“That he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason to know,” I proceeded. “Mr Woodcourt, you are going to London?”

“To-morrow or the next day.”

“There is nothing Richard wants so much, as a friend. He always liked you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him sometimes with your companionship, if you can. You do not know of what service it might be. You cannot think how Ada, and Mr Jarndyce, and even I — how we should all thank you, Mr Woodcourt!”

“Miss Summerson,” he said, more moved than he had been from the first, “before Heaven, I will be a true friend to him! I will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!”

“God bless you!” said I, with my eyes filling fast; but I thought they might, when it was not for myself. “Ada loves him — we all love him, but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what you say. Thank you, and God bless you, in her name!”

Richard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words, and gave me his arm to take me to the coach.

“Woodcourt,” he said, unconscious with what application, “pray let us meet in London!”

“Meet?” returned the other. “I have scarcely a friend there, now, but you. Where shall I find you?”

“Why, I must get a lodging of some sort,” said Richard, pondering. “Say at Vholes’s, Symond’s Inn.”

“Good! Without loss of time.”

They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach, and Richard was yet standing in the street, Mr Woodcourt laid his friendly hand on Richard’s shoulder, and looked at me. I understood him, and waved mine in thanks.

And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that he was very sorry for me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the dead may feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be tenderly remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten.