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Mr. Peggotty’s Dream Comes True

           

           ‘No,Mas’rDavy,’hereturned,drawinghishandthoughtfullydownhisface.‘Iaskedthattoo;butitwasmore(shesaid)thanshecouldtell.’

           AsIhadlongforbornetoencouragehimwithhopesthathungonthreads,ImadenoothercommentonthisinformationthanthatIsupposedhewouldseehersoon.SuchspeculationsasitengenderedwithinmeIkepttomyself,andthosewerefaintenough.

           Iwaswalkingaloneinthegarden,oneevening,aboutafortnightafterwards.Irememberthateveningwell.ItwasthesecondinMr.Micawber’sweekofsuspense.Therehadbeenrainallday,andtherewasadampfeelingintheair.Theleaveswerethickuponthetrees,andheavywithwet;buttherainhadceased,thoughtheskywasstilldark;andthehopefulbirdsweresingingcheerfully.AsIwalkedtoandfrointhegarden,andthetwilightbegantoclosearoundme,theirlittlevoiceswerehushed;andthatpeculiarsilencewhichbelongstosuchaneveninginthecountrywhenthelightesttreesarequitestill,savefortheoccasionaldroppingsfromtheirboughs,prevailed.

           Therewasalittlegreenperspectiveoftrellis-workandivyatthesideofourcottage,throughwhichIcouldsee,fromthegardenwhereIwaswalking,intotheroadbeforethehouse.Ihappenedtoturnmyeyestowardsthisplace,asIwasthinkingofmanythings;andIsawafigurebeyond,dressedinaplaincloak.Itwasbendingeagerlytowardsme,andbeckoning.

           ‘Martha!’saidI,goingtoit.

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