the whole time (in spite of her mother's fears that she
would take cold), and remained there until Mr Dombey took leave. He was
serenely gracious to Florence when he did so; and Florence went to bed
in a room within Edith's, so happy and hopeful, that she thought of
her late self as if it were some other poor deserted girl who was to be
pitied for her sorrow; and in her pity, sobbed herself to sleep.

The week fled fast. There were drives to milliners, dressmakers,
jewellers, lawyers, florists, pastry-cooks; and Florence was always of
the party. Florence was to go to the wedding. Florence was to cast
off her mourning, and to wear a brilliant dress on the occasion. The
milliner's intentions on the subject of this dress--the milliner was
a Frenchwoman, and greatly resembled Mrs Skewton--were so chaste and
elegant, that Mrs Skewton bespoke one like it for herself. The milliner
said it would become her to admiration, and that all the world would
take her for the young lady's sister.

The week fled faster. Edith looked at nothing and cared for nothing. Her
rich dresses came home, and were tried on, and were loudly commended
by Mrs Skewton and the milliners, and were put away without a word from
her. Mrs Skewton made their plans for every day, and executed them.
Sometimes Edith sat in the carriage when they went to make purchases;
sometimes, when it was absolutely necessary, she went into the shops.
But Mrs Skewton conducted the whole business, whatever it happened
to be; and Edith looked on as uninterested and with as much apparent
indifference as if she had no concern in it. Florence might perhaps have
thought she was haughty and listless, but that she was never so to her.
So Florence quenched her wonder in her gratitude whenever it broke out,
and soon subdued it.

The week fled faster. It had nearly winged its flight away. The last
night of the week, the night before the marriage, was come. In the dark
room--for Mrs Skewton's head was no better yet, though she expected to
recover permanently to-morrow--were that lady, Edith, and Mr Dombey.
Edith was at her open window looking out into the street; Mr Dombey
and Cleopatra were talking softly on the sofa. It was growing late; and
Florence, being fatigued, had gone to bed.

'My dear Dombey,' said Cleopatra, 'you will leave me Florence to-morrow,
when you deprive me of my sweetest Edith.'

Mr Dombey said he would, with pleasure.

'To have her about me, here, while you are