All this while, Louisa had been passing on, so quiet and reserved, and so much given to watching the bright ashes at twilight as they fell into the grate, and became extinct, that from the period when her father had said she was almost a young woman—which seemed but yesterday—she had scarcely attracted his notice again, when he found her quite a young woman.
‘Quite a young woman,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, musing. ‘Dear me!’
Soon after this discovery, he became more thoughtful than usual for several days, and seemed much engrossed by one subject. On a certain night, when he was going out, and Louisa came to bid him good-bye before his departure—as he was not to be home until late and she would not see him again until the morning—he held her in his arms, looking at her in his kindest manner, and said:
‘My dear Louisa, you are a woman!’
She answered with the old, quick, searching look of the night when she was found at the Circus; then cast down her eyes. ‘Yes, father.’
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘I must speak with you alone and seriously. Come to me in my room after breakfast to-morrow, will you?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are you not well?’
‘Quite well, father.’
‘And cheerful?’