better news came. "I didn't stir
out yesterday, but sat and _thought_ all day; not writing a line; not so
much as the cross of a t or dot of an i. I imaged forth a good deal of
_Barnaby_ by keeping my mind steadily upon him; and am happy to say I
have gone to work this morning in good twig, strong hope, and cheerful
spirits. Last night I was unutterably and impossible-to-form-an-idea-of-ably
miserable. . . . By-the-by, don't engage yourself otherwise than to me
for Sunday week, because it's my birthday. I have no doubt we shall have
got over our troubles here by that time, and I purpose having a snug
dinner in the study." We had the dinner, though the troubles were not
over; but the next day another son was born to him. "Thank God," he
wrote on the 9th, "quite well. I am thinking hard, and have just written
to Browne inquiring when he will come and confer about the raven." He
had by this time resolved to make that bird, whose accomplishments had
been daily ripening and enlarging for the last twelve months to the
increasing mirth and delight of all of us, a prominent figure in
_Barnaby_; and the invitation to the artist was for a conference how
best to introduce him graphically.

The next letter mentioning _Barnaby_ was from Brighton (25th February),
whither he had flown for a week's quiet labor: "I have (it's four
o'clock) done a very fair morning's work, at which I have sat very
close, and been blessed besides with a clear view of the end of the
volume. As the contents of one number usually require a day's thought at
the very least, and often more, this puts me in great spirits. I
think--that is, I hope--the story takes a great stride at this point,
and takes it WELL. Nous verrons. Grip will be strong, and I build
greatly on the Varden household."

Upon his return he had to lament a domestic calamity, which, for its
connection with that famous personage in _Barnaby_, must be mentioned
here. The raven had for some days been ailing, and Topping had reported
of him, as Shakspeare of Hamlet, that he had lost his mirth and foregone
all customary exercises; but Dickens paid no great heed, remembering his
recovery from an illness of the previous summer when he swallowed some
white paint; so that the graver report which led him to send for the
doctor came upon him unexpectedly, and nothing but his own language can
worthily describe the result. Unable from the state of his feelings to
write two letters, he sent the narrative