ed Cuttle, at his side; and
he sits down to supper with a grateful and contented face.

'My boy has been preserved and thrives,' says old Sol Gills, rubbing his
hands. 'What right have I to be otherwise than thankful and happy!'

The Captain, who has not yet taken his seat at the table, but who has
been fidgeting about for some time, and now stands hesitating in his
place, looks doubtfully at Mr Gills, and says:

'Sol! There's the last bottle of the old Madeira down below. Would you
wish to have it up to-night, my boy, and drink to Wal'r and his wife?'

The Instrument-maker, looking wistfully at the Captain, puts his hand
into the breast-pocket of his coffee-coloured coat, brings forth his
pocket-book, and takes a letter out.

'To Mr Dombey,' says the old man. 'From Walter. To be sent in three
weeks' time. I'll read it.'

'"Sir. I am married to your daughter. She is gone with me upon a distant
voyage. To be devoted to her is to have no claim on her or you, but God
knows that I am.

'"Why, loving her beyond all earthly things, I have yet, without
remorse, united her to the uncertainties and dangers of my life, I will
not say to you. You know why, and you are her father.

'"Do not reproach her. She has never reproached you.

'"I do not think or hope that you will ever forgive me. There is nothing
I expect less. But if an hour should come when it will comfort you to
believe that Florence has someone ever near her, the great charge of
whose life is to cancel her remembrance of past sorrow, I solemnly
assure you, you may, in that hour, rest in that belief."'

Solomon puts back the letter carefully in his pocket-book, and puts back
his pocket-book in his coat.

'We won't drink the last bottle of the old Madeira yet, Ned,' says the
old man thoughtfully. 'Not yet.

'Not yet,' assents the Captain. 'No. Not yet.'

Susan and Mr Toots are of the same opinion. After a silence they all
sit down to supper, and drink to the young husband and wife in something
else; and the last bottle of the old Madeira still remains among its
dust and cobwebs, undisturbed.

A few days have elapsed, and a stately ship is out at sea, spreading its
white wings to the favouring wind.

Upon the deck, image to the roughest man on board of something that
is graceful, beautiful, and harmless--something that it is good and
pleasant to have there, and that should make the voyage prosperous--is
Florence. It is night, and she and Walter sit al