He knew them every one and called
them by their names.

"And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" said the child, regarding with a
radiant smile a figure coming in.

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of him,
and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child.
No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted
hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to
fondle it.

"Floy, this is a kind, good face," said Paul. "I am glad to see it again.
Don't go away, old nurse. Stay here."

"Good-bye, my child," cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to his bed's head. "Not
good-bye?"

For an instant Paul looked at her with the wistful face with which he had
so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire.

"Ah, yes," he said, placidly, "good-bye. Where is papa?"

He felt his father's breath upon his cheek before the words had parted
from his lips.

"Now lay me down," he said, "and, Floy, come close to me, and let me see
you."

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden
light came streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together.

"How fast the river runs, between its green banks and the rushes, Floy.
But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves."

Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was
lulling him to rest. How near the banks were now. How bright the flowers
growing on them, and how tall the rushes. Now the boat was out at sea but
gliding smoothly on. And now there was a shore before him. Who stood on
the bank?

He put his hands together as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did
not remove his arms to do it, but they saw him fold them so, behind her
neck,

"Mama is like you, Floy. I know her by the face. But tell them that the
print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the
head is shining on me as I go."

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in
the room. The old, old fashion. The fashion that came in with our first
garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and
the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old
fashion--Death.

Oh, thank God for that older fashion yet,--of Immortality!

PIP

[Illustration: PIP AND MISS HAVISHAM.]

My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my
infant tongue could make of both names nothing mor