We all three went home together next day.  We had an intimation from Mr. Kenge that the case would come on at Westminster in two days, and that a certain will had been found which might end the suit in Richard’s favour.

Allan took me down to Westminster, and when we came to Westminster Hall we found that the Court of Chancery was full, and that something unusual had occurred.  We asked a gentleman by us if he knew what case was on.  He told us Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and that, as well as he could make out, it was over.  Over for the day?  “No,” he said; “over for good.”

In a few minutes a crowd came streaming out, and we saw Mr. Kenge.  He told us that Jarndyce and Jarndyce was a monument of Chancery practice, and—­in a good many words—­that the case was over because the whole estate was found to have been absorbed in costs.

We hurried away, first to my guardian, and then to Ada and Richard.

Richard was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed when I went in.  When he opened them, I fully saw, for the first time, how worn he was.  But he spoke cheerfully, and said how glad he was to think of our intended marriage.

In the evening my guardian came in and laid his hand softly on Richard’s.

“Oh, sir,” said Richard, “you are a good man, a good man!” and burst into tears.

My guardian sat down beside him, keeping his hand on Richard’s.

“My dear Rick,” he said, “the clouds have cleared away, and it is bright now.  We can see now.  And how are you, my dear boy?”

“I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger.  I have to begin the world.”

He sought to raise himself a little.

“Ada, my darling!” Allan raised him, so that she could hold him on her bosom.  “I have done you many wrongs, my own.  I have married you to poverty and trouble, I have scattered your means to the winds.  You will forgive me all this, my Ada, before I begin the world?”

A smile lit up his face as she bent to kiss him.  He slowly laid his face upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round her neck, and with one parting sob began the world.  Not this—­oh, not this!  The world that sets this right.

* * * * *

David Copperfield

      “David Copperfield”—­published in 1849-50—­will always be
     acclaimed by many as the best of all Dickens’s books.  It was
     its author’s favourite, and its universal and lasting
     popularity is entirely deserved.  “David Copperfield” is
     especially remarkable for the autobiographical element, not
     only in the wretched days of childhood at the wine merchant’s,
     but in the shorthand-reporting in the House of Commons. 
     Dickens never forgot his early degradation, as it seemed to
     him, in the blacking warehouse at Hungerford Stairs, or quite
     forgave those who sent