the hem of mine. As we
drew near to the place of encounter, she stopped and said,--

"I must have been a singular little creature to hide and see that fight
that day; but I did, and I enjoyed it very much."

"You rewarded me very much."

"Did I?" she replied, in an incidental and forgetful way. "I remember I
entertained a great objection to your adversary, because I took it ill
that he should be brought here to pester me with his company."

"He and I are great friends now."

"Are you? I think I recollect though, that you read with his father?"

"Yes."

I made the admission with reluctance, for it seemed to have a boyish
look, and she already treated me more than enough like a boy.

"Since your change of fortune and prospects, you have changed your
companions," said Estella.

"Naturally," said I.

"And necessarily," she added, in a haughty tone; "what was fit company
for you once, would be quite unfit company for you now."

In my conscience, I doubt very much whether I had any lingering
intention left of going to see Joe; but if I had, this observation put
it to flight.

"You had no idea of your impending good fortune, in those times?" said
Estella, with a slight wave of her hand, signifying in the fighting
times.

"Not the least."

The air of completeness and superiority with which she walked at my
side, and the air of youthfulness and submission with which I walked at
hers, made a contrast that I strongly felt. It would have rankled in me
more than it did, if I had not regarded myself as eliciting it by being
so set apart for her and assigned to her.

The garden was too overgrown and rank for walking in with ease, and
after we had made the round of it twice or thrice, we came out again
into the brewery yard. I showed her to a nicety where I had seen her
walking on the casks, that first old day, and she said, with a cold and
careless look in that direction, "Did I?" I reminded her where she had
come out of the house and given me my meat and drink, and she said, "I
don't remember." "Not remember that you made me cry?" said I. "No," said
she, and shook her head and looked about her. I verily believe that
her not remembering and not minding in the least, made me cry again,
inwardly,--and that is the sharpest crying of all.

"You must know," said Estella, condescending to me as a brilliant and
beautiful woman might, "that I have no heart,--if that has anything to
do with my memory."

I got through som