broker's? Now, I tell you what, Captain Gills -whatever it is, I am convinced it's very important; and, if you like to step round now, I'll wait here till you come back."

The captain, divided between his fear of compromising Florence in some way by not going, and his horror of leaving Mr. Toots in possession of the house with a chance of finding out the secret, was a spectacle of mental disturbance that even Mr. Toots could not be blind to. But that young gentleman, considering his nautical friend as merely in a state of preparation for the interview he was going to have, was quite satisfied, and did not review his own discreet conduct without chuckles.

At length the captain decided, as the lesser of two evils, to run round to Brogley's the broker's previously locking the door that communicated with the upper part of the house, and putting the key in his pocket. "If so be," said the captain to Mr. Toots, with not a little shame and hesitation," as you'll excuse my doing of it, brother."

"Captain Gills," returned Mr. Toots, "whatever you do is satisfactory to me."

The captain thanked him heartily, and promising to come back in less than five minutes, went out in quest of the person who had intrusted Mr. Toots with this mysterious message. Poor Mr. Toots, left to himself, lay down upon the sofa, little thinking who had reclined there last, and, gazing up at the sky-light and resigning himself to visions of Miss Dombey, lost all heed of time and place.

It was as well that he did so; for, although the captain was not gone long, he was gone much longer than he had proposed. When he came back, he was very pale indeed, and greatly agitated, and even looked as if he had been shedding tears. He seemed to have lost the faculty of speech, until he had been to the cupboard and taken a dram of rum from the casebottle, when he fetched a deep breath, and sat down in a chair with his hand before his face.

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Captain Gills," said Toots kindly, "I hope and trust there's nothing wrong?"

"Thankee, my lad, not a bit," said the captain. "Quite contrairy."

"You have the appearance of being overcome, Captain Gills," observed Mr. Toots.

"Why, my lad, I am took aback," the captain admitted. "I am."

"Is there anything I can do, Captain Gills?" inquired Mr. Toots. "If there is, make use

of me."

The captain removed his hand from his face, looked at him with a remarkable expression of

pity and tenderness, and took him by the hand, and shook it hard.

"No, thankee," said the captain. "Nothing. Only I'll take it as a favour if you'll part company for the present. I believe, brother," wringing his hand again, "that, after Wal'r, and on a different model, you're as good a lad as ever stepped."

"Upon my word and honour, Captain Gills," returned Mr. Toots, giving the captain's hand a preliminary slap before shaking it again, "it's delightful to me to possess your good opinion. Thankee."

"And bear a hand and cheer up," said the captain, patting him on the back. "What! There's more than one sweet creetur in the world!"

"Not to me, Captain Gills," replied Mr. Toots gravely. "Not to me, I assure you. The state of my feelings towards Miss Dombey is of that unspeakable description, that my heart is a desert island, and she lives in it alone. I'm getting more used up every day, and I'm proud to be so. If you could see my legs when I take my boots off, you'd form some idea of what unrequited affection is. I have been prescribed bark, but I don't take it, for I don't wish to have any tone whatever given to my constitution. I'd rather not. This, however, is forbidden ground. Captain Gills, good-bye!"

Captain Cuttle cordially reciprocating the warmth of Mr. Toots's farewell, locked the door behind him, and, shaking his head with the same remarkable expression of pity and tenderness as he had regarded him with before, went up to see if Florence wanted him.

There was an entire change in the captain's face as he went up-stairs. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and he polished the bridge of his nose with his sleeve as he had done already that morning, but his face was absolutely changed. Now, he might have been thought supremely happy; now, he might have been thought sad; but the kind of gravity that sat upon his features was quite new to them, and was as great an improvement to them as if they had undergone some sublimating process.

He knocked softly, with his hook, at Florence's door, twice or thrice; but, receiving no answer, ventured first to peep in, and then to enter: emboldened to take the latter step, perhaps, by the familiar recognition of Diogenes, who, stretched upon the ground by the side of her couch, wagged his tail, and winked his eyes at the captain, without being at the trouble of getting up.

