'
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!' 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 previous 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 hand-
writing, 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.
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