h  success  to that 'ere brig as  a lad  is  capable on. Wal'r,' said the
Captain,  his eyes glistening with the praise  of his  young friend, and his
hook  raised  to  announce a beautiful  quotation, 'is  what you may call  a
out'ard and visible sign of an in'ard  and  spirited  grasp, and  when found
make a note of.'
     Florence,  who  did  not  quite  understand this,  though  the  Captain
evidentllty thought  it  full  of meaning, and  highly  satisfactory, mildly
looked to him for something more.
     'I am  not  afeard, my Heart's-delight,' resumed the Captain,  'There's
been most uncommon bad  weather in  them latitudes, there's no denyin',  and
they  have drove and drove and been beat off, may be t'other side the world.
But the  ship's a  good ship, and the lad's a good  lad;  and it ain't easy,
thank the Lord,' the Captain made a little bow,  'to break up hearts of oak,
whether they're in brigs  or  buzzums. Here we have 'em both ways, which  is
bringing it up with a round turn, and so I ain't a bit afeard as yet.'
     'As yet?' repeated Florence.
     'Not a bit,'  returned the Captain, kissing his iron hand; 'and afore I
begin to be, my Hearts-delight, Wal'r will have wrote  home from the island,
or from some port  or  another, and  made all  taut and  shipsahape'And with
regard to old Sol Gills, here the Captain became solemn, 'who I'll stand by,
and not desert until death do us part, and when the stormy winds do blow, do
blow, do blow - overhaul the  Catechism,' said the Captain  parenthetically,
'and there you'll find  them expressions  - if it would console Sol Gills to
have  the opinion  of a  seafaring  man as has  got  a  mind  equal  to  any
undertaking that  he puts it alongside  of,  and as was  all but  smashed in
his'prenticeship, and of which the name is  Bunsby, that 'ere man shall give
him  such an  opinion in his own  parlour as'll stun him. Ah!'  said Captain
Cuttle,  vauntingly, 'as much as  if he'd  gone and knocked his head again a
door!'
     'Let us take this ~gentleman to see him, and let us hear what he says,'
cried Florence. 'Will you go with us now? We have a coach here.'
     Again  the  Captain  clapped his hand  to his head, on  which  the hard
glazed  hat was not, and  looked  discomfited. But  at  this instant  a most
remarkable  phenomenon  occurred. The door  opening,  without  any  note  of
preparation,  and  apparently of itself, the  hard  glazed hat  in  question
skimmed into  the room  like a bird,  and alighted heavily at  the Captain's
feet.  The door then shut as violently  as it had opened, and nothIng ensued
in explanation of the prodigy.
     Captain Cuttle picked up his hat, and having turned it over with a look
of interest and welcome, began to polish it  on his sleeve'  While doing so,
the Captain eyed his visitors intently, and said in a low voice
     'You  see I  should  have bore down on  Sol  Gills yesterday, and  this
morning,  but she -  she took it away and kep it. That's the long  and short
ofthe subject.'
     'Who did, for goodness sake?' asked Susan Nipper.
     'The  lady of the  house, my  dear,'returned the  Captain,  in  a gruff
whisper, and making signals of secrecy.'We had some words about the swabbing
of these  here planks, and  she  -  In short,'  said the Captain, eyeing the
door, and relieving himself with a long breath, 'she stopped my liberty.'
     'Oh! I wish she had me to  deal  with!' said  Susan, reddening with the
energy of the wish. 'I'd stop her!'
     'Would you,  do you, my dear?' rejoined the  Captain, shaking his  head
doubtfully,  but regarding the  desperate  courage of the fair aspirant with
obvious admiration.  'I  don't know. It's difficult  navigation.  She's very
hard to carry on with, my dear. You never can tell how she'll head, you see.
She's full one minute, and round upon you next.  And when  she in a tartar,'
said  the Captain,  with  the  perspiration breaking out upon his  forehead.
There  was nothing but a  whistle  emphatic enough for the conclusion of the
sentence,  so the Captain whistled tremulously.  After  which he again shook
his head, and  recurring to his admiration of Miss Nipper's devoted bravery,
timidly repeated, 'Would you, do you think, my dear?'
     Susan only replied with a  bridling smile, but that was so very full of
defiance, that there is no knowing how  long Captain Cuttle might have stood
entranced in  its  contemplation, if  Florence in her anxiety had not  again
proposed  their  immediately resorting to the oracular Bunsby. Thus reminded
of his duty, Captain  Cuttle Put on the glazed  hat  firmly, took up another
knobby stick,  with which  he had supplied  the place of that one  given  to
Walter,  and offering  his arm to Florence, prepared to cut his way  through
the enemy.
