ning with a slice of dry toast. Jackson, who kept the
boxing-rooms in Bond Street--man of very superior qualifications, with
whose reputation my friend Gay is no doubt acquainted--used to mention
that in training for the ring they substituted rum for sherry. I should
recommend sherry in this case, on account of my friend Dombey being in
an invalided condition; which might occasion rum to fly--in point of
fact to his head--and throw him into a devil of a state.'

Of all this, Cousin Feenix delivered himself with an obviously nervous
and discomposed air. Then, giving his arm to Florence, and putting
the strongest possible constraint upon his wilful legs, which seemed
determined to go out into the garden, he led her to the door, and handed
her into a carriage that was ready for her reception.

Walter entered after him, and they drove away.

Their ride was six or eight miles long. When they drove through certain
dull and stately streets, lying westward in London, it was growing dusk.
Florence had, by this time, put her hand in Walter's; and was looking
very earnestly, and with increasing agitation, into every new street
into which they turned.

When the carriage stopped, at last, before that house in Brook Street,
where her father's unhappy marriage had been celebrated, Florence
said, 'Walter, what is this? Who is here?' Walter cheering her, and
not replying, she glanced up at the house-front, and saw that all the
windows were shut, as if it were uninhabited. Cousin Feenix had by this
time alighted, and was offering his hand.

'Are you not coming, Walter?'

'No, I will remain here. Don't tremble there is nothing to fear, dearest
Florence.'

'I know that, Walter, with you so near. I am sure of that, but--'

The door was softly opened, without any knock, and Cousin Feenix led her
out of the summer evening air into the close dull house. More sombre and
brown than ever, it seemed to have been shut up from the wedding-day,
and to have hoarded darkness and sadness ever since.

Florence ascended the dusky staircase, trembling; and stopped, with her
conductor, at the drawing-room door. He opened it, without speaking,
and signed an entreaty to her to advance into the inner room, while he
remained there. Florence, after hesitating an instant, complied.

Sitting by the window at a table, where she seemed to have been writing
or drawing, was a lady, whose head, turned away towards the dying light,
was resting on her hand. Fl