very long after that, Tunnicliff suddenly
absconded, having first of all taken away
what belonged to her piecemeal, and so
stealthily, that I, who slept in the same room
with her, and believed myself in her confidence,
never perceived any change till she
was gone. She had always boasted to me
that when the time came, she would boldly
declare herself to be the wife of the baker,
and defy any one to detain her. But her
heart must have failed her; for she stole
away, upon some pretence, after breakfast
one morning, dressed just as usual (only a
little cleaner) and was seen no more. Miss
Furbey, after running about frantic half the
day, received a letter from her, in which she
enclosed certain lines, which she said would
let her know what had taken place that
morning at West Ham Church, and wound
up with the insolent defiance which she had
promised to deliver by word of mouth.

We went on very quietly after that, and I
got to like Miss Furbey more and more. It
was incredible what a difference Tunnicliff's
departure had made. Miss Furbey found out
now that she had slandered her very much
in the neighbourhood, which she said did
not matter; but I know it vexed her a little.
We managed to get through just as much
work as before, and used to chat a little, too.
Both of us felt the change; but old Mr.
Furbey, overhead, seemed to get worse. She
used to get him some prescriptions made up
at the Dispensary, in two bottles (a large
black wine bottle, and a small phial), and she
had to run up to give him some of these,
besides both occasionally, every two hours;
but he became so irritable at last, that I have
seen her come down in tears. If she was but
a few minutes behindhand, he would rap so
violently on the floor as to make us jump,
and repeat his rapping louder than ever
before she could get up the stairs. Miss Furbey
told me that he got worse and worse, but I
remarked that she never seemed to like to send for
a doctor; till one morning, just at daylight,
she came into my room and shook me till I
awoke, and begged me to dress immediately,
and go and fetch a physician, who lived in
the Bow Road. The physician came twice,
and I saw Miss Furbey each time count out
ten and sixpence for him, and wrap that sum
in a piece of paper; but his patient died on
the third day after I had fetched him. Miss
Furbey did not seem to me to grieve deeply
—whether it was that she had become worn
out with her watching, or that the stern business
that she had to go about, alone, made
her determine to suppress her grief, or
whether (which I suspect was the truth), the
deceased had been so grievous a burden to
her that, in spite of her sense of duty and
affection for him, a feeling of relief which she
scarcely recognised herself was mingling with
her regret. Some mystery was attached to
her father of which I never knew the truth.
Tunnicliff's last idea, before she ran away,
was that he had forged to a large amount,
and was there hiding from justice. There
was a rumour in the neighbourhood that he
had been a bankrupt many years before, and
had, for some reason, neglected to give
himself up as the law required; but I do not
believe that any one (save Miss Furbey
herself), knew whence he came, or what was his
true history. On the morning of his death,
Miss Furbey wrote a number of letters on
black-edged paper, which she posted herself,
and I think she expected visitors in
consequence, but none came. We two were the
only persons (except the undertakers), who
attended the funeral. This undertaker also
professed to be a coal merchant and an
agent to a fire and life insurance, which he
might have been, but he was no more an
undertaker than I was. Miss Furbey learned
that he gave the job to a carpenter and
joiner, who gave it to a real undertaker, and
all that the original person did, I believe, was
to attend in a rusty suit of black, and (to use
an undertaker's phrase), to see the funeral
"performed." Miss Furbey drove a hard
bargain with him for eight pounds, five pounds
down, and the rest, as he said, to be made
easy to her. And so, for a year and a half
afterwards, she used to scrape together
small sums of half-a-crown, or five shillings,
with which I made many a journey to the
coal and fire agent, who wrote each instalment
down on the back of a bill with sad embellishments,
which became worn to tatters before
that everlasting debt was paid.

Miss Furbey, I am sure, never deliberately
regarded the death of her father in any other
light than as a misfortune that had befallen
her; but there was a change in her now, and it
seemed in the place too—from gloom to a certain
degree of cheerfulness—which my youthful
mind was quick to detect. I had been nearly
twelve months with Miss Furbey when her
father died, and for twelve months more we
took no new apprentice, and there was scarcely
any change in our way of life. But, one
afternoon, I came in from a little journey,
and found a stranger in the shop, talking with
her. He was a pale little man, dressed in
black coat and trowsers, shoes fastened with
black riband in large bows, and a white
neckcloth, which had a yellowish tinge, and
was spotted, here and there, with what
laundresses call iron-mould. He was not exactly
shabby in other respects; but he looked as if
he had been brushed and made up to the best
advantage. He was slightly bald, but his
hair was light, and not so grey as his whiskers,
and he might perhaps have been no older than
fifty. I did not know then where he came
from, nor what was his excuse for coming;
but he talked very slowly and deliberately
about the weather, and other trifles, and
loitered about, and seemed very loath to
go. He came many times after that, and
gossipped in the same way; till at last I found
him sitting in the back parlour. He took