to Stoney-alley, not twenty yards from where her mother had died. A room in an attic, which had been thoroughly cleaned and made tidy for the return of the prodigal. No furniture to speak of; a fire, and a saucepan on the hob; a mug of beer, a flat bottle with gin in it; one chair and a stool, and a table; a bed in the corner.
Tom surveys the room with satisfaction beaming in his eyes. Blade-o'-Grass looks at him, and joy breaks like sunlight over her face because he is pleased.
'Drink some beer, Tom.'
He takes a deep draught, puts the jug down, heaves a long breath, and repeats,
'You're a real good sort, Bladergrass. Give us another kiss, old gal!'
ONE OF MANY HAPPY NIGHTS
But that the gray streaks are thickening in Mrs. Silver's hair, and that her husband is fast growing bald, it might have been but yesterday that we were sitting with them in the cosy parlour in Buttercup-square. Everything inanimate is the same as it was seven years ago, and does not appear to have grown any older or shabbier; the very cuckoo in the clock retains its youth, and its tones, as it asserts itself to be the great 'I am,' are as fresh as ever they were. Hark! it is speaking now, and 'Cuck-oo!' issues six times from its throat, sparklingly, as if defying time. It is six o'clock. The days are drawing in, and it is dark enough for lights. But Mr. and Mrs. Silver sit in the dusk before the fire, talking of the matters nearest to their hearts. Their married life has been a happy one-with clouds in it, of course. Natural griefs and sorrows have come to them, as to others. At first a storm threatened their future, but it did not burst over them. The exercise of kindly impulse; the wise and good desire to accept the inevitable, and to make the loneliness of their lives a means of happiness to others; their dependence on one another, and mutual love and faith; their recognition, in their every action, of higher duties of life than are generally acknowledged in practice, – turned the storm to sunshine, brought happiness to them. If they were to die now, they would be blessed with the happy assurance that their lives had been productive of good to others. So might we all live; so should we all live. The world would be the better for it. No man or woman is unblessed with the want of continual opportunity for doing good or being kind.
'Christmas will very soon be here once more,' says Mr. Silver.
'We'll have a merry gathering,' Mrs. Silver answers. 'There will be changes before the next comes round.'
'Yes; our little children are men and women now.'
'Good men and women, thank God!'
'Wife,' he says, 'I have thought many times of your words when I brought little Charley home twenty-three years ago. The child was lying in your lap, and you said, "Perhaps this is the reason why God has given us no children."'
She looks at him with a tender light in her eyes. Between these two love does not show itself in words, but in ministering to each other unselfishly.
'They have been a blessing to us, dear,' she says. 'Our household will be smaller presently. Charley and Ruth, I think, are fond of each other. He brings her home now every night.'
'What did Charley earn last week?
'Thirty-eight shillings.'
'Is that sufficient to marry on?'
'Quite sufficient, and to spare; and Charley has money put by to start with. They must live near us. Charley would like to, I know, and Ruth too; but it will be time enough to talk of these things by and by.'
'Carry your mind ten years on, my dear.'
'Well, I do so.'
'What do you see?'
'If we live?'
'If we live.'
She muses a little, looking into the fire.
'Ourselves old people; Charley and Ruth happily married, with children of their own; Mary married also, although her prince is not yet come, and is a stranger to us. Richard will go abroad: I can tell, by his reading and conversation, that his heart is set upon it. And Rachel-poor Rachel! – stopping sometimes with us, and sometimes-nearly always indeed-with Ruth and Charley. I can see myself with hair perfectly white, and you with only a fringe of white hair round your head.'
He laughs softly and pleasantly, and caresses her hand.
'I can see nothing but happiness, dear.'
They sit quietly before the fire, and the darkness grows deeper. The door opens, and Mr. Merrywhistle enters softly.
'Don't stir,' he says; 'and don't light the gas. I was told you were here, and I know how fond you are of sitting in the dark.'
It was indeed a favourite habit with them when they were alone. He sits by them in silence; for a minute or two no word is spoken. Then Mrs. Silver places her hand lightly on his shoulder.
'I understand, I understand,' he says; 'you are waiting for me to speak. You always know when I am in trouble.'
'How can I help knowing? Your face I cannot see, but I hear your heart in your voice.'
'Tell me: is it a good thing to make other persons' troubles ours?'
'What is sympathy for?' she answers in return.
'I have spoken to you now and again of a child-a girl-whom I have seen occasionally-
'The flower-girl?'
'Yes, the flower-girl; the girl whom I met for the first time in the company of a boy who deceived me-a boy who told me the most unblushing l- stories, and who yet had some humanity in him.'
'That is many years ago. The girl must be almost a woman now.'
'She is a woman, God help her! – more woman than her years warrant I should think she is about the same age as Ruth. And it comes upon me again, that fancy, when I speak of Ruth and think of this poor girl.'
'Yes; you have told us there is a singular likeness between them.'
'It is striking-wonderfully striking. But there can be nothing in it; for Ruth, you have said, was the only child of a poor woman who died a fortnight after the little thing was born.'
'Yes, my friend.'
'So that it is pure accident; but the fancy remains, for all that I shall never forget the sad story that this poor Blade-o'-Grass told me of the tiger that worried her, and clamoured for food. It was hunger, my dear friends, hunger. I shall never forget her notion that Hallelujah came to her while she was asleep, and put baked potatoes in her lap. I shall never forget my pleasure when I first saw her with a basket of flowers, and bought a flower of her. But I have told you of these things before, and here I am babbling of them again, like an old man that has lost his wits.'
'Never mind, friend; go on.'
'I saw poor Blade-o'-Grass this morning. I haven't seen her for many months. I had occasion to pass by a certain prison early, and I saw her, with a dozen others, waiting outside. She was waiting for this boy that was-this man and thief that is. I lingered until the prison doors were opened, and let him and others out. And when he came'-there were tears in the old man's voice as he spoke-'and when he came, this unhappy girl kissed him and clung to him as with less shame she might have kissed and clung to a better man, had she been taught something good when she was younger.'
'My
