alone now; yet you taught your children to pray for the lonely old
man. Bless you, my boy--too late--too late--my blessing would have made
you happy in life, but now it can do nothing for you."

Then the old man put his head outside the door, and called to Ellen, who
was passing, to say that he was going to bed.

But it was long before sleep came to him, for he lay thinking of the old
days, long ago, when children had loved him, when life had been sunny
and warm,--why had it grown so chill and cold of late? Ah, Farmer
Shipton, there is but one thing which can make life full of warmth and
sunshine, and that is the love of God.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

TRANSPLANTED DAISIES.

A month soon passed away, and old Mr. Smith had become quite one of the
household. He was very kind in his manner to the children, though
sometimes blunt and abrupt, but he seemed constantly to be watching
their mother, with a suspicion which she could not understand. However,
he was out a great deal, and she did not find him at all in the way, and
she was glad the children had made friends with him.

"Mother, I like Mr. Smith; he's very good to us; but isn't he a funny
man?" said Ellen one evening, and she looked up from her work as she
spoke.

"I think he's very kind to you, my dear, and you are quite right to like
him," replied Mrs. Shipton slowly, for there was something about her
lodger which she could not understand; and she was not quite sure
whether she liked him or not.

"He goes out to see London, doesn't he, mother?"

"Yes; he has never been here before, and there is plenty for a stranger
to see."

"But, mother."

"Well, Ellen?"

"I think he's very kind, and all that; but I don't think he's happy:
often and often when I look up, I see him looking at me with his eyes
full of tears. Isn't it odd and queer for a man to cry. Father never
cried."

Mrs. Shipton did not answer; why should the child know of all the bitter
tears which her father had shed?

"Perhaps Mr. Smith has some trouble that we do not know of, dear."

"I think he has, mother; but wasn't it kind of him to get that bottle of
wine for Maurice?"

"Yes; poor little Maurice! Ellen, I sometimes think--," and the mother's
voice trembled.

"What, mother?"

"I think he's going from me too;" and the poor woman put down her work,
and bowed her head in her hands.

Little Ellen came up close to her mother, and slipping her arm round her
neck, laid h