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Hello and welcome to Storytime for Grown Ups. I'm Faith Moore and this season we're reading David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. Each episode I'll read a few chapters from the book, pausing from time to time to give brief explanations so it's easier to follow along. It's like an audiobook with built in notes. So brew a pot of tea, find a cozy chair and settle in. It's story time. Hello, welcome back. I hope that you are cozy and warm wherever you are. I'm very glad to be here with you. Thank you for joining me to read more David Copperfield together. I wanted to make sure and remind you today about today Tea time, which is coming up very soon. It's next week. It's on Tuesday, February 24th at 8pm Eastern. Tea time happens in our online community which is called the Drawing Room. And if you are not a member but you'd like to join us, there's still time. So you can scroll into the show notes of this episode and click on the link that's there and you can sign up to be a part of the Drawing Room. You have to be a member of the Landed Gentry membership tier to join in on tea time. Tea Time is like a voice chat, like a group phone call where I can talk to you, you can talk to me, you can talk to each other and or you can just listen and we talk for about an hour. It's very, very fun. It's like a cozy chat and I always really enjoy it. The time flies by. You can also ask me anything. I've already got some questions in the Ask me Anything channel over there on in the Drawing Room. So please do join us if you can and if you'd like to, please do sign up if you're interested, even if you don't want to join us for tea time but you're interested in in an online space where you can chat with other people who are listening to this book together and who've read some of the other storytime books. It's really active over there. I guarantee you'll find some friends. So if you're interested in that, please check out the link in the show notes and I hope that you'll join us for tea time. I'm always happy to chat with my old friends and make some new ones. So tea time Tuesday, February 24th at 8pm Eastern. I hope that you will be there on Okay, I don't have any other announcements today so we can just get right into the episode. As long as you're subscribed Otherwise, we can't get into this episode. No, I'm joking. We can. But please do subscribe. Please do tap the five stars if you're enjoying this show. Leave a positive review if you have a couple of extra seconds. And please tell a friend. Spread the word about Storytime for Grownups, because the more, the merrier, the more people listening, the more people talking about these great books, the better the world will be. And if you tell someone you know and they get into the show, then you will have a person in real life with whom you can discuss this book or the other books from the show or just books in general. And who doesn't want to have a friend to talk about books with. I mean, that's amazing. That's great. So please bring in your friends, your family members, your co workers. I know that so many of you have, like, book clubs and carpools and work meetings and all kinds of things related to this. I recently learned that a teacher is using this in her classroom, which makes me so, so happy. And so I just make more groups, make friends, just share the show with as many people as you can. And let's get as many people talking about this great book and all these great books as we possibly can. So please do that. And other than that, let's just get into this book because Davey just ran away. We have to figure out what is going to happen to him, right? So last time we read chapter 12, today we're going to be reading chapter 13. So let's remind ourselves of what happened this. Then we'll chat for a little bit and then we'll figure out what's going to happen to Davey. Now, so here is the recap. Okay, so where we left off, Mr. Macawer gets out of prison. And so he and Mrs. Macawer decide to take their family to the country. And that means that Davey has to separate from them, which makes him so upset that he decides that he's going to run away. The only person he can think of to run away to is his aunt, or I guess his great aunt, Betsy Trotwood. She's the one that he never met, but she ran off on the night that he was born because he wasn't a girl. But he hopes that she will take him in. And so he writes to Peggy asking to borrow some money and surreptitiously trying to find out where Miss Betsy lives. He finds out that she lives near Dover. And so he decides he's going to go there. He doesn't want to take any money from the warehouse that doesn't belong to him. So he works for the full week and then doesn't take his pay because he was initially paid in advance. So then he hires a boy with a donkey cart to carry his box to the station. But the boy takes the box and Davey's money that he borrowed from Peggy and runs off with it. Davey tries to follow him but he can't. So now he's on his way to try to find his aunt near Dover with no money and no property at all to his name. Okay, I'm going to read two comments today. The first one comes from Anne. Anne says, I really enjoyed this chapter except for the ending as he yet again ran into some detestable characters. Two things struck me about this chapter. First, Aunt Betsy. I was assuming he was going to Peggety as she is the closest person he's had to family. Secondly, Mrs. Micawber. She is an example of a strong woman, not in the modern day feminist sense, but in the sense of strong moral character. She will not leave her husband, for better or worse, anyone, and she wouldn't take from a child in as bad a situation as she. I can't wait to see how much umbrage David's second arrival causes. Aunt Betsy and the second one is from our online community, the Drawing Room, which I was just talking about. This person goes by the handle arymm and she says Anyone have thoughts as to why David didn't just quit Murdstone and Grinby rather than sneaking away? He might have avoided being robbed if he hadn't feared being taken to the police. Obviously the lanky young man simply used that threat to scare scare David. I don't think he is an indentured servant, but perhaps his age prevents him from making such decisions himself. Or he fears they will alert Murdstone or prevent him from leaving in some other way. No one at the company seems to care about his welfare, but he seems quite concerned they will prohibit him from openly quitting. Okay, so yes, Davey is running away. And he's running away because he can't see any other way to get out of this situation. And he's desperate to get out before it's too late. Before he becomes the sort of person person who works at a factory rather than the sort of person who learns new things and reads books and finds his place in the respectable world of middle class society. And all of this. The longer he stays at Murdstone and Grinby's, the more he's afraid that he will become lower class Essentially. And he has dreams of becoming a distinguished gentleman one day. And he can't bear to think that those dreams are going to be snuffed out simply because he's not being allowed to go to school and continue his education and because he doesn't have anyone to help him to enter into the kind of profession. Profession and the kind of life that he aspires to. So the longer he stays, the less likely it is that he'll ever get back to the sort of life he imagines for himself. And he says that he sees no rescue, meaning he can't think of anything that would happen to him that would make it so that he didn't have to work at the warehouse anymore. So if something's going to change, he has to change it himself. But there are some pretty serious impediments in his way. The first is that he's still a child. Mr. Murdstone. And this goes to Mary's question. Okay, so Mr. Murdstone is Davy's legal guardian. And Mr. Murdstone has decreed that this life that he's living now is the one that he should live. So if he says that he wants to quit, if Davy says, I want to quit, Mr. Murdstone will say no. And even if he does quit without asking Mr. Murdstone and Mr. Quinion lets him go, Mr. Quinion will then tell Mr. Murdstone that's pretty much a given. And Mr. Murdstone will probably come and find him and make him come