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