"Why didn't money save me my mama?" returned the child. "It isn't cruel, is it?" "Cruel?" said Mr. Dombey. "No. A good thing can't be cruel." "If it's a good thing and can do anything," said the little fellow, thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, "I wonder why it didn't save me my mama." He didn't ask the question of his father this time. Perhaps he had seen, with a child's quickness, that it had already made his father uncomfortable. But he repeated the thought aloud, as if it was quite an old one to him, and had troubled him very much. "It can't make me strong and quite well, either, papa; can it?" asked Paul, after a short silence; rubbing his tiny hands. "You are as strong and well as such little people usually are? Eh?" said Mr. Dombey. "Florence is older than I am, but I'm not as strong and well as Florence, I know," returned the child; "I am so tired sometimes," said little Paul, "and my bones ache so that I don't know what to do." The unusual tone of that conversation so alarmed Mr. Dombey that the very next day he began to inquire into the real state of Paul's health; and as the doctor suggested that sea-air might be of benefit to the child, to Brighton he was promptly sent, to remain until he should seem benefited. He refused to go without Florence to whom he clung with a passion of devotion which made Mr. Dombey both irritated and jealous to see, wishing himself to absorb the boy's entire affection. So to Brighton Paul and Florence went, in charge of Paul's nurse, Wickam. They found board in the house of an old lady, Mrs. Pipchin by name, whose temper was not of the best and whose methods of managing children were rather peculiar. At this exemplary old lady, Paul would sit staring in his little armchair for any length of time. He never seemed to know what weariness was when he was looking fixedly at Mrs. Pipchin. He was not fond of her, he was not afraid of her, but she seemed to have a grotesque attraction for him. Once she asked him, when they were alone, what he was thinking about. "You," said Paul, without the least reserve. "And what are you thinking about me?" asked Mrs. Pipchin. "I'm thinking how old you must be," said Paul. "You mustn't say such things as that, young gentleman," returned the dame. "Why not?" asked Paul. "Because it's not polite," said Mrs. Pipchin, snappishly. "Not polite?" said Paul. "No." "It's not polite," said Paul innocently, "to eat all the mutton-chops and toast, Wickam says." "Wickam," retorted Mrs. Pipchin colouring, "is a wicked, impudent, bold-faced hussy." "What's that?" inquired Paul. "Never you mind, sir," retorted Mrs. Pipchin. "Remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions." "If the bull was mad," said Paul, "how did he know that the boy had asked questions? Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don't believe that story." "You don't believe it, sir?" repeated Mrs. Pipchin, amazed. "No," said Paul.