back. It's possible that Mr. Murdstone wouldn't do that. It's possible that Mr. Murdstone would just be like, well, fine, good riddance. If you're not gonna take this very generous setup that I've provided for you and you're gonna run off on your own, well, then, fine, off you go. I wash my hands of you. He might say that, though I'm not sure that he would, since I do think he has a sense of responsibility for Davie, even though he doesn't want to be responsible for him. And even though his version of doing his duty leaves much to be desired in our opinion. So I don't think he would let him go. But he might. He might let him go. We don't know. But that brings us to another problem that Davey has, which is that if he just quit and ran away, he would essentially be in the same situation he is in now in terms of being able to live a middle class life without a job and without a family. He'd be on the Streets, essentially. And a boy on the streets has, like, zero chance of getting an education and starting in a good profession when he grows up to. So he'd be worse off because he wouldn't even have an income. So he has to run off secretly because it's unlikely that Mr. Quinion would let him leave without consulting Mr. Murdstone, and it's unlikely that Mr. Merdstone would consent to let him quit. And Mr. Murdstone is his legal guardian, and he has to do what he says. And by the way, I don't think he's afraid to go to the police with the boy because he thinks that the police will send him back to the warehouse. I think he's just desperate to get his money back right then and there. And he can see that if they did go to the police, they wouldn't know whose money it was. So it's just as likely they would let the boy with the cart keep it. Not to mention the fact that the boy rides off so quickly that Davey can't catch up to him. And he's clearly not actually going to the police. He's just running away with Davey's money. So this is really just another instance of Davey being so innocent and so trusting and being totally taken advantage of by the, like, the hard, cruel world. I mean, that's a theme that's developing, right? Davey isn't cut out for the harsh realities of the world. He believes too much in goodness and kindness and honesty. And we applaud them for that. I mean, I do. I applaud them him for that. He shouldn't let go of that. And the thing where he refuses to take money that he didn't earn from Merdstone and grin these. I mean, that's amazing. I love that about him. But having this sense of honesty and assuming that everyone else does, too. It means that people take advantage of him like the boy with the cart did. So anyway, he's got to run away. But then why. And this goes to part of Anne's question, why, when he runs away, doesn't he go to Peggy? Well, this is another issue, because while running away to Peggy would be the most comforting thing, and she would certainly take him in, right? She told him that the room will always be made up for him and everything. So she would let him in and she'd let him stay there for a while. So she's certainly the person he'd most want to see right now. But there are two issues. One is, and we've talked about this before, but one is that she probably doesn't have the financial means to actually ra. And if she did, she certainly couldn't raise him in the way he wants to be raised. She wouldn't be able to pay for a good education or to set him up in a good profession when he's old enough. I know that this is hard for us to conceptualize from our modern vantage point, because to us, we just see a motherless boy who needs some love. And that is certainly true and we certainly wish that for Devi. But there's something else that Davey wants for himself, and that is the middle class life that we've been talking about. And Peggy can't provide that for. And he's not willing to give it up. He's got a picture of what he wants in his life, what he wants his life to be like, and he can't let it go. And even though going to Peggy would meet his emotional needs, it wouldn't set him up for the life he wants. And he knows that it's not a great trade off. He's not going to trade his need for love and affection in the moment for an entire lifetime living a life that he doesn't want. So what is he going to do? How can he find his way to the kind of life he wants to lead? Who does he know who is middle class with middle class connections who would be willing to take him in and pay for his education and help him afterwards to find a job? Well, the answer to that is no one, except Miss Betsy. And of course, this doesn't really sound very promising, right? Miss Betsy stormed off in a huff when she found out he wasn't a girl. And Davey hasn't heard from her since. But he clings on to this one little detail from the story that his mother used to tell as proof that maybe, just maybe, his aunt will help him. Here is what that detail is. It says, I could not forget how my mother had thought that she felt her touch her pretty hair with no ungentle hand. And though it might have been altogether my mother's fancy and might have had no foundation whatever, in fact, I made a little picture out of it of my terrible aunt relenting towards the girlish beauty that I recollected so well and loved so much. Which softened the whole narrative. Okay, so tellingly, I think he's grasping onto the idea that Miss Betsy, who seemed so hard hearted and weird, might actually have like a hidden strain of gentleness in her. And if she did, then all his needs would be met, right? If he could somehow tap into this potentially imagined, potentially real kindness that Aunt Betsy has and ask her to take him in. Then he'd have the love and protection he so desperately needs and the middle class life that he so desperately wants. So that's why he latches onto this idea of Miss Betsy. But it's really a pretty desperate plan and it doesn't really seem destined to succeed. But that is his thinking and I think it's the departure of the Macabre's that's kind of like the catalyst for this decision. Because until they left Davey felt that he had some family that emotional needs were being, if not met then at least like somewhat satisfied. And when they decide to leave London and seek their fortune somewhere else it's kind of like another one of these separations that Davy keeps having to go through. And it throws his life into pretty stark relief. Here is what he says. I had grown to be so accustomed to the Macabre and had been so intimate with them in their distresses and was so utterly friendless without them that the prospect of being thrown upon some new shift for a lodging and going once more among unknown people was like being that moment turned adrift into my present life with such a knowledge of it ready made as experience had given me. Okay, so this strange little family that he's been sort of a part of, it's breaking up and he's looking at the prospect of being completely and utterly alone and also having no real prospect aspects and it's this that makes him decide to run away because and Dickens is so good at this but the Macabre's they're both like incredibly ridiculous and incredibly likable. Like Anne says In her letter, Mrs. Micawber has integrity and she's loyal and she treats Davey with respect but she's Also, she and Mr. Macabre both, they're both completely maudlin, completely over the top. I mean they're very funny, which is important because we need some humor in this situation. So there are all those things but they're also somehow endearing and they have been good and kind to Devi in a situation where pretty much no one else has. But they're also not the family or the caregivers that we would wish for. Davie. I mean this ridiculous maudlin quality I was just talking about, that's one reason. I mean listen to the way that Mrs. Micawber talks. Here's a quote. Mr. Micawber has his faults. I do not deny that he is improvident. I do not deny that he has kept me in the dark as to his resources and his liabilities both. But I Never will desert Mr. Macawer. Right? So on the one hand, like Anne says, there's strength in that. She married this guy and even though he has no money and he doesn't seem to be doing anything to make any, she'll never leave him. But she's also like falling into hysterics at the mere suggestion that she might leave him. And in the same breath implying