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it would break her heart if she knew that I suffered anybody else to do

for me what her little hands could undertake. I don't consider!'--he

cried with sudden querulousness, 'why, God knows that this one child is

the thought and object of my life, and yet he never prospers me--no,

never!'

At this juncture, the subject of our conversation again returned, and

the old man motioning to me to approach the table, broke off, and said

no more.

We had scarcely begun our repast when there was a knock at the door by

which I had entered, and Nell bursting into a hearty laugh, which I was

rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full of hilarity, said it

was no doubt dear old Kit coming back at last.

'Foolish Nell!' said the old man fondling with her hair. 'She always

laughs at poor Kit.'

The child laughed again more heartily than before, and I could not help

smiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle and

went to open the door. When he came back, Kit was at his heels.

Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an uncommonly wide

mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and certainly the most

comical expression of face I ever saw. He stopped short at the door on

seeing a stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat

without any vestige of a brim, and resting himself now on one leg and

now on the other and changing them constantly, stood in the doorway,

looking into the parlour with the most extraordinary leer I ever

beheld. I entertained a grateful feeling towards the boy from that

minute, for I felt that he was the comedy of the child's life.

'A long way, wasn't it, Kit?' said the little old man.

'Why, then, it was a goodish stretch, master,' returned Kit.

'Of course you have come back hungry?'

'Why, then, I do consider myself rather so, master,' was the answer.

The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways as he spoke, and

thrusting his head forward over his shoulder, as if he could not get at

his voice without that accompanying action. I think he would have

amused one anywhere, but the child's exquisite enjoyment of his oddity,

and the relief it was to find that there was something she associated

with merriment in a place that appeared so unsuited to her, were quite

irresistible. It was a great point too that Kit himself was flattered

by the sensation he created, and after several efforts to preserve his

gravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his mouth wide open

and his eyes nearly shut, laughing violently.

The old man had again relapsed into his former abstraction and took no

notice of what passed, but I remarked that when her laugh was over, the

child's bright eyes were dimmed with tears, called forth by the

fullness of heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite after

the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself (whose laugh had

been all the time one of that sort which very little would change into

a cry) he carried a large slice of bread and meat and a mug of beer

into a corner, and applied himself to disposing of them with great

voracity.

'Ah!' said the old man turning to me with a sigh, as if I had spoken to

him but that moment, 'you don't know what you say when you tell me that

I don't consider her.'

'You must not attach too great weight to a remark founded on first

appearances, my friend,' said I.

'No,' returned the old man thoughtfully, 'no. Come hither, Nell.'

The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm about his neck.

'Do I love thee, Nell?' said he. 'Say--do I love thee, Nell, or no?'

The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her head upon his

breast.

'Why dost thou sob?' said the grandfather, pressing her closer to him

and glancing towards me. 'Is it because thou know'st I love thee, and

dost not like that I should seem to doubt it by my question? Well,

well--then let us say I love thee dearly.'

'Indeed, indeed you do,' replied the child with great earnestness, 'Kit

knows you do.'

Kit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been swallowing

two-thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a

juggler, stopped short in his operations on being thus appealed to, and

bawled 'Nobody isn't such a fool as to say he doosn't,' after which he

incapacitated himself for further conversation by taking a most

prodigious sandwich at one bite.

'She is poor now'--said the old man, patting the child's cheek, 'but I

say again that the time is coming when she shall be rich. It has been a

long time coming, but it must come at last; a very long time, but it

surely must come. It has come to other men who do nothing but waste and

riot. When WILL it come to me!'

'I am very happy as I am, grandfather,' said the child.

'Tush, tush!' returned the old man, 'thou dost not know--how should'st

thou!' then he muttered again between his teeth, 'The time must come, I

am very sure it must. It will be all the better for coming late'; and

then he sighed and fell into his former musing state, and still holding

the child between his knees appeared to be insensible to everything

around him. By this time it wanted but a few minutes of midnight and I

rose to go, which recalled him to himself.

'One moment, sir,' he said, 'Now, Kit--near midnight, boy, and you

still here! Get home, get home, and be true to your time in the

morning, for there's work to do. Good night! There, bid him good night,

Nell, and let him be gone!'

'Good night, Kit,' said the child, her eyes lighting up with merriment

and kindness.

'Good night, Miss Nell,' returned the boy.

'And thank this gentleman,' interposed the old man, 'but for whose care

I might have lost my little girl to-night.'

'No, no, master,' said Kit, 'that won't do, that won't.'

'What do you mean?' cried the old man.

'I'd have found her, master,' said Kit, 'I'd have found her. I'll bet

that I'd find her if she was above ground, I would, as quick as

anybody, master. Ha, ha, ha!'

Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, and laughing like a

stentor, Kit gradually backed to the door, and roared himself out.

Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his departure; when he

had gone, and the child was occupied in clearing the table, the old man

said:

'I haven't seemed to thank you, sir, for what you have done to-night,

but I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she, and her thanks

are better worth than mine. I should be sorry that you went away, and

thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of her--I am not

indeed.'

I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. 'But,' I added, 'may

I ask you a question?'

