Endless Ebook, One Click Away – Start Downloading at ebookname.

com

The Religious Traditions of Japan 500 1600 Richard

Bowring

https://ebookname.com/product/the-religious-traditions-of-
japan-500-1600-richard-bowring/

OR CLICK HERE

DOWLOAD EBOOK

Browse and Get More Ebook Downloads Instantly at https://ebookname.com

Click here to visit ebookname.com and download ebook now
Instant digital products (PDF, ePub, MOBI) available
Download now and explore formats that suit you...

Beyond Primitivism Indigenous Religious Traditions and

Modernity Jacob K. Olupona

https://ebookname.com/product/beyond-primitivism-indigenous-
religious-traditions-and-modernity-jacob-k-olupona/

Vicissitudes of the Goddess Reconstructions of the

Gramadevata in India s Religious Traditions 1st Edition
Sree Padma

https://ebookname.com/product/vicissitudes-of-the-goddess-
reconstructions-of-the-gramadevata-in-india-s-religious-
traditions-1st-edition-sree-padma/

Tibetan Sacred Dance A Journey into the Religious and

Folk Traditions Ellen Pearlman

https://ebookname.com/product/tibetan-sacred-dance-a-journey-
into-the-religious-and-folk-traditions-ellen-pearlman/

Faith Has Its Reasons Integrative Approaches to

Defending the Christian Faith 2nd Edition Boa

https://ebookname.com/product/faith-has-its-reasons-integrative-
approaches-to-defending-the-christian-faith-2nd-edition-boa/
Drug Products for Clinical Trials Second Edition Drugs
and the Pharmaceutical Sciences Donald Monkhouse

https://ebookname.com/product/drug-products-for-clinical-trials-
second-edition-drugs-and-the-pharmaceutical-sciences-donald-
monkhouse/

Rethinking Pedagogy for a Digital age Designing and

Delivering E Learning 1st Edition Beetham Sharpe

https://ebookname.com/product/rethinking-pedagogy-for-a-digital-
age-designing-and-delivering-e-learning-1st-edition-beetham-
sharpe/

Righting Epistemology Hume s Revolution 1st Edition

Bredo Johnsen

https://ebookname.com/product/righting-epistemology-hume-s-
revolution-1st-edition-bredo-johnsen/

Special Edition Using Photoshop CS and Illustrator CS

Peter Bauer

https://ebookname.com/product/special-edition-using-photoshop-cs-
and-illustrator-cs-peter-bauer/

How to Tell the Difference between Japanese Particles

Comparisons and Exercises Naoko Chino

https://ebookname.com/product/how-to-tell-the-difference-between-
japanese-particles-comparisons-and-exercises-naoko-chino/
Reviews in Food and Nutrition Toxicity Volume 2 Reviews
in Food and Nutrition Toxicity 1st Edition Victor R.
Preedy

https://ebookname.com/product/reviews-in-food-and-nutrition-
toxicity-volume-2-reviews-in-food-and-nutrition-toxicity-1st-
edition-victor-r-preedy/
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Alone in London
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Alone in London

Author: Hesba Stretton

Release date: February 20, 2020 [eBook #61455]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALONE IN

LONDON ***
PLAYMATES. Page 38
 Alone in London

By the Author of
"Jessica's First Prayer," "Little Meg's Children," etc.
 LONDON:
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY,
56, PATERNOSTER Row; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD:
AND 164, PICCADILLY.

Right of Translation Reserved.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. NOT ALONE

