"Antony," said Mr. Ross—he was the only person who ever called him Antony, and it seemed to make more of a man of him—"what are you thinking to do when you leave here to-morrow?"

"I s'pose I must go back to my crossing," answered Tony, looking very grave.

"No, I think I can do better for you than that," said his friend, "I have a sister living out in the country, about fifty miles from London; and she wants a boy to help the gardener, and run on errands for the house. She has promised to provide you with a home, and clothing, and to send you to school for two years, till you are about twelve, for we think you must be about ten years old now; and after that you shall have settled wages."

Tony listened with a quick throbbing of his heart and a contraction in his throat, which hindered him from speaking all at once when Mr. Ross had finished. What a grand thing it would be for himself! But then there were old Oliver and Dolly to be remembered.

"It 'ud do first-rate for me," he said at last, "and I'd try my best to help in the garden; but I couldn't never leave Mr. Oliver and the little girl. She'd fret ever so; and he's gone so forgetful he'd lose his own head, if he could anyhow. Why! of a morning they sell him any papers as they've too many of. Sometimes it's all the 'Star,' and sometimes it's all the 'Standard;' and them as buys one won't have the other. I don't know why, I'm sure. But you see when I go for 'em I say twenty-five this, and thirteen that, and I count 'em over pretty sharp, I can tell you; though I couldn't read at all afore I came here, but I could tell which was which easy enough. Then he'd never think to open his shop some mornings; and other mornings he'd open at four or five o'clock, just when he woke of hisself. No. I must stay and take care of 'em a bit; but thank you, sir, all the same."

He had spoken so gravely and thoughtfully that his reasons went directly to the heart of Mr. Ross; but he asked him one more question, before he could let his good plan for the boy drop.

"What has he done for you, Antony? Is he any relation of yours?"

"No, no!" cried Tony, his eyes growing bright, "I haven't got any relation in all the world; but he took me in out of love, and let me sleep comfortable under the counter, instead of in the streets. I love him, and Dolly, I do. I'll stay by 'em as long as ever I live, if I have to sweep a crossing till I'm an old man like him. Besides, I hear him speak a good word for me often and often to his Master; and I s'pose nobody else 'ud do that."

"What master?" inquired Mr. Ross.

"Him," answered Tony, pointing to a picture of the Saviour blessing young children, "he's always talking to him as if he could see him, and he tells him everythink. No, it 'ud be better for me to stay with him and Dolly, and keep hard by my crossing, than go away from 'em, and have clothes, and lodging, and schooling for nothink."

"I think it would," said Mr. Ross, "so you must go on as you are, Antony, till I can find you something better than a crossing. You are looking very well, my boy; that's a nice, warm suit of clothes you have on, better than the rags you came in by a long way."

It was a sailor's suit, sent to the hospital by some mother, whose boy had perhaps outgrown it; or, it may be, whose boy had been taken away from all her tender care for him. It was of good, rough, thick blue cloth, and fitted Tony well. He had grown a good deal during his illness, and his face had become whiter and more refined; his hair, too, was cut to a proper length, and parted down the side, no longer lying about his head in a tangled mass. He coloured up with pleasure as Mr. Ross looked approvingly at him.

"They've lent it me till I go out," he said, with a tone slightly regretful in his voice, "I only wish Dolly could have seen me in it, and her aunt Charlotte. My own things were too ragged for me to wear 'em in a place like this."

"They've given it to you, Antony," replied Mr. Ross, "those are the clothes you will go home in to-morrow."

It seemed too much for Tony to believe, though a nurse who was sitting by and sewing away busily, told him it was quite true. He was intensely happy all the rest of the day, often standing up, and almost straining his neck to get a satisfactory view of his own back, and stroking the nap of his blue trousers with a fondling touch. They would all see him in it; old Oliver, Dolly, and aunt Charlotte. There would be no question now as to his fitness for taking Dolly out for a walk; he would be dressed well enough to attend upon a princess. This made famous amends for the pair of old boots he had lost the night he broke his leg; a loss he had often silently lamented over in his own mind. The nurse told him she was patching up his old clothes, and making him a cap, to wear when he was at work on his crossing, for the new ones were much too good for that; and Tony felt as rich as if a large fortune had been left to him.

It was a very joyful thing to go home again. Dolly was a little shy at first of this new Tony, so different from the poor, ragged, wild-looking old Tony; but a very short time was enough to make her familiar with his nice blue suit, and the anchor-buttons upon it. He found his place under the counter all nicely papered to keep the draughts out; and a little chaff mattress, made by aunt Charlotte, laid down instead of the shavings upon the floor. It was even pleasanter to be here than in the hospital.

But Tony found it hard work to go back to his crossing in the morning; and he could not make out what was the matter with himself, he felt so cross and idle. His old clothes seemed really such horrid rags that he could scarcely bear to feel them about him; and if any passer-by looked closely at him, he went red and hot all over. He was not so successful as he thought he had been before his accident, or as he thought he ought to be; for the roads were getting cleaner with the drier weather, and few persons considered it necessary to give him a copper for his almost needless labour. Worst of all,—Clever Dog Tom found him out, and would come often to see him; sometimes jeering him for his poor spirit in being content with such low work, and sometimes boasting of the fine things he could do, and displaying the fine clothes he could wear. It was truly very hard work for Tony, after his long holiday at the hospital, where he had had as much luxury and attention as a rich man's son.

