ith an exasperated and unaccountable recollection of his supposed enemy
in the neighbourhood, rushing to the door, whence, after a deafening
disturbance, he would come jogging back with a ridiculous complacency
that belonged to him, and lay his jaw upon the window-ledge again, with
the air of a dog who had done a public service.

So Florence lived in her wilderness of a home, within the circle of her
innocent pursuits and thoughts, and nothing harmed her. She could go
down to her father's rooms now, and think of him, and suffer her loving
heart humbly to approach him, without fear of repulse. She could look
upon the objects that had surrounded him in his sorrow, and could nestle
near his chair, and not dread the glance that she so well remembered.
She could render him such little tokens of her duty and service' as
putting everything in order for him with her own hands, binding little
nosegays for table, changing them as one by one they withered and he did
not come back, preparing something for him every' day, and leaving some
timid mark of her presence near his usual seat. To-day, it was a little
painted stand for his watch; tomorrow she would be afraid to leave it,
and would substitute some other trifle of her making not so likely to
attract his eye. Waking in the night, perhaps, she would tremble at the
thought of his coming home and angrily rejecting it, and would hurry
down with slippered feet and quickly beating heart, and bring it away.
At another time, she would only lay her face upon his desk, and leave a
kiss there, and a tear.

Still no one knew of this. Unless the household found it out when she
was not there--and they all held Mr Dombey's rooms in awe--it was as
deep a secret in her breast as what had gone before it. Florence stole
into those rooms at twilight, early in the morning, and at times when
meals were served downstairs. And although they were in every nook the
better and the brighter for her care, she entered and passed out as
quietly as any sunbeam, opting that she left her light behind.

Shadowy company attended Florence up and down the echoing house, and
sat with her in the dismantled rooms. As if her life were an enchanted
vision, there arose out of her solitude ministering thoughts, that made
it fanciful and unreal. She imagined so often what her life would have
been if her father could have loved her and she had been a favourite
child, that sometimes, for the moment, she almost believed it w