"He is smiling—oh, he smiles on me," cried the child, with a burst of tears, lifting her face to the policeman, with a look that went to his heart. "He has not smiled like that, not once since his birth-day," and overcome with all the sweet recollections of that day, the child covered her face and wept aloud while the bystanders stood, lost in sympathy, gazing upon her.
"Did you know this man?" questioned one of the officers, addressing the child, and motioning the driver to be quiet, for he had other work to do, and was in haste to get the body of Chester into the dead-house.
"Did I know him?" repeated the child, looking up through her tears with an expression of wonder that he should ask the question. "Did I know him?"
"If you did," rejoined the man, "tell us his name, and perhaps we need not carry him in there."
"In where?" said the child, looking wildly at the building to which the man pointed. "That is not his home."
"No, it is the dead house," replied the man.
"The dead house?" repeated the child, and her lips grew pale with horror. "And must he go in there?"
"Not if you can point out his home; perhaps he is your father?"
"He was more than that—he was—oh, sir, you do not know how much he was to me!"
"Well, what was his name? if you can tell us that, we will take him home at once. The coroner has seen him—there is nothing to prevent."