ou, and I have walked all the way, and have never slept in bed since
I began the journey."

Here my self-support gave way all at once, and I broke into a passion of
crying.

Thereupon, my aunt got up in a great hurry, collared me, and took me
into the parlour.

The first thing my aunt did was to pour the contents of several bottles
down my throat. I think they must have been taken out at random, for I
am sure I tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing. Then
she put me on the sofa, and, acting on the advice of a pleasant-looking,
grey-headed gentleman, whom she called "Mr. Dick," heated a bath for me.
After that I was enrobed in a shirt and trousers belonging to Mr. Dick,
tied up in two or three great shawls, and fell asleep.

That was the beginning of my aunt's adoption of me. She wrote to Mr.
Murdstone, and he and his sister arrived a few days later, and were
routed by my aunt.

Mr. Murdstone said, finally, he would only take me back unconditionally,
and that if I did not return there and then his doors would be shut
against me henceforth.

"And what does the boy say?" said my aunt. "Are you ready to go, David?"

I answered "No," and entreated her not to let me go. I begged and prayed
my aunt to befriend and protect me, for my father's sake.

"Mr. Dick," said my aunt, "what shall I do with this child?"

Mr. Dick considered, hesitated, brightened, and rejoined, "Have him
measured for a suit of clothes directly!"

"Mr. Dick," said my aunt, "give me your hand, for your commonsense is
invaluable." She pulled me towards her, and said to Mr. Murdstone, "You
can go when you like; I'll take my chance with the boy!"

When they had gone my aunt announced that Mr. Dick would be joint
guardian of me, with herself, and that I should be called Trotwood
Copperfield.

Thus I began my new life, in a new name, and with everything new about
me.

My aunt sent me to school at Canterbury, and, there being no room at the
school for boarders, settled that I should board with her old lawyer,
Mr. Wickfield.

My aunt was as happy as I was in this arrangement. For Mr. Wickfield's
house was quiet and still; and Mr. Wickfield's little housekeeper was
his only daughter, Agnes, a child of about my own age, whose face, so
bright and happy, was the child likeness of a woman's portrait that was
on the staircase. There was a tranquility about the house, and about
Agnes, a good, calm spirit, that I have never forgotten and