"I'm Antony Oliver," he said; for of late he had taken to call himself by his old master's name.
"Antony Oliver!" repeated the stranger; "I never heard of you before."
"Well, I'm only Tony," he answered; "but I live with old Mr. Oliver now, and call him grandfather. He likes it, and it does me good. It's like somebody belonging to me."
"Why! how long have you called him grandfather?" asked the soldier again.
"Ever since our little Dolly died," said Tony, in a faltering voice.
"Dolly dead!" exclaimed the man, looking ready to fall down; for his face went very white, and he leaned upon the counter with his one hand. "Oh! my poor Susan!—my poor, dear girl!—however can I tell her this bad news?"
"Who are you?" cried Tony. "Are you Dolly's father? Oh, she's dead! She died last January, and we are more lonesome without her than you can think."
"Let me see poor Susan's father," he said, after a minute or two, and with a very troubled face.
"Ay, come in," said Tony, lifting up the flap of the counter, under which Dolly had so often played at hide-and-seek. "He's more hisself again; but his memory's bad yet. I know everythink about her, though; because she was so fond of me, and me of her. Come in."
Raleigh entered the room, and saw old Oliver sitting in his arm-chair, with a pipe in his hand, and a very tranquil look upon his wrinkled face. The gas-light shone upon the glittering epaulettes and white sash of the soldier, and the old man fastened upon him a very keen, yet doubtful gaze of inquiry.