As old Oliver was stooping over his desk on the counter, and bringing his dim eyes as close as he could to the letter he was writing, his shop-door was darkened by the unexpected entrance of his sister Charlotte herself. She was dressed with her usual extreme neatness, bordering upon gentility, and she carried upon her arm a small fancy reticule, which contained some fresh eggs, and a few russet apples, brought up expressly from the country. Oliver welcomed her with more than ordinary pleasure, and led her at once into his room behind. Charlotte's quick eyes detected in an instant the traces of a child's dwelling there; and before Oliver could utter a word, she picked up a little frock, and was holding it out at arm's length, with an air of utter surprise and misgiving.
"Brother James!" she exclaimed, and her questioning voice, with its tone of amazement, rang very clearly into his ears.
"It's my little Dolly's," he answered, in haste; "poor Susan's little girl, who's gone out with her husband, young Raleigh, to India, because he's 'listed, and left her little girl with me, her grandfather. She came on the very last day you were here."
"Well, to be sure!" cried his sister, sinking down on a chair, but still keeping the torn little frock in her hand.
"I've had two letters from poor Susan," he continued, in a tremulous voice, "and I'll read them to you. The child's such a precious treasure to me, Charlotte—such a little love, a hundred times better than any gold; and now you're come to mend up her clothes a bit, and see what she wants for me, there's nothing else that I desire. I was writing about her to you when you came in."
"I thought you'd gone and picked up a lost child out of the streets," said Charlotte, with a sigh of relief.
"No, no; she's my own," he answered. "You hearken while I read poor Susan's letters, and then you'll understand all about it. I couldn't give her up for a hundred gold guineas—not for a deal more than that."
He knew Susan's letters off by heart, and did not need his spectacles, nor a good light to read them by. Charlotte listened with emphatic nods, and many exclamations of astonishment.
"That's very pretty of Susan," she remarked, "saying as Aunt Charlotte 'll do her sewing, and see to her manners. Ay, that I will! for who should know manners better than me, who used to work for the Staniers, and dine at the housekeeper's table, with the butler and all the head servants? to be sure I'll take care that she does not grow up ungenteel. Where is the dear child, brother James?"
"She's gone out for a walk this fine morning," he answered.
"Not alone?" cried Charlotte. "Who's gone out with her? A child under five years old could never go out all alone in London: at least I should think not. She might get run over and killed a score of times."
"Oh! there's a person with her I've every confidence in," replied Oliver.
"What sort of person; man or woman; male or female?" inquired Charlotte.
"A boy," he answered, in some confusion.
"A boy!" repeated his sister, as if he had said a monster. "What boy?"
"His name's Tony," he replied.
"But where does he come from? Is he respectable?" she pursued, fixing him with her glittering eyes in a manner which did not tend to restore his composure.
"I don't know, sister," he said in a feeble tone.
"Don't know, brother James!" she exclaimed. "Don't you know where he lives?"
"He lives here," stammered old Oliver; "at least he sleeps here under the counter; but he finds his own food about the streets."
Charlotte's consternation was past all powers of speech. Here was her brother, a respectable man, who had seen better days, and whose sister had been a dressmaker in good families, harbouring in his own house a common boy off the streets, who, no doubt, was a thief and pickpocket, with all sorts of low ways and bad language. At the same time there was poor Susan's little girl dwelling under the same roof; the child whose pretty manners she was to attend to, living in constant companionship with a vulgar and vicious boy! What she might have said upon recovering her speech, neither she nor Oliver ever knew; for at this crisis Tony himself appeared, carrying Dolly and his new broom in his arms, and looking very haggard and tattered himself, his bare feet black with mud, and his bare head in a hopeless condition of confusion, and tangle.
"We've bought a geat big boom, ganpa," shouted Dolly, as she came through the shop, and before she perceived the presence of a stranger; "and Tony and Dolly made a great big crossing, and dot ever so much money——"
She was suddenly silent as soon as her eye fell upon the stranger; but Aunt Charlotte had heard enough. She rose with great dignity from her chair, and was about to address herself vehemently to Tony, when old Oliver interrupted her.
Charlotte speaking to Tony and Dolly
"Charlotte," he said, "the boy's a good boy, and he's a help to me. I couldn't send him away. He's one of the Lord's poor little ones as are scattered up and down in this great city, without father or mother, and I must do all I can for him. It isn't much; it's only a bed under the counter, and a crust now and then, and he more than pays for it. You musn't come betwixt me and Tony."
