He ceased to speak, and his hand upon the table rested there in perfect repose, with a resolution in it that might have conquered lions.

“It was a gleam of light upon me, Trot,” said my aunt, drying her eyes, “when I formed the resolution of being godmother to your sister Betsey Trotwood, who disappointed me; but, next to that, hardly anything would have given me greater pleasure, than to be godmother to that good young creature’s baby!”

Mr. Peggotty nodded his understanding of my aunt’s feelings, but could not trust himself with any verbal reference to the subject of her commendation. We all remained silent, and occupied with our own reflections (my aunt drying her eyes, and now sobbing convulsively, and now laughing and calling herself a fool); until I spoke.

“You have quite made up your mind,” said I to Mr. Peggotty, “as to the future, good friend? I need scarcely ask you.”