s quiet, and
comes slowly down from the gallery. Miss Tox's eyes are red, and her
pocket-handkerchief is damp. She is wounded, but not exasperated, and
she hopes they may be happy. She quite admits to herself the beauty of
the bride, and her own comparatively feeble and faded attractions;
but the stately image of Mr Dombey in his lilac waistcoat, and his
fawn-coloured pantaloons, is present to her mind, and Miss Tox weeps
afresh, behind her veil, on her way home to Princess's Place. Captain
Cuttle, having joined in all the amens and responses, with a devout
growl, feels much improved by his religious exercises; and in a peaceful
frame of mind pervades the body of the church, glazed hat in hand, and
reads the tablet to the memory of little Paul. The gallant Mr Toots,
attended by the faithful Chicken, leaves the building in torments of
love. The Chicken is as yet unable to elaborate a scheme for winning
Florence, but his first idea has gained possession of him, and he thinks
the doubling up of Mr Dombey would be a move in the right direction. Mr
Dombey's servants come out of their hiding-places, and prepare to rush
to Brook Street, when they are delayed by symptoms of indisposition
on the part of Mrs Perch, who entreats a glass of water, and becomes
alarming; Mrs Perch gets better soon, however, and is borne away; and
Mrs Miff, and Mr Sownds the Beadle, sit upon the steps to count what
they have gained by the affair, and talk it over, while the sexton tolls
a funeral.

Now, the carriages arrive at the Bride's residence, and the players on
the bells begin to jingle, and the band strikes up, and Mr Punch, that
model of connubial bliss, salutes his wife. Now, the people run, and
push, and press round in a gaping throng, while Mr Dombey, leading Mrs
Dombey by the hand, advances solemnly into the Feenix Halls. Now, the
rest of the wedding party alight, and enter after them. And why does Mr
Carker, passing through the people to the hall-door, think of the old
woman who called to him in the Grove that morning? Or why does Florence,
as she passes, think, with a tremble, of her childhood, when she was
lost, and of the visage of Good Mrs Brown?

Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest of days, and more
company, though not much; and now they leave the drawing-room, and range
themselves at table in the dark-brown dining-room, which no confectioner
can brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted negroes with as many
flow