that Mr. Macawber wasn't honest with her and therefore she's sort of a martyr. She's kind of a mess, really. And then Mr. Macawer is equally, if not more ridiculous. His emotions change at the drop of a hat. Remember when Davey goes, goes to get him because Mrs. Macawer is freaking out, it says he immediately burst into tears and came away with me with his waistcoat full of the heads and tails of shrimps of which he had been partaking. Okay, which is really a funny image, but it's also very maudlin and very silly. But also they kind of like being the way they are. They kind of like being in a state of like, constant debt and always being just one move away from ruin. Or if not like it, I guess they're sort of used to it. It's their chosen lifestyle, I think. Here's what Davey says. He says, I was greatly touched and disappointed too, for I had expected that we should be quite gay on this happy and long looked for occasion. But Mr. And Mrs. Micawber were so used to their old difficulties, I think that they felt quite shipwrecked when they came to consider that they were released from them. Okay, so Davie, who is loving and kind and honest and careful, cares about anyone who cares about him. He's really worried about them and really hopes that they will find some way to earn money and get out of debt and all of this. But what he doesn't see is that that's clearly never going to happen. This is their life. It's their chosen life almost. They're always waiting for something to, quote, unquote, turn up. And even though Mr. Macawer says they're going away, here's a quote. Until something turns up, which I am, I may say, hourly expecting. So even though he's saying that, it seems very unlikely that anything actually will turn up. And I think there's a way in which they're okay with that. So these are not really the people that we want to see Davey getting like, adopted by. And they also, in A way represent this part of his life where he's been asked to be an adult far too soon. The Macabre's like him and they care about him, but they never really saw him as a child. I mean Mrs. Macabre clearly saw him as a sort of confidante. She even says, here's a quote. I shall never master Copperfield, revert to the period when Mr. Micawber was in difficulties without thinking of you. Your conduct has always been of the most delicate and obliging description. You have never been a lodger, you have been a friend. But there is this moment as they're leaving when Mrs. Macawer suddenly realizes that this person that she's been confiding in and asking for help from and all of this is, is actually just a little boy. Here's what Davey says. He says a mist cleared from her eyes and she saw what a little creature I really was. I think so because she beckoned to me to climb up with quite a new and motherly expression in her face and put her arm around my neck and gave me just such a kiss as she might have given to her own boy. So they could have treated him as a child but they didn't because they didn't see him as one. Because he's not living as one. He's living as an adult. And even though that's totally inappropriate and he needs a home and a loving caregiver and an education, protection and everything, but the Macabre's are not the ones to give it to him. But is Miss Betsy right? It seems highly unlikely. But even so, Davy is going off to find out. Because in a lot of ways this is his only shot at the life that he wants. And also it's looking a lot like another one of these endings that we talked about before. Remember we talked about how the book keeps giving us these little chapters of his life and then tying them up with a bow and moving on. Well this seems like it's another one. His life living as an adult, working at Murdstone and Grimby's. It's over. He's run away. And the question is, will something new begin or will he be sent right back again? Or will something else happen? And if something new does begin, will it be be better or will it be worse? Well we have to keep reading to find out, so let's do that. But of course, don't forget to write to me. It's faithkmore.com click on Contact or just scroll into the show notes. There's a link there to that same contact page. You are never bothering me. I love to hear your reactions, your thoughts, your questions. Keep them coming and we'll talk more next time. All right, let's get started with chapter 13 of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. It's story time. Chapter 13, the sequel of my resolution for anything I know. I may have had some wild idea of running all the way to Dover when I gave up the pursuit of the young man with the donkey cart and started for Greenwich. My scattered senses were soon collected as to that point, if I had for I came to a stop in the Kent Road at a terrace with a piece of water before it and a great foolish image in the middle blowing a dry shell. So he's looking at a fountain here. I sat down on a doorstep, quite spent and exhausted with the efforts I had already made, and with hardly breath enough to cry for the loss of my box and half guinea. It was by this time dark. I heard the clock strike 10 as I sat resting, but it was a summer night, fortunately, and fine weather. When I had recovered my breath and had got rid of a stifling sensation in my throat, I rose up and went on. In the midst of my distress I had no notion of going back. I doubt if I should have had any, though there had been a Swiss snow drift in the Kent Road, meaning there's nothing that could have induced him to go back to the warehouse but my standing possessed of only three halfpence in the world, and I am sure I wonder how they came to be left in my pocket on a Saturday night, troubled me none the less. Because I went on, I began to picture to myself as a scrap of newspaper intelligence my being found dead in a day or two under some hedge and I trudged on miserably, though as fast as I could, until I happened to pass a little shop where it was written up that ladies and gentlemen's wardrobes were bought, and that the best price was given for rags, bones, and kitchen stuff. The master of this shop was sitting at the door in his shirt sleeves, smoking, and as there were a great many coats and pairs of trousers dangling from the low ceiling, and only two feeble candles burning inside to show what they were, I fancied that he looked like a man of a revengeful disposition who had hung all his enemies and was enjoying himself, my late experiences with Mr. And Mrs. Micawber suggested to me that here might be a means of keeping off the wolf for a little while. I went up the next by street, took off my Waistcoat, rolled it neatly under my arm, and came back to the shop door. If you please, sir, I said, I am to sell this for a fair price, Mr. Dollaby. Dollaby was the name over the shop door at least. Took the waistcoat, stood his pipe on its head against the door post, went into the shop, followed by me, snuffed the two candles with his fingers, spread the waistcoat on the counter and looked at it there was, held it up against the light and looked at it there, and ultimately said, what d' ye call a price now for this ere little weskit? Oh, you know best, sir, I returned modestly. I can't be buyer and seller too, said Mr. Dollaby. Put a price on this here little weskit would eighteenpence be, I hinted. After some hesitation, Mr. Dolloby rolled it up again and gave it me back. I should rob my family, he said, if I was to offer ninepence for it. This was a disagreeable way of putting the business, because it imposed upon me, a perfect stranger, the unpleasantness of asking Mr. Dolloby to rob his family on my account. My circumstances being so very pressing, however, I said I would take ninepence for it if he pleased. Mr. Dolloby, not without some grumbling, gave ninepence. I wished him good night, and walked out of the shop, the richer by that sum and the poorer by a waistcoat. But when I buttoned my jacket, that was not much. Indeed, I foresaw pretty clearly that my jacket would go next, and that I should have to make the best of my way to Dover in a shirt and a pair of trousers, and might deem myself lucky if I got there even in that trim. But my mind did not run so much on this as might be supposed, beyond a general impression of the distance before me, and of the young man with the donkey cart. Having used me cruelly, I think I had no very urgent sense of my difficulties when I once again set off with my ninepence in my pocket. A plan had occurred to me for passing the night, which I was going to carry into execution. This was to lie behind the wall at the back of my old school, in a corner where there used to be a haystack. I imagined it would be a kind of company to have the boys and the bedroom, where I used to tell the stories so near me, although the boys would know nothing of my being there, and the bedroom would yield me no shelter. I had had a hard day's work, and was pretty well jaded when I came climbing out at last. Upon the level of Blackheath. It cost me some trouble to find out Salem House, but I found it. And I found a haystack in the corner, and I lay down by it, having first walked round the wall and looked up at the windows and seen that all was dark and silent within. Never shall I forget the lonely sensation of first lying down without a roof above my head. Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts against whom house doors were locked and house dogs barked that night. And I dreamed of lying on my old school bed talking to the boys in my room, and found myself sitting upright with Steerforth's name upon my lips, looking wildly at the stars that were glistening and glimmering above me. When I remembered where I was at that untimely hour, a feeling stole upon me that made me get up, afraid of I don't know what, and walk about. But the fainter glimmering of the stars and the pale light in the sky where the day was coming reassured me. And my eyes being very heavy, I lay down again and slept, though with a knowledge in my sleep that it was cold, until the warm beams of the sun and the ringing of the getting up bell at Salem House awoke me. If I could have hoped that Steerforth was there, I would have lurked about until he came out alone. But I knew he must have left long since. Traddles still remained. Perhaps, but it was very doubtful, and I had not sufficient confidence in his discretion or good luck, however strong my reliance was on his good nature to wish to trust him with my situation. So I crept away from the wall as Mr. Creakle's boys were getting up, and struck into the long, dusty track which I had first known to be the Dover Road, when I was one of them, and when I little expected that any eyes would ever see me. The wayfarer I was now upon it. What a different Sunday morning from the old Sunday morning at Yarmouth. In due time I heard the church bells ringing as I plodded on, and I met people who were going to church. And I passed a church or two where the congregation were inside, and the sound of singing came out into the sunshine, While the beetle sat and cooled himself in the shade of the porch or stood beneath the yew tree with his hand to his forehead, glowering at me going by. But the peace and rest of the old Sunday morning were on everything except me. That was the difference. I felt quite wicked in my dirt and dust with my tangled hair, but for the quiet picture I had conjured up of My mother in her youth and beauty weeping by the fire, and my aunt relenting to her. I hardly think I should have had the courage to go on until next day. But it always went before me and I followed. I got that Sunday through three and 20 miles on the straight road, though not very easily, for I was new to that kind of toil. I see myself, as evening closes in, coming over the bridge at Rochester, footsore and tired and eating bread that I had bought for supper. One or two little houses with the notice lodgings for travellers hanging out had tempted me. But I was afraid of spending the few pence I had and was even more afraid of the vicious looks of the trampers I had met were overtaken. I sought no shelter, therefore, but the sky. And toiling into Chatham, which in that night's aspect is a mere dream of chalk and drawbridges and massless ships in a muddy river roofed like Noah's arks, crept at last upon a sort of grass grown battery overhanging a lane where a sentry was walking to and fro. Here I lay down near a cannon and happy in the society of the sentry's footsteps, though he knew no more of my being above him than the boys at Salem House had known of my lying by the wall. Slept soundly until morning, very stiff and sore of foot I was in the morning and quite dazed by the beating of drums and marching of troops which seemed to hem me in on every side, when I went down towards the long narrow street. Feeling that I could go but a very little way that day if I were to reserve any strength for getting to my journey's end, I resolved to make the sale of my jacket its principal business. Accordingly I took the jacket off that I might learn to do without it, and carrying it under my arm began a tour of inspection of the various slop shops. A slop shop is a store that sells cheap pre made clothing. It was a likely place to sell a jacket in, for the dealers in secondhand clothes were numerous and were, generally speaking on the lookout for customers at their shop doors. But as most of them had hanging up among their stock an officer's coat or two, epaulettes and all. I was rendered timid by the costly nature of their dealings and walked about for a long time without offering my merchandise to anyone. This modesty of mine directed my attention to the marine store shops and such shops as Mr. Dollaby's in preference to the regular dealers. At last I found one that I thought looked promising. At the corner of a dirty lane ending in an enclosure full of stinging nettles, against the palings of which some second hand sailors clothes that seemed to have overflowed the shop were fluttering among some cots and rusty guns and oilskin hats, and certain trays full of so many old rusty keys of so many sizes that they seemed various enough to open all the doors in the world. Into this shop, which was low and small, and which was darkened rather than lighted by a little window overhung with clothes, and was descended into by some steps I went with a palpitating heart, which was not relieved when an ugly old man with the lower part of his face all covered with a stubbly grey beard, rushed out of a dirty den behind it and seized me by the hair of my head. He was a dreadful old man to look at in a filthy flannel waistcoat and smelling terribly of rum. His bedstead, covered with a tumbled and ragged piece of patchwork, was in the den he had come from, where another little window showed a prospect of more stinging nettles and a lame donkey. Oh, what d' ye want? Grinned this old man in a fierce monotonous whine. O my eyes and limbs, what you want? Oh, my lungs and liver, what you want? Oh, goro. Garoo. I was so dismayed by these words, and particularly by the repetition of the last unknown one, which was a kind of rattle in his throat, that I could make no answer. Hereupon the old man, still holding me by the hair, repeated, oh, what you want? Oh, my eyes and limbs, what you want? O my lungs and liver, what you want? Oh, goro. Which he screwed out of himself with an energy that made his eyes start in his head. I wanted to know, I said, trembling, if you would buy a jacket. Oh, let's see the jacket. Cried the old man. Oh, my heart's on fire. Show the jacket to us. O my eyes and limbs. Bring the jacket out. With that he took his trembling hands, which were like the claws of a great bird, out of my hair, and put on a pair of spectacles not at all ornamental to his inflamed eyes. Oh, how much for the jacket? Cried the old man after examining it. Oh, Garrul, how much for the jacket? Half a crown, I answered, recovering myself. Oh, my lungs and liver. Cried the old man. No, all my eyes. No, all my limbs. No. 18 pence garou. Every time he uttered this ejaculation, his eyes seemed to be in danger of starting out, and every sentence he spoke he delivered in a sort of tune, always exactly the Same and more like a gust of wind which begins low, mounts up high and falls again than any other comparison I can find for it. Well said I. Glad to have closed the bargain. I'll take 18 pence. Oh, my liver. Cried the old man, throwing the jacket on a shelf. Get out of the shop. Oh, my lungs. Get out of the shop. Oh, my eyes and limbs gruel. Don't ask for money, make it an exchange. I never was so frightened in my life, before or since. But I told him humbly that I wanted money and that nothing else was