forgive you, and love you almost as much as ever,' I'd go with a lighter heart, and be almost glad to leave Dolly to be a comfort to you. She will be a comfort to you, though she is so little, I'm sure. Tell her mammy says she must be a good girl always till mammy comes back. A hundred thousand kisses for my dear father and my little girl. We shall come home as soon as ever we can; but I don't rightly know where India is. I think it's my bounden duty to go with him, as things have turned out. Pray God take care of us all.

"Your loving, sorrowful daughter,

"SUSAN RALEIGH."

CHAPTER VI.

THE GRASSHOPPER A BURDEN.

It was some time before the full meaning of Susan's letter penetrated to her father's brain; but when it did, he was not at first altogether pained by it. True, it was both a grief and disappointment to think that his daughter, instead of returning to him, was already on her way across the sea to a very distant land. But as this came slowly to his mind, there came also the thought that there would now be no one to divide with him the treasure committed to his charge. The little child would belong to him alone. They might go on still, living as they had done these last three days, and being all in all to one another. If he could have chosen, his will would certainly have been for Susan to return to them; but, since he could not have his choice, he felt that there were some things which would be all the happier for him because of her absence.

He put Dolly to bed, and then went out to shut up the shop for the night. As he carried in his feeble arms a single shutter at a time, he heard himself hailed by a boy's voice, which was lowered to a low and mysterious whisper, and which belonged to Tony, who took the shutter out of his hands.

"S'pose the mother turned up all right?" he said, pointing with his thumb through the half open door.

"No," answered Oliver. "I've had another letter from her, and she's gone out to India with her husband, and left the little love to live alone with me."

"But whatever'll the Master say to that?" inquired Tony.

"What master?" asked old Oliver.

"Him—Lord Jesus Christ. What'll he say to her leaving you and the little 'un again?" said Tony, with an eager face.

"Oh! he says a woman ought to leave her father, and keep to her husband," he answered, somewhat sadly. "It's all right, that is."

"I s'pose he'll help you to take care of the little girl," said Tony.

"Ay will he; him and me," replied old Oliver; "there's no fear of that.
You never read the Testament, of course, my boy?"

"Can't read, I told you," he answered. "But what's that?"

"A book all about him, the Lord Jesus," said Oliver, "what he's done, and what he's willing to do for people. If you'll come of an evening, I'll read it aloud to you and my little love. She'll listen as quiet and good as any angel."

"I'll come to-morrow," answered Tony, readily; and he lingered about the doorway until he heard the old man inside fasten the bolts and locks, and saw the light go out in the pane of glass over the door. Then he scampered noiselessly with his naked feet along the alley in the direction of Covent Garden, where he purposed to spend the night, if left undisturbed.

Old Oliver went back into his room, where the tea-table was still set out for his Susan's welcome; but he had no heart to clear the things away. A chill came over his spirit as his eye fell upon the preparations he had made to give her such a cordial greeting, that she would know at once he had forgiven her fully. He lit his pipe, and sat pondering sorrowfully over all the changes that had happened to him since those old, far-away days when he was a boy, in the pleasant, fresh, healthy homestead at the foot of the Wrekin. He felt all of a sudden how very old he was; a poor, infirm, hoary old man. His sight was growing dim even, and his hearing duller every day; he was sure of it. His limbs ached oftener, and he was earlier wearied in the evening; yet he could not sleep soundly at nights, as he had been used to do. But, worst of all, his memory was not half as good as it had been. Sometimes, of late, he had caught himself reading a newspaper quite a fortnight old, and he had not found it out till he happened to see the date at the top. He could not recollect the names of people as he did once; for many of his customers to whom he supplied the monthly magazines were obliged to tell him their names and the book they wanted every time, before he could remember them. And now there was this young child cast upon him to be thought of, and cared and worked for. It was very thoughtless and reckless of Susan! Suppose he should forget or neglect any of her tender wants! Suppose his dull ear should grow too deaf to catch the pretty words she said when she asked for something! Suppose he should not see when the tears were rolling down her cheeks, and nobody would comfort her! It might very easily be so. He was not the hale man he was when Susan was just such another little darling, and he could toss her up to the ceiling in his strong hands. It was as much as he could do to lift Dolly on to his feeble knee, and nurse her quietly, not even giving her a ride to market upon it; and how stiff he felt if she sat there long!

Old Oliver laid aside his pipe, and rested his worn face upon his hands, while the heavy tears came slowly and painfully to his eyes, and trickled down his withered cheeks. His joy had fled, and his unmingled gladness had faded quite away. He was a very poor, very old man; and the little child was very, very young. What would become of them both, alone in London?

He did not know whether it was a voice speaking within himself in his own heart, or words whispered very softly into his ear; but he heard a low, quiet, still, small voice, which said, "Even to your old age I am he, and even to hoar hairs I will carry you: I have made, and I will bear; even I will carry, and will deliver you." And old Oliver answered, with a sob, "Yes, Lord, yes!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE PRINCE OF LIFE.

In the new life which had now fairly begun for Oliver, it was partly as he had foreseen; he was apt to forget many things, and he had a fretting consciousness of this forgetfulness. When he was in the house playing with Dolly, or reading to her, the shop altogether slipped away from his memory, and he was only recalled to it by the loud knocking or shouting of some customer in it. On the other hand, when he was sitting behind the counter looking for news from India in the papers, news in which he was already profoundly concerned, though it was impossible that Susan could yet have reached it, he grew so absorbed, that he did not know how the time was passing by, and both he and his little grand-daughter were hungry before he had thought of getting ready any meal. He tried all kinds of devices for strengthening his failing memory; but in vain. He even forgot that he did forget; and when Dolly was laughing and frolicking about him he grew a child again, and felt himself the happiest man in London.

The person who took upon himself the heaviest weight of anxiety and responsibility about Dolly was Tony, who began to make it his daily custom to pass by the house at the hour when old Oliver ought to be going for his morning papers; and if he found no symptom of life about the place, he did not leave off kicking and butting at the shop-door until the owner appeared. It was very much the same thing at night, when the time for shutting up came; though it generally happened now that the boy was paying his friends an evening