II. WAIFS AND STRAYS

III. A LITTLE PEACEMAKER

IV. OLD OLIVER'S MASTER

V. FORSAKEN AGAIN

VI. THE GRASSHOPPER A BURDEN

VII. THE PRINCE OF LIFE

VIII. NO PIPE FOR OLD OLIVER

IX. A NEW BROOM AND A CROSSING

X. HIGHLY RESPECTABLE
XI. AMONG THIEVES

XII. TONY'S WELCOME

XIII. NEW BOOTS

XIV. IN HOSPITAL

XV. TONY'S FUTURE PROSPECTS

XVI. A BUD FADING

XVII. A VERY DARK SHADOW

XVIII. NO ROOM FOR DOLLY

XIX. THE GOLDEN CITY

XX. A FRESH DAY DAWNS

XXI. POLLY
 CHAPTER I.
NOT ALONE.

It had been a close and sultry day—one of the hottest of the dog-days—
even out in the open country, where the dusky green leaves had never
stirred upon their stems since the sunrise, and where the birds had found
themselves too languid for any songs beyond a faint chirp now and then. All
day long the sun had shone down steadily upon the streets of London, with
a fierce glare and glowing heat, until the barefooted children had felt the
dusty pavement burn under their tread almost as painfully as the icy
pavement had frozen their naked feet in the winter. In the parks, and in
every open space, especially about the cool splash of the fountains at
Charing Cross, the people, who had escaped from the crowded and
unventilated back streets, basked in the sunshine, or sought every corner
where a shadow could be found. But in the alleys and slums the air was
heavy with heat and dust, and thick vapours floated up and down, charged
with sickening smells from the refuse of fish and vegetables decaying in the
gutters. Overhead the small, straight strip of sky was almost white, and the
light, as it fell, seemed to quiver with the burden of its own burning heat.

Out of one of the smaller thoroughfares lying between Holborn and the
Strand, there opens a narrow alley, not more than six or seven feet across,
with high buildings on each side. In the most part the ground floors consist
of small shops; for the alley is not a blind one, but leads from the
thoroughfare to another street, and forms, indeed, a short cut to it, pretty
often used. These shops are not of any size or importance—a greengrocer's,
with a somewhat scanty choice of vegetables and fruit, a broker's,
displaying queer odds and ends of household goods, two or three others,
and at the end farthest from the chief thoroughfare, but nearest to the quiet
and respectable street beyond, a very modest-looking little shop-window,
containing a few newspapers, some rather yellow packets of stationery, and
two or three books of ballads. Above the door was painted, in very small,
dingy letters, the words, "James Oliver, News Agent."

The shop was even smaller, in proportion, than its window. After two
customers had entered—if such an event could ever come to pass—it would
have been almost impossible to find room for a third. Along the end ran a
little counter, with a falling flap by which admission could be gained to the
living-room lying behind the shop. This evening the flap was down—a
certain sign that James Oliver, the news agent, had some guest within, for
otherwise there would have been no occasion to lessen the scanty size of the
counter. The room beyond was dark, very dark indeed, for the time of day;
for, though the evening was coming on, and the sun was hastening to go
down at last, it had not yet ceased to shine brilliantly upon the great city.
But inside James Oliver's house the gas was already lighted in a little steady
flame, which never flickered in the still, hot air, though both door and
window were wide open. For there was a window, though it was easy to
overlook it, opening into a passage four feet wide, which led darkly up into
a still closer and hotter court, lying in the very core of the maze of streets.
As the houses were four stories high, it is easy to understand that very little
sunlight could penetrate to Oliver's room behind his shop, and that even at
noon-day it was twilight there. This room was of a better size altogether
than a stranger might have supposed, having two or three queer little nooks
and recesses borrowed from the space belonging to the adjoining house; for
the buildings were old, and had probably been one large dwelling in former
times. It was plainly the only apartment the owner had; and all its
arrangements were those of a man living alone, for there was something
almost desolate about the look of the scanty furniture, though it was clean
and whole. There had been a fire, but it had died out, and the coals were
black in the grate, while the kettle still sat upon the top bar with a
melancholy expression of neglect about it.

James Oliver himself had placed his chair near to the open door, where
he could keep his eye upon the shop—a needless precaution, as at this hour
no customers ever turned into it. He was an old man, and seemed very old
and infirm by the dim light. He was thin and spare, with that peculiar
spareness which results from the habit of always eating less than one can.
His teeth, which had never had too much to do, had gone some years ago,
and his cheeks fell in rather deeply. A fine network of wrinkles puckered
about the corners of his eyes and mouth. He stooped a good deal, and
moved about with the slowness and deliberation of age. Yet his face was
very pleasant—a cheery, gentle, placid face, lighted up with a smile now
and then, but with sufficient rareness to make it the more welcome and the
more noticed when it came.