But at home in the evening Tony felt all right again. Old Oliver set him to learn to read and write, and he was making rapid progress, more rapid than Dolly, who began at the same time, but who was apt to look upon it all as only another kind of game, of which she grew more quickly tired than of hide-and-seek. There was no one to check her, or to make her understand it was real, serious work: neither old Oliver nor Tony could find any fault with their darling. Now and then there came letters from her mother, full of anxious questions about her, and loving messages to her, telling her to be a good girl till she came back, but never saying a word as to when there was any chance of her returning to England. In one of these letters she sent word that a little sister was come for her out in India, who was just like what Dolly herself had been when she was a baby; but neither Oliver nor Tony could quite believe that. There never had been such a child as Dolly; there never would be again.



CHAPTER XVI

A BUD FADING.

A second summer went by with its long, hot days, when the sun seemed to stand still in the sky, and to dart down its most sultry beams into the dustiest and closest streets. Out in the parks, and in the broad thoroughfares where the fresh breeze could sweep along early in the morning, and in the evening as soon as the air grew cooler, it was very pleasant weather; and the people who could put on light summer dresses enjoyed it very much. But away among the thickly-built and crowded houses, where there were thousands of persons breathing over and over again the same hot and stagnant atmosphere, it seemed as if the most delicate and weakly among them must be suffocated by the breathless heat. Old Oliver suffered very greatly, but he said nothing about it; indeed he generally forgot the cause of his languor and feebleness. He never knew now the day of the week, nor the month of the year. If any one had told him in the dog-days of July that it was still April, he would only have answered gently that it was bright, warm weather for the time of year.

But about old times his memory was good enough; he could tell long stories of his boyhood, and describe the hills of his native place in such a manner as to set Tony full of longings after the country, with its cornfields, and meadows, and hedge-rows, which he had never seen. He remembered his Bible, too, and could repeat chapter after chapter describing his Master's life, as they sat together in the perpetual twilight of their room; for now that it was summer-time it did not seem right to keep the gas burning.

Tony's crossing had failed him altogether, for in dry weather nobody wanted it; but in this extremity Mr. Ross came to his aid, and procured him a place as errand-boy, where he was wanted from eight o'clock in the morning till seven at night; so that he could still open old Oliver's shop, and fetch him his right papers before he went out, and put the shutters up when he came back. To become an errand-boy was a good step forwards, and Tony was more than content. He never ran about bare-headed and barefooted now as he had done twelve months before; and he had made such good progress in reading and writing that he could already make out the directions upon the parcels he had to deliver, after they had been once read over to him. He did not object to the dry weather and clean streets as he had done when his living depended upon his crossing; on the contrary, he enjoyed the sunshine, and the crowds of gaily-dressed people, for he could hold up his head amongst them, and no longer went prowling about in the gutters searching after bits of orange-peel. He kicked them into the gutters instead, mindful of that accident which had befallen him, but which turned out so full of good for him.



But, if there had been any eye to see it, a very slow, and very sad change was creeping over Dolly; so slowly indeed, that perhaps none but her mother's eye could have seen it at first. On the first of every month, which old Oliver knew by the magazines coming in, he marked how much his little love had grown by placing her against the side-post of the door, and making a thick pencil line where her curly head reached to. He looked at this record often, smiling at the rate his little woman was growing taller; but it was really no wonder that his dim eyes, loving as they were, never saw how the rosy colour was dying away out of her cheeks, as gradually as the red glow fades away in the west after the sun has set, nor how the light grew fainter and fainter in her blue eyes, until they looked at him very heavily from under her drooping eyelids. The house was too dark for any sight to see very clearly; the full, strong, healthy light of the sun, could not find its way into it, and day after day Dolly became more like one of those plants growing in shady places, which live and shoot up, but only put out pale and sickly leaves, and feeble buds. One by one, and by little and little, with degrees as small as her own tiny footsteps, she lost all her merry ways, dropping them, here one and there another, upon the path she was silently treading; as little children let fall the flowers they have gathered in the meadows, along their road homewards. Yet all the time old Oliver was loving and cherishing her as the dearest of all treasures, second only to the Master whom he loved so fully; but he never discovered that there was any change in her. Dolly fell into very quiet ways, and would sit still for hours together, her arm around Beppo, and her sweet, patient little face, which was growing thin and hollow, turned towards the flickering light of the fire, while Oliver pottered toilsomely about his house, forgetting many things, but always ready with a smile and a fond word for his grand-daughter.

Just as Oliver was too old to feel any anxiety about Dolly, so Tony was too young, and knew too little of sickness and death. Moreover, when he came home in the evening, full of the business of the day, with a number of stories to tell of what had happened to him, and what he had seen, Dolly was always more lively, and had a feverish colour on her face, and a brilliant light in her eyes. He seemed to bring life and strength with him, and she liked him to nurse her on his knee, which did not grow tired and stiff like her grandfather's. How should Tony detect anything amiss with her? She never complained of feeling any pain, and he was glad for her to be very quiet and still while he was busy with his lessons.