     It turned  out,  however, that  Mrs MacStinger  had already changed her
course, and that she  headed, as the Captain had  remarked she often did, in
quite a  new  direction.  For when  they  got  downstairs,  they  found that
exemplary woman beating  the mats  on the  doorsteps, with Alexander,  still
upon the paving-stone, dimly looming through  a fog of dust; and so absorbed
was Mrs MacStinger in her household occupation, that when Captain Cuttle and
his  visitors  passed, she beat  the harder, and neither by word nor gesture
showed any consciousness of their vicinity.  The Captain was so well pleased
with this easy escape - although the effect of the door-mats on him was like
a copious administration of snuff, and made him sneeze  until  the tears ran
down his face - that he could hardly believe his good fortune; but more than
once, between the door and the hackney-coach, looked over his shoulder, with
an obvious apprehension of Mrs MacStinger's giving chase yet.
     However, they got to the  corner  of Brig Place without any molestation
from that terrible fire-ship; and  the Captain mounting the  coach-box - for
his gallantry  would not allow him  to ride  inside with  the ladies, though
besought  to do so - piloted the driver on  his  course for Captain Bunsby's
vessel,  which  was  called  the Cautious  Clara,  and  was  lying  hard  by
Ratcliffe.
     Arrived at  the wharf off which this great  commander's ship was jammed
in among  some  five hundred  companions, whose  tangled rigging looked like
monstrous   cobwebs  half  swept   down,  Captain  Cuttle  appeared  at  the
coach-window,  and invited  Florence and Miss Nipper  to  accompany  him  on
board; observing that Bunsby  was to the last degree soft-hearted in respect
of  ladies,  and  that nothing  would so  much  tend to bring  his expansive
intellect  into  a state of harmony  as  their presentation to  the Cautious
Clara.
     Florence readily consented; and the Captain, taking  her little hand in
his  prodigious  palm,  led  her,  with  a  mixed  expression  of patronage,
paternity, pride, and ceremony, that was pleasant to see,  over several very
dirty decks,  until,  coming to the Clara, they  found  that cautious  craft
(which lay outside the tier) with her gangway removed, and half-a-dozen feet
of  river interposed between herself and her nearest neighbour. It appeared,
from Captain Cuttle's explanation, that  the great Bunsby, like himself, was
cruelly treated by his landlady, and that when her usage of him for the time
being was so hard that he could bear it no longer, he set  this gulf between
them as a last resource.
     'Clara a-hoy!' cried  the  Captain, putting a hand  to each side of his
mouth.
     'A-hoy!' cried a boy, like the Captain's echo, tumbling up from below.
     'Bunsby aboard?'  cried  the Captain, hailing  the boy  in a stentorian
voice, as if he were half-a-mile off instead of two yards.
     'Ay, ay!' cried the boy, in the same tone.
     The boy then shoved out a plank  to  Captain  Cuttle,  who  adjusted it
carefully, and  led Florence across: returning presently for Miss Nipper. So
they stood upon the deck of the Cautious Clara,  in  whose standing rigging,
divers fluttering  articles of  dress  were curing,  in company with  a  few
tongues and some mackerel.
     Immediately there appeared, coming slowly up above the bulk-head of the
cabin, another bulk-head 'human, and very large - with one stationary eye in
the  mahogany  face,  and  one  revolving one,  on  the  principle  of  some
lighthouses. This head  was decorated with  shaggy hair,  like oakum,' which
had no governing inclination  towards the north, east, west,  or  south, but
inclined to  all four quarters of the compass, and to every  point  upon it.
The head was followed by a perfect desert of chin, and by a shirt-collar and
neckerchief, and by a dreadnought  pilot-coat, and by a pair of  dreadnought
pilot-trousers, whereof the waistband was  so very  broad  and high, that it
became  a succedaneum  for  a waistcoat: being ornamented near the  wearer's
breastbone with  some  massive wooden  buttons, like backgammon  men. As the
lower portions of these pantaloons became  revealed, Bunsby stood confessed;
his hands in their pockets, which  were of vast size; and his gaze directed,
not to Captain Cuttle or the ladies, but the mast-head.
     The profound appearance of this philosopher,  who was bulky and strong,
and on whose extremely red face an expression of taciturnity  sat enthroned,
not  inconsistent  with  his character,  in which  that  quality was proudly
conspicuous,  almost daunted  Captain Cuttle,  though on familiar terms with
him.  Whispering  to  Florence  that Bunsby had never in his life  expressed
surprise, and was considered not to know what it  meant, the Captain watched
him as he eyed his mast-head, and afterwards swept the horizon; and when the
revolving eye seemed to be coming round in his direction, said:
     'Bunsby, my lad, how fares it?'
