I used to sit with folded hands watching him, and counting his footsteps, hour after hour. He very seldom spoke to her, and never to me. He seemed to be the only restless thing, except the clocks, in the whole motionless house.

In these days before the funeral, I saw but little of Peggotty, except that, in passing up or down stairs, I always found her close to the room where my mother and her baby lay, and except that she came to me every night, and sat by my bed’s head while I went to sleep.

A day or two before the burial — I think it was a day or two before, but I am conscious of confusion in my mind about that heavy time, with nothing to mark its progress — she took me into the room. I only recollect that underneath some white covering on the bed, with a beautiful