo by the arm a little above the elbow and walk him on before him, without which observance neither the Tough Subject nor any other Subject could be professionally conducted to Lincoln's Inn Fields. These arrangements completed, they give the women good night and come out once more into black and foul Tom-all-Alone's.

First, Jo has to complete his errand of good nature by handing over the medicine he has been to get, which he delivers with the instruction that "it's to be all took d'rectly." Secondly, Mr. Snagsby has to lay upon the table half a crown. Thirdly, Mr. Bucket has to take Jo by the arm above the elbow and walk him on before him, so that he is professionally conducted to Lincoln's Inn Fields. They give the women good night and come out once more into black and foul Tom-all-Alone's.


By the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit, they gradually emerge from it, the crowd flitting, and whistling, and skulking about them until they come to the verge, where restoration of the bull's-eyes is made to Darby. Here the crowd, like a concourse of imprisoned demons, turns back, yelling, and is seen no more. Through the clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to Mr. Snagsby's mind as now, they walk and ride until they come to Mr. Tulkinghorn's gate.

By the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit, they gradually emerge from it, the crowd flitting and skulking about them until it turns back, yelling like a concourse of imprisoned demons, and is seen no more. Through the clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to Mr. Snagsby's mind as now, they walk and ride to Mr. Tulkinghorn's gate.


As they ascend the dim stairs (Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers being on the first floor), Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key of the outer door in his pocket and that there is no need to ring. For a man so expert in most things of that kind, Bucket takes time to open the door and makes some noise too. It may be that he sounds a note of preparation.

As they ascend the dim stairs to Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers, Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key and that there is no need to ring. He takes time to open the door and makes some noise too. It may be that he sounds a note of preparation.


Howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning, and so into Mr. Tulkinghorn's usual room--the room where he drank his old wine to-night. He is not there, but his two old-fashioned candlesticks are, and the room is tolerably light.

They come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning, and so into Mr. Tulkinghorn's usual room. He is not there, but his two old-fashioned candlesticks are, and the room is reasonably light.


Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo and appearing to Mr. Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes a little way into this room, when Jo starts and stops.

Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo, goes a little way into this room, when Jo starts and stops.


"What's the matter?" says Bucket in a whisper.


A female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the room, where the light falls upon it. It is quite still and silent. The front of the figure is towards them, but it takes no notice of their entrance and remains like a statue.


"Now, tell me," says Bucket aloud, "how you know that to be the lady."

"Now, tell me," says Bucket, "how you know that to be the lady."


"I know the wale," replies Jo, staring, "and the bonnet, and the gownd."


"Be quite sure of what you say, Tough," returns Bucket, narrowly observant of him. "Look again."

"Be quite sure of what you say," returns Bucket, narrowly observing him. "Look again."


"I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look," says Jo with starting eyes, "and that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd."


"What about those rings you told me of?" asks Bucket.


"A-sparkling all over here," says Jo, rubbing the fingers of his left hand on the knuckles of his right without taking his eyes from the figure.

"A-sparkling all over here," says Jo, rubbing the fingers of his left hand on the knuckles of his right.


The figure removes the right-hand glove and shows the hand.


"Now, what do you say to that?" asks Bucket.


Jo shakes his head. "Not rings a bit like them. Not a hand like that."


"What are you talking of?" says Bucket, evidently pleased though, and well pleased too.

"What do you mean?" says Bucket, evidently pleased though.


"Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller," returns Jo.

"Hand was a deal whiter, and delicater, and smaller," returns Jo.


"Why, you'll tell me I'm my own mother next," says Mr. Bucket. "Do you recollect the lady's voice?"


The figure speaks. "Was it at all like this? I will speak as long as you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at all like this voice?"

The figure speaks. "Was it at all like this? I will speak as long as you like if you are not sure. Was it like this voice?"


Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. "Not a bit!"


"Then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, "did you say it was the lady for?"

"Then, what," he retorts, pointing to the figure, "did you say it was the lady for?"


"Cos," says Jo with a perplexed stare but without being at all shaken in his certainty, "cos that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd. It is her and it an't her. It an't her hand, nor yet her rings, nor yet her woice. But that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she wore 'em, and it's her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it."

"Cos," says Jo with a perplexed stare, "cos that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd. It is her and it an't her. It an't her hand, nor yet her rings, nor yet her woice. But that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she wore 'em, and she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it."