     A deep, gruff, husky  utterance, which seemed to have no connexion with
Bunsby, and certainly had not the least  effect upon his face, replied, 'Ay,
ay,  shipmet,  how goes it?' At the  same time  Bunsby's right hand and arm,
emerging from a pocket, shook the Captain's, and went back again.
     'Bunsby,' said the Captain, striking home at once, 'here you are; a man
of mind, and a man as can give an  opinion. Here's a young lady  as wants to
take that opinion, in regard of my friend Wal'r; likewise my t'other friend,
Sol Gills, which is a character for you  to come within hail of, being a man
of science, which is the mother of inwention, and knows no law. Bunsby, will
you wear, to oblige me, and come along with us?'
     The  great commander,  who seemed  by  expression of his visage  to  be
always on the look-out for something in  the extremest distance' and to have
no ocular knowledge of any anng' within ten miles, made no reply whatever.
     'Here is  a  man,' said  the Captain, addressing  himself  to  his fair
auditors, and indicating the commander with his outstretched hook, 'that has
fell down, more than any  man alive; that  has had more accidents  happen to
his own  self  than  the  Seamen's Hospital to all  hands; that took as many
spars and bars and bolts about the outside of his head when he was young, as
you'd want a order for on  Chatham-yard  to build a pleasure yacht with; and
yet that his opinions in that way, it's my  belief,  for there ain't nothing
like 'em afloat or ashore.'
     The stolid commander appeared by a very slight vibration in his elbows,
to express some  satisfitction in this encomium; but if his face had been as
distant as his gaze was, it could hardIy have enlightened the beholders less
in reference to anything that was passing in his thoughts.
     'Shipmate,' said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping down to look out
under some interposing spar, 'what'll the ladies drink?'
     Captain  Cuttle,  whose delicacy  was shocked  by  such  an  inquiry in
connection with Florence, drew the sage aside, and seeming to explain in his
ear, accompanied him  below; where,  that he  might  not  take  offence, the
Captain drank a dram  himself' which  Florence  and Susan, glancing down the
open  skylight, saw  the  sage,  with  difficulty  finding room for  himself
between  his berth and a very little brass fireplace, serve out for self and
friend. They soon  reappeared on deck, and Captain Cuttle, triumphing in the
success of  his enterprise,  conducted  Florence  back to  the  coach, while
Bunsby followed, escorting Miss Nipper, whom he hugged upon the way (much to
that young lady's indignation) with his pilot-coated arm, like a blue bear.
     The Captain put  his  oracle  inside, and  gloried  so  much in  having
secured  him, and having got that mind into  a hackney-coach, that he  could
not refrain from often  peeping in  at Florence  through  the little  window
behind  the driver,  and testifiing  his delight in smiles, and also in taps
upon  his forehead, to hint to her that the brain of Bunsby was  hard at it'
In  the meantime, Bunsby, still  hugging Miss  Nipper  (for his  friend, the
Captain,  had  not  exaggerated  the  softness  of  his  heart),  uniformily
preserved his  gravity of deportment, and showed no other  consciousness  of
her or anything.
     Uncle  Sol, who had come home,  received them at the door,  and ushered
them  immediately into the  little back parlour:  strangely  altered by  the
absence of Walter.  On the table, and about the  room,  were the charts  and
maps on which the heavy-hearted Instrument-maker had again and again tracked
the missing  vessel  across the sea,  and on which, with a pair of compasses
that he still had in his hand, he had been measuring,  a  minute before, how
far  she  must have  driven, to have driven  here  or  there: and trying  to
demonstrate that a long time must elapse before hope was exhausted.
     'Whether  she can have run,' said Uncle Sol, looking wistfully over the
chart; 'but no, that's almost impossible or whether she can have been forced
by stress  of weather,  - but that's not reasonably likely. Or whether there
is any hope she so  far changed  her course as -  but even I can hardly hope
that!' With such  broken  suggestions,  poor old Uncle  Sol roamed over  the
great sheet before him, and could not find a speck of hopeful probability in
it large enough to set one small point of the compasses upon.
     Florence saw immediately - it would  have been difficult to help seeing
- that there was a singular, indescribable change  in the  old man, and that
while  his manner was far more restless and unsettled  than usual, there was
yet a curious, contradictory decision in it, that perplexed her  very  much.
She fancied once  that he spoke wildly, and at random; for on her saying she
regretted not to have seen  him when she had been there before that morning,
he at first replied that he had been  to see  her,  and  directly afterwards
seemed to wish to recall that answer.
     'You have been to see me?' said Florence. 'To-day?'
