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Little Dombey had never risen from his little bed. He lay there listening to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time went, but watching it, and watching everything about him, with observing eyes.

When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall, like golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection' died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen into night. Then, he thought how the long unseen streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through the great city; and now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would look, reflecting the hosts of the stars-and more than all, how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea.

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they passed, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day. His only trouble was the swift

and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it, to stem it with his childish hands, or choke its way with sand, and when he saw it coming on resistless, he cried out. But a word from Florence, who was always at his side, restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled.

When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun, and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself-pictured! he saw-the high church towers rising up into the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below; the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, I am better, I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell Papa so!'

By little and little he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and re-passing; and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again the child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking moments-of that rushing river. 6 Why will it never stop, Floy?' he would sometimes ask her: it is bearing me away, I think!'

But Floy could always soothe and reassure him; and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest.

You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you, now!'

They would prop him with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline, the while

she lay beside him: bending forwards oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him.

Thus the flush of the day in its heat and light would gradually decline, and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors; they used to assemble down stairs, and come up together, and the room was so quiet, and Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody what they said) that he even knew the difference in the sound of their watches. But his interest centred in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long ago, that that gentleman had been with his mamma, when she clasped Florence in her arms and died. And he could not forget it now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid.— CHARLES DICKENS, Little Dombey.'

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LITTLE DOMBEY'S DEATH-BED.

con-fuse', to mix, to disorder

in-cred'-u-lous-ly, as though one
did not believe
quest, search

ra'-di-ant, bright, shining
blight'-ed, injured, like a plant
covered with blight
wist'-ful, earnest, thoughtful
gaze (v.), to look earnestly

pla'-cid-ly, quietly

whis'-per (v.), to speak very softly
fee'-ble, weak

wound (v.), did wind
wound (n.), a hurt
glide, to move quietly
rip'-ple, a little wave

fir-ma-ment, the sky, the heavens
im-mor-tal'-i-ty, endless existence

One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the drawing-room down stairs, and had thought she must have loved sweet Florence better than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she felt that she was dying for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him to enquire if he had ever seen his mother, for he could not remember whether they told him yes or no, the river running very fast, and confusing his mind.

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'Did I ever see any kind face, like a mamma's, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?'

He asked incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him.

'Oh, yes, dear!'

"Whose, Floy?'

"Your old nurse's. Often.'

And where is my old nurse?' said Paul; is she dead, too? Floy, are we all dead, except you?'

There was a hurry in the room for an instant —longer, perhaps, but it seemed no more—then all was still again; and Florence, with her face quite colourless, but smiling, held his head on her arm. Her arm trembled very much.

Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!'

She is not here, darling. She shall come tomorrow.'

Thank you, Floy!'

6

Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. When he awoke, the sun was high, and the broad day was clear and warm. He lay a little, looking at the windows, which were open, and the curtains rustling in the air, and waving to and fro; then he said, Floy, is it to-morrow ?-is she come?' Someone seemed to go in quest of her; perhaps it was Susan. Paul thought he heard her telling him, when he had closed his eyes again, that she would soon be back; but he did not open them to see. She kept her word-perhaps she had never been away; but the next thing that happened was a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke-woke, mind and body-and sat upright in his bed. He saw them now about him. There was no grey mist before them, as there had been sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, and called them by their names.

And who is this? Is this my old nurse?' said the child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in.

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast as one who has some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity.

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Floy! this is a kind, good face!' said Paul. "I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse! stay here!'

His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he knew.

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