the printer's hands. But, no! we will
be resolute! We will not wring the public bosom, with the delineation of
such suffering!

Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return
next day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombre
shadows of a summer's night fallen upon all around, when they again
reached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.

CHAPTER XI. INVOLVING ANOTHER JOURNEY, AND AN ANTIQUARIAN DISCOVERY;
RECORDING Mr. PICKWICK'S DETERMINATION TO BE PRESENT AT AN ELECTION; AND
CONTAINING A MANUSCRIPT OF THE OLD CLERGYMAN'S

A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell,
and an hour's breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing
morning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his
late fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been
separated from his friends and fol lowers for two whole days; and it was
with a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imagination can
adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and
Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from
his early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze on Mr.
Pickwick's beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But still a
cloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not
but be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a
mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.

'And how,' said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the
hand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome--'how is Tupman?'

Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made
no reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy
reflection.

'Snodgrass,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, 'how is our friend--he is not
ill?'

'No,' replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental
eyelid, like a rain-drop on a window-frame-'no; he is not ill.'

Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.

'Winkle--Snodgrass,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'what does this mean? Where
is our friend? What has happened? Speak--I conjure, I entreat--nay, I
command you, speak.'

There was a solemnity--a dignity--in Mr. Pickwick's manner, not to be
withstood.

'He is gone,' said Mr. Snodgrass.

'Gone!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 'Gone!'

'Gone,' repeated Mr. Snodgrass.

'Where!' ejaculate