I must pause yet once again. O, my child-wife, there is a figure in themoving crowd before my memory, quiet and still, saying in its innocentlove and childish beauty, Stop to think of me--turn to look upon theLittle Blossom, as it flutters to the ground!

I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora, in ourcottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it infeeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeksor months; but, in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while.

They have left off telling me to 'wait a few days more'. I have begunto fear, remotely, that the day may never shine, when I shall see mychild-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip.

He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that he misses inhis mistress, something that enlivened him and made him younger; but hemopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt issorry that he objects to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies onDora's bed--she sitting at the bedside--and mildly licks her hand.

Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty orcomplaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her dearold careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunt has nosleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes, thelittle bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about ourwedding-day, and all that happy time.

What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be--and in alllife, within doors and without--when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderlyroom, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and herlittle fingers twining round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus;but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind.

It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt's hands, shows me howher pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long and bright itis, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears.

'Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,' she says, when Ismile; 'but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; andbecause, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in theglass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it.Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!'

'That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you,Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.'

'Ah! but I didn't like to tell you,' says Dora, 'then, how I had criedover them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can run aboutagain as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where wewere such a silly couple, shall we? And take some of the old walks? Andnot forget poor papa?'

'Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to getwell, my dear.'

'Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don't know!'

It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with thesame face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is a smileupon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairsnow. She lies here all the day.

'Doady!'

'My dear Dora!'

'You won't think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what youtold me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being well? Iwant to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.'

'I will write to her, my dear.'

'Will you?'

'Directly.'

'What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear,it's not a whim. It's not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, tosee her!'

'I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure tocome.'

'You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?' Dora whispers, withher arm about my neck.

'How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?'

'My empty chair!' She clings to me for a little while, in silence. 'Andyou really miss me, Doady?' looking up, and brightly smiling. 'Evenpoor, giddy, stupid me?'

'My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?'

'Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!' creeping closer to me, andfolding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet, andquite happy.

'Quite!' she says. 'Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that Iwant very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for.'

'Except to get well again, Dora.'

'Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think--you know I always was a silly littlething!--that that will never be!'

'Don't say so, Dora! Dearest love, don't think so!'

'I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dearboy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife's empty chair!'

It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been amongus for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat withDora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much, but Dorahas been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone.

Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have told meso; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts--but I am far fromsure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I havewithdrawn by myself, many times today, to weep. I have remembered Whowept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have bethought meof all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resignmyself, and to console myself; and that, I hope, I may have doneimperfectly; but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the endwill absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine,I see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out apale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared.

'I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I haveoften thought of saying, lately. You won't mind?' with a gentle look.

'Mind, my darling?'

'Because I don't know what you will think, or what you may have thoughtsometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I amafraid I was too young.'

I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes, andspeaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a strickenheart, that she is speaking of herself as past.

'I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don't mean in years only, butin experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a silly littlecreature! I am afraid it would have been better, if we had only lovedeach other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I have begun to think Iwas not fit to be a wife.'

I try to stay my tears, and to reply, 'Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I to bea husband!'

'I don't know,' with the old shake of her curls. 'Perhaps! But if I hadbeen more fit to be married I might have made you more so, too. Besides,you are very clever, and I never was.'

'We have been very happy, my sweet Dora.'

'I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would havewearied of his child-wife. She would have been less and less a companionfor him. He would have been more and more sensible of what was wantingin his home. She wouldn't have improved. It is better as it is.'

'Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every word seems areproach!'

'No, not a syllable!' she answers, kissing me. 'Oh, my dear, you neverdeserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a reproachful word toyou, in earnest--it was all the merit I had, except being pretty--or youthought me so. Is it lonely, down-stairs, Doady?'

'Very! Very!'

'Don't cry! Is my chair there?'

'In its old place.'

'Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make me one promise. I wantto speak to Agnes. When you go downstairs, tell Agnes so, and send herup to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come--not even aunt.I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes, quitealone.'

I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for mygrief.

'I said that it was better as it is!' she whispers, as she holds me inher arms. 'Oh, Doady, after more years, you never could have loved yourchild-wife better than you do; and, after more years, she would so havetried and disappointed you, that you might not have been able to loveher half so well! I know I was too young and foolish. It is much betteras it is!'

Agnes is downstairs, when I go into the parlour; and I give her themessage. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip.

His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on his bed offlannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high and clear.As I look out on the night, my tears fall fast, and my undisciplinedheart is chastened heavily--heavily.

I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all thosesecret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of everylittle trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that triflesmake the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my remembrance, is theimage of the dear child as I knew her first, graced by my young love,and by her own, with every fascination wherein such love is rich. Wouldit, indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as a boy and agirl, and forgotten it? Undisciplined heart, reply!

How the time wears, I know not; until I am recalled by my child-wife'sold companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out of his house,and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and whines to go upstairs.

'Not tonight, Jip! Not tonight!'

He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his dim eyesto my face.

'Oh, Jip! It may be, never again!'

He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and witha plaintive cry, is dead.

'Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here!' --That face, so full of pity, and ofgrief, that rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that solemnhand upraised towards Heaven!

'Agnes?'

It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all thingsare blotted out of my remembrance.