of any use to me but that I would wait for it as he desired outside and had no wish to hurry him. So I went outside and sat down in the shade in a corner, and I sat there so many hours that the shade became sunlight and the sunlight became shade again. And still I sat there waiting for the money. There never was such another drunken madman in that line of business. I hope that he was well known in the neighbourhood and enjoyed the reputation of having sold himself to the devil. And I soon understood from the visits he received from the boys who continually came skirmishing about the shop, shouting that legend and calling to him to bring out his gold. You ain't poor, you know, Charlie, as you pretend. Bring out your gold. Bring out some of the gold you sold yourself to the devil for. Come, it's in the lining of the mattress, Charlie. Rip it open and let's have some. This and many offers to lend him a knife for the purpose exasperated him to such a degree that the whole day was a succession of rushes on his part and flights on the part of the boys. Sometimes in his rage, he would take me for one of them and come at me mouthing as if he were going to tear me in pieces, then, remembering me just in time, would dive into the shop and lie upon his bed, as I thought from the sound of his voice yelling in a frantic way to his own windy tune, the Death of Nelson with an O before every line and innumerable gurus interspersed. As if this were not bad enough for me, the boys connecting me with the establishment on account of the patience and perseverance with which I sat outside half dressed, pelted me and used me very ill all day. He made many attempts to induce me to consent to an exchange, at one time coming out with a fishing rod, at another with a fiddle, at another with a cocked hat, at another with a flute. But I resisted all these overtures and sat there in desperation, each time asking him with tears in my eyes for my money or My jacket. At last he began to pay me in halfpence at a time, and was full two hours, getting by easy stages to a shilling. Oh, my eyes and limbs. He then cried, peeping hideously out of the shop, after a long pause. Will you go for twopence more? I can't, I said. I shall be starved. Oh, my lungs and liver. We'll go for threepence. I would go for nothing if I could, I said, but I want the money badly. Oh, grl. It is really impossible to express how he twisted this ejaculation out of himself as he peeped round the doorpost at me, showing nothing but his crafty old head. Will you go for fourpence? I was so faint and weary that I closed with this offer, and, taking the money out of his claw, not without trembling, went away more hungry and thirsty than I had ever been a little before sunset, but at an expense of threepence, I soon refreshed myself completely, and, being in better spirits, then limped seven miles upon my road. My bed at night was under another haystack, where I rested comfortably after having washed my blistered feet in a stream and dressed them as well as I was able with some cool leaves. When I took the road again next morning, I found that it lay through a succession of hop grounds and orchards. It was sufficiently late in the year for the orchards to be ruddy with ripe apples, and in a few places the hop pickers were already at work. I thought it all extremely beautiful, and made up my mind to sleep among the hops that night, imagining some cheerful companionship in the long perspective of poles with the graceful leaves twining round them. The trampers were worse than ever that day, and inspired me with a dread that is yet quite fresh in my mind. Some of them were most ferocious looking ruffians, who stared at me as I went by and stopped perhaps, and called after me to come back and speak to them. And when I took to my heels, stoned me. I recollect one young fellow, a tinker, I suppose, from his wallet and brazier, who had a woman with him, and who faced about and stared at me thus, and then roared to me in such a tremendous voice to come back, that I halted and looked round. Come here when you're cold, said the tinker, or I'll rip your young body open. I thought it best to go back. As I drew nearer to them, trying to propitiate the tinker by my looks, meaning win favor from him by his looks, I observed that the woman had a Black eye. Where are you going? Said the tinker, gripping the bosom of my shirt with his blackened hand. I am going to Dover, I said. Where do you come from? Said the tinker, giving his hand another turn in my shirt to hold me more securely. I come from London, I said. What lay are you upon? Asked the tinker. Are you a prig? N no, I said. Ain't you by gee, if you make a brag of your honesty to me, said the tinker, I'll knock your brains out. With his disengaged hand he made a menace of striking me, and then looked at me from head to foot. Have you got the price of a pint of beer on you? Said the tinker, if you have, out with it, for I take it away. I should certainly have produced it, but that I met the woman's look, and saw her very slightly shake her head and form no, with her lips. I am very poor, I said, attempting to smile, and have got no money. Why, whatcha mean? Said the tinker, looking so sternly at me, that I almost feared he saw the money in my pocket. Sir, I stammered. What d' ye mean? Said the tinker, by wearin my brother's silk handkerchief. Give it over ere. And he had mine off my neck in a moment and tossed it to the woman. The woman burst into a fit of laughter, as if she thought this a joke, and tossed it back to me, nodded once as slightly as before, and made the word go with her lips. Before I could obey, however, the tinker seized the handkerchief out of my hand with a roughness that threw me away like a feather, and putting it loosely round his own neck, turned upon the woman with an oath and knocked her down. I never shall forget seeing her fall backward on the hard road, and lie there with her bonnet tumbled off and her hair all whitened in the dust nor when I looked back from a distance, seeing her sitting on the pathway which was a bank by the roadside, wiping the blood from her face with a corner of her shawl, while he went on ahead. This adventure frightened me so, that afterwards, when I saw any of these people coming, I turned back until I could find a hiding place, where I remained until they had gone out of sight, which happened so often that I was very seriously delayed. But under this difficulty, as under all the other difficulties of my journey, I seemed to be sustained and led on by my fanciful picture of my mother in her youth. Before I came into the world, it always kept me company. It was there among the hops when I lay down to sleep it was with me on my waking in the morning. It went before me all day. I have associated it ever since with the sunny street of Canterbury, dozing, as it were in the hot light and with the sight of its old houses and gateways and the stately gray cathedral with the rooks sailing round the towers. When I came at last upon the bare wide downs near Dover, it relieved the solitary aspect of the scene with hope. And not until I reached that first great aim of my journey and actually set foot in the town itself on the sixth day of my flight did it desert me. But then, strange to say, when I stood with my ragged shoes and my dusty, sunburnt, half clothed figure in the place so long desired, it seemed to vanish like a dream and to leave me helpless and dispirited. I inquired about my aunt among the boatmen first and received various answers. One said she lived in the south foreland light and had singed her whiskers by doing so. Another, that she was made fast to the great buoy outside the harbor and could only be visited at half tide. A third that she was locked up in the Maidenstone jail for child stealing. A fourth, that she was seen to mount a broom in the last high wind and make direct for Calais. They're messing with him. Basically. The fly drivers, among whom I inquired next were equally jocose and equally disrespectful. And the shopkeepers, not liking my appearance, generally replied without hearing what I had to say, that they had got nothing for me. I felt more miserable and destitute than I had done at any period of my running away. My money was all gone. I had nothing left to dispose of. I was hungry, thirsty and worn out, and seemed as