Old Oliver spoke so emphatically, that his sister was impressed and silenced for a minute. She took the little girl away from Tony, and glared at him with a sternness which made him feel very uncomfortable; but her eye softened a little, and her face grew less harsh.
"You can't read or write?" she said, in a sharp voice.
"No," he answered.
"And you've not got any manners, or boots, or a cap on your head. You are ragged and ignorant, and not fit to live with this little girl," she continued, with energy. "If this little girl's mother saw her going about with a boy in bare feet and a bare head, it 'ud break her heart I know. So if you wish to stay here with my brother, Mr. Oliver, and this little girl, Miss Dorothy Raleigh, as I suppose her name is, you must get all these things. You must begin to learn to read and write, and talk properly. I shall come here again in a month's time—I shall come every month now—and if you haven't got some shoes for your feet, and a cap for your head, before I see you again, I shall just take the little girl away down into the country, where I live, and you'll never see her again. Do you understand?"
"Yes," answered Tony, nodding his head.
"Then you may take yourself away now," said the sharp old woman, "I don't want to be too hard upon you; but I've got this little girl to look after for her mother, and you must do as I say, or I shall carry her right off to be out of your way. Take your broom and go; and never you think of such a thing as taking this little girl to sweep a crossing again. I never heard of such a thing. There, go!"
Tony slunk away sadly, with a sudden downheartedness. He returned so joyous and triumphant, in spite of his weariness, that this unexpected and unpleasant greeting had been a very severe shock to him. With his broom over his shoulder, and with his listless, slouching steps, he sauntered slowly back to his crossing; but he had no heart for it now.
The night fell early, for a thick fog came on in the afternoon. Tony cowered down upon his broom under the wall where Dolly had sat in the sunshine all the morning to watch him sweep his crossing. It was all over now. She was lost to him; for he should never dare to go back to old Oliver's house, and face that terrible old woman again. There was nothing for him but to return to his old life and his old haunts; and a chill ran through him, body and spirit, as he thought of it. His heap of paper shavings under the counter, where the biting winds could not reach him, came to his mind, and the tears rushed to his eyes. But to-night, at least, there would be no need to sleep out of doors, for he had some money in the safest corner of his ragged pocket, tied up in it securely with a bit of string. He could afford to pay for a night's lodging, and he knew very well where he could get one.
About nine o'clock Tony turned his weary feet towards a slum he knew of in Westminster, where there was a cellar open to everybody who could pay two-pence for a night's shelter. His heart was very full and heavy with resentment against his enemy; and a great longing to see Dolly. He loitered about the door of the cellar, reluctant and almost afraid to venture in; for it was so long since he had been driven to any of these places that he felt nearly like a stranger among them. Besides, in former times he had been kicked, and beaten, and driven from the fire, and fought with by the bigger boys; and he had become unaccustomed to such treatment of late. How different this lodging-house was to the quiet peaceful home where Dolly knelt down every evening at her grandfather's knee, and prayed for him; for now she always put Tony's name into her childish prayers! He should never, never hear her again, nor see old Oliver seated in his arm-chair, smoking his long pipe, while he talked with that strange friend and master of his. Ah! he would never hear or know any more of that unseen Christ, who was so willing to be his master and friend, for the Lord Jesus Christ could never come into such a wicked place as this, which was the only home he had. He had given him the crossing and the broom, and that was the end of it. He must take care of himself now, and keep out of gaol if he could, and if not, why then he had better make a business of thieving, and become as good a pickpocket as "Clever Dog Tom," who had once stolen a watch from a policeman himself.
Clever Dog Tom was the first to greet Tony when he slipped in at last, and he seemed inclined to make much of him; but Tony was too troubled for receiving any consolation from Tom's friendly advances. He crept away into the darkest corner, and stretched himself on the thin straw which covered the damp and dirty floor, but he could not fall asleep. There was a good deal of quarrelling among the boys, and the men who wished to sleep swore long and loudly at them. Then there followed a fight, which grew so exciting at last that every person in the place, except Tony, gathered about the boys in a ring, encouraging and cheering them. It was long after midnight before silence and rest came, and then he fell into a broken slumber, dreaming of Dolly and old Oliver, until he awoke and found his face wet with tears. He got up before any of his bed-fellows were aroused, and made his way out into the fresh keen air of a December morning.
