“I’ve give up my place as errand-boy,” he said to Mr. Ross, “’cause the old master grows worse and worse for forgetting, and I must mind shop for him now as well as I can.  He’s not off his head, as you may say; he’s sharp enough sometimes; but there’s no trusting to him being sharp always.  He talks to Dolly as if she was here, and could hear him, till I can’t hardly bear it.  But I’m very fond of him,—­fonder of him than anythink else, ’cept my little Dolly; and I’ve made up my mind as his Master shall be my master, and he’s always ready to tell me all he knows about him.  I’m no ways afeared of not getting along.”

Tony found that they got along very well.  Mr. Ross made a point of going in to visit them every week, and of seeing how the business prospered in the boy’s hands; and he put as much as he could in his way.  Sad and sorrowful as the days were, they passed over, one after another, bringing with them at least the habit of living without Dolly.  Every Sunday afternoon, however, old Oliver and Tony walked slowly through the streets, for the old man could only creep along with Tony’s help, till they reached the Children’s Hospital; but they never passed the door, nor entered in through it.  Old Oliver would stand for a few minutes leaning heavily on Tony’s shoulder, and trembling from head to foot, as his eyes wandered over all the front of the building; and then a low, wailing cry would break from his lips, “Dear Lord! there was no room for my little love, but thou hast found room for her!”

It was a reopening of Tony’s sorrow when Aunt Charlotte came up from the country to find that the little child had gone away altogether, leaving only her tiny frocks and clothes, which were neatly folded up in a drawer, where old Oliver treasured up a keepsake or two of his wife’s.  She discovered, too, that old Oliver had forgotten to write to Susan,—­indeed, his hand had become too trembling to hold a pen,—­and she wrote herself; but her letter did not reach Calcutta before Susan and her husband had left it, being homeward bound.

It was as nearly two years as it could well be since the summer evening when Susan Raleigh had sent her little girl into old Oliver’s shop, bidding her be a good girl till she came home, and thinking it would be only three days before she saw her again.  It was nearly two years, and an evening something like it, when the door was darkened by the entrance of a tall, fine-looking man, dressed as a soldier, but with one empty sleeve looped up across his chest.  Tony was busy behind the counter wrapping up magazines, which he was going to take out the next morning, and the soldier looked very inquisitively at him.

“Hallo! my lad, who are you?” he asked, in a tone of surprise.

“I’m Antony Oliver,” he said; for of late he had taken to call himself by his old master’s name.

“Antony Oliver!” repeated the stranger; “I never heard of you before.”

“Well, I’m only Tony,” he answered; “but I live with old Mr. Oliver now, and call him grandfather.  He likes it, and it does me good.  It’s like somebody belonging to me.”