“ Mrs. David Copperfield, I think ,” said Miss Betsey; the emphasis referring, perhaps, to my mother’s mourning weeds, and her condition.

“Yes,” said my mother, faintly.

“Miss Trotwood,” said the visitor. “You have heard of her, I dare say?”

My mother answered she had had that pleasure. And she had a disagreeable consciousness of not appearing to imply that it had been an overpowering pleasure.

“Now you see her,” said Miss Betsey. My mother bent her head, and begged her to walk in.