“Yes, yes; he’d be very angry,” said old Oliver, thoughtfully; “it ’ud grieve him to his heart.  Why, he’s always loved little children, and never had them turned away from himself, whatever he was doing.  If she hadn’t been my own little girl, I daren’t have turned her out of my doors.  No, no, dear Lord, thee knows as I’d have taken care of her, for thy sake.”

He spoke absently, in a low voice, as though talking to some person whom Tony could not see, and the boy was silent a minute or two, thinking busily.

“How long have you worked for that master o’ yours?” he asked, at last.

“Not very long,” replied Oliver, regretfully.  “I used to fancy I was working for him years and years ago; but, dear me! it was poor sort o’work; and now I can’t do very much.  Only he knows how old I am, and he doesn’t care so that I love him, which I do, Tony.”

“I should think so!” said the boy, falling again into busy thought, from which he aroused himself by getting up from his box, and rubbing his fingers through his wet and tangled hair.

“He takes to children and little ’uns?” he said, in a questioning tone.

“Ay, dearly!” answered old Oliver.

“I reckon he’d scarcely take me for a man yet,” said Tony, at the same time drawing himself up to his full height; “though I don’t know as I should care to work for him.  I’d rather have a crossing, and be my own master.  But if I get hard up, do you think he’d take to me, if you spoke a word for me?”

“Are you sure you don’t know anything about him?” asked Oliver.

“Not I; how should I?” answered Tony.  “Why, you don’t s’pose as I know all the great folks in London, though I’ve seen sights and sights of ’em riding about in their carriages.  I told you I weren’t much bigger nor her there when mother died, and I’ve picked up my living up and down the streets anyhow, and other lads have helped me on, till I can help ’em on now.  It don’t cost much to keep a boy on the streets.  There’s nothink to pay for coals, or rent, or beds, or furniture, or anythink; only your victuals, and a rag now and then.  All I want’s a broom and a crossing, and then shouldn’t I get along just?  But I don’t know how to get ’em.”

“Perhaps the Lord Jesus would give them to you, if you’d ask him,” said Oliver, earnestly.

“Who’s he?” inquired Tony, with an eager face.

“Him—­Christ.  It’s his other name,” answered the old man.

“Ah!  I see,” he said, nodding.  “Well, if I can’t get ’em myself, I’ll think about it.  He’ll want me to work for him, you know.  Where does he live?”

“I’ll tell you all about him, if you’ll come to see me,” replied Oliver.

“Well,” said the boy, “I’ll just look in after Friday, and see if the little ’un’s mother’s come back.  Goodbye,—­good-bye, little miss.”

He could take Dolly’s hand into his own this morning, and he looked down curiously at it,—­a small, rosy, dimpled hand, such as he had never seen before so closely.  A lump rose in his throat, and his eyelids smarted with tears again.  It was such a little thing, such a pretty little thing, he said to himself, covering it fondly with his other hand.  There was no fear that Tony would forget to come back to old Oliver’s house.