Except from that one great sorrow that he could not lift;—­she was estranged from her father’s love and care;—­but in sweet submission she bent her shoulders to the burden of that loss, and accepted the new joy of Walter’s return with a lightened heart.

Years later, when Mr. Dombey by a turn of fortune’s wheel, was left alone in his dreary mansion, broken in mind and body, bereft of all his wealth; deserted alike by friends and servants;—­it was Florence, the neglected, spurned, exiled daughter, who came like a good household angel and clung to him, caressing him, forgetting all but love, and love that outlasts injuries.

As she clung close to him, he kissed her on the lips and lifting up his eyes, said, “Oh, my God, forgive me, for I need it very much!”

With that he dropped his head again, lamenting over her and caressing her, and there was not a sound in all the house for a long, long, time; they remaining clasped in one another’s arms, in the glorious sunshine that had crept in with Florence.  And so we leave them—­Father and Daughter—­united at last in an undying affection.

CHARLEY

[Illustration:  CHARLEY]

CHARLEY

When I, Esther Summerson, was taken from the school where the early years of my childhood had been spent; having no home or parents, as had the other girls in the school, my guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, gave me a home with him, where I was companion to his young and lovely ward, Ada Clare.  I soon grew deeply attached to Ada, the dearest girl in the world; to my guardian, the kindest and most thoughtful of men; and to Bleak House, my happy home.

One day, upon hearing of the death of a poor man whom we had known, and learning that he had left three motherless children in great poverty, my guardian and I set out to discover for ourselves the extent of their need.  We were directed to a chandler’s shop in Bell Yard, a narrow, dark alley, where we found an old woman, who replied to my inquiry for Neckett’s children:  “Yes, surely, Miss.  Three pair, if you please.  Door right opposite the stairs.”  And she handed me a key across the counter.  As she seemed to take it for granted I knew what to do with the key, I inferred it must be intended for the children’s door, so without any more questions I led the way up a dark stair.

Reaching the top room designated, I tapped at the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, “We are locked in.  Mrs. Blinder’s got the key!”

I applied the key, and opened the door.  In a poor room, with a sloping ceiling, and containing very little furniture, was a mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and hushing a heavy child of eighteen months.  There was no fire, though the weather was cold; both children were wrapped in some poor shawls and tippets, as a substitute.  Their clothing was not so warm, however, but that their noses looked red and pinched, and their small figures shrunken, as the boy walked up and down, nursing and hushing the child with its head on his shoulder.