“Missis Gummidge,” he returned, “not being a good scholar, Sir, Ham kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told her I was gone to seek her, and what my parting words was.”

“Is that another letter in your hand?” said I.

“It’s money, Sir,” said Mr. Peggotty, unfolding it a little way. “Ten pound, you see. And wrote inside, ‘From a true friend,’ like the first. But the first was put underneath the door, and this come by the post, day afore yesterday. I’m a-going to seek her at the postmark.”

He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine. He had found out, at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who knew that country, and they had drawn him a rude map on paper, which he could very well understand. He laid it between us on the table; and, with his chin resting on one hand, tracked his course upon it with the other.

I asked him how Ham was? He shook his head.

“He works,” he said, “as bold as a man can. His name’s as good, in all that part, as any man’s is, anywheres in the wureld. Any one’s hand is ready to help him, you understand, and his is ready to help them. He’s never been heerd fur to complain. But my sister’s belief is (’twixt ourselves) as it has cut him deep.”

“Poor fellow, I can believe it!”

“He ain’t no care, Mas’r Davy,” said Mr. Peggotty in a solemn whisper—“keinder no care no-how for his life. When a man’s wanted for rough sarvice in rough weather, he’s theer. When there’s hard duty to be done with danger in it, he steps for’ard afore all his mates. And yet he’s as gentle as any child. There ain’t a child in Yarmouth that doen’t know him.”

He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his hand; put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in his breast again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw the snow drifting in; but nothing else was there.

“Well!” he said, looking to his bag, “having seen you to-night, Mas’r Davy (and that does me good!), I shall away betimes to-morrow morning. You have seen what I’ve got heer,” putting his hand on where the little packet lay; “all that troubles me is, to think that any harm might come to me, afore that money was give back. If I was to die, and it was lost, or stole, or elseways made away with, and it was never know’d by him but what I’d took it, I believe the t’other wureld wouldn’t hold me! I believe I must come back!”

He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again, before going out.

“I’d go ten thousand mile,” he said, “I’d go till I dropped dead, to lay that money down afore him. If I do that, and find my Em’ly, I’m content. If I doen’t find her, maybe she’ll come to hear, sometime, as her loving uncle only ended his search for her when he ended his life; and if I know her, even that will turn her home at last!”

As we went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure flit away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and held him in conversation until it was gone.

He spoke of a travellers’ house on the Dover Road, where he knew he could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him over Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore. Everything seemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverence for him, as he resumed his solitary journey through the snow.

I returned to the inn-yard, and, impressed by my remembrance of the face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow had covered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to be seen; and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I looked back over my shoulder.