distant from my end as if I had remained in London. The morning had worn away in these inquiries and I was sitting on the steps of an empty shop at a street corner near the market place, deliberating upon wandering towards those other places which had been mentioned when a fly driver coming by with his carriage dropped a horse cloth. A horse cloth is a cloth that's used to cover the horse as part of the gear. That's used when a horse is hooked up to a cart. Something good natured in the man's face as I handed it up encouraged me to ask him if he could tell me where Ms. Trotwood lived, though I had asked the question so often that it almost died on my lips. Trotwood, said he. Lemme see, I know the name too. Old lady. Yes, I said, rather pretty stiff in the back, said he, making himself upright. Yes, I said. I should think it very likely carries a bag, said he. Bag with a good deal of room in it is gruffish, and comes down upon you sharp. My heart sank within me as I acknowledged the undoubted accuracy of this description. Why, then, I tell you what he said. If you go up there, pointing with his whip towards the heights, and keep right on till you come to some houses facing the sea, I think you'll hear of her. My opinion is she won't stand anything, so here's a penny for you. I accepted the gift thankfully, and bought a loaf with it, dispatching this refreshment by the way. I went in the direction my friend had indicated, and walked on a good distance without coming to the houses he had mentioned. At length I saw some before me, and approaching them went into a little shop, it was what we used to call a general shop at home, and inquired if they could have the goodness to tell me where Miss Trotwood lived. I addressed myself to a man behind the counter who was weighing some rice for a young woman, but the latter, taking the inquiry to herself, turned round quickly. My mistress, she said. What do you want with her, boy? I want, I replied, to speak to her, if you please. To beg of her, you mean, Retorted the damsel. No, I said, indeed. But suddenly, remembering that in truth I came for no other purpose, I held my peace in confusion and felt my face burn. My aunt's handmaid, as I supposed she was, from what she had said, put her rice in a little basket and walked out of the shop, telling me that I could follow her if I wanted to know where Miss Trotwood lived. I needed no second permission, though I was by this time in such a state of consternation and agitation that my leg shook under me. I followed the young woman, and we soon came to a very neat little cottage, with cheerful bow windows in front of it, a small square gravelled court or garden, full of flowers, carefully tended and smelling deliciously. This is Miss Trotwood's, said the young woman. Now you know, and that's all I've got to say with these words. She hurried into the house, as if to shake off the responsibility of my appearance, and left me standing at the garden gate, looking disconsolately over the top of it towards the parlour window, where a muslin curtain, partly undrawn in the middle, a large round green screen or fan fastened on to the window sill, a small table and a great chair suggested to me that my aunt might Be at that moment in seated in awful state. My shoes were by this time in a woeful condition. The soles had shed themselves bit by bit, and the upper leathers had broken and burst until the very shape and form of shoes had departed from them. My hat, which had served me for a nightcap too, was so crushed and bent that no old battered, handleless saucepan on a dunghill need have been ashamed to vie with it. My shirt and trousers, stained with heat, dew grass, and the Kentish soil on which I had slept and torn besides, might have frightened the birds from my aunt's garden as I stood at the gate. My hair had known no comb or brush since I left London. My face, neck, and hands, from unaccustomed exposure to the air and sun, were burnt to a berry brown from head to foot. I was powdered almost as white with chalk and dust as if I had come out of a lime kiln. In this plight, and with a strong consciousness of it, I waited to introduce myself to and make my first impression on my formidable aunt, the unbroken stillness of the parlour window leading me to infer after a while that she was not there. I lifted up my eyes to the window above it, where I saw a florid, pleasant looking gentleman with a gray head, who shut up one eye in a grotesque manner, nodded his head at me several times, shook it at me as often, laughed, and went away. I had been discomposed enough before, but I was so much the more discomposed by this unexpected behaviour that I was on the point of slinking off to think how I had best proceed when there came out of the house a lady with her handkerchief tied over her cap and a pair of gardening gloves on her hands, wearing a gardening pocket like a tolman's apron, and carrying a great knife. I knew her immediately to be Miss Betsey, for she came stalking out of the house exactly as my poor mother had so often described her, stalking up our garden at Blunderstone Rookery. Go away, said Miss Betsy, shaking her head and making a distant chop in the air with her knife. Go along. No boys here. I watched her with my heart at my lips as she marched to a corner of her garden and stopped to dig up some little root there. Then, without a scrap of courage, but with a great deal of desperation, I went to softly in and stood beside her, touching her with my finger. If you please, ma', am, I began. She started and looked up. If you please, Aunt. Eh? Exclaimed Miss Betsy in a tone of amazement I have never heard approached. If you please, aunt, I am your nephew. Oh, Lord, said my aunt, and sat flat down in the garden path. I am David Copperfield of Blunderstone in Suffolk, where you came on the night when I was born and saw my dear mamma. I have been very unhappy since she died. I have been slighted and taught nothing and thrown upon myself and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away to you. I was robbed at first, setting out, and have walked all the way and have never slept in a bed since I began the journey here. My self support gave way all at once, and with a movement of my hands intended to show her my ragged state and call it to witness that I had suffered something. I broke into a passion of crying which I suppose had been pent up within me all the week. My aunt, with every sort of expression but wonder discharged from her countenance, sat on the gravel staring at me until I began to cry. When she got up in a great hurry, collared me and took me into the parlour. Her first proceeding there was to unlock a tall press, bring out several bottles, and pour some of the contents of each into my mouth. I think they must have been taken out at random, for I am sure I tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing. When she had administered these restoratives, as I was still quite hysterical and unable to control my sobs, she put me on the sofa with a shawl under my head and the handkerchief from her own head under my feet, lest I should sully the COVID And then, sitting herself down behind the green fan or screen I have already mentioned, so that I could not see her face, ejaculated at intervals. Mercy on us, letting those exclamations off like minute guns. After a time she rang the bell. Janet, said my aunt when her servant came in, go upstairs, give my compliments to Mr. Dick and say I wish to speak to him. Janet looked a little surprised to see me lying stiffly on the sofa. I was afraid to move, lest it should be displeasing to my aunt, but went on her errand. My aunt, with her hands behind her, walked up and down the room until the gentleman who had squinted at me from the upper window came in laughing. Mr. Dick, said my aunt, don't be a fool, because nobody can be more discreet than you can when you choose. We all know that. So don't be a fool, whatever you are. The gentleman was serious immediately and looked at me, I thought, as if he would entreat me to say nothing about the window. Mr. Dick, said my aunt, you have heard me mention David Copperfield. Now don't pretend not to have a memory, because you and I know better. David Copperfield. Said Mr. Dick, who did not appear to me to remember much about it. David Copperfield. Oh, yes, to be sure. David, certainly. Well, said