There was a trembling upon her, that I can see now. The coldness of her hand when I touched it, I can feel yet. Its only sign of animation was to shrink from mine; and then she glided from the chair, and creeping to the other side of her uncle, bowed herself, silently and trembling still, upon his breast.

“It’s such a loving art,” said Mr. Peggotty, smoothing her rich hair with his great hard hand, “that it can’t abear the sorrer of this. It’s nat’ral in young folk, Mas’r Davy, when they’re new to these here trials, and timid, like my little bird⁠—it’s nat’ral.”

She clung the closer to him, but neither lifted up her face, nor spoke a word.

“It’s getting late, my dear,” said Mr. Peggotty, “and here’s Ham come fur to take you home. Theer! Go along with t’other loving ’art! What Em’ly? Eh, my pretty?”