Old Oliver had a visitor this hot evening, a neat, small, dapper woman,
with a little likeness to himself, who had been putting his room to rights,
and looking to the repairs needed by his linen. She was just replacing her
needle, cotton, and buttons in an old-fashioned housewife, which she
always carried in her pocket, and was then going to put on her black silk
bonnet and coloured shawl, before bidding him good-bye.

"Eh, Charlotte," said Oliver, after drawing a long and toilsome breath,
"what would I give to be a-top of the Wrekin, seeing the sun set this
evening! Many and many's the summer afternoon we've spent there when
we were young, and all of us alive. Dost remember how many a mile of
country we could see all round us, and how fresh the air blew across the
thousands of green fields? Why, I saw Snowdon once, 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! it's 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 green-grocer'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 see. She bolted as if the bobbies were after her."
 "How long ago?" asked Oliver, anxiously.

"The clocks had just gone eight," he answered; "I've been watching for
you ever since."

"Why! that's a full hour ago," said the old man, looking wistfully down
the alley; "it's time she was come back again for her little girl."

THE LITTLE STRANGER.

 But there was no symptom of anybody coming to claim the little girl,
who stood very quietly at his side, one hand holding the dog fast by his ear,
and the other still lying in Oliver's grasp. The boy hopped on one foot
across the narrow alley, and looked up with bright, eager eyes into the old
man's face.

"I say," he said, earnestly, "don't you go to give her up to the p'lice.
They'd take her to the house, and that's worse than the jail. Bless yer! they'd
never take up a little thing like that to jail for a wagrant. You just give her to
me, and I'll take care of her. It 'ud be easy enough to find victuals for such a
pretty little thing as her. You give her up to me, I say."

"What's your name?" asked Oliver, clasping the little hand tighter, "and
where do you come from?"

"From nowhere particular," answered the boy; "and my name's Antony;

Tony, for short. I used to have another name; mother told it me afore she
died, but it's gone clean out o' my head. Tony I am, anyhow, and you can
call me by it, if you choose."

"How old are you, Tony?" inquired Oliver, still lingering on the
threshold, and looking up and down with his dim eyes.

"Bless yer! I don't know," replied Tony; "I weren't much bigger nor her
when mother died, and I've found myself ever since. I never had any
father."

"Found yourself!" repeated the old man, absently.

"Ah, it's not bad in the summer," said Tony, more earnestly than before:
"and I could find for the little 'un easy enough. I sleep anywhere, in Covent
Garden sometimes, and the parks—anywhere as the p'lice 'ill let me alone.
You won't go to give her up to them p'lice, will you now, and she so
pretty?"

He spoke in a beseeching tone, and old Oliver looked down upon him
through his spectacles, with a closer survey than he had given to him
before. The boy's face was pale and meagre, with an unboyish sharpness
about it, though he did not seem more than nine or ten years old. His
glittering eyes were filled with tears, and his colourless lips quivered. He
wiped away the tears roughly upon the ragged sleeve of his jacket.

"I never were such a baby before," said Tony, "only she is such a nice
little thing, and such a tiny little 'un. You'll keep her, master, won't you? or
give her up to me?"

"Ay, ay! I'll take care of her," answered Oliver, "till her mother comes
back for her. She'll come pretty soon, I know. But she wants her supper
now, doesn't she?"

He stooped down to bring his face nearer to the child's, and she raised
her hand to it, and stroked his cheek with her warm, soft fingers.

"Beppo wants his supper, too," she said, in a clear, shrill, little voice,
which penetrated easily through old Oliver's deafened hearing.

"And Beppo shall have some supper as well as the little woman," he
answered. "I'll put the shutters up now, and leave the door ajar, and the gas
lit for mother to see when she comes back; and if mother shouldn't come
back to night, the little woman will sleep in my bed, won't she?"

"Dolly's to be a good girl till mammy comes back," said the child,
plaintively, and holding harder by Beppo's ear.

