The doctor and Mr. Ross went on into the inner room, and Tony pointed silently to the bed where Dolly lay.  Old Oliver roused himself at the sound of strange voices, and, leaning upon Tony’s shoulder, he staggered to the bedside, and drew the clothes away from her dear, smiling face.

“I don’t murmur,” he said.  “My dear Lord can’t do anything unkind.  He’ll come and speak to me presently, and comfort me; but just now I’m deaf and blind, even to him.  I’ve not forgot him, and he hasn’t forgot me; but there’s a many things ought to be done, and I cannot think what.”

“Leave it all to us,” said Mr. Ross, leading him back to his chair.  “But have you no neighbour you can go and stay with for to-night?  You are an old man, and you must not lose your night’s sleep.”

“No,” he answered, shaking his head; “I’d rather stay here in my own place, if I’d a hundred other places to go to.  I’m not afraid of my little love,—­no, no!  When everything is done as ought to be done, I’ll lie in my own bed and watch her.  It won’t be lonesome, as long as she’s here.”

In an hour’s time all was settled for that night.  A little resting-place had been made for the dead child in a corner of the room, where she lay covered with a coarse white sheet, which was the last one left of those which old Oliver’s wife had spun in her girlhood.  The old man had given his promise to go to bed when Mr. Ross and the doctor were gone; and he slept lightly, his face turned towards the place where his little love was sleeping.  A faint light burnt all night in the room, and Tony, who could not fall asleep, sat in the chimney-corner, with Beppo upon his knees.  There was an unutterable, quiet sorrow within him, mingled with a strange awe.  That little child, who had played with him, and kissed him only a day since, was already gone into the unseen world, which was so very near to him now, though it had seemed so very far away and so empty before.  It must be very near, since she had gone to it so quickly; and it was no longer empty, for Dolly was there; and she had said she would watch at the door till he came home.

CHAPTER XX.

A fresh day dawns.

Old Oliver and Tony saw their darling buried in a little grave in a cemetery miles away from their own home, and then they returned, desolate and bereaved, to the deserted city, which seemed empty indeed to them.  The house had never looked so very dark and dreary before.  Yet from time to time old Oliver forgot that Dolly was gone altogether, and could never come back; for he would call her in his eager, quavering tones, or search for her in some of the hiding-places, where she had often played at hide-and-seek with him.  When mealtimes came round he would put out Dolly’s plate and cup, which had been bought on purpose for her, with gay flowers painted upon them; and in the evening, over his pipe, when he had been used to talk to his Lord, he now very often said nothing but repeat again and again Dolly’s little prayer, which he had himself taught her, “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.”  It was quite plain to Tony that it would never do to leave him alone in his house and shop.