Chapter 3 - Page 2

more interested about my mama. I had never worn a black frock, that I could recollect. I had never been shown my mama’s grave. I had never been told where it was. Yet I had never been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had more than once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs Rachael, our only servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (another very good woman, but austere to me), and she had only said, “Esther, good night!” and gone away and left me.

Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school where I was a day boarder, and although they called me little Esther Summerson, I knew none of them at home. All of them were older than I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good deal), but there seemed to be some other separation between us besides that, and besides their being far more clever than I was and knowing much more than I did. One of them, in the first week of my going to the school (I remember it very well), invited me home to a little party, to my great joy. But my godmother wrote a stiff letter declining for me, and I never went. I never went out at all.

It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on other birthdays — none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on other birthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one another — there were none on mine. My birthday was the most melancholy day at home in the whole year.

I have mentioned, thatm, unless my vanity should deceive me (as I know it may, for I may be very vain, without suspecting it — though indeed I don’t), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is. My disposition is very affectionate, and perhaps I might still feel such a wound if such a wound could be received more than once, with the quickness of that birthday.

Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the table before the fire. The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another sound had been heard in the room or in the house, for I don’t know how long. I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across the table, at my godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomily at me, “It would have been far better, little Esther, that you had had no birthday; that you had never been born!”

I broke out crying and sobbing, and I said, “O, dear godmother, tell me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?”

“No,” she returned. “Ask me no more, child!”

“O, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, dear godmother, if you please! What did I do to her? How did I lose her? Why am I so different from other children, and why is it my fault, dear godmother? No, no, no, don’t go away. O, speak to me!”

I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief; and I caught hold of her dress and was kneeling to her. She had been saying