t 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.

"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