"Snodgrass," said Mr. Pickwick, earnestly, "How is our friend—he is not ill?
"No," replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental eye-lid, 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," repeated Mr. Snodgrass.
"Where!" ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.
"We can only guess, from that communication," replied Mr Snodgrass, taking a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his friend's hand. "Yesterday morning, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, stating that you would be home with his sister at night, the melancholy which had hung over our friend during the whole of the preivous day, was observed to increase. He shortly afterwards disappeared: he was missing during the whole day, and in the evening this letter was brought by the hostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in the morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be delivered until night."
Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend's handwriting, and these were its contents:—
"My dear Pickwick,
"You, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach of many mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot overcome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by a lovely and fascinating creature, and to