But when the summer was ended, and after the damp warm fogs of November were over, and a keen, black frost set in sharply before Christmas—a frost which had none of the beauty of white lime and clear blue skies, but which hung over the city like a pall, and penetrated to every fireside with an icy breath; when only the strong and the healthy, who were well clothed and well fed, could meet it bravely, while the delicate, and sickly, and poverty-stricken, shrank before it, and were chilled through and through, then Dolly drooped and failed altogether. Even old Oliver's dull ears began to hear a little cough, which seemed to echo from some grave not very far away; and when he drew his little love between his knees, and put on his spectacles to gaze into her face, the dearest face in all the world to him, even his eyes saw something of its wanness, and the hollow lines which had come upon it since the summer had passed away. The old man felt troubled about her, yet he scarcely knew what to do. He bought sweetmeats to soothe her cough, and thought sometimes that he must ask somebody or other about a doctor for her; but his treacherous memory always let the thought slip out of his mind. He intended to take counsel with his sister when she came to see him; but aunt Charlotte was herself very ill with an attack of rheumatism, and could not get up to old Oliver's house.



CHAPTER XVII.

A VERY DARK SHADOW.

The Christmas week passed by, and the new year came in, cold and bleak, but Tony was well secured against the weather, and liked the frosty air, which made it pleasant to run as fast as he could from place to place as he delivered his parcels. When boxing day came, which was half-holiday for him, he returned to the house at mid-day, carrying with him three mince-pies, which he had felt himself rich enough to buy in honour of the holiday. He had for a long time been reckoning upon shutting up shop for the whole afternoon, and upon going out for a long stroll through the streets with old Oliver and Dolly; and now that the hour was positively come he felt very light-hearted and full of spirits, defying the wind which wrestled with him at every turn. Dolly must be wrapped up well, he said to himself, and old Oliver must put on his drab great coat, with mother o' pearl buttons, which he had brought up from the country forty years ago, and which was still good for keeping out the cold. He ran down the alley, and passed through the shop whistling cheerily, and disdaining to lift the flap of the counter, he took a running vault over it, and landed at once inside the open kitchen-door.

But there was old Oliver sitting close to the fire, with Dolly on his knee, and her little head lying upon his breast, while the tears trickled slowly down his furrowed cheeks on to her pretty curls. Beppo was standing between his legs, licking Dolly's small hand, which hung languidly by her side. Her eyelids were closed, and her face was deadly white; but when Tony uttered a great cry of trouble, and fell on his knees before her, she opened her heavy eyes, and stretched out her cold thin hand to stroke his cheeks. "Dolly's so very ill, Tony," she murmured, "poor Dolly's very ill indeed."

"I don't know whatever is the matter with my little love," said the old man, in a low and trembling voice; "she fell down all of a sudden, and I thought she was dead, Tony; but she's coming round again now. Isn't my little love better now?"

"Yes, gan-pa, yes; Dolly's better," she answered faintly.

"Let me hold her, master," said Tony, his heart beating fast; "I can hold her stronger and more comfortable, maybe, than you. You're tired ever so, and you'd better get yourself a bit of dinner. Shall Tony nurse you now, Dolly?"

The little girl raised her arms to him, and Tony took her gently into his own, sitting down upon the old box in the chimney-corner, and putting her to nestle comfortably against him. Dolly closed her eyes again, and by-and-bye he knew that she had fallen into a light sleep, while old Oliver moved noiselessly to and fro, only now and then saying half aloud, in a tone of strange earnestness and entreaty, "Lord! dear Lord!"

After awhile the old man came and bent over them both, taking Dolly's arm softly between his withered fingers, and looking down at it with a shaking head.

"She's very thin, Tony; look at this little arm," he said, "wasting away! wasting away! I've watched all my little ones waste away except my poor Susan. Couldn't there anything be done to save her?"

"Ay!" answered Tony, in an energetic whisper, while he clasped Dolly a little tighter in his arms; "ay! they could cure her easily at the hospital. Bless yer! there were little 'uns ten times worse than her as they sent home cured. Let us take her there as soon as ever she wakes up, and she'll be quite well directly, I promise you. The doctor knows me, and I'll speak to Mr. Ross for her. Do you get a bit of dinner, and hearten yourself up for it; and we'll set off as soon as she's awake."

Old Oliver turned away comforted, and prepared his own and Tony's dinner, and put a mince-pie into the oven to be ready to tempt Dolly's appetite when she awoke. But she slept heavily all the afternoon till it was almost dark outside, and the lamps were being lit, when she awoke, restless and feverish.

"Would Dolly like to go to that nice place, where the little girls had the dolls and the music?" asked Tony, in a quavering voice which he could scarcely keep from sobs; "the good place where Tony got well again, and they gave him his new clothes? Everybody 'ud be so wery kind to poor little Dolly, and she'd come home again, quite cured and strong, like Tony was."

"Yes, yes!" cried Dolly, eagerly, raising herself up in his arms; "it's a nice place, and the sun shines, and Dolly 'ud like to go. Only she'll be sure to come back to gan-pa."

It was some time yet before they were quite ready to start, though Dolly could not be coaxed to eat the hot mince-pie, or anything else. Old Oliver had to get himself into his drab overcoat, and the ailing child had to be protected in the best way they could against the searching wind. After they had put on all her own warmest clothing, Tony wrapped his own thick blue jacket about her, and lifting her very tenderly in his arms, they turned out into the streets, closely followed by Beppo.

