dearly. If you will let me go with you, Walter, I will go to the world's end without fear. I can give up nothing for you-I have nothing to resign, and no one to forsake; but all my love and life shall be devoted to you, and with my last breath I will breathe your name to God if I have sense and memory left."

He caught her to his heart, and laid her cheek against his own, and now, no more repulsed, no more forlorn, she wept indeed, upon the breast of her dear lover.

Blessed Sunday Bells, ringing so tranquilly in their entranced and happy ears! Blessed Sunday peace and quiet, harmonizing with the calmness in their souls, and making holy air around them! Blessed twilight stealing on, and shading her so soothingly and gravely, as she falls asleep, like a hushed child, upon the bosom she has clung to!

Oh load of love and trustfulness that lies so lightly there! Ay, look down on the closed eyes, Walter, with a proudly tender gaze; for in all the wide wide world they seek but thee now-only thee!

The Captain remained in the little parlor until it was quite dark. He took the chair on which Walter had been sitting, and looked up at the skylight, until the day, by little and little, faded away, and the stars peeped down. He lighted a candle, lighted a pipe, smoked it out, and wondered what on earth was going on up stairs, and why they didn't call him to tea.

Florence came to his side while he was in the height of his wonderment.

"Ay! lady lass!" cried the Captain. "Why, you and Wal'r have had a long spell o' talk, my beauty."

Florence put her little hand round one of the great buttons of his coat, and said, looking down into his face :

"Dear Captain, I want to tell you something, if you please." The Captain raised his head pretty smartly, to hear what it was. Catching by this means a more distinct view of Florence, he pushed back his chair, and himself with it as far as they could go.

"What! Heart's Delight!" cried the Captain, suddenly elated. "Is it that?"

"Yes!" said Florence, eagerly.

"Wal'r! Husband! THAT?" roared the Captain, tossing up his glazed hat into the skylight.

"Yes!" cried Florence, laughing and crying together.

The Captain immediately hugged her; and then, picking

up the glazed hat and putting it on, drew her arm through his, and conducted her up stairs again where he felt that the great joke of his life was now to be made.

"What, Wal'r my lad!" said the Captain, looking in at the door, with his face like an amiable warming-pan. "So there ain't No other character, ain't there?"

He had like to have suffocated himself with this pleasantry, which he repeated at least forty times during tea; polishing his radiant face with the sleeve of his coat, and dabbing his head all over with his pocket-handkerchief, in the intervals. But he was not without a graver source of enjoyment to fall back upon, when so disposed, for he was repeatedly heard to say in an undertone, as he looked with ineffable delight at Walter and Florence:

"Ed'ard Cuttle, my lad, you never shaped a better course in your life, than when you made that there little property over, jintly!

CHAPTER LI.

MR. DOMBEY AND THE WORLD.

WHAT is the proud man doing, while the days go by? Does he ever think of his daughter, or wonder where she is gone? Does he suppose she has come home, and is leading her old life in the weary house? No one can answer for him. He has never uttered her name, since. His household dread him too much to approach a subject on which he is resolutely dumb; and the only person who dare question him, he silences immediately.

"My dear Paul!" murmurs his sister, sliding into the room, on the day of Florence's departure, "your wife! that upstart woman! Is it possible that what I hear confusedly, is true, and that this is her return for your unparalleled devotion to her; extending, I am sure, even to the sacrifice of your own relations, to her caprices and haughtiness? My poor brother!"

With this speech, feelingly reminiscent of her not having been asked to dinner on the day of the first party, Mrs. Chick makes great use of her pocket-handkerchief, and falls on Mr. Dombey's neck. But Mr. Dombey frigidly lifts her off, and

hands her to a chair.

"I thank you, Louisa," he says, "for this mark of your affection; but desire that our conversation may refer to any other subject. When I bewail my fate, Louisa, or express myself as being in want of consolation, you can offer t, if you will have the goodness."

"My dear Paul," rejoins his sister, with her handkerchief to her face, and shaking her head, "I know your great spirit, and will say no more upon a theme so painful and revolting ;" on the heads of which two adjectives, Mrs. Chick visits scathing indignation; "but pray let me ask you-though I dread to hear something that will shock and distress me-that unfortunate child Florence-"

"Louisa!" says her brother, sternly, "silence. Not another word of this!"

Mrs. Chick can only shake her head, and use her handkerchief, and moan over degenerate Dombeys, who are no Dombeys. But whether Florence has been inculpated in the flight of Edith, or has followed her, or has done too much, or too little, or anything, or nothing, she has not the least idea.

one.

He goes on, without deviation, keeping his thoughts and feelings close within his own breast, and imparting them to no He makes no search for his daughter. He may think that she is with his sister, or that she is under his own roof. He may think of her constantly, or he may never think about her. It is all one for any sign he makes.

But this is sure; he does not think that he has lost her. He has no suspicion of the truth. He has lived too long shut up in his towering supremacy, seeing her, a patient gentle creature, in the path below it, to have any fear of that. Shaken as he is by his disgrace, he is not yet humbled to the level earth. The root is broad and deep, and in the course of years its fibres have spread out and gathered nourishment from everything around it. The tree is struck, but not down.

