To wind up, there came the agreeable fever of getting Miss Melluka and all her wardrobe and rich possessions into a fly with Polly, to be taken home.  But, by that time, Polly had become unable to look upon such accumulated joys with waking eyes, and had withdrawn her consciousness into the wonderful Paradise of a child’s sleep.  “Sleep, Polly, sleep,” said Barbox Brothers, as her head dropped on his shoulder; “you shall not fall out of this bed easily, at any rate!”

What rustling piece of paper he took from his pocket, and carefully folded into the bosom of Polly’s frock, shall not be mentioned.  He said nothing about it, and nothing shall be said about it.  They drove to a modest suburb of the great ingenious town, and stopped at the fore-court of a small house.  “Do not wake the child,” said Barbox Brothers softly to the driver; “I will carry her in as she is.”

Greeting the light at the opened door which was held by Polly’s mother, Polly’s bearer passed on with mother and child in to a ground-floor room.  There, stretched on a sofa, lay a sick man, sorely wasted, who covered his eyes with his emaciated hand.

“Tresham,” said Barbox in a kindly voice, “I have brought you back your Polly, fast asleep.  Give me your hand, and tell me you are better.”

The sick man reached forth his right hand, and bowed his head over the hand into which it was taken, and kissed it.  “Thank you, thank you!  I may say that I am well and happy.”

“That’s brave,” said Barbox.  “Tresham, I have a fancy—­Can you make room for me beside you here?”

He sat down on the sofa as he said the words, cherishing the plump peachey cheek that lay uppermost on his shoulder.

“I have a fancy, Tresham (I am getting quite an old fellow now, you know, and old fellows may take fancies into their heads sometimes), to give up Polly, having found her, to no one but you.  Will you take her from me?”

As the father held out his arms for the child, each of the two men looked steadily at the other.

“She is very dear to you, Tresham?”

“Unutterably dear.”

“God bless her!  It is not much, Polly,” he continued, turning his eyes upon her peaceful face as he apostrophized her, “it is not much, Polly, for a blind and sinful man to invoke a blessing on something so far better than himself as a little child is; but it would be much—­much upon his cruel head, and much upon his guilty soul—­if he could be so wicked as to invoke a curse.  He had better have a millstone round his neck, and be cast into the deepest sea.  Live and thrive, my pretty baby!” Here he kissed her.  “Live and prosper, and become in time the mother of other little children, like the Angels who behold The Father’s face!”

He kissed her again, gave her up gently to both her parents, and went out.

But he went not to Wales.  No, he never went to Wales.  He went straightway for another stroll about the town, and he looked in upon the people at their work, and at their play, here, there, every-there, and where not.  For he was Barbox Brothers and Co. now, and had taken thousands of partners into the solitary firm.