Day after day went by, and night after night. Tony was growing more indifferent again to the swearing and fighting of his old comrades. He began to listen with delight to the tales of Clever Dog Tom, who told him that hands like his would work well in his line, and his innocent-looking face would go a long way towards softening any judge and jury, or would bring him favour with the chaplain, and easy times in gaol. He kept his crossing still, and did tolerably well, earning enough to keep himself in food, and to pay for his night's shelter; but he was beginning to hanker after something more. If he could not be good, and be on the same side as old Oliver and Dolly, he thought it would be better to be altogether on the other side, like Tom, who dressed well, and lived well, and was looked up to by other boys. It was a week after he had left old Oliver's house, and he was about to leave his crossing for the night, when a gentleman stopped him suddenly, and looked keenly into his face.
"Hollo, my lad!" he said, "you're the boy I gave fourpence to a week ago for holding my horse, I told you to lay it out well. What did you do with it?"
"Me and Dolly bought this broom," he answered, "and I've kept this crossing ever since."
"Well done!" said the gentleman. "And who is Dolly?"
"It's a little girl as I was very fond of," replied Tony, with a deep sigh. It seemed so long ago that he spoke of his love for her as if it was a thing altogether passed away and dead, yet his heart still ached at the memory of it.
"Well, here's another fourpenny-bit for you," said his friend, "quite a new one. See how bright it is; no one has ever bought anything with it yet. Dolly will like to see it."
Tony held it in the palm of his hand long after the gentleman was out of sight, gazing at it in the lamplight. It was very beautiful and shining; and oh! how Dolly's eyes would shine and sparkle if she could only see it! And she ought to see it. By right it belonged to her; for had he not given her his first fourpenny-piece freely, and had twenty kisses for it, and then had she not given it him back to buy a broom with? she had never had a single farthing of all his earnings. How he would like to show her this beautiful piece of silver, and feel her soft little arms round his neck, when he said it was to be her very own! He felt that he dare not pass the night in the cellar with such a treasure about him, for Tom, who was so clever, would be sure to find out that his pocket was worth the picking, and Tony had not found that there was much honour among thieves. What was he to do? Where was he to go?
Almost without knowing where his feet were carrying him, Tony sauntered through the streets until he found himself at the turn into the alley within a few yards of Oliver's home, and his beloved Dolly. At any rate he could pass down it, and, if the shop-door was not shut, he would wrap his beautiful silver coin in a rag, and throw it into the inside; they would be sure to guess who had done it, and what it was for. It was dark down the alley, only one lamp and the greengrocer's gas lighting it up, and Tony stole along quietly in the shadow. It was nearly time for Dolly to be going to bed, he thought, and old Oliver was sure to be with her in the inner room; but just as he came into the revealing glare of the greengrocer's stall, his ears rang and his heart throbbed violently at the sound of a shrill little scream of gladness, and the next moment he felt himself caught by Dolly's arms, and dragged into the house by them.
"Tony's come home, Tony's come home, gan-pa!" she shouted with all her might. "Dolly's found Tony at last!"
Dolly's voice quivered, and broke down into quick, childish sobs, while she held Tony very fast, lest he should escape from her once again; and old Oliver came quickly from the room beyond, and laid his hand fondly upon the boy's shoulder.
"Why have you kept away from us so long, Tony?" he asked.
"Oh, master!" he cried, "I've been a wicked boy, and a miserable boy. Do forgive me, and I'll never do so no more. I s'pose you'll never let me sleep under the counter again?"
"Come in, come in!" answered Oliver, pushing him gently before him into the house. "We've been waiting and watching for you every night, me and my little love. You ought not to have served us so, my lad; but we're too glad to be angry with you. Charlotte's sharp, and she's very much afraid of low ways and manners; but she isn't a hard woman, and she didn't know anything about you. When I told her as you'd been left no bigger than my little love here to take care of yourself, alone, in London,—mother dead, and no father,—she shed tears about you, she did. And she left you the biggest of her eggs to be kept for your supper, with her kind love; and we've put it by for you. You shall have it this very night. Dolly, my love, bring me the little saucepan."
"I'm not so clean as I could wish," said Tony, mournfully; for he had neglected himself during the last week, and looked very much like what he had done when he had first seen old Oliver and his little grand-daughter.
"Take a bowl full of water into the shop, then," answered Oliver, "and wash yourself, while I boil the egg. Dolly'll find you a bit of soap and a towel; she's learning to be grand-pa's little housekeeper, she is."
