was handsome.

What have I done, I, what have I done worse

than her, that only my gal is to lie there fading!"

With another of those wild cries, she went running out into the room from which she had come; but immediately, in her uncertain mood, returned, and creeping up to Harriet, said:

I should have asked 'em,

"That's what Alice bade me tell you, deary. That's all. I found it out when I began to ask who she was, and all about her, away in Warwickshire there, one summer-time. Such relations was no good to me, then. They would n't have owned me, and had nothing to give me. may be, for a little money, afterwards, if it had n't been for my Alice; she'd a'most have killed me, if I had, I think. was as proud as t'other in her way," said the old woman, touching the face of her daughter fearfully, and withdrawing her hand, "for all she's so quiet now; but she'll shame 'em with her good looks yet. Ha, ha! She'll shame 'em, will my handsome daughter!"

She

Her laugh, as she retreated, was worse than her cry; worse than the burst of imbecile lamentation in which it ended; worse than the doting air with which she sat down in her old seat, and stared out at the darkness.

The eyes of Alice had all this time been fixed on Harriet, whose hand she had never released. She said now :—

"I have felt, lying here, that I should like you to know this. It might explain, I have thought, something that used to help to harden me. I had heard so much, in my wrong-doing, of my neglected duty, that I took up with the belief that duty had not been done to me, and that as the seed was sown, the harvest grew. I somehow made it out that when ladies had bad homes and mothers, they went wrong in their way, too; but that their way was not so foul a one as mine, and they had need to bless God for it. That is all past. It is like a dream, now, which I cannot quite remember or understand. It has been more and more like a dream, every day, since you began to sit here, and to read to me. I only tell it you, as I can recollect it. Will you read to me a little more?

Harriet was withdrawing her hand to open the book, when Alice detained it for a moment.

"You will not forget my mother? I forgive her, if I have I know that she forgives me, and is sorry in her You will not forget her?"

any cause.

heart.

"Never, Alice!"

"A moment yet. Lay my head so, dear, that as you read, I may see the words in your kind face."

Harriet complied and read — read the eternal book for all the weary, and the heavy-laden; for all the wretched, fallen, and neglected of this earth-read the blessed history, in which the blind, lame, palsied beggar, the criminal, the woman stained with shame, the shunned of all our dainty clay, has each a portion, that no human pride, indifference, or sophistry through all the ages that this world shall last, can take away, or by the thousandth atom of a grain reduce read the ministry of Him, who, through the round of human life, and all its hopes and griefs, from birth to death, from infancy to age, had sweet compassion for, and interest in, its every scene and stage, its every suffering and sorrow.

"I shall come," said Harriet, when she shut the book, “very early in the morning."

The lustrous eyes, yet fixed upon her face, closed for a moment, then opened; and Alice kissed and blest her.

The same eyes followed her to the door; and in their light, and on the tranquil face, there was a smile when it was closed. They never turned away. She laid her hand upon her breast, murmuring the sacred name that had been read to her, and life passed from her face, like light removed.

Nothing lay there, any longer, but the ruin of the mortal house on which the rain had beaten, and the black hair that had fluttered in the wintry wind.

CHAPTER LIX

ness.

RETRIBUTION.

CHANGES have come again upon the great house in the long, dull street, once the scene of Florence's childhood and loneliIt is a great house still, proof against wind and weather, without breaches in the roof, or shattered windows, or dilapidated walls; but it is a ruin none the less, and the rats fly from it.

Mr. Towlinson and company are, at first, incredulous in respect of the shapeless rumours that they hear. Cook says our people's credit ain't so easy shook as that comes to, thank God; and Mr. Towlinson expects to hear it reported next, that the Bank of England's a going to break, or the jewels in the Tower to be sold up. But, next come the Gazette, and Mr. Perch; and Mr. Perch brings Mrs. Perch to talk it over in the kitchen, and to spend a pleasant evening.

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As soon as there is no doubt about it, Mr. Towlinson's main anxiety is that the failure should be a good round one — not less than a hundred thousand pound. Mr. Perch don't think himself that a hundred thousand pound will nearly cover it. The women, led by Mrs. Perch and cook, often repeat a hun-dred thou-sand pound!" with awful satisfaction as if handling the words were like handling the money; and the housemaid, who has her eye on Mr. Towlinson, wishes she had only a hundredth part of the sum to bestow on the man of her choice. Mr. Towlinson, still mindful of his old wrong, opines that a foreigner would hardly know what to do with so much money, unless he spent it on his whiskers; which bitter sarcasm causes the housemaid to withdraw in tears.

