“None—­and I am sorry for it.”

This one gracious speech affected poor Hope so that he could not speak for a moment.  Then he fought for manly dignity, and said, with a lamentable mixture of sham sprightliness and real anguish, “Thank you, sir; I only trust that you will always find servants as devoted to your interest as my gratitude would have made me.  Good-morning, sir.”  He clapped his hat on with a sprightly, ghastly air, and marched off resolutely.

But ere he reached the door, Nature overpowered the father’s heart; way went Bolton’s instructions; away went fictitious deportment and feigned cheerfulness.  The poor wretch uttered a cry, indeed a scream, of anguish, that would have thrilled ten thousand hearts had they heard it; he dashed his hat on the ground, and rushed toward Bartley, with both hands out—­“For god’s sake don’t send me away—­my child is starving!”

Even Bartley was moved.  “Your child!” said he, with some little feeling.  This slight encouragement was enough for a father.  His love gushed forth.  “A little golden-haired, blue-eyed angel, who is all the world to me.  We have walked here from Liverpool, where I had just buried her mother.  God help me!  God help us both!  Many a weary mile, sir, and never sure of supper or bed.  The birds of the air have nests, the beasts of the field a shelter, the fox a hole, but my beautiful and fragile girl, only four years old, sir, is houseless and homeless.  Her mother died of consumption, sir, and I live in mortal fear; for now she is beginning to cough, and I can not give her proper nourishment.  Often on this fatal journey I have felt her shiver, and then I have taken off my coat and wrapped it round her, and her beautiful eyes have looked up in mine, and seemed to plead for the warmth and food I’d sell my soul to give her.”

“Poor fellow,” said Bartley; “I suppose I ought to pity you.  But how can I?  Man—­man—­your child is alive, and while there is life there is hope; but mine is dead—­dead!” he almost shrieked.

“Dead!” said Hope, horrified.

“Dead,” cried Bartley.  “Cut off at four years old, the very age of yours.  There—­go and judge for yourself.  You are a father.  I can’t look upon my blasted hopes, and my withered flower.  Go and see my blue-eyed, fair-haired darling—­clay, hastening to the tomb; and you will trouble me no more with your imaginary griefs.”  He flung himself down with his head on his desk.

Hope, following the direction of his hand, opened the door of the house, and went softly forward till he met the nurse.  He told her Mr. Bartley wished him to see the deceased.  The nurse hesitated, but looked at him.  His sad face inspired confidence, and she ushered him into the chamber of mourning.  There, laid out in state, was a little figure that, seen in the dim light, drew a cry of dismay from Hope.  He had left his own girl sleeping, and looking like tinted wax.  Here lay a little face the very image of hers, only this was pale wax.