orence's mind the image of her father, wounded and in pain,
alone, in his own home.

With the same child's heart within her as of old, even as with the
child's sweet, timid eyes and clustering hair, Florence, as strange to
her father in her early maiden bloom as in her nursery days, crept down
to his room and looked in. The housekeeper was fast asleep in an
easy-chair before the fire. All was so very still that she knew he was
asleep. There was a cut upon his forehead. One of his arms, resting
outside of the bed, was bandaged up, and he was very white. After the
first assurance of his sleeping quietly, Florence stole close to the
bed, and softly kissed him and put the arm with which she dared not
touch him, waking, round about him on the pillow, praying to God to
bless her father, and to soften him towards her, if it might be so.

On the following day Susan Nipper braced herself for a great feat which
she had long been contemplating; forced an entrance into Mr. Dombey's
room, and told him in most emphatic language what she thought of his
treatment of the motherless little girl who had so long been her charge.
Speechless with rage and amazement, Mr. Dombey attempted to summon some
one to protect him from her flow of language, but there was no bell-rope
near, and he could not move, so he was forced to listen to her tirade
until the entrance of the housekeeper cut it short. Susan Nipper was
then instantly discharged, and bestirred herself to get her trunks in
order, sobbing heartily as she thought of Florence, but exulting at the
memory of Mr. Dombey's discomfiture. Florence dared not interfere with
her father's commands, and took a sad farewell of the faithful little
maid, who had for so long been her companion.

Now Florence was quite alone. She had grown to be seventeen; timid and
retiring as her solitary life had made her, it had not embittered her. A
child in innocent simplicity: a woman in her modest self-reliance and
her deep intensity of feeling, both child and woman seemed at once
expressed in her fair face and fragile delicacy of shape; in her
thrilling voice, her calm eyes, and sometimes in a strange ethereal
light that seemed to rest upon her head.

Mrs. Dombey she seldom saw, and the day soon came when she lost her
entirely. The wife's supreme indifference to himself and his wishes,
stung Mr. Dombey more than any other kind of treatment could have done,
and he determined to bend her to his will. She was the