' And it was August Bank
Holiday, the first August Bank Holiday that ever was; and it was a
beautiful day, lovely weather it was, and my poor mother had a fit, and
never was quite the same; and she died."
Miss Stipp fetches a sigh, and shakes her head at the fire. She has been
living in the past, watching with the mind's eye her poor mother fade
slowly into eternity on that beautiful August day--the little almshouse
bedroom flooded, let us hope, with golden light, for all it was in
Blackfriars. She comes to herself with a little jerk, turns her head
slowly round to us, and smiles one of her poor, pathetic,
half-entreating smiles which make her seem like another Maggie.
And, strange to relate, Miss Stipp was confirmed in St. George's Church,
on whose muddied steps Little Dorrit, Little Mother, sat in far-off days
with the big head of poor Maggie on her lap. "It was beautiful,
beautiful it was, that there Confirmation," says Miss Stipp. "The
bishop, he put his hands on my head, just there he did, put 'em on, and
I was kneelin' at his feet, and he said the words, whatever they was,
and I felt his hands pressin' on my hair; of course, I had done it werry
nice for the occasion; and I was quite a public character; yuss! and
many's the time I've been up to St. George's Church since those days and
fancied to myself that I was actin' the part again.
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