“Then, why don’t you tell him so, you ridiculous thing?” said my mother.
“Tell him so,” retorted Peggotty, looking out of her apron. “He has never said a word to me about it. He knows better. If he was to make so bold as say a word to me, I should slap his face.”
Her own was as red as ever I saw it, or any other face, I think; but she only covered it again, for a few moments at a time, when she was taken with a violent fit of laughter; and after two or three of those attacks, went on with her dinner.
I remarked that my mother, though she smiled when Peggotty looked at her, became more serious and thoughtful. I had seen at first that she was changed. Her face was very pretty still, but it looked careworn, and too delicate; and her hand was so thin and white that it seemed to me to be almost transparent. But the change to which I now refer was superadded to this: it was in her manner, which became anxious and fluttered. At last she said, putting out her hand, and laying it affectionately on the hand of her old servant,
“Peggotty, dear, you are not going to be married?”
“Me, ma’am?” returned Peggotty, staring. “Lord bless you, no!”
“Not just yet?” said my mother, tenderly.
“Never!” cried Peggotty.
My mother took her hand, and said:
“Don’t leave me, Peggotty. Stay with me. It will not be for long, perhaps. What should I ever do without you!”
“Me leave you, my precious!” cried Peggotty. “Not for all the world and his wife. Why, what’s put that in your silly little head?”—For