“It is undoubtedly the fact, Copperfield,” said Traddles, to whom I looked in surprise. “Mr. Micawber has consulted me, in reference to what he has in contemplation; and I have advised him to the best of my judgment.”

“Unless I deceive myself, Mr. Traddles,” pursued Mr. Micawber “what I contemplate is a disclosure of an important nature.”

“Highly so,” said Traddles.

“Perhaps, under such circumstances, madam and gentlemen,” said Mr. Micawber, “you will do me the favour to submit yourselves, for the moment, to the direction of one, who, however unworthy to be regarded in any other light but as a Waif and Stray upon the shore of human nature, is still your fellow-man, though crushed out of his original form by individual errors, and the accumulative force of a combination of circumstances?”

“We have perfect confidence in you, Mr. Micawber,” said I, “and will do what you please.”

“Mr. Copperfield,” returned Mr. Micawber, “your confidence is not, at the existing juncture, ill-bestowed. I would beg to be allowed a start of five minutes by the clock; and then to receive the present company, inquiring for Miss Wickfield, at the office of Wickfield and Heep, whose Stipendiary I am.”

My aunt and I looked at Traddles, who nodded his approval.

“I have no more,” observed Mr. Micawber, “to say at present.”

With which, to my infinite surprise, he included us all in a comprehensive bow, and disappeared; his manner being extremely distant, and his face extremely pale.

Traddles only smiled, and shook his head (with his hair standing upright on the top of it), when I looked to him for an explanation; so I took out my watch, and, as a last resource, counted off the five minutes. My aunt, with her own watch in her hand, did the like. When the time was expired, Traddles gave her his arm; and we all went out together to the old house, without saying one word on the way.

We found Mr. Micawber at his desk, in the turret office on the ground-floor, either writing, or pretending to write, hard. The large office-ruler was stuck into his waistcoat, and was not so well concealed but that a foot or more of that instrument protruded from his bosom, like a new kind of shirt-frill.

As it appeared to me that I was expected to speak, I said aloud—

“How do you do, Mr. Micawber?”

“Mr. Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, gravely, “I hope I see you well?”

“Is Miss Wickfield at home?” said I.

“Mr. Wickfield is unwell in bed, Sir, of a rheumatic fever,” he returned; “but Miss Wickfield, I have no doubt, will be happy to see old friends. Will you walk in, Sir?”

He preceded us to the dining-room—the first room I had entered in that house—and flinging open the door of Mr. Wickfield’s former office, said, in a sonorous voice—

“Miss Trotwood, Mr. David Copperfield, Mr. Thomas Traddles, and Mr. Dixon!”

I had not seen Uriah Heep since the time of the blow. Our visit astonished him, evidently; not the less, I dare say, because it astonished ourselves. He did not gather his eyebrows together, for he had none worth mentioning; but he frowned to that degree that he almost closed his small eyes, while the hurried