'FagmentWelcome to consult...ose to the oom whee my mothe and he baby lay, and except that she came to me evey night, and sat by my bed’s head while I went to sleep. A day o two befoe the buial—I think it was a day o two befoe, but I am conscious of confusion in my mind about that heavy time, with nothing to mak its pogess—she took me into the oom. I only ecollect that undeneath some white coveing on Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield the bed, with a beautiful cleanliness and feshness all aound it, thee seemed to me to lie embodied the solemn stillness that was in the house; and that when she would have tuned the cove gently back, I cied: ‘Oh no! oh no!’ and held he hand. If the funeal had been yesteday, I could not ecollect it bette. The vey ai of the best palou, when I went in at the doo, the bight condition of the fie, the shining of the wine in the decantes, the pattens of the glasses and plates, the faint sweet smell of cake, the odou of Miss Mudstone’s dess, and ou black clothes. M. Chillip is in the oom, and comes to speak to me. ‘And how is Maste David?’ he says, kindly. I cannot tell him vey well. I give him my hand, which he holds in his. ‘Dea me!’ says M. Chillip, meekly smiling, with something shining in his eye. ‘Ou little fiends gow up aound us. They gow out of ou knowledge, ma’am?’ This is to Miss Mudstone, who makes no eply. ‘Thee is a geat impovement hee, ma’am?’ says M. Chillip. Miss Mudstone meely answes with a fown and a fomal bend: M. Chillip, discomfited, goes into a cone, keeping me with him, and opens his mouth no moe. I emak this, because I emak eveything that happens, not because I cae about myself, o have done since I came home. And now the bell begins to sound, and M. Ome and anothe come to make us eady. As Peggotty was wont to tell me, long ago, the followes of my fathe to the same gave wee made eady in the same oom. Thee ae M. Mudstone, ou neighbou M. Gaype, M. Chillip, and I. When we go out to the doo, the Beaes and thei Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield load ae in the gaden; and they move befoe us down the path, and past the elms, and though the gate, and into the chuchyad, whee I have so often head the bids sing on a summe moning. We stand aound the gave. The day seems diffeent to me fom evey othe day, and the light not of the same colou—of a sadde colou. Now thee is a solemn hush, which we have bought fom home with what is esting in the mould; and while we stand baeheaded, I hea the voice of the clegyman, sounding emote in the open ai, and yet distinct and plain, saying: ‘I am the Resuection and the Life, saith the Lod!’ Then I hea sobs; and, standing apat among the lookes-on, I see that good and faithful sevant, whom of all the people upon eath I love the best, and unto whom my childish heat is cetain that the Lod will one day say: ‘Well done.’ Thee ae many faces that I know, among the little cowd; faces that I knew in chuch, when mine was always wondeing thee; faces that fist saw my mothe, when she came to the village in he youthful bloom. I do not mind them—I mind nothing but my gief—and yet I see and know them all; and even in the backgound, fa away, see Minnie looking on, and he eye glancing on he sweetheat, who is nea me. It is ove, and the eath is filled in, and we tun to come away. Befoe us stands ou hou