But not to remain long absent; for cook, who has the reputation of being extremely good-hearted, says whatever they do, let 'em stand by one another now, Towlinson, for there's no telling how soon they may be divided. They have been in that house (says cook) through a funeral, a wedding, and a running

away; and let it not be said that they could n't agree among themselves at such a time as the present. Mrs. Perch is immensely affected by this moving address, and openly remarks that cook is an angel; Mr. Towlinson replies to cook, far be it from him to stand in the way of that good feeling which he could wish to see; and adjourning in quest of the housemaid, and presently returning with that young lady on his arm, informs the kitchen that foreigners is only his fun, and that him and Anne have now resolved to take one another for better for worse, and to settle in Oxford Market in the general green grocery and herb and leech line, where your kind favours is particular requested. This announcement is received with acclamation; and Mrs. Perch, projecting her soul into futurity, says, "girls," in cook's ear, in a solemn whisper.

Misfortune in the family without feasting, in these lower regions, could n't be. Therefore cook tosses up a hot dish or two for supper, and Mr. Towlinson compounds a lobster salad to be devoted to the same hospitable purpose. Even Mrs. Pipchin, agitated by the occasion, rings her bell, and sends down word that she requests to have that little bit of sweetbread that was left warmed up for her supper, and sent to her on a tray with about a quarter of a tumblerful of mulled sherry; for she feels poorly.

There is a little talk about Mr. Dombey, but very little. It is chiefly speculation as to how long he has known that this was going to happen. Cook says shrewdly, "Oh, a long time, bless you! Take your oath of that." And reference being made to Mr. Perch he confirms her view of the case. Somebody wonders what he'll do, and whether he'll go out in any situation. Mr. Towlinson thinks not, and hints at a refuge in one of them gen-teel almshouses of the better kind. "Ah! where he'll have his little garden, you know," says cook plaintively, "and bring up sweet-peas in the spring." Exactly so," says Mr. Towlinson, "and be one of the Brethren of something or another." "We are all brethren," says Mrs. Perch, in a pause of her drink. "Except the sisters," says Mr. Perch. "How are the mighty fallen!" remarks cook. "Pride shall have a fall, and it always was and will be so!" observes the housemaid.

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It is wonderful how good they feel, in making these reflections, and what a Christian unanimity they are sensible of, in bearing

the common shock with resignation. There is only one interruption to this excellent state of mind, which is occasioned by a young kitchen-maid of inferior rank in black stockings who, having sat with her mouth open for a long time, unexpectedly discharges from it words to this effect, "Suppose the wages should n't be paid!" The company sit for a moment speechless; but cook, recovering first, turns upon the young woman, and requests to know how she dares insult the family, whose bread she eats, by such a dishonest supposition, and whether she thinks that anybody, with a scrap of honour left, could deprive poor servants of their pittance ? "Because if that is your religious feelings, Mary Daws," says cook warmly, "I don't know where you mean to go to."

Mr. Towlinson don't know either; nor anybody; and the young kitchen-maid, appearing not to know exactly, herself, and scouted by the general voice, is covered with confusion, as with a garment.

After a few days, strange people begin to call at the house, and to make appointments with one another in the dining-room, as if they lived there. Especially, there is a gentleman, of a Mosaic Arabian cast of countenance, with a very massive watchguard, who whistles in the drawing-room, and, while he is waiting for the other gentleman, who always has pen and ink in his pocket, asks Mr. Towlinson (by the easy name of "Old Cock ") if he happens to know what the figure of them crimson and gold hangings might have been, when new bought. The callers and appointments in the dining-room become more numerous every day, and every gentleman seems to have pen and ink in his pocket, and to have some occasion to use it. At last it is said that there is going to be a Sale; and then more people arrive, with pen and ink in their pockets, commanding a detachment of men with carpet caps, who immediately begin to pull up the carpets, and knock the furniture about, and to print off thousands of impressions of their shoes upon the hall and stair

case.

The council down stairs are in full conclave all this time, and, having nothing to do, perform perfect feats of eating. At length they are one day summoned in a body to Mrs. Pipchin's room, and thus addressed by the fair Peruvian :

"Your master's in difficulties," says Mrs. Pipchin tartly. "You know that, I suppose?"