`Louisa,' said Mr. Dombey, after a short pause, `it is not to be supposed--'

`Certainly not,' cried Mrs. Chick, hastening to anticipate a refusal, `I never thought it was.'

Mr. Dombey looked at her impatiently.

`Don't flurry me, my dear Paul,' said his sister; `for that destroys me. I am far from strong. I have not been quite myself, since poor dear Fanny departed.'

Mr. Dombey glanced at the pocket-handkerchief which his sister applied to her eyes, and resumed:

`It is not to be supposed, I say--'

`And I say,' murmured Mrs. Chick, `that I never thought it was.'

`Good Heaven, Louisa!' said Mr. Dombey.

`No, my dear Paul,' she remonstrated with tearful dignity, `I must really be allowed to speak. I am not so clever, or so reasoning, or so eloquent, or so anything, as you are. I know that very well. So much the worse for me. But if they were the last words. I had to utter--and last words should be very solemn to you and me, Paul, after poor dear Fanny--I should still say I never thought it was. And what is more,' added Mrs. Chick with increased dignity, as if she had withheld her crushing argument until now, `I never did think it was.'

Mr. Dombey walked to the window and back again.

`It is not to be supposed, Louisa,' he said (Mrs. Chick had nailed her colours to the mast, and repeated `I know it isn't,' but he took no notice of it), `but that there are many persons who, supposing that I recognised any claim at all in such a case, have a claim upon me superior to Miss Tox's. But I do not. I recognise no such thing. Paul and myself will be able, when the time comes, to hold our own--the house, in other words, will be able to hold its own, and maintain its own, and hand down its own of itself, and without any such common-place aids. The kind of foreign help which people usually seek for their children, I can afford to despise; being above it, I hope. So that Paul's infancy and childhood pass away well, and I see him becoming qualified without waste of time for the career on which he is destined to enter, I am satisfied. He will make what powerful friends he pleases in after-life, when he is actively maintaining-- and extending, if that is possible--the dignity and credit of the Firm. Until then, I am enough for him, perhaps, and all in all. I have no wish that people should step in between us. I would much rather show my sense of the obliging conduct of a deserving person like your friend. Therefore let it be so; and your husband and myself will do well enough for the other sponsors, I dare say.'

In the course of these remarks, delivered with great majesty and grandeur, Mr. Dombey had truly revealed the secret feelings of his breast. An indescribable distrust of anybody stepping in between himself and his son; a haughty dread of having any rival or partner in the boy's respect and deference; a sharp misgiving, recently acquired, that he was not infallible in his power of bending and binding human wills; as sharp a jealousy of any second check or cross; these were, at that time, the master keys of his soul. In all his life, he had never made a friend. His cold and distant nature had neither sought one nor found one. And now when that nature concentrated its whole force so strongly on a partial scheme of parental interest and ambition, it seemed as if its icy current, instead of being released by this influence, and running clear and free, had thawed for but an instant to admit its burden, and then frozen with it into one unyielding block.

Elevated thus to the godmothership of little Paul, in virtue of her insignificance, Miss Tox was from that hour chosen and appointed to office; and Mr. Dombey further signified his pleasure that the ceremony, already long delayed, should take place without further postponement. His sister, who had been far