It was now quite night, but the streets were well lighted from the shop windows, and throngs of people were hurrying hither and thither; for it was boxing-night, and all the lower classes of the inhabitants were taking holiday. But old Oliver saw and heard nothing of the crowd. He walked on by Tony's side; with feeble and tottering steps, deaf and blind, but whispering all the while, with trembling lips, to One whom no one else could see or hear. Once or twice Tony saw a solemn smile flit across his face, and he nodded his head and raised his hand, as one who gives his assent to what is said to him. So they passed on through the noisy streets till they reached quieter ones, were there were neither shops nor many passers-by, and there they found the home where they were going to leave their treasure for a time.



CHAPTER XVIII.

NO ROOM FOR DOLLY.

Old Oliver rang the house-bell very quietly, for Dolly seemed to be asleep again, and lay quite still in Tony's arms, which were growing stiff, and benumbed by the cold. The door was opened by a porter, whose face was strange to them both, for he had only come in for the day while the usual one took holiday. Old Oliver presented himself in front, and pointed at his little grandchild as Tony held her in his arms while he spoke to the porter in a voice which trembled greatly.

"We've brought you our little girl, who is very ill," he said, "but she'll soon get well in here, I know. I'd like to see the doctor, and tell him all about her."

"We're quite full," answered the porter, filling up the doorway.

"Full?" repeated old Oliver, in a tone of questioning.

"Ay! all our cots are full," he replied, "chockfull. There ain't no more room. We've turned two or three away this morning, when they came at the right time. This isn't the right time to bring any child here."

"But my little love is very ill," continued old Oliver; "this is the right place, isn't it? The place where they nurse little children who are ill?"

"It's all right," said the porter, "it's the right place enough, only it's brimful, and running over, as you may say. We couldn't take in one more, if it was ever so. But you may come in and sit down in the hall for a minute or two, while I fetch one of the ladies."

Old Oliver and Tony entered, and sat down upon a bench inside. There was the broad staircase, with its shallow steps, which Dolly's tiny feet had climbed so easily, and it led up to the warm, pleasant nurseries, where little children were already falling asleep, almost painlessly, in their cosy cots. Tony could not believe that there was not room for their darling, who had been so willing to come to the place she knew so well, yet a sob broke from his lips, which disturbed Dolly in her sleep, for she moaned once or twice, and stirred uneasily in his arms. The old man leaned his hands upon the top of his stick, and rested his white head upon them, until they heard light footsteps, and the rustling of a dress, and they saw a lady coming down stairs to them.

"I think there's some mistake here, ma'am," said Oliver, his eye wandering absently about the large entrance-hall; "this is the Hospital for Sick Children, I think, and I've brought my little grandchild here, who is very ill indeed, yet the man at the door says there's no room for her. I think it must be a mistake."

"No," said the lady; "I am sorry to say it is no mistake. We are quite full; there is not room for even one more. Indeed, we have been obliged to send cases away before to-day. Who is your recommendation from?"

"I didn't know you'd want any recommendation," answered old Oliver, very mournfully; "she's very ill, and you could cure her here, and take better care of her than Tony and me, and I thought that was enough. I never thought of getting any recommendation, and I don't know where I could get one."

"Mr. Ross 'ud give us one," said Tony, eagerly.

"Yet even then," answered the lady, "we could not take her in until some of the cots are empty."

"You don't know me," interrupted Tony, eagerly; "but Mr. Ross brought me here, a year ago now, and they cured me, and set me up stronger than ever. They was so wery kind to me, that I couldn't think of anythink else save bringing our little girl to 'em. I'm sure they'd take her in, if they only knew it was her. You jest say as it's Tony and Dolly, as everybody took such notice of, and they'll never turn her away, I'm sure."

"I wish we could take her," said the lady, with tears in her eyes; "but it is impossible. We should be obliged to turn some other child out, and that could not be done to-night. You had better bring her again in the morning, and we'll see if there is any one well enough to make room for her. Let me look at the poor child for a minute."

She lifted up the collar of Tony's blue jacket, which covered Dolly's face, and looked down at it pitifully. It was quite white now, and was pinched and hollow, with large blue eyes shining too brightly. She stretched out her arms to the lady, and made a great effort to smile.

"Put Dolly into a pretty bed," she murmured, "where the sun shines, and she'll soon get well and go home again to gan-pa."

"What can I do?" cried the lady, the tears now running down her face. "The place is quite full; we cannot take in one more, not one. Bring her here again in the morning, and we will see what can be done."

"How many children have you got here?" asked old Oliver.

"We have only seventy-five cots," she answered, sobbing; "and in a winter like this they're always full."

"Only seventy-five!" repeated the old man, very sorrowfully. "Only seventy-five, and there are hundreds and hundreds of little children ill in London! They are ill in houses like mine, where the sun never shines. Is there no other place like this we could take our little love to?"

"There are two or three other Hospitals," she answered, "but they are a long way off, and none of them as large as ours. They are sure to be full just now. I think there are not more than a hundred and fifty cots in all London for sick children."

"Then there's no room for my Dolly?" he said.

The lady shook her head without speaking, for she had her handkerchief up to her face.

"Eh!" cried old Oliver in a wailing voice, "I don't know whatever the dear Lord 'ill say to that."

He made a sign to Tony that they must be going home again; and the boy raised himself up with a strange weight and burden upon his heart. Old Oliver put his stick down, and took Dolly into his own arms, and laid her head down on his breast.

