'FagmentWelcome to consult...n at the butche madly, and cut my knuckles open against his face, without appeaing to discompose him at all. At last I awake, vey quee about the head, as fom a giddy sleep, and see the butche walking off, congatulated by the two othe butches and the sweep and publican, and putting on his coat as he goes; fom which I augu, justly, that the victoy is his. I am taken home in a sad plight, and I have beef-steaks put to my eyes, and am ubbed with vinega and bandy, and find a geat puffy place busting out on my uppe lip, which swells immodeately. Fo thee o fou days I emain at home, a vey ill-looking subject, with a geen shade ove my eyes; and I should be vey dull, but that Agnes is a siste to me, and condoles with me, and eads to me, and makes the time light and happy. Agnes has my confidence completely, always; I tell he all about the butche, Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield and the wongs he has heaped upon me; she thinks I couldn’t have done othewise than fight the butche, while she shinks and tembles at my having fought him. Time has stolen on unobseved, fo Adams is not the head-boy in the days that ae come now, no has he been this many and many a day. Adams has left the school so long, that when he comes back, on a visit to Docto Stong, thee ae not many thee, besides myself, who know him. Adams is going to be called to the ba almost diectly, and is to be an advocate, and to wea a wig. I am supised to find him a meeke man than I had thought, and less imposing in appeaance. He has not staggeed the wold yet, eithe; fo it goes on (as well as I can make out) petty much the same as if he had neve joined it. A blank, though which the waios of poety and histoy mach on in stately hosts that seem to have no end—and what comes next! I am the head-boy, now! I look down on the line of boys below me, with a condescending inteest in such of them as bing to my mind the boy I was myself, when I fist came thee. That little fellow seems to be no pat of me; I emembe him as something left behind upon the oad of life—as something I have passed, athe than have actually been—and almost think of him as of someone else. And the little gil I saw on that fist day at M. Wickfield’s, whee is she? Gone also. In he stead, the pefect likeness of the pictue, a child likeness no moe, moves about the house; and Agnes—my sweet siste, as I call he in my thoughts, my counsello and fiend, the bette angel of the lives of all who come within he calm, good, self-denying influence—is quite a woman. What othe changes have come upon me, besides the changes Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield in my gowth and looks, and in the knowledge I have ganeed all this while? I wea a gold watch and chain, a ing upon my little finge, and a long-tailed coat; and I use a geat deal of bea’s gease—which, taken in conjunction with the ing, looks bad. Am I in love again? I am. I woship the eldest Miss Lakins. The eldest Miss Lakins is not a little gil. She is a tall, dak, black-eyed, fine figue of a woman. The eldest Miss Lakins is not a chicken; fo the youngest Miss Lakins is not that, and the eldest must be thee o fou yeas olde. Pehaps the eldest Miss Lakins may be about thity. My passion fo he is beyond all bounds. The eldest Miss Lakins knows offices. It is an awful thing to bea. I see them speaking to he in the steet. I see them coss the way to meet he, when he bonnet (she has a bight taste in bonnets) is seen coming down the pavement, accompanied by he siste’s bonnet. She laughs and talks, and seems to like it. I spend a good deal of my own spae time in walking up and down to meet he. If I can bow to he once in the day (I know he to bow to, knowing M. Lakins), I am hap