"Let me put the shutters up, master," cried Tony, eagerly; "I won't charge
you nothink, and I'll just look round in the morning to see how you're
getting along. She is such a very little thing."

The shutters were put up briskly, and then Tony took a long, farewell
gaze of the old man and the little child, but he could not offer to touch
either of them. He glanced at his hands, and Oliver did the same; but they
both shook their heads.

"I'll have a wash in the morning afore I come," he said, nodding

resolutely; "good-bye, guv'ner; good-bye, little 'un."
 Old Oliver went in, leaving his door ajar, and his gas lit, as he had said.
He fed the hungry child with bread and butter, and used up his half-
pennyworth of milk, which he bought for himself every evening. Then he
lifted her on to his knee, with Beppo in her arms, and sat for a long while
waiting. The little head nodded, and Dolly sat up, unsteadily striving hard to
keep awake; but at last she let Beppo drop to the floor, while she herself fell
upon the old man's breast, and lay there without moving. It chimed eleven
o'clock at last, and Oliver knew it was of no use to watch any longer.

He managed to undress his little charge with gentle, though trembling

hands, and then he laid her down on his bed, putting his only pillow against
the wall to make a soft nest for the tender and sleepy child. She roused
herself for a minute, and stared about her, gazing steadily, with large, tearful
eyes, into his face. Then as he sat down on the bedstead beside her, to
comfort her as well as he could, she lifted herself up, and knelt down, with
her folded hands laid against his shoulder.

"Dolly vewy seepy," she lisped, "but must say her prayers always."

"What are your prayers, my dear?" he asked.

"On'y God bless ganpa, and father, and mammy, and poor Beppo, and
make me a good girl," murmured the drowsy voice, as Dolly closed her
eyes again, and fell off into a deep sleep the next moment.

CHAPTER III
A LITTLE PEACEMAKER.

It was a very strange event which had befallen old Oliver. He went back
to his own chair, where he smoked his Broseley pipe every night, and sank
down in it, rubbing his legs softly; for it was a long time since he had
nursed any child, and even Dolly's small weight was a burden to him. Her
tiny clothes were scattered up and down, and there was no one beside
himself to gather them together, and fold them straight. In shaking out her
frock a letter fell from it, and Oliver picked it up, wondering whoever it
could be for. It was directed to himself, "Mr. James Oliver, News-agent,"
and he broke the seal with eager expectation. The contents were these,
written in a handwriting which he knew at first sight to be his daughter's:—

"DEAR FATHER,

"I am very very sorry I ever did anything to make you angry with me.
This is your poor Susan's little girl, as is come to be a little peacemaker
betwixt you and me. I'm certain sure you'll never turn her away from your
door. I'm going down to Portsmouth for three days, because he listed five
months ago, and his regiment's ordered out to India, and he sails on Friday.
So I thought I wouldn't take my little girl to be in the way, and I said I'll
leave her with father till I come back, and her pretty little ways will soften
him towards me, and we'll live all together in peace and plenty till his
regiment comes home again, poor fellow. For he's very good to me when
he's not in liquor, which is seldom for a man. Please do forgive me for pity's
sake, and for Christ's sake, if I'm worthy to use his name, and do take care
of my little girl till I come home to you both on Friday. From your now
dutiful daughter,

"POOR SUSAN."

The tears rolled fast down old Oliver's cheeks as he read this letter
through twice, speaking the words half aloud to himself. Why! this was his
own little grandchild, then—his very own! And no doubt Susan had
christened her Dorothy, after her own mother, his dear wife, who had died
so many years ago. Dolly was the short for Dorothy, and in early times he
had often called his wife by that name. He had turned his gas off and lighted
a candle, and now he took it up and went to the bedside to look at his new
treasure. The tiny face lying upon his pillow was rosy with sleep, and the
fair curly hair was tossed about in pretty disorder. His spectacles grew very
dim indeed, and he was obliged to polish them carefully on his cotton
handkerchief before he could see his grand-daughter plainly enough. Then
he touched her dimpled cheek tremblingly with the end of his finger, and
sobbed out, "Bless her! bless her!" He returned to his chair, his head
shaking a good deal before he could regain his composure; and it was not
until he had kindled his pipe, and was smoking it, with his face turned
towards the sleeping child, that he felt at all like himself again.

