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

“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.”

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.

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!”

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