the road, looked back over his shoulder at the room where Florence slept. On the road home, he was more demonstrative of aggressive intentions against the other foot passengers, than comported with a professor of the peaceful art of self-defence. Arrived at home, instead of leaving Mr. Toots in his apartments when he had escorted him thither, he remained before him weighing his white hat in both hands by the brim, and twitching his head and nose (both of which had been many times broken, and but indifferently repaired), with an air of decided disrespect.

His patron being much engaged with his own thoughts, did not observe this for some time, nor indeed until the Chicken, determined not to be overlooked, had made divers clicking sounds with his tongue and teeth, to attract attention.

"Now, Master," said the Chicken, doggedly, when he, at length, caught Mr. Toots's eyes, "I want to know whether this here gammon is to finish it, or whether you're going in to win?" "Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, "explain yourself."

1 "Why, then, here's all about it, Master," said the Chicken. "I ain't a cove to chuck a word away. Here's wot it is. Are any on 'em to be doubled up?"

When the Chicken put this question he dropped his hat, made a dodge and a feint with his left hand, hit a supposed enemy a violent blow with his right, shook his head smartly, and recovered himself.

"Come, Master," said the Chicken. pluck? Which ?"

"Is it to be gammon or

"Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, "your expressions are coarse, aud your meaning is obscure."

"Why, then, I tell you what, Master," said the Chicken. "This is where it is. It's mean."

"What is mean, Chicken ?" asked Mr. Toots.

"It is," said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation of his broken nose. "There! Now, Master! Wot! Wen you could go and blow on this here match to the stiff 'un;" by which depreciatory appellation it has been since supposed that the Game One intended to signify Mr. Dombey; " and when you could knock the winner and all the kit of 'em dead out o' wind and time, are you going to give in? To give in?" said the Chicken, with contemptuous emphasis. "Wy, it's mean!"

"Chicken," said Mr. Toots, severely, "you're a perfect Vulture! Your sentiments are atrocious."

My sentiments is Game and Fancy, Master," returned the Chicken. "That's wot my sentiments is. I can't abear a meanness. I'm afore the public, I'm to be heered on at the bar of the Little Helephant, and no Gov'nor o' mine musn't go and do wot's Wy, it's mean," said the Chicken, with increased expression. "That's where it is. "That's where it is. It's mean."

mean.

"Chicken!" said Mr. Toots, "you disgust me."

"Master," returned the Chicken, putting on his hat, "there's a pair on us, then. Come! Here's a offer! You've spoke to me more than onc❜t or twic❜t about the public line. Never mind! Give me a fi'typunnote to-morrow, and let me go."

"Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, "after the odious sentiments you have expressed, I shall be glad to part on such terms.”

"Done, then!" said the Chicken. "It's a bargain. This here conduct o' yourn won't suit my book, Master. Wy, it's mean," said the Chicken; who seemed equally unable to get beyond that point, and to stop short of it. "That's where it is; it's mean!"

So Mr. Toots and the Chicken agreed to part on this incompatibility of moral perception; and Mr. Toots lying down to sleep, dreamed happily of Florence, who had thought of him as her friend upon the last night of her maiden life, and sent him her dear love.

CHAPTER LVII.

Another Wedding.

MR. SOWNDS the Beadle, and Mrs. Miff the pew-opener, are early at their posts in the fine church where Mr. Dombey was married. A yellow-faced old gentleman from India is going to take unto himself a young wife this morning, and six carriages full of company are expected, and Mrs. Miff has been informed that the

yellow-faced old gentleman could pave the road to church with diamonds and hardly miss them. The nuptial benediction is to be a superior one, proceeding from a very reverend, a dean, and the lady is to be given away, as an extraordinary present, by somebody who comes express from the Horse Guards.

Mrs. Miff is more intolerant of common people this morning, than she generally is; and she has always strong opinions on that subject, for it is associated with free sittings. Mrs. Miff is not a student of political economy (she thinks the science is connected with dissenters; "Baptists or Wesleyans, or some o' them," she says), but she can never understand what business your common folks have to be married. "Drat 'em," says Mrs. Miff, "you read the same things over 'em, and instead of sovereigns get sixpences!"

Mr. Sownds the beadle is more liberal than Mrs. Miff-but then he is not a pew-opener. "It must be done, Ma'am," he says. "We must marry 'em. We must have our national schools to walk at the head of, and we must have our standing armies. We must marry 'em, Ma'am," says Mr. Sownds, "and

keep the country going."