"Well!" says Mr. Bucket slightly, "we haven't got much good out of YOU. But, however, here's five shillings for you. Take care how you spend it, and don't get yourself into trouble." Bucket stealthily tells the coins from one hand into the other like counters--which is a way he has, his principal use of them being in these games of skill--and then puts them, in a little pile, into the boy's hand and takes him out to the door, leaving Mr. Snagsby, not by any means comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, alone with the veiled figure. But on Mr. Tulkinghorn's coming into the room, the veil is raised and a sufficiently good-looking Frenchwoman is revealed, though her expression is something of the intensest.

"Well!" says Mr. Bucket, "we haven't got much good out of you. However, here's five shillings for you. Take care how you spend it, and don't get yourself into trouble." Bucket puts the coins into the boy's hand and takes him out, leaving Mr. Snagsby uncomfortably alone with the veiled figure.
But on Mr. Tulkinghorn's coming into the room, the veil is raised and a good-looking Frenchwoman is revealed, though her expression is somewhat intense.


"Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense," says Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual equanimity. "I will give you no further trouble about this little wager."


"You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at present placed?" says mademoiselle.

"You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at present employed?" says mademoiselle.


"And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished recommendation?"

"And to give me the favour of your recommendation?"


"A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful."


"It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle."

"It shall not be lacking, mademoiselle."


"Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir."

"You have my devoted gratitude, dear sir."


Mademoiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and Mr. Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom of the ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows her downstairs, not without gallantry.

Mademoiselle goes out; and Mr. Bucket shows her downstairs.


"Well, Bucket?" quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return.

"Well, Bucket?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return.


"It's all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There an't a doubt that it was the other one with this one's dress on. The boy was exact respecting colours and everything. Mr. Snagsby, I promised you as a man that he should be sent away all right. Don't say it wasn't done!"

"There an't a doubt that it was the other one with this one's dress on. The boy was exact respecting colours and everything. Mr. Snagsby, I promised you that he should be sent away all right!"


"You have kept your word, sir," returns the stationer; "and if I can be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my little woman will be getting anxious--"

"You have kept your word, sir," returns the stationer; "and if I can be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my little woman will be getting anxious-"


"Thank you, Snagsby, no further use," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I am quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already."

"Thank you, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I am indebted to you for the trouble you have taken."


"Not at all, sir. I wish you good night."


"You see, Mr. Snagsby," says Mr. Bucket, accompanying him to the door and shaking hands with him over and over again, "what I like in you is that you're a man it's of no use pumping; that's what YOU are. When you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it's done with and gone, and there's an end of it. That's what YOU do."

"You see, Mr. Snagsby," says Mr. Bucket, accompanying him to the door and shaking hands with him, "what I like in you is that when you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and there's an end of it. That's what you do."


"That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby.

"That is certainly what I try to do, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby.


"No, you don't do yourself justice. It an't what you endeavour to do," says Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him in the tenderest manner, "it's what you DO. That's what I estimate in a man in your way of business."

"No, you don't do yourself justice. It an't what you try to do," says Mr. Bucket, still shaking hands, "it's what you do."


Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward so confused by the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being awake and out--doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he goes--doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him. He is presently reassured on these subjects by the unchallengeable reality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect beehive of curl-papers and night-cap, who has dispatched Guster to the police-station with official intelligence of her husband's being made away with, and who within the last two hours has passed through every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. But as the little woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it!

Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward so confused by the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being awake - doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he goes. He is presently reassured by the unchallengeable reality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect beehive of curl-papers and night-cap. She has dispatched Guster to the police-station to tell them her husband has been made away with, and within the last two hours has passed through every stage of swooning. But as the little woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it!


Inspector Bucket of the Detective has not yet struck his great blow, as just now chronicled, but is yet refreshing himself with sleep preparatory to his field-day, when through the night and along the freezing wintry roads a chaise and pair comes out of Lincolnshire, making its way towards London.

Inspector Bucket has not yet struck his great blow, as just now chronicled, but is still asleep, when through the night and along the freezing wintry roads a chaise and pair comes out of Lincolnshire, making its way towards London.


Railroads shall soon traverse all this country, and with a rattle and a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over the wide night-landscape, turning the moon paler; but as yet such things are non-existent in these parts, though not wholly unexpected. Preparations are afoot, measurements are made, ground is staked out. Bridges are begun, and their not yet united piers desolately look at one another over roads and streams like brick and mortar couples with an obstacle to their union; fragments of embankments are thrown up and left as precipices with torrents of rusty carts and barrows tumbling over them; tripods of tall poles appear on hilltops, where there are rumours of tunnels; everything looks chaotic and abandoned in full hopelessness. Along the freezing roads, and through the night, the post-chaise makes its way without a railroad on its mind.