     'Yes, my dear young lady,' returned  Uncle Sol, looking at her and away
from her in a confused manner. 'I wished to see you with my own eyes, and to
hear you with my own ears, once more before - ' There he stopped.
     'Before when? Before what?' said  Florence,  putting  her hand upon his
arm.
     'Did I  say "before?"'  replied old  Sol. 'If I did, I must have  meant
before we should have news of my dear boy.'
     'You  are not  well,' said Florence, tenderly.  'You have been so  very
anxious I am sure you are not well.'
     'I am as well,'  returned  the old man, shutting up his right hand, and
holding it out to show her: 'as well and firm as any man  at my time of life
can hope to be. See! It's steady. Is its master not as capable of resolution
and fortitude as many a younger man? I think so. We shall see.'
     There was  that  in  his  manner  more than in his words,  though  they
remained with her too, which impressed Florence so much, that she would have
confided her uneasiness to Captain Cuttle at that moment, if the Captain had
not seized that moment  for expounding the state  of  circumstance, on which
the  opinion of  the  sagacious Bunsby  was requested,  and  entreating that
profound authority to deliver the same.
     Bunsby, whose  eye continued  to be addressed  to  somewhere about  the
half-way house  between London and Gravesend, two or three times put out his
rough right arm, as seeking to wind it for inspiration  round the  fair form
of  Miss  Nipper;  but  that  young  female  having  withdrawn  herself,  in
displeasure,  to  the  opposite side of the  table,  the  soft heart  of the
Commander of the Cautious  Clara met with no response to its impulses. After
sundry  failures  in this wise, the Commander, addressing himself to nobody,
thus spake; or rather the voice within him said of its own accord, and quite
independent of himself, as if he were possessed by a gruff spirit:
     'My name's Jack Bunsby!'
     'He  was christened  John,' cried the  delighted Captain  Cuttle. 'Hear
him!'
     'And  what I  says,'  pursued  the voice,  after  some deliberation, 'I
stands to.
     The Captain,  with Florence  on  his arm,  nodded at the  auditory, and
seemed to say,  'Now he's  coming out. This  is what I  meant when I brought
him.'
     'Whereby,' proceeded the voice, 'why not? If so, what odds? Can any man
say otherwise? No. Awast then!'
     When  it had pursued its  train of  argument to this point,  the  voice
stopped, and rested. It then proceeded very slowly, thus:
     'Do I believe that this here Son and Heir's gone down, my lads? Mayhap.
Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sen' George's Channel, making
for the  Downs,  what's right ahead of him? The Goodwins. He isn't foroed to
run upon the Goodwins, but he may.  The bearings of this observation lays in
the application on it. That ain't no  part of  my  duty. Awast then,  keep a
bright look-out for'ard, and good luck to you!'
     The voice here went out of the back parlour and into the street, taking
the  Commander of the  Cautious Clara with it, and accompanying him on board
again with all convenient expedition, where  he immediately  turned  in, and
refreshed his mind with a nap.
     The students of the sage's precepts, left to their  own  application of
his  wisdom - upon a principle  which was the main leg of the Bunsby tripod,
as it is perchance of some other  oracular stools - looked upon one  another
in a  little uncertainty; while Rob  the Grinder, who had taken the innocent
freedom of peering in, and listening, through the skylight in the roof, came
softly down from  the leads, in a  state  of  very  dense confusion. Captain
Cuttle,  however, whose admiration  of Bunsby was, if possible, enhanced  by
the splendid manner  in  which he had  justified  his  reputation  and  come
through  this  solemn  reference,  proceeded  to explain  that  Bunsby meant
nothing but  confidence; that  Bunsby  had no  misgivings; and that such  an
opinion as  that man had given, coming from such a  mind as his,  was Hope's
own anchor,  with good roads to cast  it in. Florence endeavoured to believe
that the  Captain was right; but  the Nipper,  with her arms  tight  folded,
shook her head in resolute denial, and had no more trust m Bunsby than in Mr
Perch himself.
     The philosopher seemed to have  left Uncle Sol pretty much where he had
found him,  for he still went roaming  about the watery  world, compasses in
hand, and discovering no rest for them. It was in pursuance  of a whisper in
his ear from Florence,  while the old man was absorbed in this pursuit, that
Captain Cuttle laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder.
     'What cheer, Sol Gills?' cried the Captain, heartily.
     'But  so-so,  Ned,'   returned  the  Instrument-maker.  'I   have  been
remembering, all this  afternoon,  that on the  very day when my boy entered
Dombey's House,  and  came home late to dinner, sitting just there where you
stand, we talked of storm  and shipwreck, and I could  hardly turn  him from
the subject'
     But  meeting  the  eyes  of  Florence,  which  were  fixed with earnest
scrutiny upon his face, the old man stopped and smiled.
