There was little of especial moment in my first half-term at Salem House, except the quarrel which took place between Steerforth and Mr. Mell; and an unexpected visit from Ham and Mr. Peggotty when I had the delight of introducing those rollicking fellows to Steerforth, whose bright, easy manner charmed them, as it did most persons.

The rest of the half-year is a jumble in my recollection; and then came the holidays, which were spent at home.  I found my mother as tender as of old.  She hugged me and kissed me, and on that first blessed night, as Mr. and Miss Murdstone were away on a visit, mother and Peggotty and I dined together by the fireside in the old fashion.  My mother spoke of herself as a weak, ignorant young thing whom the Murdstones were endeavouring to make as strong in character as themselves.  Then we talked about Salem House and my experiences and friends there, and were very happy.  That evening as the last of its race will never pass out of my memory.  I was at home for a month, but after that first night I felt in the way, for the Murdstones were always with my mother.  On the evening after my return I made a very humble apology to Mr. Murdstone, which he received with cold dignity.  I tried to spend my evenings in the kitchen with Peggotty, but of this Mr. Murdstone did not approve, so I sat wearily in the parlour, waiting for the hours to wear themselves away.  What walks I took alone!  What meals I had in silence and embarrassment!  What dull evenings, poring over tables of weights and measures, and what yawns and dozes I lapsed into in spite of all my care!  Thus the holidays lagged away, until the morning came when Miss Murdstone gave me the closing cup of tea of the vacation.  I was not sorry to go.  I had lapsed into a stupid state; but I was recovering a little and looking foward to Steerforth.  I kissed my mother, and had climbed into the carrier’s cart when I heard her calling me.  I looked back, and she stood at the garden-gate, looking intently at me.

So I lost her.  So I saw her afterwards, in my sleep at school,—­a silent presence near my bed—­looking at me with the same intent face,—­and the vision is still a constant blessing to me.

From then I pass over all that happened at Salem House until my birthday in March.  On the morning of that day I was summoned into Mr. Creakle’s august presence.  Mrs. Creakle was in the room too, and somehow they broke it to me that my mother was very ill.  I knew all now!

“She is dead,” they said.

There was no need to tell me so.  I had already broken out into a desolate cry, and felt an orphan in the wide world.  If ever child were stricken with sincere grief, I was.  But I remember even so, that my sorrow was a kind of satisfaction to me, when I walked in the playground, while the boys were in school, and saw them glancing at me out of the windows, and because of my grief I felt distinguished, and of vast importance.  We had no story-telling that night, and Traddles insisted on lending me his pillow as a guarantee of his sympathy, which I understood and accepted.