"You were going to speak to me, mother."

"Eh? Yes, to be sure, my dear. You
know your father is almost always away now,
and therefore I must write to him about it."

"About what, mother? Don't be troubled.
About what?"

"You must remember, my dear, that
whenever I have said anything, on any subject, I
have never heard the last of it; and
consequently, that I have long left off saying
anything."

"I can hear you, mother." But, it was only by
dint of bending down her ear, and at the same
time attentively watching the lips as they
moved, that she could link such faint and
broken sounds into any chain of connexion.

"You learnt a great deal, Louisa, and so
did your brother. Ologies of all kinds, from
morning to night. If there is any Ology left,
of any description, that has not been worn to
rags in this house, all I can say is, I hope
I shall never hear its name."

"I can hear you, mother, when you have
strength to go on." This, to keep her from
floating away.

"But there's something not an Ology at
all that your father has missed, or forgotten,
Louisa. I don't know what it is. I have often
sat with Sissy near me, and thought about it.
I shall never get its name now. But your
father may. It makes me restless. I want to
write to him, to find out for God's sake, what
it is. Give me a pen, give me a pen."

Even the power of restlessness was gone,
except from the poor head, which could just
turn from side to side.

She fancied, however, that her request had
been complied with, and that the pen she
could not have held was in her hand. It
matters little what figures of wonderful no-
meaning she began to trace upon her
wrappers. The hand soon stopped in the midst
of them; the light that had always been
feeble and dim behind the weak transparency,
went out; and even Mrs. Gradgrind,
emerged from the shadow in which man
walketh and disquieteth himself in vain,
took upon her the dread solemnity of the
sages and patriarchs.

                  CHAPTER XXVI.

MRS. SPARSIT'S nerves being slow to
recover their tone, the worthy woman made
a stay of some weeks in duration at Mr.
Bounderby's retreat, where, notwithstanding
her anchorite turn of mind based upon her
becoming consciousness of her altered
station, she resigned herself, with noble fortitude,
to lodging, as one may say, in clover,
and feeding on the fat of the land. During
the whole term of this recess from the
guardianship of the Bank, Mrs. Sparsit was
a pattern of consistency; continuing to take
such pity on Mr. Bounderby to his face, as is
rarely taken on man, and to call his portrait
a Noodle to its face, with the greatest
acrimony and contempt.

Mr Bounderby, having got it into his
explosive composition that Mrs. Sparsit was
a highly superior woman to perceive that he
had that general cross upon him in his
deserts (for he had not yet settled what it
was), and further that Louisa would have
objected to her as a frequent visitor if it
had comported with his greatness that she
should object to anything he chose to do,
resolved not to lose sight of Mrs. Sparsit
easily. So, when her nerves were strung up
to the pitch of again consuming sweetbreads
in solitude, he said to her at the dinner-
table, on the day before her departure,
"I tell you what, ma'am; you shall come
down here of a Saturday while the fine
weather lasts, and stay till Monday." To
which Mrs. Sparsit returned, in effect, though
not of the Mahommedan persuasion: "To
hear is to obey."

Now, Mrs. Sparsit was not a poetical
woman; but she took an idea, in the nature
of an allegorical fancy, into her head. Much
watching of Louisa, and much consequent
observation of her impenetrable demeanor,
which keenly whetted and sharpened Mrs.
Sparsit's edge, must have given her as it
were a lift, in the way of inspiration. She
created in her mind a mighty Staircase, with
a dark pit of shame and ruin at the bottom;
and down these stairs, from day to day and
hour to hour, she saw Louisa coming.

It became the business of Mrs. Sparsit's
life, to look up at the staircase, and to
watch Louisa coming down. Sometimes slowly,
sometimes quickly, sometimes several steps
at one bout, sometimes stopping, never turning
back. If she had once turned back, it
might have been the death of Mrs. Sparsit in
spleen and grief.

She had been descending steadily, to the
day, and on the day, when Mr. Bounderby
issued the weekly invitation recorded above.
Mrs. Sparsit was in good spirits, and inclined
to be conversational.

"And pray, sir," said she, "if I may
venture to ask a question appertaining to any
subject on which you show reserve—which is
indeed hardy in me, for I well know you
have a reason for everything you do—have
you received intelligence respecting the
robbery?"

"Why, ma'am, no; not yet. Under the
circumstances, I didn't expect it yet. Rome
wasn't built in a day, ma'am."

"Very true, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking
her head.

"Nor yet in a week, ma'am."

"No, indeed, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit,
with an air of melancholy.

"In a similar manner," said Bounderby,
"I can wait, you know. If Romulus and
Remus could wait, Josiah Bounderby can
wait. They were better off in their youth
than I was, however. They had a she wolf
for a nurse; I had only a she wolf for a
grandmother. She didn't give any milk,