In due time the baby was taken to church, and baptized by the name of Paul (his father's name). A grand and stately christening it was, followed by a grand and stately feast; and little Paul was declared by his godmother to be "an angel, and the perfect picture of his own papa."
But from that time Paul seemed to waste and pine; his healthy and thriving babyhood had received a check, and as for illnesses, "There never was a blessed dear so put upon," his nurse said.
By the time he was five years old, though he had the prettiest, sweetest little face in the world, there was always a patient, wistful look upon it, and he was thin and tiny and delicate. He soon got tired, and had such old-fashioned ways of speaking and doing things, that his nurse often shook her head sadly over him.
When he sat in his little arm-chair with his father, after dinner, they were a strange pair,—so like, and so unlike each other.
"What is money, papa?" asked Paul on one of these occasions, crossing his tiny arms as well as he could—just as his father's were crossed.
"Why, gold, silver and copper; you know what it is well enough, Paul," answered his father.
"Oh yes; I mean, what can money do?"
"Anything, everything—almost," replied Mr. Dombey, taking one of his son's wee hands.
Paul drew his hand gently away. "It didn't save me my mamma, and it can't make me strong and big," said he.
"Why, you are strong and big, as big as such little people usually are," returned Mr. Dombey.