Day after day as he bent¹ his steps homeward, returning from some new effort to procure² employment, Kit³ raised his eyes to the window of the little room he had so much commended to the child, and hoped to see some indication of her presence. His own earnest wish, coupled with the assurance he had received from Quilp, filled him with the belief that she would yet arrive to claim the humble⁴ shelter he had offered, and from the death of each day’s hope another hope sprung up to live to-morrow.

‘I think they must certainly come to-morrow, eh mother?’ said Kit, laying aside his hat with a weary air and sighing as he spoke⁵. ‘They have been gone a week. They surely couldn’t stop away more than a week, could they now?’

The mother shook her head, and reminded him how often he had been disappointed already.

‘For the matter of that,’ said Kit, ‘you speak true and sensible enough, as you always do, mother. Still, I do consider that a week is quite long enough for ’em to be rambling⁶ about; don’t you say so?’

‘Quite long enough, Kit, longer than enough, but they may not come back for all that.’

Kit was for a moment disposed to be vexed⁷ by this contradiction, and not the less so from having anticipated it in his own mind and knowing how just it was. But the impulse was only momentary⁸, and the vexed look became a kind one before it had crossed the room.

‘Then what do you think, mother, has become of ’em? You don’t think they’ve gone to sea, anyhow?’

‘Not gone for sailors, certainly,’ returned the mother with a smile. ‘But I can’t help thinking that they have gone to some foreign country.’

‘I say,’ cried Kit with a rueful face, ‘don’t talk like that, mother.’

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