On the last night of my restraint, I was awakened by hearing my own name spoken in a whisper. I started up in bed, and putting out my arms in the dark, said:

“Is that you, Peggotty?”

There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard my name again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, that I think I should have gone into a fit, if it had not occurred to me that it must have come through the keyhole.

I groped my way to the door, and putting my own lips to the keyhole, whispered: “Is that you, Peggotty dear?”

“Yes, my own precious Davy,” she replied. “Be as soft as a mouse, or the Cat’ll hear us.”

I understood this to mean Miss Murdstone, and was sensible of the urgency of the case; her room being close by.

“How’s mama, dear Peggotty? Is she very angry with me?”