Part 20 (2/2)

Then, clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the mother drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the world, leaving Florence and the new-born baby brother in the father's care.

Alas for Florence! To that father,--the pompous head of the great firm of Dombey and Son--girls never showed a sufficient justification for their existence, and this one of his own was an object of supreme indifference to him; while upon the tiny boy, his heir and future partner in the firm, he lavished all his interest, centred all his hopes and affection.

After her mother's death, Florence was taken away by an aunt; and a nurse, named Polly Richards, was secured for baby Paul. A few weeks later, as Polly was sitting in her own room with her young charge, the door was quietly opened, and a dark-eyed little girl looked in.

”It's Miss Florence, come home from her aunt's, no doubt,” thought Richards, who had never seen the child before. ”Hope I see you well, miss.”

”Is that my brother?” asked the child, pointing to the baby.

”Yes, my pretty,” answered Richards, ”come and kiss him.”

But the child, instead of advancing, looked her earnestly in the face, and said:

”What have you done with my mamma?”

”Lord bless the little creetur!” cried Richards. ”What a sad question!

_I_ done? Nothing, miss.”

”What have they done with my mamma?” cried the child.

”I never saw such a melting thing in all my life!” said Richards. ”Come nearer here; come, my dear miss! Don't be afraid of me.”

”I'm not afraid of you,” said the child, drawing nearer, ”but I want to know what they have done with my mamma.”

”My darling,” said Richards, ”come and sit down by me, and I'll tell you a story.”

With a quick perception that it was intended to relate to what she had asked, little Florence sat down on a stool at the nurse's feet, looking up into her face.

”Once upon a time,” said Richards, ”there was a lady--a very good lady, and her little daughter dearly loved her--who, when G.o.d thought it right that it should be so, was taken ill, and died. Died, never to be seen again by anyone on earth, and was buried in the ground where the trees grow.”

”The cold ground,” said the child, shuddering.

”No, the warm ground,” returned Polly, seizing her advantage, ”where the ugly little seeds turn into beautiful flowers, and into gra.s.s, and into corn, and I don't know what all besides. Where good people turn into bright angels, and fly away to heaven!”

The child who had drooped her head, raised it again, and sat looking at her intently.

”So; let me see,” said Polly, not a little flurried between this earnest scrutiny, her desire to comfort the child, her sudden success, and her very slight confidence in her own powers. ”So, when this lady died, she went to G.o.d! and she prayed to Him, this lady did,” said Polly, affecting herself beyond measure, being heartily in earnest, ”to teach her little daughter to be sure of that in her heart; and to know that she was happy there, and loved her still; and to hope and try--oh, all her life--to meet her there one day, never, never, never to part any more.”

”It was my mamma!” exclaimed the child, springing up, and clasping her around the neck.

”And the child's heart,” said Polly, drawing her to her breast, ”the little daughter's heart was so full of the truth of this, that even when she heard it from a strange nurse that couldn't tell it right, but was a poor mother herself, and that was all, she found a comfort in it--didn't feel so lonely--sobbed and cried upon her bosom--took kindly to the baby lying in her lap--and--there, there, there!” said Polly, smoothing the child's curls, and dropping tears upon her. ”There, poor dear!”

”Oh, well, Miss Floy! and won't your pa be angry neither?” cried a quick voice at the door, proceeding from a short, brown womanly girl of fourteen, with little snub nose, and black eyes like jet beads, ”when it was tickerlerly given out that you wasn't to go and worrit the nurse.”

”She don't worry me,” was the surprised rejoinder of Polly. ”I'm very fond of children. Miss Florence has just come home, hasn't she?”

”Yes, Mrs. Richards, and here, Miss Floy, before you've been in the house a quarter of an hour, you go a-smearing your wet face against the expensive mourning that Mrs. Richards is a-wearing for your ma!” With this remonstrance, young Spitfire, whose real name was Susan Nipper, detached the child from her new friend by a wrench--as if she were a tooth. But she seemed to do it more in the sharp exercise of her official functions, than with any deliberate unkindness.

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