Pip Lenoir had gone from thinking he must be the happiest boy in the world to thinking he must be the saddest boy in all the kingdom. Although it was now clear they weren't going to starve, they had entered the cold months, and while poverty may be worn lightly in the summer, and autumn only shines it brighter, it is nothing but a burden in winter. Pip and Mrs Bennett were forced to spend nearly all their time in the warmth of a kitchen that never felt quite warm enough, jealously feeding and guarding their little fire, and occasionally getting on each other's nerves.

Pip's father had given him a fur coat for Yuletide. It didn't look new, and Pip guessed it was one that his father had worn when he was a boy, but he was grateful for its warmth. He felt guilty seeing Mrs Bennett with nothing but an old jumper and cardigan worn over her long tartan skirt, so he took one of the woollen blankets off his bed, and made it into a heavy winter coat for her.

"Ah, thank you laddie, you have the good heart in you," Mrs Bennett said. "This will be grand for going out to find firewood, or into the garden, now." She placed a dry kiss on his cheek that felt like being brushed with an autumn leaf.

Pip had gone looking for a spare blanket, for they had carved wooden chests filled with linen and rugs, packed with lavender, rosemary, and cloves to keep out the moths. He couldn't find anything, and it seemed to him that all through the winter, things kept disappearing from the house.

It was always the pretty things, the valuable things that went missing, never anything ugly and useful, and Pip was forced to see that his father was selling off all the linen, blankets, vases, clocks, mirrors, carpets, rugs, ornaments, tapestries, and paintings in the house, bit by bit. What happened to the money, he did not know, but he feared his father took it to the inns, taverns, and gaming houses in the district. He hoped nothing worse than that.

Then one grey day in early spring, Pip's father sold Finn. He didn't tell Pip anything about it, a man just arrived ready to take Finn with him. Pip had been cleaning out the stables, and when he realised what was happening, he let out a long, despairing shriek.

"Please Papa, please .... no, you can't do this ... please, not Finn!" he babbled, incoherent with shock, and tears streaming down his pale cheeks.

He lay on the ground, holding onto his father's ankles in supplication as he begged to be allowed to keep his pony.

"You spoilt little bastard," Pip's father said in disgust. "You didn't cry like this when your mother died."

He whipped at Pip's hands to make him take them off his ankles, and finally lost his temper, and slashed the whip over Pip's face until he had two lines of blood over his cheekbones.

"I hate you, and I wish you were dead!" Pip shouted at his father, still sobbing. At this time, no child had ever before said these words to a parent, so it was devastating in its originality.

Pip's father looked down at his son, and said coolly, "Well, it will happen one day. And when it does, all this shall be yours, son." He gestured ironically at the empty stables, the miserable cold house, and the dead garden.

"I can see it's time for me to take your education in hand, if this is what comes of a boy being brought up by women," he continued. "First your mother petted you as if you were a babe still at her teat, now the old crone is making you cook and sew like a maiden. From now on, you'll be spending your days and nights with me, and I'll teach you how to grow up to be a gentleman."

Pip gave one horrified sob, and ran to the place where his mother was buried in a grove of yew trees. He lay on her grave, crying his heart out, more miserable than he had ever thought possible. The loss of Finn was a severe one, for the pony had been his best friend, and the only one he had been able to talk to about his problems. Mrs Bennett was kind and sensible, but she wasn't very good at talking about feelings, or poetry, or hopes and dreams.

And poor Finn – he hadn't known what was going to happen, this was a shock for him too, and Pip hadn't been able to comfort him. His last memory of Pip would be hearing his best friend shriek and cry in pain, grovelling in the mud, and being whipped. That sort of thing can cause horses and ponies terrible damage, for they are sensitive beasts, with long memories for fear and sadness. And Finn was going to people who wouldn't be able to understand his speech, and would treat him like a dumb animal.

Pip lay against the earth which covered his mother as if trying to lie against her breast. "Please Mama, please Mama," he said, and nothing else, because he didn't know what he was asking of her. He only knew that his life had become insupportable since she died.

Mrs Bennett eventually found him, lying insensible on his mother's grave. She gently helped him up, then carried him to the house, dressed his wounds, and put him to bed. Mrs Bennett lit the fire in his bedroom to keep him warm, and brought him vegetable soup and hot sweet tea. 

