stened 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 mo