more than sixty miles off, when my eyes were young and it was a clear sunset. I always think of the top of the Wrekin when I read of Moses going up Mount Pisgah and seeing all the land about him, north and south, east and west. Eh, lass! there's a change in us all now!"

"Ah! it's like another world!" said the old woman, shaking her head slowly. "All the folks I used to sew for at Aston, and Uppington, and Overlehill, they'd mostly be gone or dead by now. It wouldn't seem like the same place at all. And now there's none but you and me left, brother James. Well, well! its lonesome, growing old."

"Yes, lonesome, yet not exactly lonesome," replied old Oliver, in a dreamy voice. "I'm growing dark a little, and just a trifle deaf, and I don't feel quite myself like I used to do; but I've got something I didn't use to have. Sometimes of an evening, before I've lit the gas, I've a sort of a feeling as if I could almost see the Lord Jesus, and hear him talking to me. He looks to me something like our eldest brother, him that died when we were little. Charlotte, thee remembers him? A white, quiet, patient face, with a smile like the sun shining behind clouds. Well, whether it's only a dream or no I cannot tell, but there's a face looks at me, or seems to look at me out of the dusk; and I think to myself, maybe the Lord Jesus says, 'Old Oliver's lonesome down there in the dark, and his eyes growing dim. I'll make myself half-plain to him.' Then he comes and sits here with me for a little while."

"Oh, that's all fancy as comes with you living quite alone," said
Charlotte, sharply.

"Perhaps so! perhaps so!" answered the old man, with a meek sigh; "but I should be very lonesome without that."

They did not speak again until Charlotte had given a final shake to the bed in the corner, upon which her bonnet and shawl had been lying. She put them on neatly and primly; and when she was ready to go she spoke again in a constrained and mysterious manner.

"Heard nothing of Susan, I suppose?" she said.

"Not a word," answered old Oliver, sadly. "It's the only trouble I've got. That were the last passion I ever went into, and I was hot and hasty, I know."

"So you always used to be at times," said his sister.

"Ah! but that passion was the worst of all," he went on, speaking slowly. "I told her if she married young Raleigh, she should never darken my doors again—never again. And she took me at my word though she might have known it was nothing but father's hot temper. Darken my doors! Why, the brightest sunshine I could have 'ud be to see her come smiling into my shop, like she used to do at home."

"Well, I think Susan ought to have humbled herself," said Charlotte. "It's going on for six years now, and she's had time enough to see her folly. Do you know where she is?"

"I know nothing about her," he answered, shaking his head sorrowfully. "Young Raleigh was wild, very wild, and that was my objection to him; but I didn't mean Susan to take me at my word. I shouldn't speak so hasty and hot now."

"And to think. I'd helped to bring her up so genteel, and with such pretty manners!" cried the old woman, indignantly. "She might have done so much better with her cleverness too. Such a milliner as she might have turned out! Well good-bye, brother James, and don't go having any more of those visions; they're not wholesome for you."

"I should be very lonesome without them," answered Oliver. "Good-bye,
Charlotte, good-bye, and God bless you. Come again as soon as you can."

He went with her to the door, and stayed to watch her along the quiet alley, till she turned into the street. Then, with a last nod to the back of her bonnet, as she passed out of his sight, he returned slowly into his dark shop, put up the flap of the counter, and retreated to the darker room within. Hot as it was, he fancied it was growing a little chilly with the coming of the night, and he drew on his old coat, and threw a handkerchief over his white head, and then sat down in the dusk, looking out into his shop and the alley beyond it. He must have fallen into a doze after a while, being overcome with the heat, and lulled by the constant hum of the streets, which reached his dull ear in a softened murmur; for at length he started up almost in a fright, and found that complete darkness had fallen upon him suddenly, as it seemed to him. A church clock was striking nine, and his shop was not closed yet. He went out hurriedly to put the shutters up.

CHAPTER II.

WAIFS AND STRAYS.

In the shop it was not yet so dark but that old Oliver could see his way out with the shutters, which during the day occupied a place behind the door. He lifted the flap of the counter, and was about to go on with his usual business, when a small voice, trembling a little, and speaking from the floor at his very feet, caused him to pause suddenly.

"Please, rere's a little girl here," said the voice.

Oliver stooped down to bring his eyes nearer to the ground, until he could make out the indistinct outline of the figure of a child, seated on his shop floor, and closely hugging a dog in her arms. Her face looked small to him; it was pale, as if she had been crying quietly, and though he could not see them, a large tear stood on each of her cheeks.

"What little girl are you?" he asked, almost timidly.

"Rey called me Dolly," answered the child.

"Haven't you any other name?" inquired old Oliver

"Nosing else but Poppet," she said; "rey call me Dolly sometimes, and
Poppet sometimes. Ris is my little dog, Beppo."

She introduced the dog by pushing its nose into his hand, and Beppo complacently wagged his tail and licked the old man's withered fingers.

"What brings you here in my shop, my little woman?" asked Oliver.

"Mammy brought me," she said, with a stifled sob; "she told me run in rere, Dolly, and stay till mammy comes back, and be a good girl always. Am I a good girl?"

"Yes, yes," he answered, soothingly; "you're a very good little girl, I'm sure; and mother 'ill come back soon, very soon. Let us go to the door, and look for her."

He took her little hand in his own; such a little hand it felt, that he could not help tightening his fingers fondly over it; and then they stood for a few minutes on the door-sill, while old Oliver looked anxiously up and down the alley. At the greengrocer's next door there flared a bright jet of gas, and the light shone well into the deepening darkness. But there was no woman in sight, and the only person about was a ragged boy, barefoot and bareheaded with no clothing but a torn pair of trousers, very jagged about the ankles, and a jacket through which his thin shoulders displayed themselves. He was lolling in the lowest window-sill of the house opposite, and watched Oliver and the little girl looking about them with sundry signs of interest and amusement.

"She ain't nowhere in sight," he called across to them after a while, "nor won't be, neither, I'll bet you. You're looking out for the little un's mother, ain't you, old master?"

"Yes," answered Oliver; "do you know anything about her, my boy?"

"Nothink," he said, with a laugh; "only she looked as if she were up to some move, and as I'd nothink particular on hand, I just followed her. She was somethink like my mother, as is dead, not fat or rosy, you know, with a bit of a bruise about her eye, as if somebody had been fighting with her. I thought there'd be a lark when she left the little 'un in your shop, so I just stopped to