It has inspired me with great

commiseration, and I hope I understand it and its influences. Does

what has passed between us give me any excuse for asking you a

question relative to Estella? Not as she is, but as she was when

she first came here?"

She was seated on the ground, with her arms on the ragged chair,

and her head leaning on them. She looked full at me when I said

this, and replied, "Go on."

"Whose child was Estella?"

She shook her head.

"You don't know?"

She shook her head again.

"But Mr. Jaggers brought her here, or sent her here?"

"Brought her here."

"Will you tell me how that came about?"

She answered in a low whisper and with caution: "I had been shut up

in these rooms a long time (I don't know how long; you know what

time the clocks keep here), when I told him that I wanted a little

girl to rear and love, and save from my fate. I had first seen him

when I sent for him to lay this place waste for me; having read of

him in the newspapers, before I and the world parted. He told me

that he would look about him for such an orphan child. One night he

brought her here asleep, and I called her Estella."

"Might I ask her age then?"

"Two or three. She herself knows nothing, but that she was left an

orphan and I adopted her."

So convinced I was of that woman's being her mother, that I wanted

no evidence to establish the fact in my own mind. But, to any mind,

I thought, the connection here was clear and straight.

What more could I hope to do by prolonging the interview? I had

succeeded on behalf of Herbert, Miss Havisham had told me all she

knew of Estella, I had said and done what I could to ease her mind.

No matter with what other words we parted; we parted.

Twilight was closing in when I went down stairs into the natural

air. I called to the woman who had opened the gate when I entered,

that I would not trouble her just yet, but would walk round the

place before leaving. For, I had a presentiment that I should never

be there again, and I felt that the dying light was suited to my

last view of it.

By the wilderness of casks that I had walked on long ago, and on

which the rain of years had fallen since, rotting them in many

places, and leaving miniature swamps and pools of water upon those

that stood on end, I made my way to the ruined garden. I went all

round it; round by the corner where Herbert and I had fought our

battle; round by the paths where Estella and I had walked. So cold,

so lonely, so dreary all!

Taking the brewery on my way back, I raised the rusty latch of a

little door at the garden end of it, and walked through. I was

going out at the opposite door - not easy to open now, for the damp

wood had started and swelled, and the hinges were yielding, and the

threshold was encumbered with a growth of fungus - when I turned my

head to look back. A childish association revived with wonderful

force in the moment of the slight action, and I fancied that I saw

Miss Havisham hanging to the beam. So strong was the impression,

that I stood under the beam shuddering from head to foot before I

knew it was a fancy - though to be sure I was there in an instant.

The mournfulness of the place and time, and the great terror of

this illusion, though it was but momentary, caused me to feel an

indescribable awe as I came out between the open wooden gates where

I had once wrung my hair after Estella had wrung my heart. Passing

on into the front court-yard, I hesitated whether to call the woman

to let me out at the locked gate of which she had the key, or first

to go up-stairs and assure myself that Miss Havisham was as safe

and well as I had left her. I took the latter course and went up.

I looked into the room where I had left her, and I saw her seated

in the ragged chair upon the hearth close to the fire, with her

back towards me. In the moment when I was withdrawing my head to go

quietly away, I saw a great flaming light spring up.