Chapter 62

Chapter 62 — Another Discovery
I had not the courage to see any one that night. I had not even the courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears might a little reproach me. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayed in the dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of any light to read my guardian’s letter by, for I knew it by heart. I took it from the place where I kept it, and repeated its contents by its own clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleep with it on my pillow.

I was up very early in the morning, and called Charley to come for a walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back and arranged them, and were as busy as possible. We were so early, that I had a good time still for Charley’s lesson, before breakfast; Charley (who was not in the least improved in the old defective article of grammar) came through it with great applause; and we were altogether very notable. When my guardian appeared, he said, “Why, little woman, you look fresher than your flowers!” And Mrs Woodcourt repeated and translated a passage from the Mewlinn-willinwodd, expressive of my being like a mountain with the sun upon it.

This was all so pleasant, that I hope it made me still more like the mountain than I had been before. After breakfast, I waited my opportunity, and peeped about a little, until I saw my guardian in his own room — the room of last night — by himself. Then I made an excuse to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door after me.

“Well, Dame Durden?” said my guardian; the post had brought him several letters, and he was writing. “You want money?”

“No, indeed, I have plenty in hand.”

“There never was such a Dame Durden,” said my guardian, “for making money last.”

He had laid down his pen, and leaned back in his chair looking at me. I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I had never seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness upon it, which made me think, “he has been doing some great kindness this morning.”

“There never was,” said my guardian, musing as he smiled upon me, “such a Dame Durden for making money last.”

He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it, and him, so much, that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair, which was always put at his side — for sometimes I read to him, and sometimes I talked to him, and sometimes I silently worked by him — I hardly liked to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. But I found I did not disturb it at all.

“Dear guardian,” said I, “I want to speak to you. Have I been remiss in anything?”

“Remiss in anything, my dear!”

“Have I not been what I have