     'Stand  by, old  friend!' cried  the Captain. 'Look  alive! I  tell you
what, Sol  Gills; arter I've  convoyed Heart's-delight  safe home,' here the
Captain kissed his hook to Florence, 'I'll come back and take you in tow for
the rest of this blessed day. You'll come and eat your dinner along with me,
Sol, somewheres or another.'
     'Not  to-day,  Ned!' said the  old  man  quickly,  and appearing to  be
unaccountably startled by the proposition. 'Not to-day. I couldn't do it!'
     'Why not?' returned the Captain, gazing at him in astonishment.
     'I - I  have  so  much  to do. I - I mean  to  think of, and arrange. I
couldn't do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and  be alone, and turn my
mind to many things to-day.'
     The Captain looked at the Instrument-maker, and looked at Florence, and
again at the Instrument-maker. 'To-morrow, then,' he suggested, at last.
     'Yes,  yes. To-morrow,' said the  old man. 'Think of  me to-morrow. Say
to-morrow.'
     'I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills,' stipulated the Captain.
     'Yes, yes. The  first  thing tomorrow morning,' said old Sol; 'and  now
good-bye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless you!'
     Squeezing both the  Captain's hands, with uncommon fervour,  as he said
it, the old man turned to Florence, folded hers in his own, and put  them to
his   lips;  then  hurried   her  out  to   the  coach  with  very  singular
precipitation. Altogether, he made such an effect on Captain Cuttle that the
Captain  lingered  behind, and instructed Rob  to be particularly gentle and
attentive  to his master until the morning: which injunction he strengthened
with the payment of one shilling  down, and the promise  of another sixpence
before noon  next  day.  This  kind  office  performed, Captain Cuttle,  who
considered  himself  the natural and lawful body-guard of  Florence, mounted
the box with a mighty sense of his trust, and escorted her home. At parting,
he assured  her that he would stand  by Sol Gills,  close and true; and once
again inquired  of Susan Nipper,  unable  to  forget  her  gallant  words in
reference to Mrs MacStinger, 'Would you, do you think my dear, though?'
     When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the Captain's thoughts
reverted to the old Instrument-maker, and  he felt uncomfortable. Therefore,
instead of going home, he walked up and  down the street several times, and,
eking out his leisure until  evening, dined late at a certain angular little
tavern in the City, with a public parlour like a wedge, to which glazed hats
much  resorted. The  Captain's principal intention was to pass Sol  Gills's,
after dark,  and  look in through the window: which he did, The parlour door
stood open,  and he  could see his old friend writing busily and steadily at
the table within, while the little  Midshipman, already  sheltered from  the
night dews, watched him  from the counter; under which Rob  the Grinder made
his own bed, preparatory to shutting the shop. Reassured by the tranquillity
that reigned within the precincts of the wooden mariner, the  Captain headed
for Brig Place, resolving to weigh anchor betimes in the morning.

        CHAPTER 24.
     The Study of a Loving Heart

     Sir  Barnet and Lady  Skettles, very good people,  resided  in a pretty
villa at  Fulham,  on  the banks of  the Thames; which was one of  the  most
desirable residences in  the world when a rowing-match happened to  be going
past, but had its little inconveniences at  other times,  among which may be
enumerated the occasional  appearance of the river in  the drawing-room, and
the contemporaneous disappearance of the lawn and shrubbery.
     Sir  Barnet Skettles expressed his personal consequence chiefly through
an antique gold snuffbox, and a ponderous silk pocket-kerchief, which he had
an imposing manner of drawing out of his pocket like a banner and using with
both hands at once. Sir Barnet's object in life was constantly to extend the
range of  his acquaintance. Like a heavy  body dropped  into  water - not to
disparage so worthy  a gentleman by the comparison - it was in the nature of
things that Sir Barnet must spread an  ever widening circle about him, until
there  was no  room  left. Or, like a sound in air, the  vibration of which,
according to the speculation of an ingenious  modern philosopher, may  go on
travelling for ever  through the  interminable fields of space, nothing  but
coming to the end of his moral tether could stop  Sir Barnet Skettles in his
voyage of discovery through the social system.
     Sir Barnet  was proud of making people acquainted with people. He liked
the thing for its own sake, and it  advanced his  favourite object too.  For
example, if Sir Barnet had the good fortune to get hold of a law recruit, or
a country  gentleman, and ensnared him  to his hospitable villa, Sir  Barnet
would say to him, on the morning after his arrival,  'Now, my  dear  Sir, is
there  anybody you would like to know? Who is there you would wish  to meet?
