were his
little boy's,--at least so he said. And it was his whim when doing
some kind and tender thing to lay it to little Abel, of whom he always
spoke as if he were still living. His workmen, his neighbors, his
townsmen,--all alike felt the graciousness of the wondrous change, and
many, ah! many a lowly sufferer blessed that broken old man for succor
in little Abel's name. And the old man was indeed much broken: not
that he had parted with his shrewdness and acumen, for, as of old, his
every venture prospered; but in this particular his mind seemed
weakened; that, as I have said, he fancied his child lived, that he was
given to low muttering and incoherent mumblings, of which the burden
seemed to be that child of his, and that his greatest pleasure appeared
now to be watching other little ones at their play. In fact, so
changed was he from the Old Growly of former years, that, whereas he
had then been wholly indifferent to the presence of those little ones
upon earth, he now sought their company, and delighted to view their
innocent and mirthful play. And so, presently, the children, from
regarding him at first with distrust, came to confide in and love him,
and in due time the old man was known far and wide as Old Grampa
Growly, and he was pleased thereat. It was his wont to go every fair
day, of an afternoon, into a park hard by his dwelling, and mingle with
the crowd of little folk there; and when they were weary of their
sports they used to gather about him,--some even clambering upon his
knees,--and hear him tell his story, for he had only one story to tell,
and that was the story that lay next his heart,--the story ever and
forever beginning with, "Once ther' wuz a littl' boy." A very tender
little story it was, too, told very much more sweetly than I could ever
tell it; for it was of Old Grampa Growly's own little boy, and it came
from that heart in which the touch--the touch of God Himself--lay like
a priceless pearl.

So you must know that the last years of the old man's life made full
atonement for those that had gone before. People forgot that the old
man had ever been other than he was now, and of course the children
never knew otherwise. But as for himself, Old Grampa Growly grew
tenderer and tenderer, and his goodness became a household word, and he
was beloved of all. And to the very last he loved the little ones, and
shared their pleasures, and sympathized with them in their griefs, but
alw