"Dear Lord!" he said, half aloud, between the whiffs of his pipe, "dear
Lord! how very good thou art to me! Didst thee not say, 'I'll not leave thee
comfortless, I'll come to thee?' I know what that means, bless thy name; and
the good Spirit has many a time brought me comfort, and cheered my heart.
I know thou didst not leave me alone before. No, no! that was far from thee,
Lord. Alone!—why, thou'rt always here; and now there's the little lass as
well. Lonesome!—they don't know thee, Lord, and they don't know me.
Thou'rt here, with the little lass and me. Yes, yes,—yes."

He murmured the word "yes" in a tone of contentment over and over

again, until, the pipe being finished, he prepared for sleep also. But no sleep
came to the old man. He was too full of thought, and too fearful of the child
waking in the night and wanting something. The air was close and hot, and
now and then a peal of thunder broke overhead; but a profound peace and
tranquillity, slightly troubled by his new joy, held possession of him. His
grandchild was there, and his daughter was coming back to him in three
days.

Oh, how he would welcome her! He would not let her speak one word of
her wilfulness and disobedience, and the long, cruel neglect which had left
him in ignorance of where she lived, and what had become of her. It was
partly his fault, for having been too hard upon her, and too hasty and hot-
tempered. He had learnt better since then.

CHAPTER IV.
OLD OLIVER'S MASTER.
 Very early in the morning, before the tardy daylight could creep into the
darkened room, old Oliver was up and busy. He had been in the habit of
doing for himself, as he called it, ever since his daughter had forsaken him,
and he was by nature fastidiously clean and neat. But now there would be
additional duties for him during the next three days; for there would be
Dolly to wash, and dress, and provide breakfast for. Every few minutes he
stole a look at her lying still asleep; and as soon as he discovered symptoms
of awaking, he hastily lifted Beppo on to the bed, that her opening eyes
should be greeted by some familiar sight. She stretched out her wonderful
little hands, and caught hold of the dog's rough head before venturing to lift
her eyelids, while Oliver looked on in speechless delight. At length she
ventured to peep slyly at him, and then addressed herself to Beppo.

"What am I to call ris funny old man, Beppo?" she asked.

"I am your grandpa, my darling," said Oliver, in his softest voice.

"Are you God-bless-ganpa?" inquired Dolly, sitting up on her pillow, and

staring very hard with her blue eyes into his wrinkled face.

"Yes, I am," he answered, looking at her anxiously.

"Dolly knows," she said, counting upon her little fingers; "rere's father,
and mammy, and Beppo; and now rere's gan-pa. Dolly 'll get up now."

She flung her arms suddenly about his neck and kissed him, while old
Oliver trembled with intense joy. It was quite a marvel to him how she
helped him to dress her, laughing merrily at the strange mistakes he made in
putting on her clothes the wrong side before; and when he assured her that
her mother would come back very soon, she seemed satisfied to put up with
any passing inconvenience. The shop, with its duties, and the necessity of
getting in his daily stock of newspapers, entirely slipped his memory; and
he was only recalled to it by a very loud rapping at the door as he was
pouring out Dolly's breakfast. To his great surprise he discovered that he
had forgotten to take down his shutters, though it was past the hour when
his best customers passed by.
 The person knocking proved to be none other than Tony, who greeted the
old man's appearance with a prolonged whistle, and a grave and reproachful
stare.

"Come," he said, in a tone of remonstrance, "this'll never do, you know.

Business is business, and must be minded. You pretty nearly frightened me
into fits; anybody could have knocked me down with a straw when I see the
shutters up. How is she?"

"She's very well, thank you, my boy," answered Oliver, meekly.

"Mother not turned up, I guess?" said Tony.

"No; she comes on Friday," he replied.

