Tony made no answer.  He sat with his sharp, unboyish face gazing intently into the fire; for by this time autumn had set in, and the old man was chilly of an evening.  A very uncertain, dim idea was dawning upon him that this master and friend of old Oliver’s was a being very different from an ordinary man, however great and rich he might be.  He had grown to love the thought of him, and to listen attentively to the book which told the manner of life he led; but it was a chill to find out that he could not look into his face, and hear his voice, as he could Oliver’s.  His heart was heavy, and very sad.

“I s’pose I can’t see him, then,” he murmured to himself, at last.

“Not exactly like other folks,” said Oliver.  “I think sometimes that perhaps there’s a little darkness of the grave where he was buried about him still.  But he sees us, and hears us.  He himself says, ’Behold, I am with you always.’  I don’t know whatever I should do, even with my little love here, if I wasn’t sure Jesus was with me as well.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Tony, after another pause.  “I’m going to ask him to give me somethink, and then if he does, I shall know he hears me—­I should very much like to have a broom and a crossing, and get my living a bit more easy, if you please.”

He had turned his face away from Oliver, and looked across into the darkest corner of the room, where he could see nothing but shadow.  The old man felt puzzled, and somewhat troubled, but he only sighed softly to himself; and opening the Testament, he read aloud in it till he was calmed again, and Tony was listening in rapt attention.

“My boy,” he said, as the hour came for Tony to go, “where are you sleeping now?”

“Anywhere as I can get out o’ the wind,” he answered.  “It’s cold now, nights—­wery cold, master.  But I must get along a bit farder on.  Lodgings is wery dear.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Oliver, “that you’d find it better to have some sort of a shake-down under my counter.  I’ve heard say that newspapers stitched together make a coverlid pretty near as warm as a blanket; and we could do no harm by trying them, Tony.  Look here, and see how you’d like it.”

It looked very much like a long box, and was not much larger.  Two or three beetles crawled sluggishly away as the light fell upon them, and dusty cobwebs festooned all the corners; but to Tony it seemed so magnificent an accommodation for sleeping, that he could scarcely believe he heard old Oliver aright.  He looked up into his face with a sharp, incredulous gaze, ready to wink and thrust his tongue into his cheek, if there was the least sign of making game of him.  But the old man was simply in earnest, and without a word Tony slipped down upon a heap of paper shavings strewed within, drew his ragged jacket up about his ears, and turned his face away, lest his tears should be seen.  He felt, a minute or two after, that a piece of an old rug was laid over him, but he could say nothing; and old Oliver could not hear the sob which broke from his lips.