“No, never,” replied Tony.  “A tall, thin gentleman, with a dark face and very sharp eyes, gave it me for holding his horse, near Temple Bar.  He says, ‘Mind you spend that well, my lad.’  I’d know him again anywhere.”

“You ought to have bought a broom,” said Oliver, looking down at Dolly’s tightly-closed hand.

“Don’t you go to take it of her,” cried Tony.  “Bless you!  I’ll get another some way.  I never thought that were the way he’d give me a broom and a crossing.  I thought it ’ud be sure to come direct.”

“Well,” said Oliver, after a little pause, “I’ll save the fourpence for you.  It’ll only be going without my pipe for a few nights, that’s all.  That’s nothing, Tony.”

It did not seem much to Tony, who had no idea as yet of the pleasures of smoking; yet he roused up just before falling into his deep sleep at night to step softly to the door, and look in upon Oliver.  He was sitting in his arm-chair, with his pipe between his lips, but there was no tobacco in it; and he was holding more eager converse than ever with his unseen companion.

“Dear Lord!” he said, “I’d do ten times more than this for thee.  Thou hast said, ’Inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye did it unto me.’  Tony’s one of thy little ones.  Dear Lord, do thee give him a crossing, if it be thy blessed will.  Do thee now, Lord.”

Tony could hear no more, and he stole back to bed, his mind full of new and vague hopes.  He dreamed of the fourpenny piece, and the gentleman who had given it, and of Dolly, who bought a wondrous broom with it, in his dream, which swept a beautiful crossing of itself.  But old Oliver sat still a long time, talking half aloud; for his usual drowsiness did not come to him.  It was nearly five months now since Dolly was left to him, and he felt his deafness and blindness growing upon him slowly.  His infirmities were not yet so burdensome as to make him dependent upon others; but he felt himself gradually drawing near to such a state.  Dolly’s clothes were getting sadly in want of mending; there was scarcely a fastening left upon them, and neither he nor Tony could sew on a button or tape.  It was a long time—­a very long time—­since his sister had been to see him; and, with the reluctancy of old age to any active exertion, he had put off from week to week the task of writing to her to tell her of Susan’s departure, and the charge he had in his little grandchild.  He made up his mind that he would do it tomorrow.

CHAPTER IX.

A new broom and A crossing.