′I used to read to him by the fireside, and he sat listening, and when I stopped and we began to talk, he told me about my mother, and how she once looked and spoke just like me when she was a little child. Then he used to take me on his knee, and try to make me understand that she was not lying in her grave, but had flown to a beautiful country beyond the sky where nothing died or ever grew old—we were very happy once!′
′Nelly, Nelly!′ said the poor woman, ′I can′t bear to see one as young as you so sorrowful. Pray don′t cry.′
′I do so very seldom,′ said Nell,′ but I have kept this to myself a long time, and I am not quite well, I think, for the tears come into my eyes and I cannot keep them back. I don′t mind telling you my grief, for I know you will not tell it to any one again.′
Mrs Quilp turned away her head and made no answer.
′Then,′ said the child, ′we often walked in the fields and among the green trees, and when we came home at night, we liked it better for being tired, and said what a happy place it was. And if it was dark and rather dull, we used to say, what did it matter to us, for it only made us remember our last walk with greater pleasure, and look forward to our next one. But now we never have these walks, and though it is the same house it is darker and much more gloomy than it used to be, indeed!′
She paused here, but though the door creaked more than once, Mrs Quilp said nothing.
′Mind you don′t suppose,′ said the child earnestly, ′that grandfather is less kind to me than he was. I think he loves me better every day, and is kinder and more afectionate than he was the day before. You do not know how fond he is of me!′
′I am sure he loves you dearly,′ said Mrs Quilp.
′Indeed, indeed he does!′ cried Nell, ′as dearly as I love him. But I have not told you the greatest change of all, and this you must never breathe again to any one. He has no sleep or rest, but that which he takes by day in his easy chair; for every night and neary all night long he is away from home.′
′Nelly!′
′Hush!′ said the child, laying her finger on her lip and looking round. ′When he comes home in the morning, which is generally just before day, I let him in. Last night he was very late, and it was quite light. I saw that his face was deadly pale, that his eyes were bloodshot, and that his legs trembled as he walked. When I had gone to bed again, I heard him groan. I got up and ran back to him, and heard him say, before he knew that I was there, that he could not bear his life much longer, and if it was not for the child, would wish to die. What shall I do! Oh! What shall I do!′
The fountains of her heart were opened; the child, overpowered by the weight of her sorrows and anxieties, by the first confidence she had ever shown, and the sympathy with which her little tale had been received, hid her face in the arms of her helpless friend, and burst into a passion of tears.
In a few minutes Mr Quilp returned, and expressed the utmost surprise to find her in this condtiion, which he did very naturally and with admirable effect, for that kind of acting had been rendered familiar to him by long practice, and he was quite at home in it.
′She′s tired you see, Mrs Quilp,′ said the dwarf, squinting in a hideous manner to imply that his wife was to follow his lead.
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