Do you take any  interest in writing people,  or in  painting or sculpturing
people, or  in  acting  people, or in  anything of that  sort?' Possibly the
patient answered yes, and mentioned somebody, of whom Sir Barnet had no more
personal knowledge  than  of  Ptolemy  the Great. Sir  Barnet replied,  that
nothing on earth was easier, as he knew him very well: immediately called on
the aforesaid somebody, left his card,  wrote a short note, - 'My dear Sir -
penalty  of your eminent position - friend at my house  naturally desirous -
Lady Skettles and  myself participate - trust that  genius being superior to
ceremonies,  you  will  do  us  the  distinguished favour  of giving us  the
pleasure,' etc, etc. - and so killed a brace of birds  with  one stone, dead
as door-nails.
     With  the  snuff-box  and  banner  in full force, Sir  Barnet  Skettles
propounded his usual inquiry to Florence on the first  morning of her visit.
When Florence thanked him, and said there was no one in particular whom  she
desired  to see, it was natural she  should think with a pang, of poor  lost
Walter. When Sir Barnet Skettles, urging his kind offer, said, 'My dear Miss
Dombey, are you sure you can remember no one whom your good Papa - to whom I
beg you  present  the  best compliments of myself and Lady Skettles when you
write - might wish you to know?' it was natural, perhaps, that her poor head
should  droop a  little,  and that  her voice should  tremble  as it  softly
answered in the negative.
     Skettles Junior, much stiffened as to his cravat, and  sobered down  as
to his  spirits' was at home for the holidays, and appeared  to feel himself
aggrieved  by  the  solicitude  of  his excellent  mother  that he should be
attentive to Florence. Another and a deeper  injury under which the soul  of
young Barnet chafed, was  the company of Dr  and  Mrs Blimber, who had  been
invited  on  a  visit  to the  paternal  roof-tree, and  of  whom the  young
gentleman often said he would have  preferred their passing  the vacation at
Jericho.
     'Is there anybody you can suggest now, Doctor Blimber?' said Sir Barnet
Skettles, turning to that gentleman.
     'You are very kind, Sir Barnet,' returned  Doctor Blimber. 'Really I am
not  aware that there  is,  in particular. I  like to  know my fellow-men in
general,  Sir  Barnet. What does Terence say? Anyone who  is the parent of a
son is interesting to me.
     'Has Mrs  Blimber any  wish  to see any remarkable  person?' asked  Sir
Barnet, courteously.
     Mrs Blimber replied,  with a  sweet smile  and a shake of  her sky-blue
cap, that if Sir Barnet could have made her  known to Cicero, she would have
troubled him; but such an  introduction not  being feasible, and she already
enjoying the friendship of himself and his amiable lady, and possessing with
the Doctor her husband their joint confidence in regard to  their dear son -
here young Barnet was observed to curl his nose - she asked no more.
     Sir Barnet was fain, under these circumstances,  to content himself for
the  time with the company assembled. Florence was glad of that; for she had
a  study to pursue among  them, and it lay too near her heart, and  was  too
precious and momentous, to yield to any other interest.
     There  were some children  staying in  the house. Children who  were as
frank  and happy with fathers and with mothers as  those rosy faces opposite
home. Children who  had  no restraint upon their love. and freely showed it.
Florence sought to learn their secret; sought to find out what  it  was  she
had missed; what simple  art they knew, and  she knew  not; how she could be
taught by  them  to show her father that she loved him, and  to win his love
again.
     Many a  day did Florence thoughtfully observe these children. On many a
bright morning did she leave her bed when the glorious sun rose, and walking
up and down upon the river's bank' before anyone in the house  was stirring,
look up at the windows of their  rooms, and think of them, asleep, so gently
tended and affectionately thought of. Florence would feel  more lonely then,
than in the great house  all alone; and would think  sometimes that  she was
better there than  here, and  that there was greater peace in hiding herself
than in mingling with others of her age, and finding how unlike them all she
was. But attentive to her study, though it touched her to the quick at every
little leaf she turned  in the hard book, Florence remained among them,  and
tried with patient hope, to gain the knowledge that she wearied for.
     Ah! how to gain it! how  to know the charm in its beginning! There were
daughters here, who rose up in the  morning, and lay down to rest  at night,
possessed  of fathers' hearts  already. They had no  repulse to overcome, no
coldness to dread, no frown to smooth away. As the morning advanced, and the
windows opened one by one, and the dew began to dry upon the flowers and and
youthful feet began to  move upon  the lawn, Florence, glancing round at the
bright faces, thought what was there she could learn from these children? It
was too late to learn from them; each could approach  her father fearlessly,
and put up her lips to meet the ready kiss, and wind her arm  about the neck
that  bent  down to  caress her. She could  not begin by being  so bold. Oh!
could it be that there was less and less hope as she studied more and more!
