Istoodandwarmedmynumbedfingersovertheblaze，thenIlookedround;therewasnocandle，buttheuncertainlightfromthehearthshowed，byintervals，paperedwalls，carpet，curtains，shiningmahoganyfurniture:itwasaparlour，notsospaciousorsplendidasthedrawing—roomatGateshead，butcomfortableenough。Iwaspuzzlingtomakeoutthesubjectofapictureonthewall，whenthedooropened，andanindividualcarryingalightentered;anotherfollowedclosebehind。
Thefirstwasatallladywithdarkhair，darkeyes，andapaleandlargeforehead;herfigurewaspartlyenvelopedinashawl，hercountenancewasgrave，herbearingerect。
“Thechildisveryyoungtobesentalone，”saidshe，puttinghercandledownonthetable。Sheconsideredmeattentivelyforaminuteortwo，thenfurtheradded—
“Shehadbetterbeputtobedsoon;shelookstired:areyoutired？”sheasked，placingherhandonmyshoulder。
“Alittle，ma’am。”