my aunt, this is his boy, his son. He would be as like his father as it's possible to be, if he was not so like his mother, too. His son, said Mr. Dick. David's son indeed. Yes, pursued my aunt, and he has done a pretty piece of business. He has run away. Ah. His sister Betsy Trotwood never would have run away. Meaning, if Davy had been the girl that she wanted him to be, he would not have done this. My aunt shook her head firmly, confident in the character and behavior of the girl who was never born. Oh, you think she wouldn't have run away? Said Mr. Dick. Bless and save the man. Exclaimed my aunt sharply. How he talks. Don't I know. She wouldn't. She would have lived with her godmother, and we should have been devoted to one another. Where in the name of wonder should his sister Betsy Trotwood have run from? Or to nowhere? Said Mr. Dick. Well then, returned my aunt, softened by the reply, how can you pretend to be wool gathering Dick when you are as sharp as a surgeon's lancet? Now here you see young David Copperfield, and the question I put to you is, what shall I do with him? What shall you do with him? Said Mr. Dick, feebly scratching his head. Oh, do with him. Yes, said my aunt, with a grave look and her forefinger held up. Come, I want some very sound advice. Why, if I was you, said Mr. Dick, considering and looking vacantly at me, I should. The contemplation of me seemed to inspire him with a sudden idea, and he added briskly, I should wash him. Janet, said my aunt, turning round with a quiet triumph, which I did not then understand. Mr. Dick sets us all right. Heat the bath. Although I was deeply interested in this dialogue, I could not help observing my aunt, Mr. Dick and Janet while it was in progress and completing a survey I had already been engaged in making of the room. My aunt was a tall, hard featured lady, but by no means ill looking. There was an inflexibility in her face, in her voice, in her gait and carriage, amply sufficient to account for the effect she had made upon a gentle creature like my mother. But her features were rather handsome than otherwise, though unbending and austere. I particularly noticed that she had a very quick Bright eye. Her hair, which was gray, was arranged in two plain divisions under what I believe would be called a mob cap. I mean a cap much more common then than now, with side pieces fastening under the chin. Her dress was of a lavender colour and perfectly neat, but scantily made, as if she desired to be as little encumbered as possible. I remember that I thought it in form more like a riding habit with the superfluous skirt cut off than anything else. She wore at her side a gentleman's gold watch, if I might judge from its size, and make with an appropriate chain and seals. She had some linen at her throat, not unlike a shirt collar, and things at her wrists like little shirt wristbands. Mr. Dick, as I have already said, was grey headed and florid. I should have said all about him in saying so, had not his head been curiously bowed, not by age. It reminded me of one of Mr. Creakle's boy's heads after a beating, and his grey eyes, prominent and large, with a strange kind of watery brightness in them that made me, in combination with his vacant manner, his submission to my aunt, and his childish delight when she praised him, suspect him of being a little mad. Though if he were mad, how he came to be there puzzled me extremely. He was dressed like any other ordinary gentleman, in a loose grey morning coat and waistcoat and white trousers, and had his watch in a fob and his money in his pockets, which he rattled as if he were very proud of it. Janet was a pretty blooming girl of about 19 or 20, and a perfect picture of neatness, Though I made no further observation of her at the moment, I may mention here what I did not discover until afterwards, namely that she was one of a series of proteges whom my aunt had taken into her service expressly to educate in a renouncement of mankind, and who had generally completed their abjuration by marrying the baker. So abjuration means renouncing something. So these girls that Miss Betsy brings in usually end up getting married, and therefore leaving. The room was as neat as Janet or my aunt. As I laid down my pen a moment since to think of it, the air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of the flowers. And I saw the old fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished. My aunt's inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow window. The drugget covered carpet. Drugget is a coarse fabric that was used to cover the floors. The cat, the kettle holder, the two canaries, the old china, the punch bowl full of dried rose leaves, the tall press guarding all sorts of bottles and pots, and wonderfully out of keeping with the rest my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything. Janet had gone away to get the bath ready when my aunt, to my great alarm, became in one moment rigid with indignation and had hardly voice to cry out, janet. Donkeys. Upon which Janet came running up the stairs as if the house were in flames, darted out on a little piece of green in front and warned off two saddle donkeys, lady ridden, that had presumed to set hoof upon it, while my aunt, rushing out of the house, seized the bridle of a third animal laden with a bestriding child, turned him, led him forth from those sacred precincts and boxed the ears of the unlucky urchin in attendance who had dared to profane that hallowed ground. To this hour. I don't know whether my aunt had any lawful right of way over that patch of green, but she had settled it in her own mind that she had, and it was all the same to her. The one great outrage of her life, demanding to be constantly avenged, was the passage of a donkey over that immaculate spot. In whatever occupation she was engaged, however interesting to her, the conversation in which she was taking part a donkey turned the current of her ideas in a moment, and she was upon him. Straight jugs of water and watering pots were kept in secret places, ready to be discharged on the offending boys. Sticks were laid in ambush behind the door, sallies were made at all hours, and incessant war prevailed. Perhaps this was an agreeable excitement to the donkey boys, or perhaps the more sagacious of the donkeys, understanding how the case stood, delighted with constitutional obstinacy in coming that way. I only know that there were three alarms before the bath was ready, and that on the occasion of the last and most desperate of all, I saw my aunt engage single handed with a sandy headed lad of 15 and bump his sandy head against her own gait before he seemed to comprehend what was the matter. These interruptions were the more ridiculous to me, because she was giving me broth out of a tablespoon at the time, having firmly persuaded herself that I was actually starving and must receive nourishment at first in very small quantities, and while my mouth was yet open to receive the spoon, she would put it back into the basin, cry, Janet, donkeys. And go out to the assault. The bath was a great comfort, for I began to be sensible of acute pains in my limbs from lying out in the fields, and was now so tired and low that I could hardly keep myself awake for five minutes together. When I had bathed, they I mean my aunt Janet enrobed me in a shirt and a pair of trousers belonging to Mr. Dick. And tied me up in two or three great shawls. What a sort of bundle I looked, I don't know, but I felt a very hot one. Feeling also very faint and drowsy, I soon lay down on the sofa again and fell asleep. It might have been a dream originating in the fancy which had occupied my mind so long. But I awoke with the impression that my aunt had come and bent over me. And had put my hair away from my face and laid my head more comfortably. And had then stood looking at me. The words pretty fellow or poor fellow seemed to be in my ears too. But certainly there was nothing else when I awoke. To lead me to believe that they had been uttered by my aunt. Who sat in the bow window gazing at the sea from behind the green fan which was mounted on a kind of swivel and turned any way we dined. Soon after I awoke off a roast fowl and a pudding. I sitting at table not unlike a trussed bird myself. And moving my arms with considerable difficulty. But as my