'Ay, sir,' replied the old man, 'What is it?'

'This delicate child,' said I, 'with so much beauty and

intelligence--has she nobody to care for her but you? Has she no other

companion or advisor?'

'No,' he returned, looking anxiously in my face, 'no, and she wants no

other.'

'But are you not fearful,' said I, 'that you may misunderstand a charge

so tender? I am sure you mean well, but are you quite certain that you

know how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man, like you,

and I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is young and

promising. Do you not think that what I have seen of you and this

little creature to-night must have an interest not wholly free from

pain?'

'Sir,' rejoined the old man after a moment's silence. 'I have no right

to feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects I am the

child, and she the grown person--that you have seen already. But waking

or sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the one

object of my care, and if you knew of how much care, you would look on

me with different eyes, you would indeed. Ah! It's a weary life for an

old man--a weary, weary life--but there is a great end to gain and that

I keep before me.'

Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and impatience, I turned to

put on an outer coat which I had thrown off on entering the room,

purposing to say no more. I was surprised to see the child standing

patiently by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat, and

stick.

'Those are not mine, my dear,' said I.

'No,' returned the child, 'they are grandfather's.'

'But he is not going out to-night.'

'Oh, yes, he is,' said the child, with a smile.

'And what becomes of you, my pretty one?'

'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.'

I looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he was, or feigned to

be, busied in the arrangement of his dress. From him I looked back to

the slight gentle figure of the child. Alone! In that gloomy place all

the long, dreary night.

She evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheerfully helped the

old man with his cloak, and when he was ready took a candle to light us

out. Finding that we did not follow as she expected, she looked back

with a smile and waited for us. The old man showed by his face that he

plainly understood the cause of my hesitation, but he merely signed to

me with an inclination of the head to pass out of the room before him,

and remained silent. I had no resource but to comply.

When we reached the door, the child setting down the candle, turned to

say good night and raised her face to kiss me. Then she ran to the old

man, who folded her in his arms and bade God bless her.

'Sleep soundly, Nell,' he said in a low voice, 'and angels guard thy

bed! Do not forget thy prayers, my sweet.'

'No, indeed,' answered the child fervently, 'they make me feel so

happy!'

'That's well; I know they do; they should,' said the old man. 'Bless

thee a hundred times! Early in the morning I shall be home.'

'You'll not ring twice,' returned the child. 'The bell wakes me, even

in the middle of a dream.'

With this, they separated. The child opened the door (now guarded by a

shutter which I had heard the boy put up before he left the house) and

with another farewell whose clear and tender note I have recalled a

thousand times, held it until we had passed out. The old man paused a

moment while it was gently closed and fastened on the inside, and

satisfied that this was done, walked on at a slow pace. At the

street-corner he stopped, and regarding me with a troubled countenance

said that our ways were widely different and that he must take his

leave. I would have spoken, but summoning up more alacrity than might

have been expected in one of his appearance, he hurried away. I could

see that twice or thrice he looked back as if to ascertain if I were

still watching him, or perhaps to assure himself that I was not

following at a distance. The obscurity of the night favoured his

disappearance, and his figure was soon beyond my sight.

I remained standing on the spot where he had left me, unwilling to

depart, and yet unknowing why I should loiter there. I looked wistfully

into the street we had lately quitted, and after a time directed my

steps that way. I passed and repassed the house, and stopped and

listened at the door; all was dark, and silent as the grave.

Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, thinking of all

possible harm that might happen to the child--of fires and robberies

and even murder--and feeling as if some evil must ensue if I turned my

back upon the place. The closing of a door or window in the street

brought me before the curiosity-dealer's once more; I crossed the road

and looked up at the house to assure myself that the noise had not come

from there. No, it was black, cold, and lifeless as before.

There were few passengers astir; the street was sad and dismal, and

pretty well my own. A few stragglers from the theatres hurried by, and

now and then I turned aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he reeled

homewards, but these interruptions were not frequent and soon ceased.

The clocks struck one. Still I paced up and down, promising myself that

every time should be the last, and breaking faith with myself on some

new plea as often as I did so.

The more I thought of what the old man had said, and of his looks and

bearing, the less I could account for what I had seen and heard. I had

a strong misgiving that his nightly absence was for no good purpose. I

had only come to know the fact through the innocence of the child, and

though the old man was by at the time, and saw my undisguised surprise,

he had preserved a strange mystery upon the subject and offered no word

of explanation. These reflections naturally recalled again more

strongly than before his haggard face, his wandering manner, his

restless anxious looks. His affection for the child might not be

inconsistent with villany of the worst kind; even that very affection

was in itself an extraordinary contradiction, or how could he leave her

thus? Disposed as I was to think badly of him, I never doubted that his

love for her was real. I could not admit the thought, remembering what

had passed between us, and the tone of voice in which he had called her

by her name.

'Stay here of course,' the child had said in answer to my question, 'I

always do!' What could take him from home by night, and every night! I

called up all the strange tales I had ever heard of dark and secret

deeds committed in great towns and escaping detection for a long series

of years; wild as many of these stories were, I could not find one

adapted to this mystery, which only became the more impenetrable, in