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 eye, "I want to know whether this here gammon is to finish it, or whether you're a going in to win?"

"Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, "explain yourself."

"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. "Is it to be gammon or pluck? Which?"

"Chicken," returned Mr. Toots, "your expressions are coarse, and 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, its mean!”

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

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'My sentiments is Game and Fancy, Master," returned the Chicken. "That 's wot my sentiments is. I can't bear a meanness. I'm afore the public, I'm to be heard on at the bar of the Little Helephant, and no Gov'ner o' mine mustn't go and do wot's mean. Wy, it's mean," said the Chicken, with increased expression. "That's where it is. It's mean."

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

"Master," returned the Ch.cken, putting on his hat, "there's a pair on us, then. Come! Here's a offer! You've spoke to me more than once 't or twice '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 't 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 cushions-for 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, strait, 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 different temperament. He says, as they stand upon the steps watching the young couple away, that she had 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."

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Mrs. Miff assents with a spare nod of her mortified bonnet; but approves of this so little, that she inwardly resolves she would n'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 of 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. us walk."

But you will be so tired, my love."

Let

"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 earnest-hearted -he, as frank, as hopeful, and more proud of her-Florence 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 woman'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 come 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 wagons 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 only keeps herself, and finds that quite enough to do. There is a dusty old beadle (these are Mr. Toots's beadle and pewopener of last Sunday), who has something to do with a Worshipful Company who have got a Hall in the next yard, with a stained glass window in it that no mortal ever saw. There are dusty wooden ledges and cornices poked in and out over the altar, and over the screen and round the gallery, and over the inscription about what the Master and Wardens of the Worshipful Company did in one thousand six hundred and ninety-four. There are dusty old sounding-boards over the pulpit and reading-desk, looking like lids to be let down on the officiating ministers in case of their giving offence. There is every possible provision for the accommodation of dust, except in the churchyard, where the facilities in that respect are very limited.

The Captain, Uncle Sol, and Mr. Toots, are come; the clergyman is putting on his surplice in the vestry, while the clerk walks round him, blowing the dust off it; and the bride and bridegroom stand before the altar. There is no bridesmaid, unless Susan Nipper is one; and no better father than Captain Cuttle. A man with a wooden leg, chewing a faint apple and carrying a blue bag in his hand, looks in to see what is going on; but finding it nothing entertaining, stumps off again, and pegs his way among the echoes out of doors.

No gracious ray of light is seen to fall on Florence, kneeling at the altar with her timid head bowed down. The morning luminary is built out, and don't shine there. There is a meagre tree outside, where the sparrows are chirping a little; and there is a blackbird in an eyelet-hole of sun in a dyer's garret, over against the window, who whistles loudly whilst the service is performing; and there is the man with the wooden leg stumping away. The amens of the dusty clerk appear, like Macbeth's, to stick in his throat a little; but Captain Cuttle helps him out, and does it with so much good-will that he interpolates three entirely new responses of that word, never introduced into the service before.

They are married, and have signed their names in one of the old sneezy registers, and the clergyman's surplice is restored to the dust, and the clergyman is gone home. In a dark corner of the dark church, Florence has turned to Susan Nipper, and is weeping in her arms. Mr. Toots's eyes are red. The Captain lubricates his nose. Uncle Sol has pulled down his spectacles from his forehead, and walked out to the door.

"God bless you, Susan; dearest Susan! If you ever can bear witness to the love I have for Walter, and the reason that I have to love him, do it for his sake. Good bye! Good bye!"

They have thought it better not to go back to the Midshipman, but to part so; a coach is waiting for them, near at hand.

Miss Nipper cannot speak; she only sobs and chokes, and hugs her mistress. Mr. Toots advances, urges her to cheer up, and takes charge of her. Florence gives him her hand-gives him, in the fulness of her heart, her lips-kisses Uncle Sol, and Captain Cuttle, and is borne away by her young husband.

But Susan cannot bear that Florence should go away with a mournful recollection of her. She had meant to be so different, that she reproaches herself bitterly. Intent on making one last effort to redeem her character, she breaks from Mr. Toots and runs away to find the coach, and show a parting smile. The Captain, divining her object, sets off after her; for he feels it his duty also, to dismiss them with a cheer, if possible. Uncle Sol and Mr. Toots are left behind together, outside the church, to wait for them.

The coach is gone, but the street is steep, and narrow, and blocked up, and Susan can see it at a stand-still in the distance, she is sure. Captain Cuttle follows her as she flies down the hill, and waves his glazed hat as a general signal, which may attract the right coach and may not. Susan outstrips the Captain, and comes up with it. She looks in at the window, sees Walter, with the gentle face beside her, and slaps her hands and screams:

"Miss Floy, my darling! look at me! We are all so happy now, dear! One more good bye, my precious, one more

How Susan does it, she don't know, but she reaches to the window, kisses her, and has her arms about her neck, in a moment.

"We are all so-so happy now, my dear Miss Floy!" says Susan, with a suspicious catching in her breath. "You, you won't be angry

with me, now.

Now will you?”

"Angry, Susan!"

"No, no; I am sure you won't. I say you won't my pet, my dearest!" exclaims Susan; "and here's the Captain, too-your friend the Captain, you know-to say good bye once more! "

"Hooroar, my Heart's Delight!" vociferates the Captain, with a countenance of strong emotion. Hooroar, Wal'r my lad! Hooroar ! Hooroar!"

What with the young husband at one window, ond the young wife at the other: the Captain hanging on at this door, and Susan Nipper holding fast by that; the coach obliged to go on whether it will or no, and all the other carts and coaches turbulent because it hesitates; there never was so much confusion on four wheels. But Susan Nipper gallantly maintains her point. She keeps a smiling face upon her mistress, smiling through her tears, until the last. Even when she is left behind, the Captain continues to appear and disappear at the door crying" Hooroar my lad! Hooroar my Heart's Delight!" with his shirt collar in a violent state of agitation, until it is hopeless to attempt to keep up with the coach any longer. Finally, when the coach is gone, Susan Nipper, being rejoined by the