"Let me carry her a little way, Tony," he said. "She's as light as a feather, even to poor old grandpa. I'd like to carry my little love a bit of the way home."

"I'll tell you what I can do," said the lady, wrapping Dolly up and kissing her before she covered her pale face, "if you will tell me where you live I will speak to the doctor as soon as he comes in—for he is out just now—and perhaps he will come to see her. He knows a great deal about children, and is fond of them."

"Thank you, thank you kindly, ma'am," answered old Oliver, feeling a little comforted. But when they stood outside, and the bleak wind blew about them, and he could see the soft glimmer of the light in the windows, within which other children were safely sheltered and carefully tended, his spirit sank again. He tottered now and then under his light burden; but he could not be persuaded to give up his little child to Tony again. These streets were quiet, with handsome houses on each side, and from one and another there came bursts of music and laughter as they passed by; yet Tony could catch most of the words which the old man was speaking.



"Dear Lord," he said, "there's only room for seventy-five of thy little lambs that are pining and wasting away in every dark street and alley like mine. Whatever can thy people be thinking about? They've got their own dear little children, who are ill sometimes, spite of all their care; and they can send for the doctor, and do all that's possible, never looking at the money it costs; but when they are well again they never think of the poor little ones who are sick and dying, with nobody to help them or care for them as I care for this little one. Oh, Lord, Lord! let my little love live! Yet thou knows what is best, and thou'lt do what is best. Thou loves her more than I do; and see, Lord, she is very ill indeed."

They reached home at last, after a weary and heartbroken journey, and carried Dolly in and laid her upon old Oliver's bed. She was wide awake now, and looked very peaceful, smiling quietly into both their faces as they bent over her. Tony gazed deep down into her eyes, and met a glance from them which sent a strange tremor through him. He crept silently away, and stole into his dark bed under the counter, where he stretched himself upon his face, and buried his mouth in the chaff pillow to choke his sobs. What was going to happen to Dolly? What could it be that made him afraid of looking again into her patient and tranquil little face?



CHAPTER XIX.

THE GOLDEN CITY.

Tony lay there in the dark, overwhelmed by his unusual terror and sorrow, until he heard the voice of old Oliver calling his name feebly. He hurried to him, and found him still beside the bed where Dolly was lying. He had taken off most of her clothes, and put her white nightgown over the rest, that she might sleep warmly in them all the night, for her little hands and feet felt very chilly to his touch. The fire had gone out while they were away, and the grate looked very black and cheerless. The room was in great disorder, just as they had left it, and the gas, which was burning high, cast a cruel glare upon it all. But Tony saw nothing except the dear face of Dolly, resting on one check upon the pillow, with her curly hair tossed about it in confusion, and her open eyes gathering a strange film. Beppo had made his way to her side, and pushed his head under her lifeless little hand, which tried to pat it now and then. Old Oliver was sitting on the bedstead, his eyes fastened upon her, and his whole body trembled violently. Tony sank down upon his knees, and flung his arm over Dolly, as if to save her from the unseen power which threatened to take her away from them.

"Don't ky, gan-pa," she said, softly; "don't ky more than a minute. Nor Tony. Are I going to die, gan-pa?"

"Yes, my little love," cried old Oliver, moaning as he said it.

"Where are I going to?" asked Dolly, very faintly.

"You're going to see my Lord and Master," he said; "him as loves little children so, and carries them in his arms, and never lets them be sorrowful or ill or die again."

"Does he live in a bootiful place?" she asked, again.

"It's a more beautiful place than I can tell," answered old Oliver. "The Lord Jesus gives them light brighter than the sun; and the streets are all of gold, and there are many little children there, who always see the face of their Father."

"Dolly's going rere," said the little child, solemnly.

She smiled for a minute or two, holding Beppo's ear between her failing fingers, and playing with it. Tony's eyes were dim with tears, yet he could see her clear face clearly through them. What could he do? Was there no one to help?

"Master, master!" he cried. "If the Lord Jesus is here he can save her. Ask him, master."

But old Oliver paid no heed to him. For the child who was passing away from him he was all eye and ear, watching and listening as keenly as in his best and strongest days; but he was blind and deaf to everything else around him. Tony's voice could not reach his brain.

"Will gan-pa come rere?" whispered the failing and faltering voice of Dolly.

"Very soon," he answered; a radiant smile coming to his face, which made her smile as her eyes caught the glory of it. "Very, very soon, my little love. You'll be there to meet me when I come."

"Dolly'll watch for gan-pa," she murmured, with long pauses between the words, which seemed to drop one by one upon Tony's ear; "and Dolly'll watch at the door for Tony to come home; and she'll fret ever so if he never comes."

Tony felt her stir restlessly under his arm, and stretch her tiny limbs upon the bed as if she were very tired, and the languid eyelids drooped slowly till they quite hid her blue eyes, and she sighed softly as children sigh when they fall asleep, weary of their play. Old Oliver laid his shaking hand tenderly upon her head.

"Dear Lord!" he said, "take my little love to thyself. I give her up to thee."

It seemed to Tony as if a thick mist of darkness fell all about him, and as if he were sinking down, down, very low into some horrible pit where he would never see the light of day again. But by-and-bye he came to himself, and found old Oliver sobbing in short, heavy sobs, and swaying himself to and fro, while Beppo was licking Dolly's hand, and barking with a sharp, quiet bark, as he had been wont to do when he wanted her to play with him. The child's small features were quite still, but there was an awful smile upon them such as there had never been before, and Tony could not bear to look upon it. He crossed her tiny hands lightly over one another upon her breast, and then he lifted Beppo away gently, and drew the bed-clothes about her, so as to hide her smiling face.