     She remembered well, that even  the old woman who had robbed her when a
little child - whose image  and whose house,  and all she had said and done,
were stamped upon her recollection, with the enduring sharpness of a fearful
impression made at that  early period  of life  - had spoken  fondly of  her
daughter, and how terribly even she had  cried out in the  pain of  hopeless
separation from  her child But her own mother,  she would  think again, when
she  recalled  this, had loved her well. Then, sometimes, when  her thoughts
reverted swiftly to the void between herself  and her father, Florence would
tremble, and the tears would start upon her face, as she pictured to herself
her mother living on, and coming also to dislike her, because of her wanting
the  unknown  grace that should  conciliate  that father naturally, and  had
never done  so from her cradle  She knew that this imagination did wrong  to
her mother's memory, and had no truth in  it, or  base to rest upon; and yet
she tried so hard  to justify him, and to find the  whole blame in  herself,
that  she  could not resist  its passing,  like a  wild  cloud,  through the
distance of her mind.
     There came among the other visitors, soon after Florence, one beautiful
girl, three or four years younger than she, who was an orphan child, and who
was accompanied by her aunt, a grey-haired lady, who spoke much to Florence,
and  who greatly  liked  (but  that  they all did) to hear  her sing  of  an
evening, and would always sit near her at that time, with motherly interest.
They had only been two days in the house,  when Florence, being in an arbour
in the garden one warm morning, musingly observant  of a youthful group upon
the  turf,  through some intervening boughs, - and wreathing flowers for the
head of one little creature among  them who was the pet and plaything of the
rest, heard this same lady and her niece, in pacing up  and down a sheltered
nook close by, speak of herself.
     'Is Florence an orphan like me, aunt?' said the child.
     'No, my love. She has no mother, but her father is living.'
     'Is  she  in  mourning  for her  poor  Mama,  now?' inquired  the child
quickly.
     'No; for her only brother.'
     'Has she no other brother?'
     'None.'
     'No sister?'
     'None,'
     'I am very, very sorry!' said the little girL
     As they  stopped  soon afterwards  to watch  some  boats, and had  been
silent in the meantime, Florence, who had risen when she heard her name, and
had gathered up her flowers to go and meet them, that they might know of her
being within hearing, resumed her seat and work, expecting to  hear no more;
but the conversation recommenced next moment.
     'Florence is  a favourite with everyone here, and deserves  to be, I am
sure,' said the child, earnestly. 'Where is her Papa?'
     The  aunt replied, after a  moment's pause, that she did  not know. Her
tone of voice arrested Florence, who had started  from  her seat  again; and
held her fastened to the spot, with her work hastily caught up to her bosom,
and her two hands saving it from being scattered on the ground.
     'He is in England, I hope, aunt?' said the child.
     'I believe so. Yes; I know he is, indeed.'
     'Has he ever been here?'
     'I believe not. No.'
     'Is he coming here to see her?'
     'I believe not.
     'Is he lame, or blind, or ill, aunt?' asked the child.
     The flowers that  Florence held to  her breast  began to  fall when she
heard those words,  so  wonderingly spoke She held them closer; and her face
hung down upon them'
     'Kate,'  said the lady,  after another moment of silence, 'I will  tell
you the whole truth about Florence as I have heard it, and believe it to be.
Tell no one  else, my dear, because  it may  be little known here, and  your
doing so would give her pain.'
     'I never will!' exclaimed the child.
     'I know you never will,' returned the lady. 'I can trust you as myself.
I  fear then, Kate, that Florence's father cares little for her, very seldom
sees her, never was kind to her in  her  life, and  now  quite shuns her and
avoids her. She would love  him dearly if he would suffer  her, but  he will
not - though for no fault of hers; and she is greatly to be loved and pitied
by all gentle hearts.'
     More of the flowers that Florence held fell scattering  on the  ground;
those that remained  were wet, but not with dew;  and  her face dropped upon
her laden hands.
     'Poor Florence! Dear, good Florence!' cried the child.
     'Do you know why I have told you this, Kate?' said the lady.
     'That I may be very kind to her, and take great care  to try to  please
her. Is that the reason, aunt?'
     'Partly,' said  the lady, 'but not all. Though we see  her so cheerful;
with a pleasant smile for everyone; ready  to oblige us all, and bearing her
part  in every amusement  here: she can  hardly be quite happy, do you think
she can, Kate?'
     'I am afraid not,' said the little girl.