When Tony returned to the kitchen he looked a different being; the gloom was gone as well as the grime. He felt as if he had come to himself after a long and very miserable dream. Here was old Oliver again, looking at him with a kindly light in his dim eyes, and Dolly dancing about, with her pretty, merry little ways; and Beppo wagging his tail in joyous welcome, as he sniffed round and round him. Even the egg was a token of forgiveness and friendliness. That terrible old woman was not his enemy, after all. He recollected what she had said he must do, and he resolved to do it for Dolly's sake, and old Oliver's. He would learn to read and write, and he would pinch himself hard to buy some better clothing, lest he should continue to be a disgrace to them; shoes he must have first of all, as those were what the sharp but friendly old woman had particularly mentioned. At any rate, he could never run away again from this home, where he was so loved and cared for.
Oliver told him how sadly Dolly had fretted after him, and watched for him at the door, hour after hour, to see him come home again. He said that in the same way, only with a far greater longing and love, his Master, the Lord Jesus Christ, was waiting for Tony to go to him. He could not half understand it, but a vague feeling of a love passing all understanding sank deeply into his heart. He fell asleep that night under the counter with the tranquil peacefulness of one who has been tossed about in a great storm and tempest, and has been brought safely to the desired haven.
It was several weeks before Tony could scrape together enough money for his new boots, though he pinched and starved himself with heroic courage and endurance. He did not mean to buy them at a shop; for he knew a place in Whitechapel where boots quite good enough for him were to be had for two or three shillings. He was neither ambitious nor fastidious; old boots patched up would do very well to start with, if he could only manage to get them before aunt Charlotte came up to town again. She had sent word she was coming the last Saturday in January; and early in the afternoon of that day, before the train could come in from Stratford, Tony started off to the place where he intended to make his purchase.
It was a small open space in one of the streets of Whitechapel, where there was an area of flags, lying off the pavement. Several traders held possession of this square, sitting on low stools, or cross-legged on the ground, with their stock in trade around them. One dealer bought and sold all kinds of old and rusty pieces of iron; another, a woman, ill clad and with red eyes, displayed before her a dingy assortment of ragged clothes, which were cheapened by other spare and red-eyed women, who held almost naked children by the hand. It was cold, and a bitter, keen east wind was searching every corner of London streets. The salesman Tony was come to deal with had a tolerable selection of old boots, very few of them pairs, some with pretty good upper-leathers, but with no soles worth speaking of; and others thickly cobbled and patched, but good enough to keep the feet dry, without presenting a very creditable appearance. For the first time in his life Tony found out the perplexity of having a choice to make. There were none which exactly fitted him; but a good fit is a luxury for richer folks than Tony, and he was not troubled about it. His chief anxiety was to look well in the eyes of Dolly's aunt, who might possibly let him see her on her way back to the station, if she approved of him; and who would not now be obliged to carry Dolly off with her, to be out of the way of his naked feet.
He fixed upon a pair at last, urged and coaxed to them by the dealer. They were a good deal too large, and his feet slipped about in them uncomfortably; but the man assured him that was how everybody, even gentlefolks, bought them, to leave room for growing. There was an awkward, uneven patch under one of the soles, and the other heel was worn down at the side; but at least they covered his feet well. He shambled away in them slowly and toilsomely, hardly knowing how to lift one foot after another, yet full of pride in his new possessions. It was a long way home to old Oliver's alley, between Holborn and the Strand; but he was in no hurry to arrive there before they had finished and cleared away their tea; so he travelled painfully in that direction, stopping now and then to regale himself at the attractive windows of tripe and cow-heel shops. He watched the lamplighters kindling the lamps, and the shopkeepers lighting up their gas; and then he heard the great solemn clock of St. Paul's strike six. Tea would be quite over now, and Tony turned down a narrow back street, which would prove a nearer way home than the thronged thoroughfares, and set off to run as fast as he could in his awkward and unaccustomed boots.
It was not long before he came to a sudden and sharp fall off the kerb-stone, as he trod upon a bit of orange-peel, and slipped upon it. He felt stunned for a few seconds, and sat still rubbing his forehead. These back streets were very quiet, for the buildings were mostly offices and warehouses, and most of them were already closed for the night. He lifted himself up at length, and set his foot upon the flags; but a shrill cry of pain broke from his lips, and rang loudly through the quiet street. He fell back upon the pavement, quivering and trembling, with a chilly moisture breaking out upon his skin. What hurt had been done to him? How was it that he could not bear to walk? He took off his new boots, and tried once more, but with no better success. He could not endure the agony of standing or moving.