"Master," he cried, "master, is she gone?"

Old Oliver only answered by a deep moan; and Tony put his arm about him, and raised him up.

"Come to your own chair, master," he said.

He yielded to Tony like a child, and seated himself in the chair, where he had so often sat and watched Dolly while he smoked his pipe. The boy put his pipe between his fingers; but he only let it fall to the ground, where it broke into many pieces. Tony did not know what to do, nor where to go for any help.

"Lord," he said, "if you really love the old master, do something for him; for I don't know whatever to do, now little Dolly's gone."

He sat down on his old box, staring at Oliver and the motionless form on the bed, with a feeling of despair tugging at his heart. He could scarcely believe it was all true; for it was not very long since—only it seemed like long years—since he had leaped over the counter in his light-heartedness. But he had not sat there many minutes before he heard a distinct, rather loud knock at the shop-door, and he ran hastily to ask who was there.

"Antony," said a voice he knew very well, "I have come with the doctor, to see what we can do for your little girl."

In an instant Tony opened the door, and as Mr. Ross entered the boy flung his arms round him, and hid his face against him, sobbing bitterly.

"Oh! you've come too late," he cried, "you've come too late! Dolly's dead, and I'm afraid the master's going away from me as well. They couldn't take her in, and she died after we had brought her home."

The doctor and Mr. Ross went on into the inner room, and Tony pointed silently to the bed where Dolly lay. Old Oliver roused himself at the sound of strange voices, and, leaning upon Tony's shoulder, he staggered to the bedside, and drew the clothes away from her dear, smiling face.

"I don't murmur," he said. "My dear Lord can't do anything unkind. He'll come and speak to me presently, and comfort me; but just now I'm deaf and blind, even to him. I've not forgot him, and he hasn't forgot me; but there's a many things ought to be done, and I cannot think what."

"Leave it all to us," said Mr. Ross, leading him back to his chair. "But have you no neighbour you can go and stay with for to-night? You are an old man, and you must not lose your night's sleep."

"No," he answered, shaking his head; "I'd rather stay here in my own place, if I'd a hundred other places to go to. I'm not afraid of my little love,—no, no! When everything is done as ought to be done, I'll lie in my own bed and watch her. It won't be lonesome, as long as she's here."

In an hour's time all was settled for that night. A little resting-place had been made for the dead child in a corner of the room, where she lay covered with a coarse white sheet, which was the last one left of those which old Oliver's wife had spun in her girlhood. The old man had given his promise to go to bed when Mr. Ross and the doctor were gone; and he slept lightly, his face turned towards the place where his little love was sleeping. A faint light burnt all night in the room, and Tony, who could not fall asleep, sat in the chimney-corner, with Beppo upon his knees. There was an unutterable, quiet sorrow within him, mingled with a strange awe. That little child, who had played with him, and kissed him only a day since, was already gone into the unseen world, which was so very near to him now, though it had seemed so very far away and so empty before. It must be very near, since she had gone to it so quickly; and it was no longer empty, for Dolly was there; and she had said she would watch at the door till he came home.



CHAPTER XX.

A FRESH DAY DAWNS.

Old Oliver and Tony saw their darling buried in a little grave in a cemetery miles away from their own home, and then they returned, desolate and bereaved, to the deserted city, which seemed empty indeed to them. The house had never looked so very dark and dreary before. Yet from time to time old Oliver forgot that Dolly was gone altogether, and could never come back; for he would call her in his eager, quavering tones, or search for her in some of the hiding-places, where she had often played at hide-and-seek with him. When mealtimes came round he would put out Dolly's plate and cup, which had been bought on purpose for her, with gay flowers painted upon them; and in the evening, over his pipe, when he had been used to talk to his Lord, he now very often said nothing but repeat again and again Dolly's little prayer, which he had himself taught her, "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild." It was quite plain to Tony that it would never do to leave him alone in his house and shop.

"I've give up my place as errand-boy," he said to Mr. Ross, "'cause the old master grows worse and worse for forgetting, and I must mind shop for him now as well as I can. He's not off his head, as you may say; he's sharp enough sometimes; but there's no trusting to him being sharp always. He talks to Dolly as if she was here, and could hear him, till I can't hardly bear it. But I'm very fond of him,—fonder of him than anythink else, 'cept my little Dolly; and I've made up my mind as his Master shall be my master, and he's always ready to tell me all he knows about him. I'm no ways afeared of not getting along."

Tony found that they got along very well. Mr. Ross made a point of going in to visit them every week, and of seeing how the business prospered in the boy's hands; and he put as much as he could in his way. Sad and sorrowful as the days were, they passed over, one after another, bringing with them at least the habit of living without Dolly. Every Sunday afternoon, however, old Oliver and Tony walked slowly through the streets, for the old man could only creep along with Tony's help, till they reached the Children's Hospital; but they never passed the door, nor entered in through it. Old Oliver would stand for a few minutes leaning heavily on Tony's shoulder, and trembling from head to foot, as his eyes wandered over all the front of the building; and then a low, wailing cry would break from his lips, "Dear Lord! there was no room for my little love, but thou hast found room for her!"

