I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I resumed my chair without speaking, and looked at her (I hope), as mildly as I felt toward her. "It's disgraceful," she said. "You know it is. The whole house is disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. _I_'m disgraceful. Pa's miserable, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks--she's always drinking. It's a great shame, and a great story, of you, if you say you didn't smell her to-day. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner, you know it was!" "My dear, I don't know it," said I. "You do," she said, very shortly. "You sha'n't say you don't. You do!" "O, my dear!" said I, "if you won't let me speak--" "You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell stories, Miss Summerson." "My dear," said I, "as long as you won't hear me out--" "I don't want to hear you out." "O yes, I think you do," said I, "because that would be so very unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me, because the servant did not come near me at dinner; but I don't doubt what you tell me, and I am sorry to hear it." "You needn't make a merit of that," said she. "No, my dear," said I. "That would be very foolish." She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (but still with the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That done, she came softly back, and stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom was heaving in a distressful manner that I greatly pitied; but I thought it better not to speak. "I wish I was dead!" she broke out. "I wish we were all dead. It would be a great deal better for us." "In a moment afterward, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I comforted her, and would have raised her, but she cried, No, no; she wanted to stay there! "You used to teach girls," she said. "If you could only have taught me, I could have learned from you! I am so very miserable, and I like you so very much!" I could not persuade her to sit by me, or to do any thing but move a ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and still hold my dress in the same manner. By degrees, the poor tired girl fell asleep; and then I contrived to raise her head so that it should rest on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls. The fire went out, and all night long she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. At first I was painfully awake, and vainly tried to lose myself, with, my eyes closed, among the scenes of the day. At length, by slow degrees, they became indistinct and mingled. I began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me. Now, it was Ada; now, one of my old Reading friends from whom I could not believe I had so recently parted. Now, it was the little mad woman worn out with courtesying and smiling; now, some one in authority at Bleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I was no one.