Dicken's works . ire, thinking with a blind re-morse of all those secret feelings I have nourishedsince my marriage. I think of every little triflebetween me and Dora, and feel the truth, that triflesmake the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea ofmy remembrance is the image of the dear child as Iknew her first, graced by my young love, and by herown, with every fascination wherein such love isrich. Would it, indeed, have been better if we hadloved each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it ?Undisciplined heart, reply ! How the time wears, I know not; until I am re-called by my child-wife
Dicken's works . ire, thinking with a blind re-morse of all those secret feelings I have nourishedsince my marriage. I think of every little triflebetween me and Dora, and feel the truth, that triflesmake the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea ofmy remembrance is the image of the dear child as Iknew her first, graced by my young love, and by herown, with every fascination wherein such love isrich. Would it, indeed, have been better if we hadloved each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it ?Undisciplined heart, reply ! How the time wears, I know not; until I am re-called by my child-wifes old companion. Morerestless than he was, he crawls out of his house,and looks at me, and wanders to the door, andwhines to go upstairs. Not to-night, Jip ! Not to-night! He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand,and lifts his dim eyes to my face. Oh, Jip ! It may be, never again! He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out asif to sleep, and, with a plaintive cry, is dead. Oh, Agnes ! Look, look, here !. DAVID COPPERFEELD. 279 — That face, so full of pity, and of grief, thatrain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, thatsolemn hand upraised towards Heaven ! Agnes ! It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes ; and,for a time, all things are blotted out of my remem-brance. CHAPTER micawbers transactions. This is not the time at which I am to enter onthe state of my mind beneath its load of sorrow. Icame to think that the future was walled up beforeme, that the energy and action of my life were atan end, that I never could find any refuge but in thegrave. I came to think so, I say, but not in the firstshock of my grief. It slowly grew to that. If theevents I go on to relate had not thickened aroundme, in the beginning to confuse, and in the end toaugment, my affliction, it is possible (though I thinknot probable) that I might have fallen at once intothis condition. As it was, an interval occurred be-fore I fully knew my own distress; an interval, inwhich I even
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