“I hope I may turn out so,” said I, “but I am much afraid of it, guardian.”
“You are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives here, my dear,” he returned playfully; “the little old woman of the child’s (I don’t mean Skimpole’s) rhyme:
“ ‘Little old woman, and whither so high?’ ‘To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.’
“You will sweep them so neatly out of our sky in the course of your housekeeping, Esther, that one of these days we shall have to abandon the growlery and nail up the door.”
This was the beginning of my being called Old Woman, and Little Old Woman, and Cobweb, and Mrs. Shipton, and Mother Hubbard, and Dame Durden, and so many names of that sort that my own name soon became quite lost among them.
“However,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “to return to our gossip. Here’s Rick, a fine young fellow full of promise. What’s to be done with him?”
Oh, my goodness, the idea of asking my advice on such a point!
“Here he is, Esther,” said Mr. Jarndyce, comfortably putting his hands into his pockets and stretching out his legs. “He must have a profession; he must make some choice for himself. There will be a world more wiglomeration about it, I suppose, but it must be done.”
“More what, guardian?” said I.