When before had the dreary walls of that poor hovel echoed to the happy voice of a light-hearted child? But there was another echo to the voice, and from walls as long a stranger to such sounds as these—the walls in the chambers of that poor man's memory. A wellnigh lost and ruined soul was listening to the far-off voices of children. Sunny-haired little ones were thronging about him; he was looking into their tender eyes; their soft arms were clinging to his neck; he was holding them tightly clasped to his bosom.
“Baby,” he said. It was the word that came most naturally to his lips.
Andy, who was sitting where a few sunbeams came in through a rent in the wall, with the warm light on his head, turned and looked into the bleared but friendly eyes gazing at him so earnestly.
“I'm going out, baby. Will you stay here till I come back?”
“Yes,” answered the child, “I'll stay.”
“I won't be gone very long, and I'll bring you an apple and something good for dinner.”
Andy's face lit up and his eyes danced.
“Don't go out until I come back. Somebody might carry you off, and then I couldn't give you the nice red apple.”
“I'll stay right here,” said Andy, in a positive tone.
“And won't go into the street till I come back?”