e 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.

CHAPTER XVI

A BUD FADING.

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