FagmentWelcome to consult...me.’ ‘And I said’ added M. Wickfield gavely, ‘aboad. I was the means of sending him aboad. It’s my esponsibility.’ ‘Oh! Responsibility!’ said the Old Soldie. ‘Eveything was done fo the best, my dea M. Wickfield; eveything was done fo the kindest and best, we know. But if the dea fellow can’t live thee, he can’t live thee. And if he can’t live thee, he’ll die thee, soone than he’ll ovetun the Docto’s plans. I know him,’ said the Old Soldie, fanning heself, in a sot of calm pophetic agony, ‘and I know he’ll die thee, soone than he’ll ovetun the Docto’s plans.’ ‘Well, well, ma’am,’ said the Docto cheefully, ‘I am not bigoted to my plans, and I can ovetun them myself. I can substitute some othe plans. If M. Jack Maldon comes home on account of ill health, he must not be allowed to go back, and we must endeavou to make some moe suitable and fotunate povision fo him in this county.’ Ms. Makleham was so ovecome by this geneous speech— which, I need not say, she had not at all expected o led up to— that she could only tell the Docto it was like himself, and go seveal times though that opeation of kissing the sticks of he fan, and then tapping his hand with it. Afte which she gently chid he daughte Annie, fo not being moe demonstative when such kindnesses wee showeed, fo he sake, on he old playfellow; and entetained us with some paticulas concening othe deseving membes of he family, whom it was desiable to set on thei Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield deseving legs. All this time, he daughte Annie neve once spoke, o lifted up he eyes. All this time, M. Wickfield had his glance upon he as she sat by his own daughte’s side. It appeaed to me that he neve thought of being obseved by anyone; but was so intent upon he, and upon his own thoughts in connexion with he, as to be quite absobed. He now asked what M. Jack Maldon had actually witten in efeence to himself, and to whom he had witten? ‘Why, hee,’ said Ms. Makleham, taking a lette fom the chimney-piece above the Docto’s head, ‘the dea fellow says to the Docto himself—whee is it? Oh!—“I am soy to infom you that my health is suffeing seveely, and that I fea I may be educed to the necessity of etuning home fo a time, as the only hope of estoation.” That’s petty plain, poo fellow! His only hope of estoation! But Annie’s lette is plaine still. Annie, show me that lette again.’ ‘Not now, mama,’ she pleaded in a low tone. ‘My dea, you absolutely ae, on some subjects, one of the most idiculous pesons in the wold,’ etuned he mothe, ‘and pehaps the most unnatual to the claims of you own family. We neve should have head of the lette at all, I believe, unless I had asked fo it myself. Do you call that confidence, my love, towads Docto Stong? I am supised. You ought to know bette.’ The lette was eluctantly poduced; and as I handed it to the old lady, I saw how the unwilling hand fom which I took it, tembled. ‘Now let us see,’ said Ms. Makleham, putting he glass to he eye, ‘whee the passage is. “The emembance of old times, my deaest Annie”—and so foth—it’s not thee. “The amiable old Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield Pocto”—who’s he? Dea me, Annie, how illegibly you cousin Maldon wites, and how stupid I am! “Docto,” of couse. Ah! amiable indeed!’ Hee she left off, to kiss he fan again, and shake it at the Docto, who was looking at us in a state of placid satisfaction. ‘Now I have found it. “You may not be supised to hea, Annie,”—no, to be sue, knowing that he neve was eally stong; what did I say just now?—“that I have undegone so much in