Yet he must move; he must get up and walk. If he did not go home, they would think he had run away again, for fear of meeting Dolly's aunt. At that thought he set off to crawl homewards upon his hands and knees, with suppressed groans, as his foot trailed uselessly along the ground. Yet he knew he could not advance very far in this manner. What if he should have to lie all night upon the hard paving-stones! for he could not remember ever having seen a policeman in these back streets: and there did not seem to be anybody else likely to pass that way. It was freezing fast, now the sun was gone down, and his hands scraped up the frosty mud as he dragged himself along. If he stayed out all night, he must die of cold and pain before morning.
But if that was true which old Oliver said so often, that the Lord Jesus Christ loved him, and that he was always with those whom he loved, then he was not alone and helpless even here, in the deserted street, with the ice and darkness of a winter's night about him. Oh! if he could but feel the hand of Christ touching him, or hear the lowest whisper of his voice, or catch the dimmest sight of his face! Perhaps it was he who was helping him to crawl towards the stir and light of a more frequented street, which he could see afar off, though the pain he felt made him giddy and sick. It became too much for him at last, however, and he drew himself into the shelter of a warehouse door, and crouched down in a corner, crying, with clasped hands, and sobbing voice, "Oh! Lord Jesus Christ! Lord Jesus Christ!"
After uttering this cry Tony lay there for some minutes, his eyes growing glazed and his ears dull, when a footstep came briskly up the street, and some one, whom he could not now see for the strange dimness of his sight, stopped opposite to him, and then stooped to touch him on the arm.
"Why," said a voice he seemed to know, "you're my young friend of the crossing,—my little fourpenny-bit, I call you. What brings you sitting here this cold night?"
"I've fell down and hurt myself," answered Tony, faintly.
"Where?" asked the stranger.
"My leg," he answered.
The gentleman stooped down yet lower, and passed his hand gently along Tony's leg till he came to the place where his touch gave him the most acute pain.
"Broken!" he said to himself. "My boy, where's your home?"
"I haven't got any right home," answered Tony, more faintly than before. He felt a strange numbness creeping over him, and his lips were too parched and his tongue too heavy for speaking. The gentleman took off his own great-coat and wrapped it well about him, placing him at the same time in a more comfortable position. Then he ran quickly to the nearest street, hailed the first cab, and drove back to where Tony was lying.
TONY'S ACCIDENT.TONY'S ACCIDENT.
The pain Tony was suffering kept him partially conscious of what was happening to him. He knew that he was carried gently into a large hall, and that two or three persons came to look at him, to whom his new friend spoke in eager and rapid tones.
"I know you do not take in accidents," he said; "but what could I do with the little fellow? He told me he had no home, and that was all he could say. You have two or three cots empty; and I'll double my subscription if it's necessary, rather than take him away. Come, doctor, you'll admit my patient?"
"I don't think I could send him away, Mr. Ross," answered another hearty voice. "We must get him into bed as soon as possible."
Tony felt himself carried up stairs into a large room, where there were a number of small beds, with a pale little face lying on every pillow. There was a vacant cot at the end, and he was laid upon it, after having his tattered clothes taken off him. His new boots were gone altogether, having been left behind on the steps of the warehouse. His hands and knees, bruised with crawling along the frosty stones, were gently bathed with a soft sponge and warm water. He was surrounded by kind faces, looking pitifully down upon him, and the gentleman who had brought him there spoke to him in a very pleasant and cheering voice.
"My boy," he said, "you have broken your leg in your fall; but the doctor here, who is a great friend of mine, is going to mend it for you. It will give you a good deal of pain for a few minutes; but you'll bear it like a man, I know."
"Yes," murmured Tony; "but will you let me go as soon as it's done?"
"You could not do that," answered Mr. Ross, smiling. "It will be some weeks before you will be well enough to go; but you will be very happy here, I promise you."
"Oh! but I must go!" cried Tony, starting up, but falling back again with a groan. "There's Dolly and Mr. Oliver,—they'll think I've run away again, and I were trying all I could to get back to 'em. She'll be watching for me, and she'll fret ever so. Oh! Dolly, Dolly!"
He spoke in a tone of so much grief, that the smile quite passed away from the face of Mr. Ross, and he laid his hand upon his, and answered him very earnestly:
"If you will tell me where they live," he said, "I will go at once and let them know all about your accident; and they shall come to see you to-morrow, if you are well enough to see them."
Tony gave him very minute and urgent directions where to find old Oliver's shop; and then he resigned himself, with the patience and fortitude of most of the little sufferers in that hospital, to the necessary pain he had to bear.
