“You know the hand,” he said, “and if you are firm enough to read it to me, do!  But be particular to a word.”

It had been written in portions, at different times.  I read what follows: 

“I came to the cottage with two objects.  First, to see the dear one, if I could, once more—­but only to see her—­not to speak to her or let her know that I was near.  The other object, to elude pursuit and to be lost.  Do not blame the mother for her share.  The assistance that she rendered me, she rendered on my strongest assurance that it was for the dear one’s good.  You remember her dead child.  The men’s consent I bought, but her help was freely given.”

“‘I came.’  That was written,” said my companion, “when she rested there.  It bears out what I made of it.  I was right.”

The next was written at another time: 

“I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and I know that I must soon die.  These streets!  I have no purpose but to die.  When I left, I had a worse, but I am saved from adding that guilt to the rest.  Cold, wet, and fatigue are sufficient causes for my being found dead, but I shall die of others, though I suffer from these.  It was right that all that had sustained me should give way at once and that I should die of terror and my conscience.”

“Take courage,” said Mr. Bucket.  “There’s only a few words more.”

Those, too, were written at another time.  To all appearance, almost in the dark: 

“I have done all I could do to be lost.  I shall be soon forgotten so, and shall disgrace him least.  I have nothing about me by which I can be recognized.  This paper I part with now.  The place where I shall lie down, if I can get so far, has been often in my mind.  Farewell.  Forgive.”

Mr. Bucket, supporting me with his arm, lowered me gently into my chair.  “Cheer up!  Don’t think me hard with you, my dear, but as soon as ever you feel equal to it, get your shoes on and be ready.”

I did as he required, but I was left there a long time, praying for my unhappy mother.  They were all occupied with the poor girl, and I heard Mr. Woodcourt directing them and speaking to her often.  At length he came in with Mr. Bucket and said that as it was important to address her gently, he thought it best that I should ask her for whatever information we desired to obtain.  There was no doubt that she could now reply to questions if she were soothed and not alarmed.  The questions, Mr. Bucket said, were how she came by the letter, what passed between her and the person who gave her the letter, and where the person went.  Holding my mind as steadily as I could to these points, I went into the next room with them.  Mr. Woodcourt would have remained outside, but at my solicitation went in with us.

The poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid her down.  They stood around her, though at a little distance, that she might have air.  She was not pretty and looked weak and poor, but she had a plaintive and a good face, though it was still a little wild.  I kneeled on the ground beside her and put her poor head upon my shoulder, whereupon she drew her arm round my neck and burst into tears.