“Their instinct,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “is surprising.”

“Whatever you call it—­and I’m bletht if I know what to call it”—­said Sleary, “it ith athtonithing.  Ith fourteen month ago, Thquire, thinthe we wath at Chethter.  One morning there cometh into our Ring, by the thage door, a dog.  He had travelled a long way, he wath in very bad condition, he wath lame and pretty well blind.  He went round as if he wath a theeking for a child he know’d; and then he comed to me, and thood on hith two fore-legth, weak ath he wath, and then he wagged hith tail and died.  Thquire, that dog wath Merrylegth.”

“Sissy’s father’s dog!”

“Thethilia’s fatherth old dog.  Now, Thquire, I can take my oath, from my knowledge of that dog, that that man wath dead—­and buried—­afore that dog came back to me.  We talked it over a long time, whether I thould write or not, but we agreed, No.  There’th nothing comfortable to tell; why unthettle her mind, and make her unhappy?  Tho, whether her father bathely detherted her; or whether he broke his own heart alone, rather than pull her down along with him, never will be known, now, Thquire, till we know how the dogth findth uth out!”

“She keeps the bottle that he sent her for, to this hour, and she will believe in his affection to the last moment of her life,” said Mr. Gradgrind.

“It theemth to prethent two things to a perthon, don’t it?” said Mr. Sleary musingly, “one, that there ith a love in the world, not all thelf-interest, after all, but thomething very different; t’other, that it hath a way of its own of calculating with ith as hard to give a name to, ath the wayth of the dogth ith!”

Mr. Gradgrind looked out of the window, and made no reply.  He was deep in thought, and the result of his meditation became evident from that day in a gradual broadening of his nature and purposes.  He never again attempted to replace nature’s instincts and affections by his own system of education, and as the years went by he made no further attempt to destroy Sissy’s loving faith in that father who had left her long ago; he only tried to compensate her for that loss as best he could;—­and for the education which led to the softening of his hard, cold nature, the credit belongs to the daughter of a clown, to whom love meant more than logic.

FLORENCE DOMBEY

[Illustration:  FLORENCE DOMBEY]

FLORENCE DOMBEY

There never was a child more loving or more lovable than Florence Dombey.  There never was a child more ready to respond to loving ministrations than she, more eager to yield herself in docile obedience to a parent’s wish; and to her mother she clung with a desperate affection at variance with her years.

But the sad day came when, clasped in her mother’s arms, the little creature, with her perfectly colorless face, and deep, dark eyes, never moved her soft cheek from her mother’s face, nor looked on those who stood around, nor shed a tear, understanding that soon she would be bereft of that mother’s care and love.