The time was passing, the morning was wearing away.  It was doubtful, if I stayed longer, whether I should hear anything more from Mrs. Clements that would be at all useful to my purpose.  I had already discovered those local and family particulars, in relation to Mrs. Catherick, of which I had been in search, and I had arrived at certain conclusions, entirely new to me, which might immensely assist in directing the course of my future proceedings.  I rose to take my leave, and to thank Mrs. Clements for the friendly readiness she had shown in affording me information.

“I am afraid you must have thought me very inquisitive,” I said.  “I have troubled you with more questions than many people would have cared to answer.”

“You are heartily welcome, sir, to anything I can tell you,” answered Mrs. Clements.  She stopped and looked at me wistfully.  “But I do wish,” said the poor woman, “you could have told me a little more about Anne, sir.  I thought I saw something in your face when you came in which looked as if you could.  You can’t think how hard it is not even to know whether she is living or dead.  I could bear it better if I was only certain.  You said you never expected we should see her alive again.  Do you know, sir—­ do you know for truth—­that it has pleased God to take her?”

I was not proof against this appeal, it would have been unspeakably mean and cruel of me if I had resisted it.

“I am afraid there is no doubt of the truth,” I answered gently; “I have the certainty in my own mind that her troubles in this world are over.”

The poor woman dropped into her chair and hid her face from me.  “Oh, sir,” she said, “how do you know it?  Who can have told you?”

“No one has told me, Mrs. Clements.  But I have reasons for feeling sure of it—­reasons which I promise you shall know as soon as I can safely explain them.  I am certain she was not neglected in her last moments—­I am certain the heart complaint from which she suffered so sadly was the true cause of her death.  You shall feel as sure of this as I do, soon—­you shall know, before long, that she is buried in a quiet country churchyard—­in a pretty, peaceful place, which you might have chosen for her yourself.”

“Dead!” said Mrs. Clements, “dead so young, and I am left to hear it!  I made her first short frocks.  I taught her to walk.  The first time she ever said Mother she said it to me—­and now I am left and Anne is taken!  Did you say, sir,” said the poor woman, removing the handkerchief from her face, and looking up at me for the first time, “did you say that she had been nicely buried?  Was it the sort of funeral she might have had if she had really been my own child?”

I assured her that it was.  She seemed to take an inexplicable pride in my answer—­to find a comfort in it which no other and higher considerations could afford.  “It would have broken my heart,” she said simply, “if Anne had not been nicely buried—­but how do you know it, sir? who told you?” I once more entreated her to wait until I could speak to her unreservedly.  “You are sure to see me again,” I said, “for I have a favour to ask when you are a little more composed—­perhaps in a day or two.”