It was a reopening of Tony's sorrow when Aunt Charlotte came up from the country to find that the little child had gone away altogether, leaving only her tiny frocks and clothes, which were neatly folded up in a drawer, where old Oliver treasured up a keepsake or two of his wife's. She discovered, too, that old Oliver had forgotten to write to Susan,—indeed, his hand had become too trembling to hold a pen,—and she wrote herself; but her letter did not reach Calcutta before Susan and her husband had left it, being homeward bound.

It was as nearly two years as it could well be since the summer evening when Susan Raleigh had sent her little girl into old Oliver's shop, bidding her be a good girl till she came home, and thinking it would be only three days before she saw her again. It was nearly two years, and an evening something like it, when the door was darkened by the entrance of a tall, fine-looking man, dressed as a soldier, but with one empty sleeve looped up across his chest. Tony was busy behind the counter wrapping up magazines, which he was going to take out the next morning, and the soldier looked very inquisitively at him.

"Hallo! my lad, who are you?" he asked, in a tone of surprise.

"I'm Antony Oliver," he said; for of late he had taken to call himself by his old master's name.

"Antony Oliver!" repeated the stranger; "I never heard of you before."

"Well, I'm only Tony," he answered; "but I live with old Mr. Oliver now, and call him grandfather. He likes it, and it does me good. It's like somebody belonging to me."

"Why! how long have you called him grandfather?" asked the soldier again.

"Ever since our little Dolly died," said Tony, in a faltering voice.

"Dolly dead!" exclaimed the man, looking ready to fall down; for his face went very white, and he leaned upon the counter with his one hand. "Oh! my poor Susan!—my poor, dear girl!—however can I tell her this bad news?"

"Who are you?" cried Tony. "Are you Dolly's father? Oh, she's dead! She died last January, and we are more lonesome without her than you can think."

"Let me see poor Susan's father," he said, after a minute or two, and with a very troubled face.

"Ay, come in," said Tony, lifting up the flap of the counter, under which Dolly had so often played at hide-and-seek. "He's more hisself again; but his memory's bad yet. I know everythink about her, though; because she was so fond of me, and me of her. Come in."

Raleigh entered the room, and saw old Oliver sitting in his arm-chair, with a pipe in his hand, and a very tranquil look upon his wrinkled face. The gas-light shone upon the glittering epaulettes and white sash of the soldier, and the old man fastened upon him a very keen, yet doubtful gaze of inquiry.

"Don't you know me, father?" cried Raleigh, almost unable to utter a word. "It's your poor Susan's husband, and Dolly's father."

"Dolly's father!" repeated old Oliver, rising from his chair, and resting his hand upon Raleigh's shoulder. "Do you know that the dear Lord has taken her to be where he is in glory?"

"Yes, I know it," he said, with a sob.

He put the old man back in his seat, and drew a chair close up to him. They sat thus together in sorrowful silence for some minutes, until old Oliver laid his hand upon the empty sleeve on Raleigh's breast.

"You've lost your arm," he said, pityingly.

"Ay!" answered Raleigh; "our colonel was set upon by a tiger in the jungle, and I saved him; but the brute tore my arm, and craunched the bone between his teeth till it had to come off. It's spoiled me for a soldier."

"Yes, yes, poor fellow," answered old Oliver, "but the Lord knew all about it."

"That he did," answered Raleigh; "and he's taught me a bit more about himself than I used to know. I'm not spoiled to be His soldier. But I don't know much about the service yet, and I shall want you to teach me, father. You'll let me call you father, for poor Susan's sake, won't you?"

"To be sure—to be sure," said old Oliver, keeping his hand still upon the empty sleeve on Raleigh's breast.

"Well, father," he continued, "as I am not fit for a soldier, and as the colonel was hurt too, we're all come home together. Only Susan's gone straight on with her lady and our little girl, and sent me through London to see after you and Dolly."

"Your little girl?" said Oliver questioningly.

"Yes, the one born in India. Her name's Mary, but we call her Polly. Susan said it made her think of our little Dolly at home. Dear! dear! I don't know however I shall let her know."

Another fit of silence fell upon them, and Tony left them together, for it was time to put up the shop shutters. It seemed just like the night when he had followed Susan and the little girl, and loitered outside in the doorway opposite, to see what would happen after she had left her in the shop. He fancied he was a ragged, shoeless boy again, nobody loving him, or caring for him, and that he saw old Oliver and Dolly standing on the step, looking out for the mother, who had gone away, never, never to see her darling again. Tony's heart was very full; and when he tried to whistle, he was obliged to give it up, lest he should break out into sobs and crying. When he went back into the house Raleigh was talking again.

"So Susan and me are to have one of the lodges of the colonel's park," he said, "and I'm to be a sort of bailiff to look after the other outdoor servants about the garden and premises. It's a house with three bedrooms, and a very pleasant sort of little parlour, as well as a kitchen and scullery place downstairs. You can see the Wrekin from the parlour window, and the moon over it; and it's not so far away but what we could get a spring-cart sometimes, and drive over to your old home under the Wrekin. As soon as ever the colonel's lady told Susan where it was, she cried out, 'That's the very place for father!' You'd like to come and live with your own Susan again, in your own country; wouldn't you now?"

"Yes, yes; for a little while," answered old Oliver, with a smile upon his face.

