“I doen’t know,” he said, thoughtfully; “I was calling to mind that the beginning of it all did take place here⁠—and then the end come. But it’s gone! Mas’r Davy,” he added; answering, as I think, my look; “you han’t no call to be afeerd of me: but I’m kiender muddled; I don’t fare to feel no matters,”⁠—which was as much as to say that he was not himself, and quite confounded.

Mr. Peggotty stopping for us to join him: we did so, and said no more. The remembrance of this, in connection with my former thought, however, haunted me at intervals, even until the inexorable end came at its appointed time.

We insensibly approached the old boat, and entered. Mrs. Gummidge, no longer moping in her especial corner, was busy preparing breakfast. She took Mr. Peggotty’s hat, and placed his seat for him, and spoke so comfortably and softly, that I hardly knew her.