Railroads shall soon traverse all this country, and with a rattle and glare the train shall shoot like a meteor over the wide night-landscape; but as yet such things are non-existent in these parts. Along the freezing roads, and through the night, the post-chaise makes its way without a railroad on its mind.


Mrs. Rouncewell, so many years housekeeper at Chesney Wold, sits within the chaise; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet with her grey cloak and umbrella. The old girl would prefer the bar in front, as being exposed to the weather and a primitive sort of perch more in accordance with her usual course of travelling, but Mrs. Rouncewell is too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her proposing it. The old lady cannot make enough of the old girl. She sits, in her stately manner, holding her hand, and regardless of its roughness, puts it often to her lips. "You are a mother, my dear soul," says she many times, "and you found out my George's mother!"

Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold, sits within the chaise; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet with her grey cloak and umbrella. The old girl would prefer to be up in front, exposed to the weather, but Mrs. Rouncewell is too thoughtful of her comfort to propose it. The old lady cannot make enough of the old girl. She sits, in her stately manner, holding her hand, and puts it often to her lips. "You are a mother, my dear soul," says she, "and you found my George's mother!"


"Why, George," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "was always free with me, ma'am, and when he said at our house to my Woolwich that of all the things my Woolwich could have to think of when he grew to be a man, the comfortablest would be that he had never brought a sorrowful line into his mother's face or turned a hair of her head grey, then I felt sure, from his way, that something fresh had brought his own mother into his mind. I had often known him say to me, in past times, that he had behaved bad to her."

"Why," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "when George said to my Woolwich that when he grew to be a man, he hoped he would have never brought a sorrowful line into his mother's face or turned a hair of her head grey, then I felt sure that something fresh had brought his own mother into his mind. He had often told me that he had behaved bad to her."


"Never, my dear!" returns Mrs. Rouncewell, bursting into tears. "My blessing on him, never! He was always fond of me, and loving to me, was my George! But he had a bold spirit, and he ran a little wild and went for a soldier. And I know he waited at first, in letting us know about himself, till he should rise to be an officer; and when he didn't rise, I know he considered himself beneath us, and wouldn't be a disgrace to us. For he had a lion heart, had my George, always from a baby!"

"Never, my dear!" returns Mrs. Rouncewell, bursting into tears. "He was always loving to me, was my George! But he had a bold spirit, and he ran a little wild and went for a soldier. When he didn't rise to be an officer, I know he considered he had disgraced us. For he had a lion heart, had my George, always, from a baby!"


The old lady's hands stray about her as of yore, while she recalls, all in a tremble, what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay good-humoured clever lad he was; how they all took to him down at Chesney Wold; how Sir Leicester took to him when he was a young gentleman; how the dogs took to him; how even the people who had been angry with him forgave him the moment he was gone, poor boy. And now to see him after all, and in a prison too! And the broad stomacher heaves, and the quaint upright old-fashioned figure bends under its load of affectionate distress.

The old lady recalls, all in a tremble, what a fine, likely lad he was; how they all took to him down at Chesney Wold; how Sir Leicester took to him; the dogs took to him; even the people who had been angry with him forgave him the moment he was gone, poor boy. And now to see him in a prison! The quaint, upright, old-fashioned figure bends under its load of affectionate distress.


Mrs. Bagnet, with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart, leaves the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while--not without passing the back of her hand across her own motherly eyes--and presently chirps up in her cheery manner, "So I says to George when I goes to call him in to tea (he pretended to be smoking his pipe outside), 'What ails you this afternoon, George, for gracious sake? I have seen all sorts, and I have seen you pretty often in season and out of season, abroad and at home, and I never see you so melancholy penitent.' 'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George, 'it's because I AM melancholy and penitent both, this afternoon, that you see me so.' 'What have you done, old fellow?' I says. 'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George, shaking his head, 'what I have done has been done this many a long year, and is best not tried to be undone now. If I ever get to heaven it won't be for being a good son to a widowed mother; I say no more.' Now, ma'am, when George says to me that it's best not tried to be undone now, I have my thoughts as I have often had before, and I draw it out of George how he comes to have such things on him that afternoon. Then George tells me that he has seen by chance, at the lawyer's office, a fine old lady that has brought his mother plain before him, and he runs on about that old lady till he quite forgets himself and paints her picture to me as she used to be, years upon years back. So I says to George when he has done, who is this old lady he has seen? And George tells me it's Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper for more than half a century to the Dedlock family down at Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire. George has frequently told me before that he's a Lincolnshire man, and I says to my old Lignum that night, 'Lignum, that's his mother for five and for-ty pound!'"

