Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good.

     It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down.

     "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever."

     "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling.

     She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising.