Still I cried very much, not only in the fullness of my heart after reading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect⁠—for it was strange though I had expected the contents⁠—but as if something for which there was no name or distinct idea were indefinitely lost to me. I was very happy, very thankful, very hopeful; but I cried very much.

By and by I went to my old glass. My eyes were red and swollen, and I said, “Oh, Esther, Esther, can that be you!” I am afraid the face in the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but I held up my finger at it, and it stopped.

“That is more like the composed look you comforted me with, my dear, when you showed me such a change!” said I, beginning to let down my hair. “When you are mistress of Bleak House, you are to be as cheerful as a bird. In fact, you are always to be cheerful; so let us begin for once and for all.”

I went on with my hair now, quite comfortably. I sobbed a little still, but that was because I had been crying, not because I was crying then.