But though Diogenes was as ridiculous a dog as one would meet with on a summer’s day; a blundering, ill-favored, clumsy, bullet-headed dog, continually acting on the wrong idea that there was an enemy in the neighborhood whom it was meritorious to bark at; and though he was far from good-tempered, and certainly was not clever, and had hair all over his eyes, and a comical nose, and an inconsistent tail, and a gruff voice,—­he was dearer to Florence, in virtue of Paul’s parting remembrance of him, and that request that he might be taken care of, than the most valuable and beautiful of his kind.  So dear, indeed, was this same ugly Diogenes, and so welcome to her, that she kissed the hand of Mr. Toots in her gratitude.  And when Diogenes, released, came tearing up the stairs and, bouncing into the room, dived under all the furniture, and wound a long iron chain that dangled from his neck round legs of chairs and tables, and then tugged at it until his eyes nearly started out of his head; and when he growled at Mr. Toots, who affected familiarity, Florence was as pleased with him as if he had been a miracle of discretion.

Mr. Toots was so overjoyed by the success of his present, and so delighted to see Florence bending over Diogenes, smoothing his coarse back with her little delicate hand—­Diogenes graciously allowing it from the first moment of their acquaintance—­that he felt it difficult to take leave, and would, no doubt have been a much longer time in making up his mind to do so, if he had not been assisted by Diogenes himself, who suddenly took it into his head to bay at Mr. Toots, and to make short runs at him with his mouth open.  Not exactly seeing his way to the end of these demonstrations, Mr. Toot with chuckles, lapsed out of the door, and got away.

“Come, then, Di!  Dear Di!  Make friends with your new mistress.  Let us love each other, Di!” said Florence, fondling his shaggy head.  And Di, the rough and gruff, as if his hairy hide were pervious to the tear that dropped upon it, and his dog’s heart melted as it fell, put his nose up to her face and swore fidelity.

A banquet was immediately provided for him, and when he had eaten and drunk his fill, he went to Florence, rose up on his hind legs, with his awkward fore-paws on her shoulders, licked her face and hands, nestled his great head against her heart, and wagged his tail till he was tired Finally, he coiled himself up at her feet, and went to sleep.

That same night Susan Nipper told her mistress that Mr. Dombey was to leave home the next day for a trip,—­which piece of news filled Florence with dismay, and she sat musing sadly until midnight.

She was little more than a child in years,—­not yet fourteen—­and the loneliness and gloom of such an hour in the great house might have set an older fancy brooding on vague terrors.  But her innocent imagination was too full of one theme to admit them.  Nothing wandered in her thought but love; a wandering love indeed, and cast away, but turning always to her father.