Suddenly she thought of the only other time she had
been lost in the wide wilderness of London--and went that way. To the
home of Walter's uncle.
Checking her sobs and endeavoring to calm the agitation of her manner,
so as to avoid attracting notice, Florence was going more quietly when
Diogenes, panting for breath, and making the street ring with his glad
bark, was at her feet.
She bent down on the pavement, and laid his rough loving foolish head
against her breast, and they went on together.
At length the little shop came into view. She ran in and found Captain
Cuttle, in his glazed hat, standing over the fire, making his morning's
cocoa. Hearing a footstep and the rustle of a dress, the captain turned
at the instant when Florence reeled and fell upon the floor.
The captain, pale as Florence, calling her by his childhood's name for
her, raised her like a baby, and laid her upon the same old sofa upon
which she had slumbered long ago.
"It's Heart's Delight!" he exclaimed; "It's the sweet creetur grow'd a
woman!"
But Florence did not stir, and the captain moistened her lips and
forehead, put back her hair, covered her feet with his own coat, patted
her hand--so small in his, that he was struck with wonder when he
touched it--and seeing that her eyelids quivered and that her lips began
to move, continued these restorative applications with a better heart.
At last she opened her eyes, and spoke: "Captain Cuttle! Is it you? Is
Walter's uncle here?"
"Here, Pretty?" returned the captain.
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