he doll as closely and as gravely as
the others had done, and expressed the opinion that it was all right. He
added the hope that the young lady would think so too, and the opinion
that she was extremely fortunate in having among her friends so
thoughtful a man as Epstein.

It is doubtful if Epstein heard him, although it was quiet enough in the
back part of the store where the three had conducted their examination.
Whimple started to repeat his hope when he became aware that Tommy was
shaking his head and holding a finger to his lips. Whimple thereupon
broke off in the middle of a sentence and kept silence.

Epstein was looking at him, but not with the eyes of one who sees the
object he gazes on. Whimple thought to himself that he had never dreamed
the retired comedian was as old as he looked now. He wondered if it
would be kindly taken if he should advise the old man that home and a
rest in bed would brace him up a little, when Epstein began to speak.

"My little girl," he said, in the rich round voice his friends loved to
hear, "was born on the same day of the month that Dolly was. Only, a
long time ago--quite a long time ago, or perhaps I only dream that it was
long ago," he stammered and paused, and then went on. "She would have
been thirty years old now, wedded, no doubt, a mother, perhaps--what
dreams--what dreams----" Again he paused.

Tommy Watson rose softly, went to the front door, deliberately locked it,
and then returned to Whimple and Epstein--who was talking again. "I had
retired from the stage, happy and contented, to take up a business
career, so that I might be with my wife and child, and the other
children, if they should come. We loved so well--we loved so
well--and--and----" again a long pause. And then, as though some one had
spoken to him, "Yes, yes, I went back to the stage again, but that was
afterwards; and how they welcomed me and cheered me and praised me; for I
made them laugh as in the olden time, but my heart was gone.

"My little girl was two years old when we began to notice the shadow.
Just two; with a wealth of brown hair and eyes, her eyes--they were brown
too; such a brown, so wonderful, and they were her mother's eyes. The
shadow darkened; the little tongue became strangely quiet, the little
limbs were tired so easily, the little hands were all too often idle.
But how she clung to us--she seemed to know that she must go, and so she
slipped away at last, so gently--so