Mr. Sownds is sitting on the steps and Mrs. Miff is dusting in the church, when a young couple, plainly dressed, come in. The mortified bonnet of Mrs. Miff is sharply turned towards them, for she espies in this early visit indications of a runaway match. But they don't want to be married-"Only," says the gentleman, "to walk round the church." And as he slips a genteel compliment into the palm of Mrs. Miff, her vinegary face relaxes, and her mortified bonnet and her spare dry figure dip and crackle.

Mrs. Miff resumes her dusting and plumps up her cushionsfor the yellow-faced old gentleman is reported to have tender knees but keeps her glazed, pew-opening eye on the young couple who are walking round the church. "Ahem," coughs Mrs. Miff, whose cough is dryer than the hay in any hassock in her charge, "you'll come to us one of these mornings, my dears, unless I'm much mistaken!"

They are looking at a tablet on the wall, erected to the memory of some one dead. They are a long way off from Mrs. Miff, but Mrs. Miff can see with half an eye how she is leaning on his

arm, and how his head is bent down over her. "Well, well," says Mrs. Miff," you might do worse. For you're a tidy pair!"

There is nothing personal in Mrs. Miff's remark. She merely speaks of stock in trade. She is hardly more curious in couples than in coffins. She is such a spare, straight, dry old lady-such a pew of a woman—that you should find as many individual sympathies in a chip. Mr. Sownds, now, who is fleshy, and has scarlet in his coat, is of a very different temperament. He says,

as they stand upon the steps watching the young couple away, that she has a pretty figure, hasn't she, and as well as he could see (for she held her head down coming out), an uncommon pretty face. "Altogether, Mrs. Miff," says Mr. Sownds with a relish, "she is what you may call a rosebud."

Mrs. Miff assents with a spare nod of her mortified bonnet; but approves of this so little, that she inwardly resolves she wouldn't be the wife of Mr. Sownds for any money he could give her, Beadle as he is.

And what are the young couple saying as they leave the church, and go out at the gate?

"Dear Walter, thank you! I can go away now, happy."

"And when we come back, Florence, we will come and see his grave again."

Florence lifts her eyes, so bright with tears, to his kind face; and clasps her disengaged hand on that other modest little hand which clasps his arm.

"It is very early, Walter, and the streets are almost empty yet. Let us walk.”

"But you will be so tired, my love."

"Oh no! I was very tired the first time that we ever walked together, but I shall not be so to-day."

And thus-not much changed-she, as innocent and earnesthearted-he, as frank, as hopeful, and more proud of herFlorence and Walter, on their bridal morning, walk through the streets together.

Not even in that childish walk of long ago, were they so far removed from all the world about them as to-day. The childish feet of long ago did not tread such enchanted ground as theirs do now. The confidence and love of children may be given many times, and will spring up in many places; but the wo

man's heart of Florence, with its undivided treasure, can be yielded only once, and under slight or change, can only droop and die.

They take the streets that are the quietest, and do not go near that in which her old home stands. It is a fair, warm, summer morning, and the sun shines on them, as they walk towards the darkening mist that overspreads the city. Riches are uncovering in shops; jewels, gold, and silver flash in the goldsmith's sunny windows; and great houses cast a stately shade upon them as they pass. But through the light, and through the shade, they go on lovingly together, lost to everything around; thinking of no other riches, and no prouder home, than they have now in one another.

Gradually they came into the darker, narrower streets, where the sun, now yellow, and now red, is seen through the mist, only at street corners, and in small open spaces where there is a tree, or one of the innumerable churches, or a paved way and a flight of steps, or a curious little patch of garden, or a burying-ground, where the few tombs and tomb-stones are almost black. Lovingly and trustfully, through all the narrow yards and alleys and the shady streets, Florence goes, clinging to his arm, to be his wife.

Her heart beats quicker now, for Walter tells her that their church is very near. They pass a few great stacks of warehouses, with waggons at the doors, and busy carmen stopping up the way-but Florence does not see or hear them—and then the air is quiet, and the day is darkened, and she is trembling in a church which has a strange smell like a cellar.

The shabby little old man, ringer of the disappointed bell, is standing in the porch, and has put his hat in the font-for he is quite at home there, being sexton. He ushers them into an old, brown, panelled, dusty vestry, like a corner-cupboard with the shelves taken out; where the wormy registers diffuse a smell like faded snuff, which has set the tearful Nipper sneezing.

Youthful, and how beautiful, the young bride looks, in this old dusty place, with no kindred object near her but her husband. There is a dusty old clerk, who keeps a sort of evaporated news shop underneath an archway opposite, behind a perfect fortification of posts. There is a dusty old pew-opener who