“If only my little love had had a bit of sunshine!” he said, with a mournful and tender patience in his feeble voice.

But just then—­scarcely had he finished speaking—­there came a shrill, merry little scream behind them, so like Dolly’s, that both old Oliver and Tony turned round quickly.  It could not be the same, for this little child was even smaller than Dolly; but as she came pattering and tottering down the garden-walk towards them, they saw that she had the same fair curly hair, and blue eyes, and rosy cheeks that Dolly had had two years before.  She ran and hid her face in her mother’s gown; but Susan lifted her into her arms, and held her towards old Oliver.

“Say grand-pa, and kiss him, Polly,” she said, coaxingly.

The little child held back shyly for a minute, for old Oliver’s head was shaking much more than usual now; but at length she put her two soft little hands to his face, and held it between them, while she kissed him.

“Gan-pa!” she cried, crowing and chuckling with delight.

They went indoors to the pleasant parlour, where old Oliver’s arm-chair was set ready for him by the side of the fire, for Susan had kindled a fire, saying that he would feel the fresh air blowing from the Wrekin; and Polly sat first on his knee, and then upon Tony’s, who could not keep his eyes from following all her movements.  But still it was not their own Dolly who had made the old house in the close alley in London so happy and so merry for them.  She was gone home to the Father’s house, and was watching for them there.  Tony might be a long time before he joined her, but for old Oliver the parting would be but short.  As he sat in the evening dusk, very peacefully and contentedly, while Susan sang Polly to sleep in the kitchen, Tony heard him say half aloud, as his custom was, “Yet a little, and I will come again, and receive you unto myself, that where I am ye may be also.  Even so, come, Lord Jesus!”