and let him be gone!'

'Good night, Kit,' said the child, her eyes lighting up with merriment
and kindness.'

'Good night, Miss Nell,' returned the boy.

'And thank this gentleman,' interposed the old man, 'but for whose care
I might have lost my little girl to-night.'

'No, no, master,' said Kit, 'that won't do, that won't.'

'What do you mean?' cried the old man.

'I'd have found her, master,' said Kit, 'I'd have found her. I'll bet
that I'd find her if she was above ground, I would, as quick as
anybody, master. Ha, ha, ha!'

Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, and laughing like a
stentor, Kit gradually backed to the door, and roared himself out.

Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his departure; when he
had gone, and the child was occupied in clearing the table, the old man
said:

'I haven't seemed to thank you, sir, for what you have done to-night,
but I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she, and her thanks
are better worth than mine. I should be sorry that you went away, and
thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of her--I am not
indeed.'

I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. 'But,' I added, 'may
I ask you a question?'

'Ay, sir,' replied the old man, 'What is it?'

'This delicate child,' said I, 'with so much beauty and
intelligence--has she nobody to care for her but you? Has she no other
companion or advisor?'

'No,' he returned, looking anxiously in my face, 'no, and she wants no
other.'

'But are you not fearful,' said I, 'that you may misunderstand a charge
so tender? I am sure you mean well, but are you quite certain that you
know how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man, like you,
and I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is young and
promising. Do you not think that what I have seen of you and this
little creature to-night must have an interest not wholly free from
pain?'

'Sir,' rejoined the old man after a moment's silence.' I have no right
to feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects I am the
child, and she the grown person--that you have seen already. But waking
or sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the one
object of my care, and if you knew of how much care, you would look on
me with different eyes, you would indeed. Ah! It's a weary life for an
old man--a weary, weary life--but there is a great end to gain and that
I keep before me.'

Seeing that