child more fondly than the old beggar loved his dog. And well he might,
for he was his companion by day, his guard by night, and the means by
which he eked out the sometime scant living that the fickle charity of
the world flung to him. How often have I seen the old man take him in
his arms and hug him to his breast, that had, I fancy, so many bitter
memories in it; and how often have I seen the dog lap with gentle and
caressing tongue the tears as they rolled down the furrowed cheeks, when
the fountain of grief within was stirred by the angel of recollection.
But it was from the sympathy of his faithful and loving companion, and
not from the moving of the bitter waters, that his aching heart found
consolation.

Tell you about the man? Why, certainly; but there isn't much to tell.
You see, no one knew much of him, for he seldom if ever spoke of
himself. I suppose I knew him better than anyone on his beat here, for I
fell in love with his dog, and with himself, too, for that matter, for,
in the first place, he was old, and whoever saw a white head and didn't
love it, and whoever looked upon a wrinkled face and didn't wish to kiss
it, if it was peaceful, and the old man's head was as white as snow is,
and the peacefulness of a sleeping child hovered over the sadness of his
face, albeit the shadow of a sorrowful past lay darkly resting upon it.
But though I saw much of him as he swung around on his annual visit, and
though he looked upon me as his friend--as, indeed, I was, and proved
myself to be such more than once, thank God!--still he never offered to
tell me his history, and I certainly never questioned him about it. For
life is a secret thing, and each man holds the key to his own; and only
once, if at all, may it be opened, and even then only the Father is
gentle and forgiving enough to look upon the wheat and the chaff which
we in our grief or joy keep closely locked from human eyes.