Walter picked up the shoe, and put it on the little foot as the Prince in the story might have fitted Cinderella's slipper on.

He hung the rabbit-skin over his left arm; gave the right to Florence; and felt, not to say like Richard Whittington--that is a tame comparison--but like Saint George of England, with the dragon lying dead before him.
'Don't cry, Miss Dombey,' said Walter, in a transport of enthusiasm.
'What a wonderful thing for me that I am here! You are as safe now as if you were guarded by a whole boat's crew of picked men from a man-of-war.
Oh, don't cry.' 'I won't cry any more,' said Florence.

'I am only crying for joy.' 'Crying for joy!' thought Walter, 'and I'm the cause of it! Come along, Miss Dombey.

There's the other shoe off now! Take mine, Miss Dombey.' 'No, no, no,' said Florence, checking him in the act of impetuously pulling off his own.

'These do better.