My aunt, on the other hand, was in a composed frame of mind, which was a lesson to all of us⁠—to me, I am sure. She was extremely gracious to Peggotty, except when I inadvertently called her by that name; and, strange as I knew she felt in London, appeared quite at home. She was to have my bed, and I was to lie in the sitting room, to keep guard over her. She made a great point of being so near the river, in case of a conflagration; and I suppose really did find some satisfaction in that circumstance.

“Trot, my dear,” said my aunt, when she saw me making preparations for compounding her usual night-draught, “No!”

“Nothing, aunt?”

“Not wine, my dear. Ale.”

“But there is wine here, aunt. And you always have it made of wine.”

“Keep that, in case of sickness,” said my aunt. “We mustn’t use it carelessly, Trot. Ale for me. Half a pint.”