“Mr. Thomas Traddles’s respectful friend and suppliant,

“Emma Micawber.”

“What do you think of that letter?” said Traddles, casting his eyes upon me, when I had read it twice.

“What do you think of the other?” said I. For he was still reading it with knitted brows.

“I think that the two together, Copperfield,” replied Traddles, “mean more than Mr. and Mrs. Micawber usually mean in their correspondence—but I don’t know what. They are both written in good faith, I have no doubt, and without any collusion. Poor thing!” he was now alluding to Mrs. Micawber’s letter, and we were standing side by side comparing the two; “it will be a charity to write to her, at all events, and tell her that we will not fail to see Mr. Micawber.”

I acceded to this, the more readily, because I now reproached myself with having treated her former letter rather lightly. It had set me thinking a good deal at the time, as I have mentioned in its place; but my absorption in my own affairs, my experience of the family, and my hearing nothing more, had gradually ended in my dismissing the subject. I had often thought of the Micawbers, but chiefly to wonder what “pecuniary liabilities” they were establishing in Canterbury, and to recall how shy Mr. Micawber was of me when he became clerk to Uriah Heep.

However, I now wrote a comforting letter to Mrs. Micawber, in our joint names, and we both signed it. As we walked into town to post it, Traddles and I held a long conference, and launched into a number of speculations, which I need not repeat. We took my aunt into our counsels in the afternoon; but our only decided conclusion was, that we would be very punctual in keeping Mr. Micawber’s appointment.

Although we appeared at the stipulated place a quarter of an hour before the time, we found Mr. Micawber already there. He was standing with his arms folded, over against the wall, looking at the spikes on the top, with a sentimental expression, as if they were the interlacing boughs of trees that had shaded him in his youth.

When we accosted him, his manner was something more confused, and something less genteel, than of yore. He had relinquished his legal suit of black for the purposes of this excursion, and wore the old surtout and tights, but not quite with the old air. He gradually picked up more and more of it as we conversed with him; but his very eyeglass seemed to hang less easily, and his shirt collar, though still of the old formidable dimensions, rather drooped.

“Gentlemen!” said Mr. Micawber, after the first salutations, “you are friends in need, and friends indeed. Allow me to offer my inquiries with reference to the physical welfare of Mrs. Copperfield in esse, and Mrs. Traddles in posse,—presuming, that is to say, that my friend Mr.Traddles is not yet united to the object of his affections, for weal and for woe.”

We acknowledged his politeness, and made suitable replies. He then directed our attention to the wall, and was beginning, “I assure you, gentlemen,” when I ventured to object to that ceremonious form of address, and to beg that he would speak to us in the old way.

“My dear Copperfield,” he returned, pressing my hand, “your cordiality overpowers me. This reception of a shattered fragment of the Temple once called Man—if I may be permitted so to express myself—bespeaks a heart that is an honour to our common nature. I was about to observe that I again behold the serene spot where some of the happiest hours of my existence fleeted by.”

“Made so, I am sure, by Mrs. Micawber,” said I. “I hope she is well?”

“Thank you,” returned Mr. Micawber, whose face clouded at this reference, “she is but so-so. And this,” said Mr. Micawber, nodding his head sorrowfully, “is the Bench! Where, for the first time in many revolving