Chapter 31

Chapter 31 — Nurse and Patient
I had not been at home again many days, when one evening I went up-stairs into my own room to take a peep over Charley’s shoulder, and see how she was getting on with her copy-book. Writing was a trying business to Charley, who seemed to have no natural power over a pen, but in whose hand every pen appeared to become perversely animated, and to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, and splash and sidle into corners, like a saddle-donkey. It was very odd, to see what old letters Charley’s young hand had made; they, so wrinkled, and shrivelled, and tottering; it so plump and round. Yet Charley was uncommonly expert at other things, and had as nimble little fingers as I ever watched.

“Well, Charley,” said I, looking over a copy of the letter O in which it was represented as square, triangular, pear-shaped, and collapsed in all kinds of ways, “we are improving. If we only get to make it round, we shall be perfect, Charley.”

Then I made one, and Charley made one, and the pen wouldn’t join Charley’s neatly, but twisted it up into a knot.

“Never mind, Charley. We shall do it in time.”

Charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished; opened and shut her cramped little hand; looked gravely at the page, half in pride and half in doubt; and got up, and dropped me a curtsey.

“Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a poor person of the name of Jenny?”

“A brickmaker’s wife, Charley? Yes.”

“She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while ago, and said you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn’t the young lady’s little maid — meaning you for the young lady, miss — and I said yes, miss.”

“I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, Charley.”

“So she had, miss, but she’s come back again to where she used to live — she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the name of Liz, miss?”

“I think I do, Charley, though not by name.”

“That’s what she said!” returned Charley. “They have both come back, miss, and have been tramping high and low.”

“Tramping high and low, have they, Charley?”

“Yes, miss.” If Charley could only have made the letters in her copy as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, they would have been excellent. “And this poor person came about the house three or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, miss — all she wanted, she said — but you were away. That was when she saw me. She saw me a going about, miss,” said Charley, with a short laugh of the greatest delight and pride, “and she thought I looked like your