“You needn’t be frightened now,” said the old woman, still holding her tight. “Come along with me.” “I--I don’t know you. What’s your name?” asked Florence. “Mrs. Brown,” said the old woman. “Good Mrs. Brown.” “Are they near here?” asked Florence, beginning to be led away. “Susan an’t far off,” said Good Mrs. Brown; “and the others are close to her.” “Is anybody hurt?” cried Florence. “Not a bit of it,” said Good Mrs. Brown. The child shed tears of delight on hearing this, and accompanied the old woman willingly; though she could not help glancing at her face as they went along--particularly at that industrious mouth--and wondering whether Bad Mrs. Brown, if there were such a person, was at all like her. They had not gone very far, but had gone by some very uncomfortable places, such as brick-fields and tile-yards, when the old woman turned down a dirty lane, where the mud lay in deep black ruts in the middle of the road. She stopped before a shabby little house, as closely shut up as a house that was full of cracks and crevices could be. Opening the door with a key she took out of her bonnet, she pushed the child before her into a back room, where there was a great heap of rags of different colors lying on the floor; a heap of bones, and a heap of sifted dust or cinders; but there was no furniture at all, and the walls and ceiling were quite black. The child became so terrified that she was stricken speechless, and looked as though about to swoon. “Now don’t be a young mule,” said Good Mrs. Brown, reviving her with a shake. “I’m not a going to hurt you. Sit upon the rags.” Florence obeyed her, holding out her folded hands, in mute supplication. “I’m not a going to keep you, even, above an hour,” said Mrs. Brown. “D’ye understand what I say?” The child answered with great difficulty, “Yes.” “Then,” said Good Mrs. Brown, taking her own seat on the bones, “don’t vex me. If you don’t, I tell you I won’t hurt you. But if you do, I’ll kill you. I could have you killed at any time--even if you was in your own bed at home. Now let’s know who you are, and what you are, and all about it.” The old woman’s threats and promises; the dread of giving her offense; and the habit, unusual to a child, but almost natural to Florence now, of being quiet, and repressing what she felt, and feared, and hoped, enabled her to do this bidding, and to tell her little history, or what she knew of it. Mrs. Brown listened attentively, until she had finished. “So your name’s Dombey, eh?” said Mrs. Brown. “Yes, ma’am.” “I want that pretty frock, Miss Dombey,” said Good Mrs. Brown, “and that little bonnet, and a petticoat or two, and anything else you can spare. Come! Take ’em off.”