on the contrary, would be thinking of him, and the Thames and the
butterflies, and find hard life still more irksome. Of all this, and
much more, in the general way of consolers who set out on the principle
that grief is a matter of logic, did Gentleman Waife deliver himself
with a vigour of ratiocination which admitted of no reply, and conveyed
not a particle of comfort. And feeling this, that great actor--not that
he was acting then-suddenly stopped, clasped the child in his arms, and
murmured in broken accents,--"But if I see you thus cast down, I shall
have no strength left to hobble on through the world; and the sooner I
lie down, and the dust is shovelled over me, why, the better for you;
for it seems that Heaven sends you friends, and I tear you from them."

And then Sophy fairly gave way to her sobs: she twined her little
arms round the old man's neck convulsively, kissed his rough face with
imploring pathetic fondness, and forced out through her tears, "Don't
talk so! I've been ungrateful and wicked. I don't care for any one but
my own dear, dear Grandy."

After this little scene, they both composed themselves, and felt much
lighter of heart. They pursued their journey, no longer apart, but side
by side, and the old man leaning, though very lightly, on the child's
arm. But there was no immediate reaction from gloom to gayety. Waife
began talking in softened undertones, and vaguely, of his own past
afflictions; and partial as was the reference, how vast did the old
man's sorrows seem beside the child's regrets; and yet he commented on
them as if rather in pitying her state than grieving for his own.

"Ah, at your age, my darling, I had not your troubles and hardships.
I had not to trudge these dusty roads on foot with a broken-down
good-for-nothing scatterling; I trod rich carpets, and slept under
silken curtains. I took the air in gay carriages,--I such a scapegrace;
and you, little child, you so good! All gone, all melted away from me,
and not able now to be sure that you will have a crust of bread this day
week."

"Oh, yes! I shall have bread, and you too, Grandy," cried Sophy, with
cheerful voice. "It was you who taught me to pray to God, and said that
in all your troubles God had been good to you: and He has been so good
to me since I prayed to Him; for I have no dreadful Mrs. Crane to beat
me now, and say things more hard to bear than beating; and you have
taken me to yourself. How I prayed for that! An