He put his hands together as he had been used to do at his prayers.  He did not remove his arms to do it, but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck,

“Mama is like you, Floy.  I know her by the face.  But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough.  The light about the head is shining on me as I go.”

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room.  The old, old fashion.  The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll.  The old, old fashion—­Death.

Oh, thank God for that older fashion yet,—­of Immortality!

PIP

[Illustration:  PIP AND MISS HAVISHAM.]

My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing more explicit than Pip.  So I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.

My mother and father both being dead, I was brought up by my sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, who was more than twenty years older than I, and a veritable shrew by nature.  She had acquired a great reputation among the neighbours because she had brought me up by hand.  Not understanding this expression, and knowing her to have a hard and heavy hand, and to be much in the habit of laying it upon her husband as well as upon me, I supposed that Joe Gargery and I were both brought up by hand.

Joe, her husband, was a mild, good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow, with light curly hair and blue eyes, and he and I were great chums, as well as fellow-sufferers under the rule of my sharp-tongued sister.

One afternoon I was wandering in the church-yard where my mother and father were buried, when I was accosted by a fearful man all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg.  He wore no hat and had broken shoes, and an old rag tied round his head.  He limped and shivered, and glared and growled, his teeth chattering, as he seized me by the chin.

“O don’t cut my throat, sir!” I pleaded in terror.  “Pray don’t do it, sir!”

“Tell us your name,” said the man, “quick!”

“Pip, sir,”

“Show us where you live,” he said.  “Point out the place!”

I pointed to where our village lay, and then the man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down and emptied my pockets, but there was nothing in them except a piece of bread.  When the church came to itself, for he was so sudden and strong that he made it go head over heels before me,—­I was seated on a high tombstone trembling, while he ate the bread ravenously.  Then he came nearer to my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me, looking into my eyes.