Tony winked, and put his tongue into his cheek; but he gave utterance to
no remark until after the shutters were in their place. Then he surveyed
himself as well as he could, with an air of satisfaction. His face and hands
were clean, and his skin looked very white through the holes in his tattered
clothes; even his feet, except for an unavoidable under surface of dust, were
unsoiled. His jacket and trousers appeared somewhat more torn than the
evening before; but they bore every mark of having been washed also.

"Washed myself early in the morning, afore the bobbies were much
about," remarked Tony, "in the fountains at Charing Cross; but I hadn't time
to get my rags done, so I did 'em down under the bridge, when the tide were
going down; but I could only give 'em a bit of a swill and a ring out.
Anyhow, I'm a bit cleaner this morning than last night, master."

"To be sure, to be sure," answered Oliver. "Come in, my boy, and I'll
give you a bit of breakfast with her and me."

"You haven't got sich a thing as a daily paper, have you?" asked Tony, in
a patronizing tone.

"Not to-day's paper, I'm afraid," he said.

"I'm afraid not," continued Tony; "overslept yourself, eh? Not as I can
read myself; but there are folks going by as can, and might p'raps buy one
here as well as anywhere else. Shall I run and get 'em for you, now I'm on
my legs?"

Oliver looked questioningly at the boy, who returned a frank, honest

gaze, and said, "Honour bright!" as he held out his hand for the money.
There was some doubt in the old man's mind after Tony had disappeared as
to whether he had not done a very foolish thing; but he soon forgot it when
he returned to the breakfast-table; and long before he himself could have
reached the place and returned, Tony was back again with his right number
of papers.

Before many minutes Tony was sitting upon an old box at a little
distance from the table, where Oliver sat with his grandchild. A basin of
coffee and a large hunch of bread rested upon his knees, and Beppo was
sniffing round him with a doubtful air. Dolly was shy in this strange
company, and ate her breakfast with a sedate gravity which filled both her
companions with astonishment and admiration. When the meal was
finished, old Oliver took his daughter's letter from his waistcoat pocket and
read it aloud to Tony, who listened with undivided interest.
 "Then she's your own little 'un," he said, with a sigh of disappointment.
"You'll never give her up to me, if you get tired of her,—nor to the p'lice
neither," he added, with a brightening face.

"No, no, no!" answered Oliver, emphatically. "Besides, her mother's

coming on Friday. I wouldn't give her up for all the world, bless her!"

"And he's 'listed!" said Tony, in a tone of envy "They wouldn't take me
yet a while, if I offered to go. But who's that she speaks of?—'for Christ's
sake, if I am worthy to use his name.' Who is he?"

"Don't you know?" asked Oliver.

"No, never heard tell of him before," he answered, "Is he any friend o'
yours?"[*]

[*] It may be necessary to assure some readers that this ignorance is not
exaggerated. The City Mission Reports, and similar records, show that
such cases are too frequent.

"Ay!" said Oliver; "he's my only friend, my best friend. And he's my
master, besides."

"And she thinks he'd be angry if you turned the little girl away?" pursued
Tony.

"Yes, yes; he'd be very angry," said old Oliver, thoughtfully; "it 'ud
grieve him to his heart. Why, he's always loved little children, and never
had them turned away from himself, whatever he was doing. If she hadn't
been my own little girl, I daren't have turned her out of my doors. No, no,
dear Lord, thee knows as I'd have taken care of her, for thy sake."

He spoke absently, in a low voice, as though talking to some person

whom Tony could not see, and the boy was silent a minute or two, thinking
busily.
 "How long have you worked for that master o' yours?" he asked, at last.

"Not very long," replied Oliver, regretfully. "I used to fancy I was
working for him years and years ago; but, dear me! it was poor sort o' work;
and now I can't do very much. Only he knows how old I am, and he doesn't
care so that I love him, which I do, Tony."

"I should think so!" said the boy, falling again into busy thought, from
which he aroused himself by getting up from his box, and rubbing his
fingers through his wet and tangled hair.

"He takes to children and little 'uns?" he said, in a questioning tone.

"Ay, dearly!" answered old Oliver.

