Of Walter she thought constantly.  Her tears fell often for his sufferings, but rarely for his supposed death, and never long.  Thus matters stood with Florence on the day she went home, gladly, to her old secluded life.

“You’ll be glad to go through the old rooms, won’t you, Susan,” said Florence as they turned into the familiar street.

“Well, Miss,” returned the Nipper, “I wont deny but what I shall, though I shall hate them again to-morrow, very likely!”—­adding breathlessly—­“Why gracious me, where’s our house?”—­

There was a labyrinth of scaffolding raised all around the house.  Loads of bricks and stones, and heaps of mortar, and piles of wood, blocked up half of the broad street.  Ladders were raised against the walls; men were at work upon the scaffolding; painters and decorators were busy inside; great rolls of paper were being delivered from a cart at the door; an upholsterer’s wagon also stopped the way; nothing was to be seen but workmen, swarming from the kitchens to the garret.  Inside and outside alike; bricklayers, painters, carpenters, masons; hammer, hod, brush, pickaxe, saw, trowel:  all at work together, in full chorus.

Florence descended from the coach, half doubting if it could be the right house, until she recognized Towlinson, the butler, standing at the door to receive her.  She passed him as if she were in a dream, and hurried upstairs.  Her own room was not yet touched within, but there were beams and boards raised against it without.  She went up swiftly to that other bedroom, where her brother’s little bed was; and a dark giant of a man, with a pipe in his mouth, and his head tied up in a pocket handkerchief, was staring in at the window.

It was here that Susan Nipper found her, and said would she go downstairs to her papa, who wished to speak to her?

“At home! and wishing to speak to me!” cried Florence, pale and agitated, hurrying down without a moment’s hesitation.  She thought upon the way down, would she dare to kiss him?  Her father might have heard her heart beat when she came into his presence.  He was not alone.  There were two ladies there.  One was old, and the other was young and very beautiful, and of an elegant figure.

“Edith,” said Mr. Dombey, “this is my daughter.  Florence, this lady will soon be your mamma.”

The girl started, and looked up at the beautiful face in a conflict of emotions, among which the tears that name awakened struggled for a moment with surprise, interest, admiration, and an indefinable sort of fear.  Then she cried out, “Oh, papa, may you be happy!  May you be very, very happy all your life!” then fell weeping on the lady’s bosom.

The beautiful lady held her to her breast, and pressed the hand with which she clasped her, as if to reassure and comfort her, and bent her head down over Florence and kissed her on the cheek.

And now Florence began to hope that she would learn from her new and beautiful mamma how to gain her father’s love.  And in her sleep that night her own mother smiled radiantly upon the hope, and blessed it.