portly gentleman in knee-breeches, with
a bald head and a double chin. He made all the boys there study much too
hard; even those only six years old had to learn Greek and history. Poor
little Paul did the best he could, but such difficult tasks made him
giddy and dull. It was only the Saturdays he enjoyed; these he spent
with Florence on the seashore or in Mrs. Pipchin's bare room.

Paul would have broken down sooner under Doctor Blimber's system but
that Florence bought all the books he studied and studied them herself,
so as to help him on Saturdays. People called him "old-fashioned," and
that troubled him a great deal, but he tried to love even the old
watch-dog at Doctor Blimber's, and before the holidays came everybody in
the school liked him.

But before the term ended little Paul fell sick. He seemed not to be ill
of any particular disease, but only weak; so weak he had to sit propped
up with pillows at the entertainment Doctor Blimber gave on the final
evening. After that everything was hazy until he found himself, somehow,
at home in bed, with Florence beside him.

He lay there day after day, watching and dreaming. He dreamed often of a
swift, silent river that flowed on and on, and he wanted to stop it with
his hands.

"Why will it never stop, Floy?" he would ask her. "It is bearing me
away, I think."

There were many shadowy figures that came and went. One came often and
sat long, but never spoke. One day he saw it was his father, and he
called out to it: "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa. Indeed, I am
quite happy."

Once he roused himself, and there were many about the bed: Florence, his
father, his old nurse and Walter Gay, and he called each by name and
waved his hand to them.

Florence took him in her arms and he heard the swift river flowing.

"How fast it runs, Floy! It is taking me with it. There is a shore
before me now. Who is standing on the bank?"

He put his hands together behind her neck, as he had been used to do at
his prayers.

"Mama is like you, Floy," he said. "I know her by her face. The light
about the head is shining upon me as I go."

So little Paul died.

II

HOW FLORENCE LOST HER FATHER

It was a sad, sad house for many days after that, and Florence, in her
loneliness, often thought her heart would break. Her father she scarcely
ever saw, for he sat alone in his room. Every night she would steal
down the dark hall to his door, and lay her head against the panel