do, nor where
to go for any help.

"Lord," he said, "if you really love the old master, do something for
him; for I don't know whatever to do, now little Dolly's gone."

He sat down on his old box, staring at Oliver and the motionless form on
the bed, with a feeling of despair tugging at his heart. He could
scarcely believe it was all true; for it was not very long since--only it
seemed like long years--since he had leaped over the counter in his
light-heartedness. But he had not sat there many minutes before he heard
a distinct, rather loud knock at the shop-door, and he ran hastily to ask
who was there.

"Antony," said a voice he knew very well, "I have come with the doctor,
to see what we can do for your little girl."

In an instant Tony opened the door, and as Mr. Ross entered the boy flung
his arms round him, and hid his face against him, sobbing bitterly.

"Oh! you've come too late," he cried, "you've come too late! Dolly's
dead, and I'm afraid the master's going away from me as well. They
couldn't take her in, and she died after we had brought her home."

The doctor and Mr. Ross went on into the inner room, and Tony pointed
silently to the bed where Dolly lay. Old Oliver roused himself at the
sound of strange voices, and, leaning upon Tony's shoulder, he staggered
to the bedside, and drew the clothes away from her dear, smiling face.

"I don't murmur," he said. "My dear Lord can't do anything unkind. He'll
come and speak to me presently, and comfort me; but just now I'm deaf and
blind, even to him. I've not forgot him, and he hasn't forgot me; but
there's a many things ought to be done, and I cannot think what."

"Leave it all to us," said Mr. Ross, leading him back to his chair. "But
have you no neighbour you can go and stay with for to-night? You are an
old man, and you must not lose your night's sleep."

"No," he answered, shaking his head; "I'd rather stay here in my own
place, if I'd a hundred other places to go to. I'm not afraid of my
little love,--no, no! When everything is done as ought to be done,
I'll lie in my own bed and watch her. It won't be lonesome, as long as
she's here."

In an hour's time all was settled for that night. A little resting-place
had been made for the dead child in a corner of the room, where she lay
covered with a coarse white sheet, which was the last one left of those
which old Oliver's wife had spun in her girlhood. The old man had given
his promise to go to bed whe