And I

took him down to the churchyard, and set him on a certain tombstone

there, and he showed me from that elevation which stone was sacred

to the memory of Philip Pirrip, late of this Parish, and Also

Georgiana, Wife of the Above.

"Biddy," said I, when I talked with her after dinner, as her little

girl lay sleeping in her lap, "you must give Pip to me, one of

these days; or lend him, at all events."

"No, no," said Biddy, gently. "You must marry."

"So Herbert and Clara say, but I don't think I shall, Biddy. I have

so settled down in their home, that it's not at all likely. I am

already quite an old bachelor."

Biddy looked down at her child, and put its little hand to her

lips, and then put the good matronly hand with which she had

touched it, into mine. There was something in the action and in the

light pressure of Biddy's wedding-ring, that had a very pretty

eloquence in it.

"Dear Pip," said Biddy, "you are sure you don't fret for her?"

"O no - I think not, Biddy."

"Tell me as an old, old friend. Have you quite forgotten her?

"My dear Biddy, I have forgotten nothing in my life that ever had a

foremost place there, and little that ever had any place there. But

that poor dream, as I once used to call it, has all gone by, Biddy,

all gone by!"

Nevertheless, I knew while I said those words, that I secretly

intended to revisit the site of the old house that evening, alone,

for her sake. Yes even so. For Estella's sake.

I had heard of her as leading a most unhappy life, and as being

separated from her husband, who had used her with great cruelty,

and who had become quite renowned as a compound of pride, avarice,

brutality, and meanness. And I had heard of the death of her

husband, from an accident consequent on his ill-treatment of a

horse. This release had befallen her some two years before; for

anything I knew, she was married again.

The early dinner-hour at Joe's, left me abundance of time, without

hurrying my talk with Biddy, to walk over to the old spot before

dark. But, what with loitering on the way, to look at old objects

and to think of old times, the day had quite declined when I came

to the place.

There was no house now, no brewery, no building whatever left, but

the wall of the old garden. The cleared space had been enclosed

with a rough fence, and, looking over it, I saw that some of the

old ivy had struck root anew, and was growing green on low quiet

mounds of ruin. A gate in the fence standing ajar, I pushed it

open, and went in.

A cold silvery mist had veiled the afternoon, and the moon was not

yet up to scatter it. But, the stars were shining beyond the mist,

and the moon was coming, and the evening was not dark. I could

trace out where every part of the old house had been, and where the

brewery had been, and where the gate, and where the casks. I had

done so, and was looking along the desolate gardenwalk, when I

beheld a solitary figure in it.

The figure showed itself aware of me, as I advanced. It had been

moving towards me, but it stood still. As I drew nearer, I saw it

to be the figure of a woman. As I drew nearer yet, it was about to

turn away, when it stopped, and let me come up with it. Then, it

faltered as if much surprised, and uttered my name, and I cried

out:

"Estella!"

"I am greatly changed. I wonder you know me."

The freshness of her beauty was indeed gone, but its indescribable

majesty and its indescribable charm remained. Those attractions in

it, I had seen before; what I had never seen before, was the

saddened softened light of the once proud eyes; what I had never

felt before, was the friendly touch of the once insensible hand.

We sat down on a bench that was near, and I said, "After so many

years, it is strange that we should thus meet again, Estella, here

where our first meeting was! Do you often come back?"

"I have never been here since."

"Nor I."

The moon began to rise, and I thought of the placid look at the

white ceiling, which had passed away.