She was sleeping heavily, and moaning in her

sleep; and Captain Cuttle, with a perfect awe of her youth and beauty, and her sorrow, raised her head, and adjusted the coat that covered her, where it had fallen off, and darkened the window a little more, that she might sleep on, and crept out again, and took his post of watch upon the stairs. All this with a touch and tread as light as Florence's own.

Long may it remain in this mixed world a point not easy of decision, which is the more beautiful evidence of the Almighty's goodness -the delicate fingers that are formed for sensitiveness and sympathy of touch, and made to minister to pain and grief, or the rough, hard, Captain Cuttle hand, that the heart teaches, guides, and softens in a moment!

Florence slept upon her couch, forgetful of her homlessness and orphanage, and Captain Cuttle watched upon the stairs. A louder sob or moan than usual brought him sometimes to her door; but by degrees she slept more peacefully, and the captain's watch was undisturbed.

CHAPTER XLIX.

THE MIDSHIPMAN MAKES A DISCOVERY.

T was long before Florence awoke. The day was in its prime, the day was in its wane, and still, uneasy in mind and body, she slept on; unconscious of her strange bed, of the noise and turmoil of the street, and of the light that shone outside the shaded

window. Perfect unconsciousness of what had happened in the home that existed no more, even the deep slumber of exhaustion could not produce. Some undefined and mournful recollection of it, dozing uneasily but never sleeping, pervaded all her rest. A dull sorrow, like a half-lulled sense of pain, was always present to her; and her pale cheek was oftener wet with tears than the honest captain, softly putting in his head from time to time at the halfclosed door, could have desired to see it.

The sun was getting low in the west, and, glancing out of a red mist, pierced with its rays opposite loopholes and pieces of fretwork in the spires of City churches, as if with golden arrows that struck through and through them-and far away, athwart the river and its flat banks, it was gleaming like a path of fire-and out at sea it was irradiating sails of ships-and, looked towards, from quiet churchyards, upon hill-tops in the country, it was steeping distant prospects

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in a flush and glow that seemed to mingle earth and sky together in one glorious suffusionwhen Florence, opening her heavy eyes, lay, at first, looking without interest or recognition at the unfamiliar walls around her, and listening in the same regardless manner to the noises in the street. But presently she started up upon her couch, gazed round with a surprised and vacant look, and recollected all.

"My pretty," said the captain, knocking at the door, "what cheer?"

"Dear friend," cried Florence, hurrying to him, "is it you?"

The captain felt so much pride in the name, and was so pleased by the gleam of pleasure in her face when she saw him, that he kissed his hook by way of reply, in speechless gratification.

"What cheer, bright di'mond?" said the captain.

"I have surely slept very long," returned Florence. When did I come here? Yesterday?"

"This here blessed day, my lady lass," replied the captain.

"Has there been no night? Is it still day?" asked Florence.

"Getting on for evening now, my pretty," said the captain, drawing back the curtain of the window. "See !"

Florence, with her hand upon the captain's arm, so sorrowful and timid, and the captain with his rough face and burly figure, so quietly protective of her, stood in the rosy light of the bright evening sky, without saying a word. However strange the form of speech into which he might have fashioned the feeling, if he had had to give it utterance, the captain felt, as sensibly as the most eloquent of men could have done, that there was something in the tranquil time and in its softened beauty that would make the wounded heart of Florence overflow; and that it was better that such tears should have their way. So not a word spake Captain Cuttle. But when he felt his arm clasped closer, and when he felt the lonely head come nearer to it, and lay itself against his homely, coarse blue sleeve, he pressed it gently with his rugged hand, and understood it, and was understood.

"Better now, my pretty!" said the captain. "Cheerily, cheerily; I'll go down below, and get some dinner ready. Will you come down of your own self arterwards, pretty, or shall Ed'ard Cuttle come and fetch you?"

As Florence assured him that she was quite able to walk down-stairs, the captain, though evidently doubtful of his own hospitality in per

mitting it, left her to do so, and immediately set about roasting a fowl at the fire in the little parlour. To achieve his cookery with the greater skill, he pulled off his coat, tucked up his wristbands, and put on his glazed hat, without which assistant he never applied himself to any nice or difficult undertaking.

