to nobody, thus spake or rather the voice within him said of its own accord, and orte 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 seem 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 forced to run upon the Goodwins, it he may. The bearings of this observation lays in the application on it. That an'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 at 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, and 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 in 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 Flor ence, while the old man was absorbed in this pursuit, that Cap tain 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 other."

"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 astonish

ment.

"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. to-morrow. Say to-morrow."

"Think of me

"I shall come here early, mind, Sol Gills," stipulated the old captain.

"Yes, yes. The first thing to-morrow morning," said old Sal ; "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 a 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 atten tive to his master until the morning: which injunction he strengthened with one shilling down, and the promise of another sixpence before noon the 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 old 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 shel tered from the night dews, watched him from the counter; under which Rob the Grinder made his own bed, preparatory to shutting the shop. Re-assured 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 XXIV.

The Study of a Loving Heart.

IR BARNET and Lady Skettles, very good people, re sided in a pretty villa at Fulham, on the banks of the Thames; which was one of the most desirab's resi dences ir. 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 snuff-box, and a ponderous sük pocket handkerchief, which he had an imposing manner of drawing out of his pocket like a banner, and using with botk 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 gentlemai by the comparison-it was in the nature of things that Sir Bar net inust 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 raw 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 wish to meet? Do you take any interest in writing people, or in painting or sculpturing 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 desires-Lady Skettles and myself participate-trust that genius being superior to ceremonies, you wili dc us the distinguished favour of giving us the pleasure," &c. &c.--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 to 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