"Quite true," says the Old Instrument Maker, rubbing his hands. "Here he is,' says my wife, "released from that, immediately; appointed by the same establishment to a post of great trust and confidence at home; showing himself again worthy; mounting up the ladder with the greatest expedition; beloved by every body; assisted by his uncle at the very best possible time of his fortunes' which I think is the case Mr. Sols? My wife is always correct." "Why yes, yes some of our lost ships, freighted with gold, have come home, truly," returns old Sol, laughing. “Small craft, Mr. Toots, but serviceable to my boy!" "Exactly so!" says Mr. Toots. "You'll never find my wife wrong. Here he is,' says that most remarkable woman, 'so situated, and what follows? What follows?' observed Mrs. Toots. Now pray remark, Captain Gills, and Mr. Sols, the depth of my wife's penetration. 'Why that, under the very eye of Mr. Dombey, there is a foundation going on, upon which a an Edifice; that was Mrs. Toots's word," says Mr. Toots exultingly, "is gradually rising, perhaps to equal, perhaps excel, that of which he was once the head, and the small beginnings of which (a common fault, but a bad one, Mrs. Toots said) escaped his memory. Thus,' said my wife, from his daughter, after all, another Dombey and Son will ascend' - no 'rise'; that was Mrs. Toots's word 'triumphant!"" - Mr. Toots, with the assistance of his pipe which he is extremely glad to devote to oratorical purposes, as its proper use affects him with a very uncomfortable sensation does such grand justice to this prophetic sentence of his wife's, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed hat in a state of the greatest excitement, cries: Sol Gills, you man of science and my ould pardner, what did I tell Wal'r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business? Was it this here quotation, Turn again Whittington Lord Mayor of London, and when you are old you will never depart from it.' Was it them words, Sol Gills?" "It certainly was, Ned," replied the Old Instrument Maker. "I remember well." "Then I tell you what," says the Captain, leaning back in his chair, and composing his chest for a prodigious roar. "I'll give you Lovely Peg right through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!" Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira did, in its time; and dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles. Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach there are often a young lady, and a white-haired gentleman. With them, or near them, are two children: boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their company. The white-haired gentleman walks with the little boy, talks with him, helps him in his play, attends upon him, watches him, as if he were the object of his life. If he is thoughtful, the whitehaired gentleman is thoughtful too; and sometimes when the child is sitting by his side, and looks up in his face, asking him questions, he takes the tiny hand in is, and holding it, forgets to answer. Then the child says: "What, grandpapa, am I so like my poor little uncle again?" "Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong." "Oh yes, I am very strong." "And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about." And so they range away again, busily, for the white-haired gentleman likes best to see the child free and stirring; and as they go about together, the story of the bond between them goes about, and follows them. But no one, except Florence, knows the measure of the whitehaired gentleman's affection for the girl. That story never goes about. The child herself almost wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He hoards her in his heart. He cannot bear to see her sit apart. He fancies that she feels a slight, when there is none. He steals away to look at her, in her sleep. It pleases him to have her come, and wake him in the morning. He is fondest of her and most loving to her, when there is no creature by. The child says then, sometimes: "Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?" He only answers "Little Florence! Little Florence!" and smooths away the curls that shade her earnest eyes. THE END. |