aunt had swathed me up, I made no complaint of being inconvenienced all this time. I was deeply anxious to know what she was going to do with me. But she took her dinner in profound silence. Except when she occasionally fixed her eyes on me sitting opposite and said, mercy upon us. Which did not by any means relieve my anxiety. The cloth being drawn and some sherry put upon the table of which I had a glass. My aunt sent up for Mr. Dick again, who joined us and looked as wise as he could. When she requested him to attend to my story. Which she elicited from me gradually by a course of questions during my recital. She kept her eyes on Mr. Dick, who I thought would have gone to sleep but for that, and who, whensoever he lapsed into a smile, Was checked by a frown from my aunt. Whatever possessed that unfortunate baby that she must go and be married again? Said my aunt when I had finished. I can't conceive. Perhaps she fell in love with her second husband, Mr. Dick suggested. Fell in love? Repeated my aunt. What do you mean? What business had she to do it? Perhaps Mr. Dick simpered after thinking a little. She did it for pleasure. Pleasure, indeed, replied my aunt. A mighty pleasure for the poor baby to fix her simple faith upon any dog of a fellow certain to ill use her in some way or other. What did she propose to herself, I should like to know. She had had one husband. She had seen David Copperfield out of the world, who was always running after wax dolls from his cradle. She had got a baby. Oh, there were a pair of babies when she gave birth to this child sitting here that Friday night. Meaning Davey's mother was just a child too, and what more did she want? Mr. Dick secretly shook his head at me as if he thought there was no getting over this. She couldn't even have a baby like anybody else, said my aunt. Where was this child's sister? Betsy Trotwood not forthcoming. Don't tell me. Mr. Dick seemed quite frightened. That little man of a doctor with his head on one side, said my aunt Jellipsor, whatever his name was, what was he about? All he could do was to say to me, like a robin redbreast as he is, it's a boya boy. Yah. The imbecility of the whole set of em. The heartiness of the ejaculation startled Mr. Dick exceedingly, and me too, if I am to tell the truth. And then, as if this was not enough and she had not stood sufficiently in the light of this child's sister, Betsy Trotwood, said my aunt, she marries a second time, goes and marries a murderer or a man with a name like it, and stands in this child's light and the natural consequence is, as anybody but a baby might have foreseen, that he prowls and wanders. He's as like Cain before he was grown up as he can be. Mr. Dick looked hard at me as if to identify me in this character. And then there's that woman with the pagan name, said my aunt, that paggotty she goes and gets married next because she has not seen enough of the evil attending such things. She goes and gets married next, as the child relates. I only hope, said my aunt, shaking her head, that her husband is one of those poker husbands who abound in the newspapers and will beat her well with one. I could not bear to hear my old nurse so decried and made the subject of such a wish. I told my aunt that indeed she was mistaken, that Peggotty was the best, the truest, the most faithful, most devoted, and most self denying friend and servant in the world who had ever loved me dearly, who had ever loved my mother dearly, who had held my mother's dying head upon her arm, on whose face my mother had imprinted her last grateful kiss and my remembrance of them both choking Me, I broke down, as I was trying to say that her home was my home and that all she had was mine, and that I would have gone to her for shelter but for her humble station, which made me fear that I might bring some trouble on her. I broke down, I say, as I was trying to say so, and laid my face in my hands upon the table. Well, well, said my aunt. The child is right to stand by those who have stood by him. Janet. Donkeys. I thoroughly believe that. But for those unfortunate donkeys we should have come to a good understanding, for my aunt had laid her hand on my shoulder and the impulse was upon me, thus emboldened to embrace her and beseech her protection. But the interruption and the disorder she was thrown into by the struggle outside put an end to all softer ideas for the present and kept my aunt indignantly declaiming to Mr. Dick about her determination to appeal for redress to the laws of her country and to bring actions for trespass against the whole donkey proprietorship of Dover until tea time. After tea we sat at the window on the lookout as I imagined for my aunt's sharp expression of face for more invaders until dusk, when Janet set candles and a backgammon board on the table and pulled down the blinds. Now, Mr. Dick, said my aunt with her grave look and her forefinger up as before, I am going to ask you another question. Look at this child. David's son, said Mr. Dick with an attentive, puzzled face. Exactly so, returned my aunt. What would you do with him now? Do with David's son, said Mr. Dick. Ay, replied my aunt, with David's son. Oh, said Mr. Dick. Yes, do with. I should put him to bed, Janet. Cried my aunt with the same complacent triumph that I had remarked before. Mr. Dick sets us all right. If the bed is ready, we'll take him up to it. Janet reporting it to be quite ready. I was taken up to it kindly, but in some sort like a prisoner, my aunt going in front and Janet bringing up the rear. The only circumstance which gave me any new hope was my aunt's stopping on the stairs to inquire about a smell of fire that was prevalent there, and Janet's replying that she had been making tinder down in the kitchen of my old shirt. But there were no other clothes in my room than the odd heap of things I wore, and when I was left there with a little taper which my aunt forewarned me would burn exactly five minutes, I heard them lock my door on the outside. Turning these things over in my mind, I deemed it possible that my aunt, who could know nothing of me, might suspect I had a habit of running away, and took precautions on that account to have me in safe keeping. The room was a pleasant one at the top of the house, overlooking the sea, on which the moon was shining brilliantly. After I had said my prayers and the candle had burnt out, I remember how I still sat looking at the moonlight on the water, as if I could hope to read my fortune in it as in a bright book, or to see my mother with her child coming from heaven along that shining path, to look upon me as she had looked when I last saw her sweet face. I remember how the solemn feeling with which at length I turned my eyes away yielded to the sensation of gratitude and rest which the sight of the white curtained bed, and how much more the lying softly down upon it, nestling in the snow white sheets, inspired. I remember how I thought of all the solitary places under the night sky where I had slept, and how I prayed that I never might be houseless any more, and never might forget the houseless. I remember how I seemed to float then down the melancholy glory of that track upon the sea, away into a world of dreams. Thank you so much for listening. I'd love to know what you thought of the chapters. Is there anything you'd like me to clarify? Did something particularly interest you? Please go to my website, faithkmoore.com, click on Contact and send me your questions and thoughts. Or you can click on the link in the Show Notes to contact me. I'll feature one or two of your entries at the start of the next episode. Speaking of links, don't forget to take a look at the other links in the Show Notes. You can learn more about me, check out our Merch store, or become a member of the Storytime for Grown Ups online community. Before I go, I'd like to ask a quick favor. This is an independent podcast. It's produced, recorded and marketed by me, so I need your help. Spread the word about the show by posting about it on social media or texting a link to your friends. Subscribe. Tap those five stars and leave a positive review wherever you're listening. If you are able to support the show financially, there's a link in the Show Notes to make a donation. I would really, really appreciate it. All right everyone, story time is over. To be continued.