“Miss Summerson, you’ll understand me, if you think a moment.  They changed clothes at the cottage.”

They changed clothes at the cottage.  I could repeat the words in my mind, and I knew what they meant of themselves, but I attached no meaning to them in any other connexion.

“And one returned,” said Mr. Bucket, “and one went on.  And the one that went on only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive and then turned across country and went home.  Think a moment!”

I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least idea what it meant.  I saw before me, lying on the step, the mother of the dead child.  She lay there with one arm creeping round a bar of the iron gate and seeming to embrace it.  She lay there, who had so lately spoken to my mother.  She lay there, a distressed, unsheltered, senseless creature.  She who had brought my mother’s letter, who could give me the only clue to where my mother was; she, who was to guide us to rescue and save her whom we had sought so far, who had come to this condition by some means connected with my mother that I could not follow, and might be passing beyond our reach and help at that moment; she lay there, and they stopped me!  I saw but did not comprehend the solemn and compassionate look in Mr. Woodcourt’s face.  I saw but did not comprehend his touching the other on the breast to keep him back.  I saw him stand uncovered in the bitter air, with a reverence for something.  But my understanding for all this was gone.

I even heard it said between them, “Shall she go?”

“She had better go.  Her hands should be the first to touch her.  They have a higher right than ours.”

I passed on to the gate and stooped down.  I lifted the heavy head, put the long dank hair aside, and turned the face.  And it was my mother, cold and dead.

CHAPTER LX

Perspective

I proceed to other passages of my narrative.  From the goodness of all about me I derived such consolation as I can never think of unmoved.  I have already said so much of myself, and so much still remains, that I will not dwell upon my sorrow.  I had an illness, but it was not a long one; and I would avoid even this mention of it if I could quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy.

I proceed to other passages of my narrative.

During the time of my illness, we were still in London, where Mrs. Woodcourt had come, on my guardian’s invitation, to stay with us.  When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with him in our old way—­though I could have done that sooner if he would have believed me—­I resumed my work and my chair beside his.  He had appointed the time himself, and we were alone.

“Dame Trot,” said he, receiving me with a kiss, “welcome to the growlery again, my dear.  I have a scheme to develop, little woman.  I propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer time—­as it may be.  Quite to settle here for a while, in short.”