There was a curious look of speculation in Mr. Pym's eyes as he gazed at the unconscious speaker. "Mamma dreams," he said; "as we all do. Do you remember my old horse Bob, Georgy? Well, he died this summer, poor fellow, of old age. I dream of him some nights, Georgy; I think he's carrying me along the road at a sharp trot." Georgy's imaginative young mind, quickened by bodily weakness, took hold of the words with interest. "Do you see his saddle and bridle, Mr. Pym?" "His saddle, and bridle, and stirrups, and all; and his old mane and tail. They had grown so grey, Georgy. He was a faithful, hard-working servant to me: I shall never have his like again." "Have you got another horse? Is his name Bob?" "I have another, and his name's Jack. He's not a second Bob, Georgy. When he has to stand before people's doors in my gig, he gets impatient and begins to dance. One day when I was on him, he tried to throw me, and we had a fight for the mastery: another day, when I wanted him to turn down Bell-yard, he wished to walk into the brush-shop, and we had another fight." Georgy laughed, with all the little strength left in him. "I wouldn't keep him. Benja's pony never did all that." "Well, you see, Georgy, I am trying to train him into better ways; that's why I keep him. But he's a naughty Jack." "Why shouldn't you have Benja's pony? I'm sure mamma would give it you: she says she doesn't care what becomes of anything left at Alnwick. It was for me; but I'm not going back now; I'm going to heaven." "Ah, my little generous lad, Benja's pony would not carry me; I'm heavier than you and Benja. And what about the French tongue, Georgy? Are you picking it up?" "It's not French they talk here," said Georgy; "it's Flemish. We have two Flemish servants, and you should hear them jabbering." Mr. Pym stroked back the child's flaxen hair: to his touch it felt damp and dead. In mind, in speech, he seemed to have advanced quite three years, though it was not yet a twelvemonth since he quitted Alnwick. The door opened, and Mrs. St. John came into the room. Not the anguished excited woman who had gone into that insane paroxysm an hour or two before; but a cold high-bred gentlewoman, whose calm exterior and apparently impassive feelings were entirely under self-control. Her dark hair, luxuriant as ever, was elaborately dressed, and her black silk gown was of rich material and the most fashionable make. "I have been expecting you these two days," she said as she advanced. "I thought this morning you must have given up all intention of coming, and I looked for a letter instead." "Ah," said Mr. Pym, holding out his hand to her, "I got lost, as I have been telling Georgy. Never was abroad before in my life: never got puzzled by any language but once, and that was in Wales." She heard nothing in the sentence except the one word, "Georgy." "How do you think he is looking, Mr. Pym?"