After cooling her aching head and burning face in the fresh water which the captain's care had provided for her while she slept, Florence went to the little mirror to bind up her disordered hair. Then she knew-in a moment, for she shunned it instantly-that on her breast there was the darkening mark of an angry hand.

Her tears burst forth afresh at the sight; she was ashamed and afraid of it; but it moved her to no anger against him. Homeless and fatherless, she forgave him everything; hardly thought that she had need to forgive him, or that she did; but she fled from the idea of him as she had fled from the reality, and he was utterly gone and lost. There was no such Being in the world.

What to do, or where to live, Florencepoor, inexperienced girl!-could not yet consider. She had indistinct dreams of finding, a long way off, some little sisters to instruct, who would be gentle with her, and to whom, under some feigned name, she might attach herself, and who would grow up in their happy home, and marry, and be good to their old governess, and perhaps intrust her, in time, with the education of their own daughters. And she thought how strange and sorrowful it would be, thus to become a grey-haired woman, carrying her secret to the grave, when Florence Dombey was forgotten. But it was all dim and clouded to her now. She only knew that she had no Father upon earth, and she said so, many times, with her suppliant head hidden from all but her Father who was in Heaven.

Her little stock of money amounted to but a few guineas. With a part of this it would be necessary to buy some clothes, for she had none but those she wore. She was too desolate to think how soon her money would be gone-too much a child in worldly matters to be greatly troubled on that score yet, even if her other trouble had been less. She tried to calm her thoughts and stay her tears; to quiet the hurry in her throbbing head, and bring herself to believe that what had happened were but the events of a few hours ago, instead of weeks or months, as they appeared; and went down to her kind protector.

The captain had spread the cloth with great care, and was making some egg sauce in a little

saucepan basting the fowl from time to time during the process with a strong interest, as it turned and browned on a string before the fire. Having propped Florence up with cushions on the sofa, which was already wheeled into a warm corner for her greater comfort, the captain pursued his cooking with extraordinary skill, making hot gravy in a second little saucepan, boiling a handful of potatoes in a third, never forgetting the egg sauce in the first, and making an impartial round of basting and stirring with the most useful of spoons every minute. Besides these cares, the captain had to keep his eye on a diminutive frying-pan, in which some sausages were hissing and bubbling in a most musical manner; and there was never such a radiant cook as the captain looked in the height and heat of these functions: it being impossible to say whether his face or his glazed hat shone the brighter.

The dinner being at length quite ready, Captain Cuttle dished and served it up with no less dexterity than he had cooked it. He then dressed for dinner, by taking off his glazed hat and putting on his coat. That done, he wheeled the table close against Florence on the sofa, said grace, unscrewed his hook, screwed his fork into its place, and did the honours of the table.

"My lady lass," said the captain, “cheer up, and try to eat a deal. Stand by, my deary! Liver wing it is. Sarse it is. Sassage it is. And potato!" all which the captain ranged symmetrically on a plate, and, pouring hot gravy on the whole with the useful spoon, set before his cherished guest.

"The whole row o' dead-lights is up for'ard, lady lass," observed the captain encouragingly, "and everythink is made snug. Try and pick a bit, my pretty. If Wal'r was here

"Ah! If I had him for my brother now!" cried Florence.

"Don't! don't take on, my pretty!" said the captain; "awast, to obleege me! He was your nat'ral born friend like, warn't he, Pet?" Florence had no words to answer with. She only said, "Oh, dear, dear Paul! Oh, Walter!"

"The wery planks she walked on," murmured the captain, looking at her drooping face, "was as high esteemed by Wal'r as the water brooks is by the hart which never rejices! I see him now, the wery day as he was rated on them Dombey books, a speaking of her with his face a glistening with doo-leastways with his modest sentiments-like a new-blowed rose, at dinner. Well, well! If our poor Wal'r was

here, my lady lass-or if he could be-for he's drownded, an't he?"

