drank between them, and which had not the effect of making them less conversational than before. Their principal topic of discourse was naturally Mr. Pecksniff and his family; of whom and of the great obligations they had heaped upon him, Tom Pinch, with the tears standing in his eyes, drew such a picture, as would have inclined any one of common feeling almost to revere them: and of which Mr. Pecksniff had not the slightest foresight or preconceived idea, or he certainly (being very humble) would not have sent Tom Pinch to bring the pupil home.
In this way they went on, and on, and on—in the language of the story-books—until at last the village lights appeared before them, and the church spire cast a long reflection on the grave-yard grass: as if it were a dial (alas the truest in the world!) marking, whatever light shone out of Heaven, the flight of days and weeks and years, by some new shadow on that solemn ground.
"A pretty church!" said Martin, observing that his companion slackened the slack pace of the horse, as they approached.
"Is it not?" cried Tom, with great pride. "There's the sweetest little organ there you ever heard. I play it for them."
"Indeed?" said Martin. "It is hardly worth the trouble, I should think. What do you get for that, now?"
"Nothing," answered Tom.
"Well," returned his friend, "you are a very strange fellow!"
To which remark there succeeded a brief silence.
"When I say nothing," observed Mr. Pinch, cheerfully, "I am wrong, and don't say what I mean, because I get a great deal of pleasure from it, and the means of passing some of the happiest hours I know. It led to something else the other day—but you will not care to hear about that, I dare say?"
"Oh, yes, I shall. What?"
"It led to my seeing," said Tom, in a lower voice, "one of the loveliest and most beautiful faces you can possibly picture to yourself."
"And yet I am able to picture a beautiful one," said his friend, thoughtfully, "or should be, if I have any memory."
"She came," said Tom, laying his hand upon the other's arm, "for the first time, very early in the morning, when it was hardly light; and when I saw her, over my shoulder, standing just within the porch, I turned quite cold, almost believing her to be a spirit. A moment's reflection got the better of that of course, and fortunately it came to my relief so soon, that I didn't leave off playing."
"Why fortunately?"
"Why? Because she stood there listening. I had my spectacles on, and saw her through the chinks in the curtains as plainly as I see you; and she was beautiful. After a while she glided off, and I continued to play until she was out of hearing."
"Why did you do that?"
"Don't you see?" responded Tom. "Because she might suppose I hadn't seen her; and might return."
"And did she?"
"Certainly she did. Next morning, and next evening too: but always when there were no people about, and always alone. I rose
