"No," he answered, shaking his head; "I'd rather stay here in my own place, if I'd a hundred other places to go to. I'm not afraid of my little love,—no, no! When everything is done as ought to be done, I'll lie in my own bed and watch her. It won't be lonesome, as long as she's here."
In an hour's time all was settled for that night. A little resting-place had been made for the dead child in a corner of the room, where she lay covered with a coarse white sheet, which was the last one left of those which old Oliver's wife had spun in her girlhood. The old man had given his promise to go to bed when Mr. Ross and the doctor were gone; and he slept lightly, his face turned towards the place where his little love was sleeping. A faint light burnt all night in the room, and Tony, who could not fall asleep, sat in the chimney-corner, with Beppo upon his knees. There was an unutterable, quiet sorrow within him, mingled with a strange awe. That little child, who had played with him, and kissed him only a day since, was already gone into the unseen world, which was so very near to him now, though it had seemed so very far away and so empty before. It must be very near, since she had gone to it so quickly; and it was no longer empty, for Dolly was there; and she had said she would watch at the door till he came home.
CHAPTER XX.
A FRESH DAY DAWNS.
Old Oliver and Tony saw their darling buried in a little grave in a cemetery miles away from their own home, and then they returned, desolate and bereaved, to the deserted city, which seemed empty indeed to them. The house had never looked so very dark and dreary before. Yet from time to time old Oliver forgot that Dolly was gone altogether, and could never come back; for he would call her in his eager, quavering tones, or search for her in some of the hiding-places, where she had often played at hide-and-seek with him. When mealtimes came round he would put out Dolly's plate and cup, which had been bought on purpose for her, with gay flowers painted upon them; and in the evening, over his pipe, when he had been used to talk to his Lord, he now very often said nothing but repeat again and again Dolly's little prayer, which he had himself taught her, "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild." It was quite plain to Tony that it would never do to leave him alone in his house and shop.
"I've give up my place as errand-boy," he said to Mr. Ross, "'cause the old master grows worse and worse for forgetting, and I must mind shop for him now as well as I can. He's not off his head, as you may say; he's sharp enough sometimes; but there's no trusting to him being sharp always. He talks to Dolly as if she was here, and could hear him, till I can't hardly bear it. But I'm very fond of him,—fonder of him than anythink else, 'cept my little Dolly; and I've made up my mind as his Master shall be my master, and he's always ready to tell me all he knows about him. I'm no ways afeared of not getting along."
Tony found that they got along very well. Mr. Ross made a point of going in to visit them every week, and of seeing how the business prospered in the boy's hands; and he put as much as he could in his way. Sad and sorrowful as the days were, they passed over, one after another, bringing with them at least the habit of living without Dolly. Every Sunday afternoon, however, old Oliver and Tony walked slowly through the streets, for the old man could only creep along with Tony's help, till they reached the Children's Hospital; but they never passed the door, nor entered in through it. Old Oliver would stand for a few minutes leaning heavily on Tony's shoulder, and trembling from head to foot, as his eyes wandered over all the front of the building; and then a low, wailing cry would break from his lips, "Dear Lord! there was no room for my little love, but thou hast found room for her!"
It was a reopening of Tony's sorrow when Aunt Charlotte came up from the country to find that the little child had gone away altogether, leaving only her tiny frocks and clothes, which were neatly folded up in a drawer, where old Oliver treasured up a keepsake or two of his wife's. She discovered, too, that old Oliver had forgotten to write to Susan,—indeed, his hand had become too trembling to hold a pen,—and she wrote herself; but her letter did not reach Calcutta before Susan and her husband had left it, being homeward bound.
It was as nearly two years as it could well be since the summer evening when Susan Raleigh had sent her little girl into old Oliver's shop, bidding her be a good girl till she came home, and thinking it would be only three days before she saw her again. It was nearly two years, and an evening something like it, when the door was darkened by the entrance of a tall, fine-looking man, dressed as a soldier, but with one empty sleeve looped up across his chest. Tony was busy behind the counter wrapping up magazines, which he was going to take out the next morning, and the soldier looked very inquisitively at him.
"Hallo! my lad, who are you?" he asked, in a tone of surprise.