acting then-suddenly stopped, clasped the child in his arms, and murmured
in broken accents,--"But if I see you thus cast down, I shall have no
strength left to hobble on through the world; and the sooner I lie down,
and the dust is shovelled over me, why, the better for you; for it seems
that Heaven sends you friends, and I tear you from them."

And then Sophy fairly gave way to her sobs: she twined her little arms
round the old man's neck convulsively, kissed his rough face with
imploring pathetic fondness, and forced out through her tears, "Don't
talk so! I've been ungrateful and wicked. I don't care for any one but
my own dear, dear Grandy."

After this little scene, they both composed themselves, and felt much
lighter of heart. They pursued their journey, no longer apart, but side
by side, and the old man leaning, though very lightly, on the child's
arm. But there was no immediate reaction from gloom to gayety. Waife
began talking in softened undertones, and vaguely, of his own past
afflictions; and partial as was the reference, how vast did the old man's
sorrows seem beside the child's regrets; and yet he commented on them as
if rather in pitying her state than grieving for his own.

"Ah, at your age, my darling, I had not your troubles and hardships. I
had not to trudge these dusty roads on foot with a broken-down good-for-
nothing scatterling; I trod rich carpets, and slept under silken
curtains. I took the air in gay carriages,--I such a scapegrace; and
you, little child, you so good! All gone, all melted away from me, and
not able now to be sure that you will have a crust of bread this day
week."

"Oh, yes! I shall have bread, and you too, Grandy," cried Sophy, with