Tony felt a strange and very painful shrinking at his heart. If the old man went away to live with his daughter in the country, his home would be lost to him, and he would have to go out into the great city again alone, with nobody to love. He could get his living now in a respectable manner, and there was no fear of his being driven to sleep in Covent Garden, or under the bridges. But he would be alone, and all the links which bound him to Dolly and old Oliver would be snapped asunder. He wondered if the Lord Jesus would let such a thing be.

"But I couldn't leave Tony," cried old Oliver, suddenly; and putting on his spectacles to look for him.

"Come here, Tony. He's like my own son to me, bless him! He calls me grandfather, and kept my heart up when I should have sunk very low without him. My Master gave him to me the very same night he gave me my little love. No, no; Dolly loved Tony, and Susan must come here to see me, but I could never leave my boy."

Old Oliver had put his arm round Tony, drawing him closer and closer to him as he spoke, until his withered cheek pressed fondly against his face. Since Dolly died neither of them had felt such a thrill of happiness as now.

"The colonel and his lady must be told about this," said Raleigh, after he had heard all that Tony had been and done for old Oliver; and when he was obliged to go away for the night, the soldier gave him such a cordial grasp of the hand, as set all his fingers tingling, and his heart throbbing with exultation.



CHAPTER XXI.

POLLY.

The lodge stood in a very lovely place, upon a slope of ground, which rose still higher to where the colonel's grand house was situated. There was a porch before the door, built of rough logs of pines, covered with ivy and honeysuckle, and with seats in it, where you could sit and look out over a wide, rich plain, with little hills and dales in it, stretching far away towards the sky-line, where some distant mountains lay, so like to clouds, that you could scarcely tell which were soft and misty vapours, and which were solid and everlasting hills. The Severn ran through the beautiful plain with so many windings, sometimes lying in shadow under deep banks, and sometimes glistening and sparkling in the sunlight, that it looked more like many little pools scattered about the meadows than one long, continuous river. Not very far away, as Raleigh had said, stood the Wrekin, purple in the evening haze, but by day so plain, that one could see the great rock on its summit, which in olden times served as an altar to the god of fire.

Susan was very busy, and had been very busy all day over two things—preparing the house for the reception of her father, whom she had not seen for so many years, and in teaching her little girl, who was now eighteen months old, to say grand-pa. The one work was quite finished; everything was ready for old Oliver, and now she was waiting and watching to see the colonel's spring cart arrive from the station with her husband, who was gone to meet old Oliver and Tony. For Tony was not on any account to be parted from the old man—so said the colonel and his lady—but was to be employed about the garden, and as general errand boy for the house, and to live at the lodge with old Oliver. Susan's eyes were red, for as she had been busy about her work, she had several times cried bitterly over her lost little girl; but she had resolved within herself not to shed a single tear after her father was come, lest she should spoil the gladness of his coming home to her. At last the cart came in sight, and stopped, and Raleigh and Tony sprang out to help Oliver to get down, while Susan put down Polly in the porch, and ran to throw her arms round her dear old father's neck.

He was very quiet, poor old Oliver. He had not spoken a word since he left the station, but had gazed about him as they drove along the pleasant lane with almost a troubled look upon his tranquil face. When his dim eyes caught the first glimpse of the Wrekin he lifted his hat from his white and trembling head, as if to greet it like some great and dear friend, after so many years of absence. Now he stood still at the wicket, leaning upon Susan's arm, and looking round him again with a gentle yet sad smile. The air was so fresh, after the close streets of London, that to him it seemed even full of scents of numberless flowers; and the sun was shining everywhere, upon the blossoms in the garden, and the fine old elm-trees in the park, and the far-off hills. He grasped Tony's hand in his, and bade him look well about him.

"If only my little love had had a bit of sunshine!" he said, with a mournful and tender patience in his feeble voice.

But just then—scarcely had he finished speaking—there came a shrill, merry little scream behind them, so like Dolly's, that both old Oliver and Tony turned round quickly. It could not be the same, for this little child was even smaller than Dolly; but as she came pattering and tottering down the garden-walk towards them, they saw that she had the same fair curly hair, and blue eyes, and rosy cheeks that Dolly had had two years before. She ran and hid her face in her mother's gown; but Susan lifted her into her arms, and held her towards old Oliver.

"Say grand-pa, and kiss him, Polly," she said, coaxingly.

The little child held back shyly for a minute, for old Oliver's head was shaking much more than usual now; but at length she put her two soft little hands to his face, and held it between them, while she kissed him.

"Gan-pa!" she cried, crowing and chuckling with delight.

They went indoors to the pleasant parlour, where old Oliver's arm-chair was set ready for him by the side of the fire, for Susan had kindled a fire, saying that he would feel the fresh air blowing from the Wrekin; and Polly sat first on his knee, and then upon Tony's, who could not keep his eyes from following all her movements. But still it was not their own Dolly who had made the old house in the close alley in London so happy and so merry for them. She was gone home to the Father's house, and was watching for them there. Tony might be a long time before he joined her, but for old Oliver the parting would be but short. As he sat in the evening dusk, very peacefully and contentedly, while Susan sang Polly to sleep in the kitchen, Tony heard him say half aloud, as his custom was, "Yet a little, and I will come again, and receive you unto myself, that where I am ye may be also. Even so, come, Lord Jesus!"

THE END