"I reckon he'd scarcely take me for a man yet," said Tony, at the same
time drawing himself up to his full height; "though I don't know as I should
care to work for him. I'd rather have a crossing, and be my own master. But
if I get hard up, do you think he'd take to me, if you spoke a word for me?"

"Are you sure you don't know anything about him?" asked Oliver.

"Not I; how should I?" answered Tony. "Why, you don't s'pose as I know
all the great folks in London, though I've seen sights and sights of 'em
riding about in their carriages. I told you I weren't much bigger nor her
there when mother died, and I've picked up my living up and down the
streets anyhow, and other lads have helped me on, till I can help 'em on
now. It don't cost much to keep a boy on the streets. There's nothink to pay
for coals, or rent, or beds, or furniture, or anythink; only your victuals, and
a rag now and then. All I want's a broom and a crossing, and then shouldn't
I get along just? But I don't know how to get 'em."

"Perhaps the Lord Jesus would give them to you, if you'd ask him," said
Oliver, earnestly.

"Who's he?" inquired Tony, with an eager face.

"Him—Christ. It's his other name," answered the old man.

 "Ah! I see," he said, nodding. "Well, if I can't get 'em myself, I'll think
about it. He'll want me to work for him, you know. Where does he live?"

"I'll tell you all about him, if you'll come to see me," replied Oliver.

"Well," said the boy, "I'll just look in after Friday, and see if the little
'un's mother's come back. Good-bye,—good-bye, little miss."

He could take Dolly's hand into his own this morning, and he looked
down curiously at it,—a small, rosy, dimpled hand, such as he had never
seen before so closely. A lump rose in his throat, and his eyelids smarted
with tears again. It was such a little thing, such a pretty little thing, he said
to himself, covering it fondly with his other hand. There was no fear that
Tony would forget to come back to old Oliver's house.

"Thank you for my breakfast," he said, with a choking voice; "only if I

do come to see you, it'll be to see her again—not for anythink as I can get."

CHAPTER V.
FORSAKEN AGAIN.

The next three days were a season of unmixed happiness to old Oliver.
The little child was so merry, yet withal so gentle and sweet-tempered, that
she kept him in a state of unwearied delight, without any alloy of anxiety or
trouble. She trotted at his side with short, running footsteps, when he went
out early in the morning to fetch his daily stock of newspapers. She
watched him set his room tidy, and made believe to help him by dusting the
lees and seats of his two chairs. She stood with folded hands and serious
face, looking on as he was busy with his cooking. When she was not thus
engaged she played contentedly with Beppo, prattling to him in such a
manner, that Oliver often forgot what he was about while listening to her.
She played with him, too, frolicsome little games of hide-and-seek, in
which he grew as eager as herself; and sometimes she stole his spectacles,
or handkerchief, or anything she could lay her mischievous fingers upon to
hide away in some unthought-of spot; while her shrewd, cunning little face
put on an expression of profound gravity as old Oliver sought everywhere
for them.

As Friday evening drew near, the old man's gladness took a shade of
anxiety. His daughter was coming home to him, and his heart was full of
unutterable joy and gratitude; but he did not know exactly how they should
go on in the future. He was averse to change; yet this little house, with its
single room, to which he had moved when she forsook him, was too scanty
in its accommodation. He had made up a rude sort of bed for himself under
the counter in the shop, and was quite ready to give up his own to Susan
and his little love, as he called Dolly; but would Susan let him have his own
way in this, and many other things? He provided a sumptuous tea, and
added a fresh salad to it from the greengrocer's next door; but though he and
Dolly waited and watched till long after the child's bed-time, taking
occasional snatches of bread and butter, still Susan did not arrive. At length
a postman entered the little shop with a noise which made Oliver's heart
beat violently, and tossed a letter down upon the counter. He carried it to the
door, where there was still light enough to read it, and saw that it was in
Susan's handwriting.