She let him cry, and she let him fall asleep when he needed to, and she listened to everything he said. When it grew dark, she brought him boiled eggs and toast, and washed his hands and face, and told him to get a good night's sleep, there's a lad.

It was Mrs Bennett who came to him in the hour before dawn, her face looking drawn, and older than he had ever thought possible.

"Oh, laddie," she said in a broken voice. "It's terrible news I bring you."

There had been an accident, and Pip's father thrown from the horse he was riding on his way home from the inn. He had long sold all his fine riding horses, and this was one borrowed from a farmer, more used to pulling a plough than having a man on its back. The horse frighted at something and became a runaway. 

Pip's father had fallen and been dragged before ending up in a ditch, his skull crushed by one of the horse's hooves, and his back broken. It could only be hoped that all he had drunk did something to dull the pain he suffered before death took him.

The very day of Pip's father's funeral, when he was laid to rest under the yews with a gravestone for Robin D'Arcy Lenoir, next to his beloved wife Evelina Linnet Lenoir, the family lawyer arrived. He introduced himself as Mr Pike, of the illustrious firm Pinchpenny and Pike. Pip was sent outside.

"Is there anyone I can talk to about the child's affairs?" Mr Pike asked.

"You can talk to me," said Mrs Bennett firmly.

"Aren't you the housekeeper?" he asked, looking dubious.

"I'm ... I'm a friend of the family," said Mrs Bennett, because you can hardly be a housekeeper when you haven't received wages for many years.

Mr Pike accepted that, and bluntly laid out Pip's position. His father had long sold the farm to Mr Fairfield, for far less than its true worth. He had sold everything of his wife's, all her clothing and jewellery, her furniture, and other personal possessions. He had sold everything of value he could get his hands on, and there remained only the house. Mr Pike thought that if the house was sold, it would be just enough to pay off Mr Robin's gaming debts, and the legal fees.

"I'm afraid that Master Pip has been left with nothing. Is there no relative he could be sent to, someone who could take him in?"

Mrs Bennett shook her head. "They are all passed now, bless them," she said, her head bowed as she made a gesture of respect.

"Then I'm afraid he must be sent to the orphanage at Woolverstone," said Mr Pike.

Mrs Bennett's eyes blazed with indignation. "I know what happens to childer there, what is done to them, what they are forced to become," she said angrily.

"Whatever you imagine, I suggest you keep quiet about it, my dear lady," said Mr Pike.

"I shall take Pip myself," said Mrs Bennett. "Though I be but a poor old woman with nothing to my name, Pip would be better off with me than in that ... place."

"I must advise against it," said Mr Pike, in the tone of one who is compelled to do their duty even when they don't really care. "You are under no obligation to take charge of this child, and he is no kin to you at all. It means a great deal of expense and trouble, and you are at an age when you should be seeking rest and repose, not greater responsibility. I can take him to the orphanage right now, and no one will blame you in the least."

"There's no rest for me either way, and I'd blame myself right enough if aught happened to the lad," said Mrs Bennett stubbornly.

"Have it your own way," said Mr Pike, in the tone of someone who has done their duty and can't disguise how little they care. "I must be leaving you now, dear lady. If you and the young master could vacate the house as soon as possible, I can put it up for sale."

"Would tomorrow morning suit?" said Mrs Bennett with a layer of frost in her voice.

"That would be most helpful. Thank you," said Mr Pike, getting out his leather purse. "Of course, our firm will pay all your travel expenses, you need have no fears about that, dear lady."

As he was leaving, Mr Pike almost tripped over Pip, who had been sitting on the front doorstep, wondering what was to become of him.

"My condolences, Master Pip," he said with a bow. "Pinchpenny and Pike have been your family's solicitors for many years now, and I'm sure Mr Pinchpenny would join me in lamenting the sad loss of your parents at so young an age."

"I thought you were Mr Pinchpenny," said Pip.

"No, dear boy. I am Mr Pike. Mr Pinchpenny is the senior partner in the firm, a much older man."

"He must be very old," said Pip, because Mr Pike was grey and bent.

"He doesn't get around much any more," Mr Pike acknowledged, "but his mind is as sharp as ever. Now, you should go talk to that excellent old dame of yours, and she can tell you all that we spoke about. Good day, Master Pip, and may happier times lie ahead for you."

Pip said goodbye to Mr Pike, and slowly walked through the heavy front door of his ancestral home, ready to learn his fate.