Mrs. Bagnet, with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart, leaves the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while, and presently chirps up in her cheery manner.
"So I says to George when I goes to call him in to tea, 'What ails you this afternoon, George? 'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George, 'I am melancholy and penitent this afternoon. If I ever get to heaven it won't be for being a good son to a widowed mother; I say no more.' Now, ma'am, I draw it out of George how he comes to have such things on his mind. Then George tells me that he has seen by chance, at the lawyer's office, a fine old lady that has brought his mother plain before him. So I says to George, who is this old lady? And George tells me it's Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper for half a century to the Dedlock family down at Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire. George is a Lincolnshire man, and I says to my old Lignum that night, 'Lignum, that's his mother for five and forty pound!'"


All this Mrs. Bagnet now relates for the twentieth time at least within the last four hours. Trilling it out like a kind of bird, with a pretty high note, that it may be audible to the old lady above the hum of the wheels.


"Bless you, and thank you," says Mrs. Rouncewell. "Bless you, and thank you, my worthy soul!"


"Dear heart!" cries Mrs. Bagnet in the most natural manner. "No thanks to me, I am sure. Thanks to yourself, ma'am, for being so ready to pay 'em! And mind once more, ma'am, what you had best do on finding George to be your own son is to make him--for your sake--have every sort of help to put himself in the right and clear himself of a charge of which he is as innocent as you or me. It won't do to have truth and justice on his side; he must have law and lawyers," exclaims the old girl, apparently persuaded that the latter form a separate establishment and have dissolved partnership with truth and justice for ever and a day.

"No thanks to me, I am sure!" cries Mrs. Bagnet. "Mind, ma'am, what you had best do is to make George have every sort of help to clear himself of a charge of which he is innocent. It won't do to have truth and justice on his side; he must have lawyers," exclaims the old girl, apparently persuaded that the latter have dissolved partnership with truth and justice for ever.


"He shall have," says Mrs. Rouncewell, "all the help that can be got for him in the world, my dear. I will spend all I have, and thankfully, to procure it. Sir Leicester will do his best, the whole family will do their best. I--I know something, my dear; and will make my own appeal, as his mother parted from him all these years, and finding him in a jail at last."

"He shall have all the help that can be got for him, my dear," says Mrs. Rouncewell. "I will thankfully spend all I have to get it. Sir Leicester will do his best, the whole family will do their best. I - I know something, my dear; and will make my own appeal, as his mother."


The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper's manner in saying this, her broken words, and her wringing of her hands make a powerful impression on Mrs. Bagnet and would astonish her but that she refers them all to her sorrow for her son's condition. And yet Mrs. Bagnet wonders too why Mrs. Rouncewell should murmur so distractedly, "My Lady, my Lady, my Lady!" over and over again.

The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper in saying this, her broken words, and her wringing of her hands make a powerful impression on Mrs. Bagnet, but she assumes they are through sorrow for her son's condition. And yet Mrs. Bagnet wonders why Mrs. Rouncewell should murmur so distractedly, "My Lady, my Lady!" over and over again.


The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post-chaise comes rolling on through the early mist like the ghost of a chaise departed. It has plenty of spectral company in ghosts of trees and hedges, slowly vanishing and giving place to the realities of day. London reached, the travellers alight, the old housekeeper in great tribulation and confusion, Mrs. Bagnet quite fresh and collected--as she would be if her next point, with no new equipage and outfit, were the Cape of Good Hope, the Island of Ascension, Hong Kong, or any other military station.

The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post-chaise comes rolling on through the early mist. The travellers reach London and alight.


But when they set out for the prison where the trooper is confined, the old lady has managed to draw about her, with her lavender-coloured dress, much of the staid calmness which is its usual accompaniment. A wonderfully grave, precise, and handsome piece of old china she looks, though her heart beats fast and her stomacher is ruffled more than even the remembrance of this wayward son has ruffled it these many years.

When they set out for the prison, the old lady looks staid and calm again, although her heart beats fast.


Approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder in the act of coming out. The old girl promptly makes a sign of entreaty to him to say nothing; assenting with a nod, he suffers them to enter as he shuts the door.

Approaching the cell, they find a warder coming out. He allows them to enter and shuts the door.


So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to be alone, does not raise his eyes, but remains absorbed. The old housekeeper looks at him, and those wandering hands of hers are quite enough for Mrs. Bagnet's confirmation, even if she could see the mother and the son together, knowing what she knows, and doubt their relationship.

So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to be alone, does not raise his eyes. The old housekeeper looks at him.