"MY DEAR AND DEAREST FATHER,

"My heart is almost broke, betwixt one thing and another. His regiment
is to set sail immediate, and the colonel's lady has offered me very
handsome wages to go out with her as lady's maid, her own having
disappointed her at the last moment; which I could do very well, knowing
the dressmaking. He said, 'Do come, Susan, and I'll never get drunk again,
so help me God; and if you don't, I shall go to the bad altogether; for I do
love you, Susan.' I said, 'Oh my child!' And the colonel's lady said, 'She's
safe with her grandfather; and if he's a good man, as you say he is, he'll take
the best of care of her. I'll give you three pounds to send him from here, and
we'll send more from Calcutta.' So they overpersuaded me, and there isn't
even time to come back to London, for we are going in a few hours. You'll
take care of my little dear, I know, you and aunt Charlotte. I've sent a little
box of clothes for her by the railway, and what more she wants aunt
Charlotte will see to, I'm sure, and do her mending, and see to her manners
till I come home. Oh! if I could only hear you say 'Susan, my dear, I 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 visit, and was therefore at hand to put up the shutters for Oliver.
Tony could not keep away from the place. Though he felt a boy's
contemptuous pity for the poor old man's declining faculties as regarded
business, he had a very high veneration for his learning. Nothing pleased
him better than to sit upon the old box near the door, his elbows on his
knees, and his chin upon his hands, while Oliver read aloud, with Dolly
upon his knee, her curly hair and small pretty features making a strange
contrast to his white head and withered, hollow face. Tony, who had never
had anything to love except a stray cur or two, which he had always lost
after a few days' friendship, felt as if he could have suffered himself to be
put to death for either of these two; while Beppo came in for a large share
of his unclaimed affections. The chief subject of their reading was the life
of the Master, who was so intimately dear to the heart of old Oliver. Tony
was very eager to learn all he could of this great friend who did so much for
the old man, and who might perhaps be persuaded some day or other to take
a little notice of him, if he should fail to get a crossing for himself. Oliver,
in his long, unbroken solitude of six years, had fallen into a notion,
amounting to a firm belief, that his Lord was not dead and far off, as most
of the world believed, but was a very present, living friend, always ready to
listen to the meanest of his words. He had a vague suspicion that his faith
had got into a different course from that of most other people; and he bore
meekly the rebukes of his sister Charlotte for the unwholesomeness of his
visions. But none the less, when he was alone, he talked and prayed to, and
spoke to Tony of this Master, as one who was always very near at hand.

"I s'pose he takes a bit o' notice o' the little un," said Tony, "when he
comes in now and then of an evening."
 "Ay, does he!" answered Oliver, earnestly. "My boy, he loves every child
as if it was his very own, and it is his own in one sense. Didn't I read you
last night how he said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and
forbid them not.' Why, he'd love all the young children in the world, if they
weren't hindered from coming to him."

"I should very much like to see him some day," pursued Tony,
reflectively, "and the rest of them,—Peter, and John, and them. I s'pose they
are getting pretty old by now, aren't they?"

"They are dead," said Oliver.

"All of 'em?" asked Tony.

"All of them," he repeated.

"Dear, dear!" cried Tony, his eyes glistening. "Whatever did the Master
do when they all died? I'm very sorry for him now. He's had a many
troubles, hasn't he?"

"Yes, yes," replied old Oliver, with a faltering voice. "He was called a
man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. Nobody ever bore so many
troubles as him."

"How long is it ago since they all died?" asked Tony.

"I can't rightly say," he answered. "I heard once, but it is gone out of my
head. I only know it was the same when I was a boy. It must have been a
long, long time ago."

"The same when you was a boy!" repeated Tony, in a tone of

disappointment. "It must ha' been a long while ago. I thought all along as
the Master was alive now.

"So he is, so he is!" exclaimed old Oliver, eagerly. "I'll read to you all
about it. They put him to death on the cross, and buried him in a rocky
grave; but he is the Prince of Life, and he came to life again three days
after, and now he can die no more. His own words to John were, 'I am he
Welcome to our website – the ideal destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. With a mission to inspire endlessly, we offer a
vast collection of books, ranging from classic literary works to
specialized publications, self-development books, and children's
literature. Each book is a new journey of discovery, expanding
knowledge and enriching the soul of the reade

Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge
connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With
an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system,
we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping
experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery
services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and

personal growth!

ebookname.com