f ideas, connected
with the dog; but, at any rate, after observing Diogenes and his
mistress all the evening, and after exerting herself with much good-will
to provide Diogenes a bed in an ante-chamber outside his mistress's
door, she said hurriedly to Florence, before leaving her for the night:

'Your Pa's a going off, Miss Floy, tomorrow morning.'

'To-morrow morning, Susan?'

'Yes, Miss; that's the orders. Early.'

'Do you know,' asked Florence, without looking at her, 'where Papa is
going, Susan?'

'Not exactly, Miss. He's going to meet that precious Major first, and
I must say if I was acquainted with any Major myself (which Heavens
forbid), it shouldn't be a blue one!'

'Hush, Susan!' urged Florence gently.

'Well, Miss Floy,' returned Miss Nipper, who was full of burning
indignation, and minded her stops even less than usual. 'I can't help
it, blue he is, and while I was a Christian, although humble, I would
have natural-coloured friends, or none.'

It appeared from what she added and had gleaned downstairs, that Mrs
Chick had proposed the Major for Mr Dombey's companion, and that Mr
Dombey, after some hesitation, had invited him.

'Talk of him being a change, indeed!' observed Miss Nipper to herself
with boundless contempt. 'If he's a change, give me a constancy.

'Good-night, Susan,' said Florence.

'Good-night, my darling dear Miss Floy.'

Her tone of commiseration smote the chord so often roughly touched, but
never listened to while she or anyone looked on. Florence left alone,
laid her head upon her hand, and pressing the other over her swelling
heart, held free communication with her sorrows.

It was a wet night; and the melancholy rain fell pattering and dropping
with a weary sound. A sluggish wind was blowing, and went moaning round
the house, as if it were in pain or grief. A shrill noise quivered
through the trees. While she sat weeping, it grew late, and dreary
midnight tolled out from the steeples.

Florence was little more than a child in years--not yet fourteen-and the
loneliness and gloom of such an hour in the great house where Death
had lately made its own tremendous devastation, might have set an older
fancy brooding on vague terrors. But her innocent imagination was too
full of one theme to admit them. Nothing wandered in her thoughts but
love--a wandering love, indeed, and castaway--but turning always to her
father. There was nothing in the dropping of the rain, the moaning
o