Down

           Thenationaldustmen,afterentertainingoneanotherwithagreatmanynoisylittlefightsamongthemselves,haddispersedforthepresent,andMr.Gradgrindwasathomeforthevacation.

           Hesatwritingintheroomwiththedeadlystatisticalclock,provingsomethingnodoubt—probably,inthemain,thattheGoodSamaritanwasaBadEconomist.Thenoiseoftheraindidnotdisturbhimmuch;butitattractedhisattentionsufficientlytomakehimraisehisheadsometimes,asifhewereratherremonstratingwiththeelements.Whenitthunderedveryloudly,heglancedtowardsCoketown,havingitinhismindthatsomeofthetallchimneysmightbestruckbylightning.

           Thethunderwasrollingintodistance,andtherainwaspouringdownlikeadeluge,whenthedoorofhisroomopened.Helookedroundthelampuponhistable,andsaw,withamazement,hiseldestdaughter.

           ‘Louisa!’

           ‘Father,Iwanttospeaktoyou.’

           ‘Whatisthematter?Howstrangeyoulook!AndgoodHeaven,’saidMr.Gradgrind,wonderingmoreandmore,‘haveyoucomehereexposedtothisstorm?’

           Sheputherhandstoherdress,asifshehardlyknew.‘Yes.’Thensheuncoveredherhead,andlettinghercloakandhoodfallwheretheymight,stoodlookingathim:socolourless,sodishevelled,sodefiantanddespairing,thathewasafraidofher.

           ‘Whatisit?Iconjureyou,Louisa,tellmewhatisthematter.’

           Shedroppedintoachairbeforehim,andputhercoldhandonhisarm.

           ‘Father,youhavetrainedmefrommycradle?’

           ‘Yes,Louisa.