Florence shook her head.

"Yes, yes; drownded," said the captain soothingly. "As I was saying, if he could be here, he'd beg and pray of you, my precious, to pick a leetle bit, with a look-out for your own sweet health. Whereby, hold your own, my lady lass, as if it was for Wal'r's sake, and lay your pretty head to the wind.”

Florence essayed to eat a morsel for the captain's pleasure. The captain, meanwhile, who seemed to have quite forgotten his own dinner, laid down his knife and fork, and drew his chair to the sofa.

"Wal'r was a trim lad, warn't he, precious?" said the captain, after sitting for some time silently rubbing his chin, with his eyes fixed upon her, "and a brave lad, and a good lad?" Florence tearfully assented.

"And he's drownded, Beauty, an't he?" said the captain in a soothing voice.

Florence could not but assent again.

"He was older than you, my lady lass," pursued the captain, "but you was like two children together, at first; warn't you?”

Florence answered "Yes."

"And Wal'r's drownded," said the captain. "An't he?"

The repetition of this inquiry was a curious source of consolation, but it seemed to be one to Captain Cuttle, for he came back to it again and again. Florence, fain to push from her her untasted dinner, and to lie back on her sofa, gave him her hand, feeling that she had disappointed him, though truly wishing to have pleased him after all his trouble, but he held it in his own (which shook as he held it), and, appearing to have quite forgotten all about the dinner and her want of appetite, went on growling at intervals, in a ruminating tone of sympathy, "Poor Wal'r! Ay, ay! Drownded. An't he?" And always waited for her answer, in which the great point of these singular reflections appeared to consist.

The fowl and sausages were cold, and the gravy and the egg sauce stagnant, before the captain remembered that they were on the board, and fell-to with the assistance of Diogenes, whose united efforts quickly dispatched the banquet. The captain's delight and wonder at the quiet housewifery of Florence in assisting to clear the table, arrange the parlour, and sweep up the hearth-only to be equalled by the fervency of his protest when she began to assist him-were gradually raised to that degree, that at last he could not choose but do nothing him

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self, and stand looking at her as if she were some Fairy, daintily performing these offices for him; the red rim on his forehead glowing again in his unspeakable admiration.

But when Florence, taking down his pipe. from the mantel-shelf, gave it into his hand, and entreated him to smoke it, the good captain was so bewildered by her attention, that he held it as if he had never held a pipe in all his life. Likewise, when Florence, looking into the little cupboard, took out the case-bottle, and mixed a perfect glass of grog for him, unasked, and set it at his elbow, his ruddy nose turned pale, he felt himself so graced and honoured. When he had filled his pipe in an absolute reverie of satisfaction, Florence lighted it for him-the captain having no power to object, or to prevent her-and resuming her place on the old sofa, looked at him with a smile so loving and so grateful, a smile that showed him so plainly how her forlorn heart turned to him, as her face did, through grief, that the smoke of the pipe got into the captain's throat, and made him cough, and got into the captain's eyes, and made them blink and water.

The manner in which the captain tried to make believe that the cause of these effects lay hidden in the pipe itself, and the way in which he looked into the bowl for it, and not finding it there, pretended to blow it out of the stem, was wonderfully pleasant. The pipe soon getting into better condition, he fell into that state of repose becoming a good smoker; but sat with his eyes fixed on Florence, and, with a beaming placidity not to be described, and stopping every now and then to discharge a little cloud from his lips, slowly puffed it forth, as if it were a scroll coming out of his mouth, bearing the legend, "Poor Wal'r, ay, ay! Drownded, an't he?" after which he would resume his smoking with infinite gentleness.