It was Sunday afternoon when old Oliver and Dolly entered the hall of the Children's Hospital and inquired for Tony. There was something about the old man's look of age and the little child's sweet face which found them favour, even in a place where everybody was received with kindness. A nurse, who met them slowly climbing the broad staircase, turned back with them, taking Dolly's hand in hers, and led them up to the room where they would find Tony. There were many windows in it, and the sunshine, which never shone into their own home, was lighting it up gaily. The cots were all covered with white counterpanes, and most of the little patients, who had been asleep the night before, were now awake, and sitting up in bed, with little tables before them, which they could slide up and down as they wished along the sides of their cots. There was no sign of medicine, and nothing painful to see, except the wan faces of the children themselves. But Oliver and Dolly had no eyes but for Tony, and they hurried on to the corner where he was lying. His face was very white, and his eyelids were closed, and his lips drawn in as if he were still in pain. But at the very gentle and almost frightened touch of Dolly's fingers his eyes opened quickly, and then how his face changed! It looked as if all the sunshine in the room had centred upon it, and his voice shook with gladness.
"Dolly hasn't had to fret for Tony this time," he said.
"But Dolly will fret till Tony gets well again," she answered, clasping both her small hands round his.
"No, no!" said old Oliver; "Dolly's going to be a very good girl, and help grand-pa to mind shop till Tony comes home again."
This promise of promotion partly satisfied Dolly, and she sat still upon Oliver's knee beside Tony's cot, where his eyes could rest with contentment and pleasure upon them both, though the nurse would not let them talk much. When they went away she took them through the girls' wards in the story below; for the girls were more sumptuously lodged than the boys. These rooms were very lofty, with windows reaching to the cornice of the ceiling, and with grand marble chimney-pieces about the fireplaces; for in former times, the nurse told them, this had been a gentleman's mansion, where gay parties and assemblies had been held; but never had there been such a party and assembly as the one now in it.
Old Oliver walked down between the rows of cots, with his little love clinging shyly to his hand, smiling tenderly upon each poor little face turned to look at them. Some of the children smiled back to him, and nodded cheerfully to Dolly, lifting up their dolls for her to see, and calling to her to listen to the pretty tunes their musical boxes were playing. But others lay quietly upon their pillows half asleep, with beautiful pictures hanging over their feeble heads,—pictures of Christ tarrying a lamb in his arms; and again, of Christ with a little child upon his knee; and again, of Christ holding the hand of the young girl who seemed dead, but whose ear heard his voice saying "Arise!" and she came to life again in her father's and mother's house. The tears stood in old Oliver's eyes, and his white head trembled a great deal before he had seen all, and given one of his tender glances to each child.
"I wonder whatever the Lord 'ud have said," he exclaimed, "if there'd been such a place as this in his days! He'd have come here very often. He does come, I know, and walks to and fro here of nights when the little ones are asleep, or may be awake through pain, and he blesses every one of them. Ah, bless them! Bless the little children, and the good folks who keep a place like this. Bless them everyone!"
He felt reluctant to go away; but his time was gone, and the nurse was needed elsewhere. She kissed Dolly before she went, putting a biscuit in her hand, and told Oliver the house was open every Sunday afternoon for the friends of the children, if he chose to come again; and then they walked home with slow, short footsteps, and all the Sunday evening they talked together of the beautiful place they had seen, and how happy Tony would be in the Children's Hospital.
Old Oliver and Dolly made several visits to Tony while he was in the hospital. Every Sunday afternoon they went back to it, until its great door, and wide staircase, and sunny ward, became almost as familiar to them as their own dull little house. Tony recovered quickly, yet he was there some weeks before the doctor pronounced him strong enough to turn out again to rough it in the world. As he grew better he learned a number of things which were making him a wiser, as well as a stronger boy, before the time came for him to leave.
The day before he was to go out of hospital, his friend, Mr. Ross, who had been often to see him, called for the last time, and found him in the room where the little patients who were nearly well were at play together. Some of them were making believe to have a feast, with a small dinner-service of wooden plates and dishes, and a few bits of orange-peel, and biscuits; but Tony was sitting quietly and gravely on one side, looking on from a distance. He had never learned to play.
"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.
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 corn-fields, 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 bare-footed 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.
DOLLY'S MONTHLY REGISTER.DOLLY'S MONTHLY REGISTER.
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 rime 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.
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.
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 bluejacket, 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.
NO ROOM FOR DOLLY.NO ROOM FOR DOLLY.
"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?
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 clear face of Dolly, resting on one cheek 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 he? 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 dear 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.