than it had been out of my mind, or out of his face. The whole household were amazed to see me, without any notice, at that time in the morning, and so accompanied; and their surprise was not diminished by my inquiries. No one, however, had been there. It could not be doubted that this was the truth.
“Then, Miss Summerson,” said my companion, “we can't be too soon at the cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. Most inquiries there I leave to you, if you'll be so good as to make 'em. The naturalest way is the best way, and the naturalest way is your own way.”
We set off again immediately. On arriving at the cottage, we found it shut up, and apparently deserted; but one of the neighbours who knew me, and who came out when I was trying to make some one hear, informed me that the two women and their husbands now lived together in another house, made of loose rough bricks, which stood on the margin of the piece of ground where the kilns were, and where the long rows of bricks were drying. We lost no time in repairing to this place, which was within a few hundred yards; and as the door stood ajar, I pushed it open.
There were only three of them sitting at breakfast; the child lying asleep on a bed in the corner. It was Jenny, the mother of the dead child, who was absent. The other woman rose on seeing me; and the men, though they were, as usual, sulky and silent, each gave me a morose nod of recognition. A look passed between them when Mr. Bucket followed me in, and I was surprised to see that the woman evidently knew him.
I had asked leave to enter, of course. Liz (the only name by which I knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but I sat down on a stool near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bedstead. Now that I had to speak, and was among people with whom I was not familiar, I became conscious of being hurried and giddy. It was very difficult to begin, and I could not help bursting into tears.
“Liz,” said I, “I have come a long way in the night and through the snow, to inquire after a lady—”
“Who has been here, you know,” Mr. Bucket struck in, addressing the whole group, with a composed propitiatory face; “that's the lady the young lady means. The lady that was here last night, you know.”
“And who told you as there was anybody here?” inquired Jenny's husband, who had made a surly stop in his eating, to listen, and now measured him with his eye.
“A person of the name of Michael Jackson, in a blue welveteen waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons,” Mr. Bucket immediately answered.
“He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is,” growled the man.
“He's out of employment, I believe,” said Mr. Bucket, apologetically for Michael Jackson, “and so gets talking.”
The woman had not resumed her chair, but stood faltering with her hand upon its broken back, looking at me. I thought she would have spoken to me privately, if she had dared. She was still in this attitude of uncertainty, when her husband, who was eating with a lump of bread and fat in one hand, and his clasp-knife in the other, struck the handle
