hin had, with contumely and
scorn, rejected. Everybody said how laudable this was in Mrs Pipchin,
relict of a man who had died of the Peruvian mines; and what a staunch,
high, independent spirit the old lady had. But nobody said anything
about poor Berry, who cried for six weeks (being soundly rated by
her good aunt all the time), and lapsed into a state of hopeless
spinsterhood.

'Berry's very fond of you, ain't she?' Paul once asked Mrs Pipchin when
they were sitting by the fire with the cat.

'Yes,' said Mrs Pipchin.

'Why?' asked Paul.

'Why!' returned the disconcerted old lady. 'How can you ask such things,
Sir! why are you fond of your sister Florence?'

'Because she's very good,' said Paul. 'There's nobody like Florence.'

'Well!' retorted Mrs Pipchin, shortly, 'and there's nobody like me, I
suppose.'

'Ain't there really though?' asked Paul, leaning forward in his chair,
and looking at her very hard.

'No,' said the old lady.

'I am glad of that,' observed Paul, rubbing his hands thoughtfully.
'That's a very good thing.'

Mrs Pipchin didn't dare to ask him why, lest she should receive some
perfectly annihilating answer. But as a compensation to her wounded
feelings, she harassed Master Bitherstone to that extent until bed-time,
that he began that very night to make arrangements for an overland
return to India, by secreting from his supper a quarter of a round of
bread and a fragment of moist Dutch cheese, as the beginning of a stock
of provision to support him on the voyage.

Mrs Pipchin had kept watch and ward over little Paul and his sister for
nearly twelve months. They had been home twice, but only for a few days;
and had been constant in their weekly visits to Mr Dombey at the hotel.
By little and little Paul had grown stronger, and had become able to
dispense with his carriage; though he still looked thin and delicate;
and still remained the same old, quiet, dreamy child that he had been
when first consigned to Mrs Pipchin's care. One Saturday afternoon,
at dusk, great consternation was occasioned in the Castle by the
unlooked-for announcement of Mr Dombey as a visitor to Mrs Pipchin. The
population of the parlour was immediately swept upstairs as on the wings
of a whirlwind, and after much slamming of bedroom doors, and trampling
overhead, and some knocking about of Master Bitherstone by Mrs Pipchin,
as a relief to the perturbation of her spirits, the black bombazeen
garments of the worthy