fears that he might return and one day suddenly encounter
them.

Quilp indeed was a perpetual nightmare to the child, who
was constantly haunted by a vision of his ugly face and
stunted figure. She slept, for their better security, in the
room where the wax-work figures were, and she never
retired to this place at night but she tortured herself--she
could not help it--with imagining a resemblance, in some
one or other of their death-like faces, to the dwarf, and
this fancy would sometimes so gain upon her that she
would almost believe he had removed the figure and stood
within the clothes. Then there were so many of them with
their great glassy eyes--and, as they stood one behind the
other all about her bed, they looked so like living creatures,
and yet so unlike in their grim stillness and silence, that
she had a kind of terror of them for their own sakes, and
would often lie watching their dusky figures until she was
obliged to rise and light a candle, or go and sit at the open
window and feel a companionship in the bright stars. At
these times, she would recall the old house and the window
at which she used to sit alone; and then she would think
of poor Kit and all his kindness, until the tears came into
her eyes, and she would weep and smile together.

Often and anxiously at this silent hour, her thoughts
reverted to her grandfather, and she would wonder how
much he remembered of their former life, and whether he
was ever really mindful of the change in their condition and
of their late helplessness and destitution. When they were
wandering about, she seldom thought of this, but now she
could not help considering what would become of them if
he fell sick, or her own strength were to fail her. He was
very patient and willing, happy to execute any little task,
and glad to be of use; but he was in the same listless state,
with no prospect of improvement--a mere child--a poor,
thoughtless, vacant creature--a harmless fond old man,
susceptible of tender love and regard for her, and of plea-
sant and painful impressions, but alive to nothing more.
It made her very sad to know that this was so--so sad to
see it that sometimes when he sat idly by, smiling and
nodding to her when she looked round, or when he caressed
some little child and carried it to and fro, as he was fond
of doing by the hour together, perplexed by its simple
questions, yet patient under his own infirmity, and seeming
almost conscious of it too, and humbled even before the

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