Though he hide the world within him from the world without-which he believes has but one purpose for the time, and that, to watch him eagerly wherever he goes-he cannot hide those rebel traces of it, which escape in hollow eyes and cheeks, a haggard forehead, and a moody, brooding air. Impenetrable as before, he is still an altered man: and, proud as ever, he is humbled, or those marks would not be there.

The world. What the world thinks of him, how it looks at him, what it sees in him, and what it says-this is the haunting demon of his mind. It is everywhere where he is; and, worse than that, it is everywhere where he is not. It comes out with

him among his servants, and yet he leaves it whispering behind; he sees it pointing after him in the street; it is waiting for him in his counting-house; it leers over the shoulders of rich men among the merchants; it goes beckoning and babbling among the crowd; it always anticipates him, in every place; and is always busiest, he knows, when he has gone away. When he is shut up in his room at night, it is in his house, outside it, audible in footsteps on the pavement, visible in print upon the table, steaming to and fro on railroads and in ships: restless and busy everywhere, with nothing else but him.

It is not a phantom of his imagination. It is as active in other people's minds as in his. Witness Cousin Feenix, who comes from Baden-Baden, purposely to talk to him. Witness Major Bagstock, who accompanies Cousin Feenix on that friendly mission.

He feels that the That it is in the stare

Mr. Dombey receives them with his usual dignity, and stands erect, in his old attitude, before the fire. world is looking at him out of their eyes. of the pictures. That Mr. Pitt, upon the book-case, represents it. That there are eyes in its own map, hanging on the wall. "An unusually cold spring," says Mr. Dombey-to deceive the world.

"Damme, Sir," says the Major, in the warmth of friendship, "Joseph Bagstock is a bad hand at a counterfeit. If you want to hold your friends off, Dombey, and to give them the cold shoulder, J. B. is not the man for your purpose. Joe is rough and tough, Sir; blunt, Sir, blunt, is Joe. His Royal Highness the late Duke of York did me the honor to say, deservedly or undeservedly-never mind that-'If there is a man in the service on whom I can depend for coming to the point, that man is Joe-Joe Bagstock.'"

Mr. Dombey intimates his acquiescence.

"Now, Dombey," says the Major, "I am a man of the world. Our friend Feenix-if I may presume to-"

66

Honored, I am sure," says Cousin Feenix.

"Is," proceeds the Major, with a wag of his head, “also a man of the world, Dombey, you are a man of the world. Now, when three men of the world meet together, and are friends— as I believe"-again appealing to Cousin Feenix.

"I am sure," says Cousin Feenix, "most friendly." "-And are friends," resumes the Major, "Old Joe's opinion is (J. may be wrong), that the opinion of the world on any par ticular subject, is very easily got at."

"Undoubtedly," says Cousin Feenix. "In point of fact, it's

quite a self-evident sort of thing. I am extremely anxious, Major, that my friend Dombey should hear me express my very great astonishment and regret, that my lovely and accomplished relative, who was possessed of every qualification to make a man happy, should have so far forgotten what was due to-in point of fact, to the world-as to commit herself in such a very extraordinary manner. I have been in a devilish state of depression ever since; and said, indeed, to Long Saxby last night -man of six foot ten, with whom my friend Dombey is probably acquainted—that it had upset me in a confounded way, and made me bilious. It induces a man to reflect, this kind of fatal catastrophe," says Cousin Feenix, "that events do occur in quite a Providential manner; for if my Aunt had been living at the time, I think the effect upon a devilish lively woman like herself, would have been prostration, and that she would have fallen, in point of fact, a victim."

"Now, Dombey!" says the Major, resuming his discourse with great energy.

"I beg your pardon," interposes Cousin Feenix. "Allow me another word. My friend Dombey will permit me to say, that if any circumstance could have added to the most infernal state of pain in which I find myself on this occasion, it would be the natural amazement of the world at my lovely and accomplished relative (as I must still beg leave to call her) being supposed to have so committed herself with a person-man with white teeth, in point of fact-of very inferior station to her husband. But while I must, rather peremptorily, request myt friend Dombey not to criminate my lovely and accomplished relative until her criminality is perfectly established, I beg to assure my friend Dombey that the family I represent, and which is now almost extinct (devilish sad reflection for a man), will interpose no obstacle in his way, and will be happy to assent to any honorable course of proceeding, with a view to the future, that he may point out. I trust my friend Dombey will give me credit for the intentions by which I am animated in this very melancholy affair, and-a-in point of fact, I am not aware that I need trouble my friend Dombey with any further observations."

Mr. Dombey bows, without raising his eyes, and is silent.

"Now, Dombey," says the Major, " our friend Feenix having with an amount of eloquence that Old Joe B. has never heard surpassed-no, by the Lord, Sir! never!"-says the Major, very blue, indeed, and grasping his cane in the middle-" stated the case as regards the lady, I shall presume upon our friend