er girls than Florence, they
were still in full conversation about it when they arrived at the
Instrument-maker's door.

'Holloa, Uncle Sol!' cried Walter, bursting into the shop, and speaking
incoherently and out of breath, from that time forth, for the rest of
the evening. 'Here's a wonderful adventure! Here's Mr Dombey's daughter
lost in the streets, and robbed of her clothes by an old witch of a
woman--found by me--brought home to our parlour to rest--look here!'

'Good Heaven!' said Uncle Sol, starting back against his favourite
compass-case. 'It can't be! Well, I--'

'No, nor anybody else,' said Walter, anticipating the rest. 'Nobody
would, nobody could, you know. Here! just help me lift the little sofa
near the fire, will you, Uncle Sol--take care of the plates--cut some
dinner for her, will you, Uncle--throw those shoes under the grate. Miss
Florence--put your feet on the fender to dry--how damp they are--here's
an adventure, Uncle, eh?--God bless my soul, how hot I am!'

Solomon Gills was quite as hot, by sympathy, and in excessive
bewilderment. He patted Florence's head, pressed her to eat, pressed
her to drink, rubbed the soles of her feet with his pocket-handkerchief
heated at the fire, followed his locomotive nephew with his eyes, and
ears, and had no clear perception of anything except that he was being
constantly knocked against and tumbled over by that excited young
gentleman, as he darted about the room attempting to accomplish twenty
things at once, and doing nothing at all.

'Here, wait a minute, Uncle,' he continued, catching up a candle, 'till
I run upstairs, and get another jacket on, and then I'll be off. I say,
Uncle, isn't this an adventure?'

'My dear boy,' said Solomon, who, with his spectacles on his forehead
and the great chronometer in his pocket, was incessantly oscillating
between Florence on the sofa, and his nephew in all parts of the
parlour, 'it's the most extraordinary--'

'No, but do, Uncle, please--do, Miss Florence--dinner, you know, Uncle.'

'Yes, yes, yes,' cried Solomon, cutting instantly into a leg of mutton,
as if he were catering for a giant. 'I'll take care of her, Wally! I
understand. Pretty dear! Famished, of course. You go and get ready. Lord
bless me! Sir Richard Whittington thrice Lord Mayor of London.'

Walter was not very long in mounting to his lofty garret and descending
from it, but in the meantime Florence, overcome by fatigue, had sunk
into a doze befo