am not fit for a soldier, and as the
colonel was hurt too, we're all come home together. Only Susan's gone
straight on with her lady and our little girl, and sent me through London
to see after you and Dolly."

"Your little girl?" said Oliver questioningly.

"Yes, the one born in India. Her name's Mary, but we call her Polly.
Susan said it made her think of our little Dolly at home. Dear! dear! I
don't know however I shall let her know."

Another fit of silence fell upon them, and Tony left them together, for
it was time to put up the shop shutters. It seemed just like the night
when he had followed Susan and the little girl, and loitered outside in
the doorway opposite, to see what would happen after she had left her in
the shop. He fancied he was a ragged, shoeless boy again, nobody loving
him, or caring for him, and that he saw old Oliver and Dolly standing on
the step, looking out for the mother, who had gone away, never, never to
see her darling again. Tony's heart was very full; and when he tried to
whistle, he was obliged to give it up, lest he should break out into sobs
and crying. When he went back into the house Raleigh was talking again.

"So Susan and me are to have one of the lodges of the colonel's park,"
he said, "and I'm to be a sort of bailiff to look after the other outdoor
servants about the garden and premises. It's a house with three bedrooms,
and a very pleasant sort of little parlour, as well as a kitchen and
scullery place downstairs. You can see the Wrekin from the parlour
window, and the moon over it; and it's not so far away but what we could
get a spring-cart sometimes, and drive over to your old home under the
Wrekin. As soon as ever the colonel's lady told Susan where it was, she
cried out, 'That's the very place for father!' You'd like to come and
live with your own Susan again, in your own country; wouldn't you now?"

"Yes, yes; for a little while," answered old Oliver, with a smile
upon his face.

Tony felt a strange and very painful shrinking at his heart. If the old
man went away to live with his daughter in the country, his home would be
lost to him, and he would have to go out into the great city again alone,
with nobody to love. He could get his living now in a respectable manner,
and there was no fear of his being driven to sleep in Covent Garden, or
under the bridges. But he would be alone, and all the links which bound
him to Dolly and old Oliver would be snapped asunder. H