d gloom of the Poor
House, to the comfortable home which Edith had provided for herself and
child in the years since she left Ben. Eva was a precocious little
maiden of nine now, wise and womanly beyond her years. So soon as Edith
learned of the old man's desolate fate, she resolved to bring him home.
Eva could attend to his wants during the day, while she was in the
school-room, and the interrupted studies could be pursued in the
evening. Or she could hire assistance if he were as troublesome as
report had said. He had been a harsh old man, and had helped to widen
the breach between her and Ben. But he was the father of the man she had
married, and she could not let him die in the Poor House. So she brought
him home.

"Don't I hear a child's voice?" he asked, as Eva came dancing out to
greet them. "Who is it, Abby?"

"Why, it's your own little granddaughter Eva," cried the child, clasping
his withered hand in her two soft palms. "Don't you remember me? Mamma
says you used to love me."

Edith's heart stood still. Surely now he would understand. And would he
be angry and harsh with her?

The old man's face lighted.

"Ah, I see, I see," he said musingly, "Abby and Ben have taken the
little one home. It must be Edith is dead. She was such a puny thing."
Then turning his face to the woman who was guiding his faltering
footsteps, he asked:

"And is Edith dead?"

"Yes," she answered quietly, "Edith is dead." And added "to _you_," in a
whisper.

"He must never be undeceived," she thought. "It would be too severe a
blow; the truth might kill him." And to Eva she said a little later:

"Dear, your grandfather is very ill, and not quite right in his mind. He
thinks my name is Abby, and you must not correct him or dispute any
strange thing he may say."

The journey left the old man very weak indeed, but he talked almost
constantly.

"It was so good of you, Abby, to take the little girl home," he would
say. "But I knowed you had a good heart, and Ben too. He was fond of his
old father, spite of his rough ways. It was pooty lonesome--pooty
lonesome, off there at that place--that Institute where you sent me.
Some folks said it was the Poor House, but I knew better--I knew better.
Ben and you would never send me there. I s'pose it was a good place, but
they had too many patients. Sometimes I was cold and hungry and all
alone for hours and hours. Oh, it's good to be back home with you--you,
Abby--but why don't Ben come?"