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was awakened by hearing my own name spoken in a whis-
per. I started up in bed, and putting out my arms in the
dark, said:
‘Is that you, Peggotty?’
There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard
my name again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, that
I think I should have gone into a fit, if it had not occurred to
me that it must have come through the keyhole.
I groped my way to the door, and putting my own lips to
the keyhole, whispered: ‘Is that you, Peggotty dear?’
‘Yes, my own precious Davy,’ she replied. ‘Be as soft as a
mouse, or the Cat’ll hear us.’
I understood this to mean Miss Murdstone, and was sen-
sible of the urgency of the case; her room being close by.
‘How’s mama, dear Peggotty? Is she very angry with
me?’
I could hear Peggotty crying softly on her side of the key-
hole, as I was doing on mine, before she answered. ‘No. Not
very.’
‘What is going to be done with me, Peggotty dear? Do
you know?’
‘School. Near London,’ was Peggotty’s answer. I was
obliged to get her to repeat it, for she spoke it the first time
quite down my throat, in consequence of my having forgot-
ten to take my mouth away from the keyhole and put my
ear there; and though her words tickled me a good deal, I
didn’t hear them.
‘When, Peggotty?’
‘Tomorrow.’