     'And you  can understand,' pursued  the lady, 'why her  observation  of
children who have parents who are  fond  of them, and  proud of them  - like
many here, just now - should make her sorrowful in secret?'
     'Yes,  dear aunt,' said the  child, 'I understand that very  well. Poor
Florence!'
     More  flowers strayed upon the ground, and those  she yet  held to  her
breast trembled as if a wintry wind were rustling them.
     'My Kate,' said the  lady, whose voice  was  serious, but very calm and
sweet,  and had so impressed Florence  from the first moment of  her hearing
it,  'of all  the  youthful  people here, you are  her  natural and harmless
friend; you have not the innocent means, that happier children have - '
     'There are  none happier, aunt!'  exclaimed  the child,  who seemed  to
cling about her.
     'As other children have, dear Kate, of reminding her of her misfortune.
Therefore I would have  you, when you  try to be her little friend,  try all
the  more  for  that, and feel  that  the  bereavement you sustained - thank
Heaven!  before you  knew its weight- gives  you  claim  and hold  upon poor
Florence.'
     'But I  am not without  a parent's love, aunt, and I  never have been,'
said the child, 'with you.'
     'However that may be, my dear,'  returned the lady, 'your misfortune is
a lighter one than Florence's; for not an orphan in the wide world can be so
deserted as the child who is an outcast from a living parent's love.'
     The  flowers were  scattered on the ground  like dust; the  empty hands
were spread upon  the face; and  orphaned Florence, shrinking down  upon the
ground, wept long and bitterly.
     But true of heart and resolute in her good purpose, Florence held to it
as her dying mother held by her upon the day that gave Paul life. He did not
know  how much  she loved him. However long the  time in coming, and however
slow  the interval, she  must  try  to bring that knowledge to  her father's
heart one day or other. Meantime she must be careful in no thoughtless word,
or look,  or  burst  of  feeling  awakened by  any chance  circumstance,  to
complain  against him,  or  to give  occasion  for  these  whispers  to  his
prejudice.
     Even  in the  response  she  made the  orphan child,  to whom  she  was
attracted strongly, and whom she had such occasion to remember, Florence was
mindful of him' If she singled her out too plainly  (Florence  thought) from
among the rest, she would confirm - in one mind certainly: perhaps in more -
the belief that he was cruel  and unnatural. Her  own delight was no set-off
to this, 'What she had overheard was a reason, not for soothing herself, but
for saving him; and Florence did it, in pursuance of the study of her heart.
     She did so always. If a book were  read  aloud, and there were anything
in  the  story that  pointed at an unkind father, she was in pain for  their
application  of  it to  him; not  for herself.  So  with  any  trifle of  an
interlude  that  was acted, or  picture  that was shown,  or  game  that was
played,  among them. The occasions for such  tenderness towards him were  so
many, that her mind misgave her often, it would indeed be better to  go back
to  the old house, and  live  again  within  the shadow  of its dull  walls,
undisturbed. How few who saw sweet Florence, in her spring of womanhood, the
modest little queen of  those  small revels, imagined what a  load of sacred
care lay heavy in her breast! How few of those who stiffened in her father's
freezing atmosphere, suspected what a heap of fiery coals was piled upon his
head!
     Florence pursued  her study  patiently, and,  failing  to  acquire  the
secret of the nameless grace she sought, among the youthful company who were
assembled  in the house, often walked out alone, in the early morning, among
the children of the poor. But still she found them  all too far advanced  to
learn from. They had won their household places  long ago, and did not stand
without, as she did, with a bar across the door.
     There  was  one man whom she several times observed at work very early,
and often with a girl of about  her own age  seated near him' He was a  very
poor  man,  who seemed to  have no regular  employment, but now went roaming
about the banks of the river when the tide was low, looking out for bits and
scraps  in the  mud;  and  now worked  at  the unpromising  little patch  of
garden-ground  before his  cottage; and now tinkered up a miserable old boat
that  belonged  to  him;  or  did  some job of that kind for a neighbour, as
chance occurred. Whatever the man's labour, the girl was never employed; but
sat, when she was with him, in a listless, moping state, and idle.
     Florence had often wished to speak to this man; yet she had never taken
courage  to do so, as he made no  movement towards her. But one morning when
she happened to come upon him  suddenly, from a by-path  among  some pollard
willows which  terminated  in the little shelving piece of stony ground that
lay between his dwelling and the water, where he was bending  over a fire he
had  made to caulk the old boat which was lying bottom upwards, close by, he
raised his head at the sound of her footstep, and gave her Good morning.
     'Good morning,' said Florence,  approaching  nearer,  'you are  at work
early.'
     'I'd be glad to be often at work