Unlike as they were externally-and there could scarcely be a more decided contrast than between Florence in her delicate youth and beauty, and Captain Cuttle with his knobby face, his great broad weather-beaten person, and his gruff voice-in simple innocence of the world's ways and the world's perplexities and dangers they were nearly on a level. No child could have surpassed Captain Cuttle in inexperience of everything but wind and weather; in simplicity, credulity, and generous trustfulness. Faith, hope, and charity shared his whole nature among them. An odd sort of romance, perfectly unimaginative, yet perfectly unreal, and subject to no considerations of worldly prudence or practicability, was the only partner

they had in his character. As the captain sat and smoked, and looked at Florence, God knows what impossible pictures, in which she was the principal figure, presented themselves to his mind. Equally vague and uncertain, though not so sanguine, were her own thoughts of the life before her; and even as her tears made prismatic colours in the light she gazed at, so, through her new and heavy grief, she already saw a rainbow faintly shining in the far-off sky. A wandering princess and a good monster in a story book might have sat by the fireside, and talked as Captain Cuttle and poor Florence thought-and not have looked very much unlike them.

The captain was not troubled with the faintest idea of any difficulty in retaining Florence, or of any responsibility thereby incurred. Having put up the shutters and locked the door, he was quite satisfied on this head. If she had been a Ward in Chancery it would have made no difference at all to Captain Cuttle. He was the last man in the world to be troubled by any such considerations.

So the captain smoked his pipe very comfortably, and Florence and he meditated after their own manner. When the pipe was out, they had some tea; and then Florence entreated him to take her to some neighbouring shop, where she could buy the few necessaries she immediately wanted. It being quite dark, the captain consented: peeping carefully out first, as he had been wont to do in his time of hiding from Mrs. MacStinger; and arming himself with his large stick, in case of an appeal to arms being rendered necessary by any unforeseen circumstance.

The pride Captain Cuttle had in giving his arm to Florence, and escorting her some two or three hundred yards, keeping a bright look-out all the time, and attracting the attention of every one who passed them by his great vigilance and numerous precautions, was extreme. Arrived at the shop, the captain felt it a point of delicacy to retire during the making of the purchases, as they were to consist of wearing apparel; but he previously deposited his tin canister on the counter, and informing the young lady of the establishment that it contained fourteen pound two, requested her, in case that amount of property should not be sufficient to defray the expenses of his niece's little outfitat the word "niece" he bestowed a most significant look on Florence, accompanied with pantomime, expressive of sagacity and mystery-to have the goodness to "sing out," and he would make up the difference from his pocket. Casually

consulting his big watch, as a deep means of dazzling the establishment, and impressing it with a sense of property, the captain then kissed his hook to his niece, and retired outside the window, where it was a choice sight to see his great face looking in from time to time among the silks and ribbons, with an obvious misgiving that Florence had been spirited away by a backdoor.

"Dear Captain Cuttle," said Florence when she came out with a parcel, the size of which greatly disappointed the captain, who had expected to see a porter following with a bale of goods, "I don't want this money, indeed. I have not spent any of it. I have money of my own."

"My lady lass," returned the baffled captain, looking straight down the street before them, "take care on it for me, will you be so good, till such time as I ask ye for it?"

"May I put it back in its usual place," said Florence, "and keep it there?"

The captain was not at all gratified by this proposal, but he answered, "Ay, ay, put it any wheres, my lady lass, so long as you know where to find it again. It an't o' no use to me," said the captain. "I wonder I haven't chucked it away afore now."

The captain was quite disheartened for the moment, but he revived at the first touch of Florence's arm, and they returned with the same precautions as they had come; the captain opening the door of the little Midshipman's berth, and diving in with a suddenness which his great practice only could have taught him. During Florence's slumber in the morning, he had engaged the daughter of an elderly lady, who usually sat under a blue umbrella in Leadenhall Market, selling poultry, to come and put her room in order, and render her any little services she required; and this damsel now appearing, Florence found everything about her as convenient and orderly, if not as handsome, as in the terrible dream she had once called Home.

When they were alone again, the captain insisted on her eating a slice of dry toast, and drinking a glass of spiced negus (which he made to perfection); and encouraging her with every kind word and inconsequential quotation he could possibly think of, led her up-stairs to her bedroom. But he, too, had something on his mind, and was not easy in his manner.

"Good night, dear heart," said Captain Cuttle to her at her chamber door.

Florence raised her lips to his face, and kissed him.

At any other time the captain would have