of some unpretending and suitable little place to lay his own head in.  I therefore caused such a place to be looked out for, and such a place was found on very easy terms, and I have been touching it up for him and making it habitable.  However, when I walked over it the day before yesterday and it was reported ready, I found that I was not housekeeper enough to know whether things were all as they ought to be.  So I sent off for the best little housekeeper that could possibly be got to come and give me her advice and opinion.  And here she is,” said my guardian, “laughing and crying both together!”

Because he was so dear, so good, so admirable.  I tried to tell him what I thought of him, but I could not articulate a word.

“Tut, tut!” said my guardian.  “You make too much of it, little woman.  Why, how you sob, Dame Durden, how you sob!”

“It is with exquisite pleasure, guardian—­with a heart full of thanks.”

“Well, well,” said he.  “I am delighted that you approve.  I thought you would.  I meant it as a pleasant surprise for the little mistress of Bleak House.”

I kissed him and dried my eyes.  “I know now!” said I.  “I have seen this in your face a long while.”

“No; have you really, my dear?” said he.  “What a Dame Durden it is to read a face!”

He was so quaintly cheerful that I could not long be otherwise, and was almost ashamed of having been otherwise at all.  When I went to bed, I cried.  I am bound to confess that I cried; but I hope it was with pleasure, though I am not quite sure it was with pleasure.  I repeated every word of the letter twice over.

A most beautiful summer morning succeeded, and after breakfast we went out arm in arm to see the house of which I was to give my mighty housekeeping opinion.  We entered a flower-garden by a gate in a side wall, of which he had the key, and the first thing I saw was that the beds and flowers were all laid out according to the manner of my beds and flowers at home.

“You see, my dear,” observed my guardian, standing still with a delighted face to watch my looks, “knowing there could be no better plan, I borrowed yours.”

We went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries were nestling among the green leaves and the shadows of the apple-trees were sporting on the grass, to the house itself—­a cottage, quite a rustic cottage of doll’s rooms; but such a lovely place, so tranquil and so beautiful, with such a rich and smiling country spread around it; with water sparkling away into the distance, here all overhung with summer-growth, there turning a humming mill; at its nearest point glancing through a meadow by the cheerful town, where cricket-players were assembling in bright groups and a flag was flying from a white tent that rippled in the sweet west wind.  And still, as we went through the pretty rooms, out at the little rustic verandah doors, and underneath the tiny wooden colonnades garlanded with woodbine, jasmine, and honey-suckle, I saw in the papering on the walls, in the colours of the furniture, in the arrangement of all the pretty objects, my little tastes and fancies, my little methods and inventions which they used to laugh at while they praised them, my odd ways everywhere.