CHAPTER XIX.

IT

THE MIDSHIPMAN MAKES A DISCOVERY.

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 in 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 check was oftener wet with tears than the honest captain, softly putting in his head from time to time at the half-closed 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 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 alt,

"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. did I come here? Yesterday?"

"When

"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 downstairs, the captain, though evidently doubtful of his own hospitality in permitting 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. Being in the world.

There was no such

What to do, or where to live, Florence-poor, 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, sho 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 chila

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 natʼral 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.

"As I

Yes, yes; drownded," said the captain soothingly. 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 cap