What sight was that which met her view?

The bed was smooth and empty.  And at a table sat the old man himself—­the only living creature there—­his white face pinched and sharpened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally bright—­counting the money of which his hands had robbed her.

With steps more unsteady than those with which she had approached the room, the child groped her way back into her own chamber.  The terror which she had lately felt was nothing compared with that which now oppressed her.  The grey-haired old man, gliding like a ghost into her room, and acting the thief, while he supposed her fast asleep, then bearing off his prize, and hanging over it with the ghastly exultation she had witnessed, was far more dreadful than anything her wildest fancy could have suggested.  The feeling which beset her was one of uncertain horror.  She had no fear of the dear old grandfather, but the man she had seen that night seemed like another creature in his shape.  She could scarcely connect her own affectionate companion, save by his loss, with this old man, so like yet so unlike him.  She had wept to see him dull and quiet.  How much greater cause she had for weeping now!

She sat thinking of these things, until she felt it would be a relief to hear his voice, or if he were asleep, even to see him, and so she stole down the passage again.  Looking into the room, she saw him lying calmly on his bed, fast asleep.  She had no fear as she looked upon his slumbering features, but she had a deep and weighty sorrow, and it found its relief in tears.

“God bless him,” said the child, softly kissing his placid cheek.  “I see too well now that they would indeed part us if they found us out, and shut him up from the light of the sun and sky.  He has only me.  God bless us both!”

Lighting her candle, she retreated as silently as she had come, and gaining her own room once more, sat up during the remainder of that long, long miserable night.  Upon searching her pocket on the following morning she found her money was all gone—­not a sixpence remained.

“Grandfather,” she said in a tremulous voice, after they had walked about a mile on their road in silence, “Do you think they are honest people at the house yonder?  I ask because I lost some money last night—­out of my bedroom, I am sure.  Unless it was taken by some one in jest—­only in jest, dear grandfather, which would make me laugh heartily if I could but know it—­”

“Who would take money in jest?” returned the old man in a hurried manner.  “Those who take money, take it to keep.  Don’t talk of jest.”

“Then it was stolen out of my room, dear,” said the child, whose last hope was destroyed by the manner of this reply.

“But is there no more, Nell,” said the old man—­“no more anywhere?  Was it all taken—­was there nothing left?”

“Nothing,” replied the child.