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“An occasion, I am sure, not to be forgotten by myself in the course of Ages,” said Mr. Harthouse, inclining his head to Mrs. Sparsit with the most indolent of all possible airs.

“We live in a singular world, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit.

“I have had the honour, by a coincidence of which I am proud, to have made a remark, similar in effect, though not so epigrammatically expressed.”

“A singular world, I would say, sir,” pursued Mrs. Sparsit; after acknowledging the compliment with a drooping of her dark eyebrows, not altogether so mild in its expression as her voice was in its dulcet tones; “as regards the intimacies we form at one time, with individuals we were quite ignorant of, at another. I recall, sir, that on that occasion you went so far as to say you were actually apprehensive of Miss Gradgrind.”

“Your memory does me more honour than my insignificance deserves. I availed myself of your obliging hints to correct my timidity, and it is unnecessary to add that they were perfectly accurate. Mrs. Sparsit's talent for—in fact for anything requiring accuracy—with a combination of strength of mind—and Family—is too habitually developed to admit of any question.” He was almost falling asleep over this compliment; it took him so long to get through, and his mind wandered so much in the course of its execution.

“You found Miss Gradgrind—I really cannot call her Mrs. Bounderby; it's very absurd of me—as youthful as I described her?” asked Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly.

“You drew her portrait perfectly,” said Mr. Harthouse. “Presented her dead image.”

“Very engaging, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, causing her mittens slowly to revolve over one another.

“Highly so.”

“It used to be considered,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “that Miss Gradgrind was wanting in animation, but I confess she appears to me considerably and strikingly improved in that respect. Ay, and indeed here is Mr. Bounderby!” cried Mrs. Sparsit, nodding her head a great many times, as if she had been talking and thinking of no one else. “How do you find yourself this morning, sir? Pray let us see you cheerful, sir.”

Now, these persistent assuagements of his misery, and lightenings of his load, had by this time begun to have the effect of making Mr. Bounderby softer than usual towards Mrs. Sparsit, and harder than usual to most other people from his wife downward. So, when Mrs. Sparsit said with forced lightness of heart, “You want your breakfast, sir, but I dare say Miss Gradgrind will soon be here to preside at the table,” Mr. Bounderby replied, “If I waited to be taken care of by my wife, ma'am, I believe you know pretty well I should wait till Doomsday, so I'll trouble you to take charge of the teapot.” Mrs. Sparsit complied, and assumed her old position at table.

This again made the excellent woman vastly sentimental. She was so humble withal, that when Louisa appeared, she rose, protesting she never could think of sitting in that place under existing circumstances, often as she had had the honour of making Mr. Bounderby's breakfast, before Mrs. Gradgrind—she begged pardon, she meant to say Miss Bounderby—she hoped to be excused, but she really could not get it right yet, though she trusted to become familiar with it by and by—had assumed her present position. It was only (she observed) because Miss Gradgrind happened to be a little late, and Mr. Bounderby's time was so very precious, and she knew it of old to be so essential that he should breakfast to the moment, that she had taken the liberty of complying with his request; long as his will had been a law to her.

“There! Stop where you are, ma'am,” said Mr. Bounderby, “stop where you are! Mrs. Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved of the trouble, I believe.”

“Don't say that, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, “because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir.”

“You may set your mind at rest, ma'am.—You can take it very quietly, can't you, Loo?” said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife.

“Of course. It is of no moment. Why should it be of any importance to me?”

“Why should it be of any importance to any one, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?” said Mr. Bounderby, swelling with a sense of slight. “You attach too much importance to these things, ma'am. By George, you'll be corrupted in some of your notions here. You are oldfashioned, ma'am. You are behind Tom Gradgrind's children's time.”

“What is the matter with you?” asked Louisa, coldly surprised. “What has given you offence?”

“Offence!” repeated Bounderby. “Do you suppose if there was any offence given me, I shouldn't name it, and request to have it corrected? I am a straightforward man, I believe. I don't go beating about for side-winds.”

“I suppose no one ever had occasion to think you too diffident, or too delicate,” Louisa answered him composedly: “I have never made that objection to you, either as a child or as a woman. I don't understand what you would have.”

“Have?” returned Mr. Bounderby. “Nothing. Otherwise, don't you, Loo Bounderby, know thoroughly well that I, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, would have it?”

She looked at him, as he struck the table and made the teacups ring, with a proud colour in her face that was a new change, Mr. Harthouse thought. “You are incomprehensible this morning,” said Louisa. “Pray take no further trouble to explain yourself. I am not curious to know your meaning. What does it matter?”

Nothing more was said on this theme, and Mr. Harthouse was soon idly gay on indifferent subjects. But from this day, the Sparsit action upon Mr. Bounderby threw Louisa and James Harthouse more together, and strengthened the dangerous alienation from her husband and confidence against him with another, into which she had fallen by degrees so fine that she could not retrace them if she tried. But whether she ever tried or no, lay hidden in her own closed heart.

Mrs. Sparsit was so much affected on this particular occasion, that, assisting Mr. Bounderby to his hat after breakfast, and being then alone with him in the hall, she imprinted a chaste kiss upon his hand, murmured “My benefactor!” and retired, overwhelmed with grief. Yet it is an indubitable fact, within the cognizance of this history, that five minutes after he had left the house in the self-same hat, the same descendant of the Scadgerses and connexion by matrimony of the Powlers, shook her right-hand mitten at his portrait, made a contemptuous grimace at that work of art, and said “Serve you right, you Noodle, and I am glad of it.”

Mr. Bounderby had not been long gone, when Bitzer appeared. Bitzer had come down by train, shrieking and rattling over the long line of arches that bestrode the wild country of past and present coalpits, with an express from Stone Lodge. It was a hasty note to inform Louisa that Mrs. Gradgrind lay very ill. She had never been well within her daughter's knowledge; but, she had declined within the last few days, had continued sinking all through the night, and was now as nearly dead, as her limited capacity of being in any state that implied the ghost of an intention to get out of it, allowed.

Accompanied by the lightest of porters, fit colourless servitor at Death's door when Mrs. Gradgrind knocked, Louisa rumbled to Coketown, over the coal-pits past and present, and was whirled into its smoky jaws. She dismissed the messenger to his own devices, and rode away to her old home.

She had seldom been there since her marriage. Her father was usually sifting and sifting at his parliamentary cinder-heap in London (without being observed to turn up many precious articles among the rubbish), and was still hard at it in the national dustyard. Her mother had taken it rather as a disturbance than otherwise, to be visited, as she reclined upon her sofa; young people, Louisa felt herself all unfit for; Sissy she had never softened to again, since the night when the stroller's child had raised her eyes to look at Mr. Bounderby's intended wife. She had no inducements to go back, and had rarely gone.