but ourselves in the house. I took advantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a hint on this point, to which the old man replied that there were few grown persons as trustworthy or as careful as she.
‘It always grieves me,’ I observed, roused by what I took to be his selfishness, ‘it always grieves me to contemplate the initiation of children into the ways of life, when they are scarcely more than infants. It checks their confidence and simplicity—two of the best qualities that Heaven gives them—and demands that they share our sorrows before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments.’
‘It will never check hers,’ said the old man looking steadily at me, ‘the springs are too deep. Besides, the children of the poor know but few pleasures. Even the cheap delights of childhood must be bought and paid for.’
‘But—forgive me for saying this—you are surely not so very poor’—said I.
‘She is not my child, sir,’ returned the old man. ‘Her mother was, and she was poor. I save nothing—not a penny—though I live as you see, but’—he laid his hand upon my arm and leant forward to whisper—‘she shall be rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don’t you think ill of me because I use her help. She gives it cheerfully as you see, and it would break her heart if she knew that I suffered anybody else to do for me what her little hands could undertake. I don’t consider!’—he cried with sudden querulousness, ‘why, God knows that this one child is the thought and object of my life, and yet he never prospers me—no, never!’
At this juncture, the subject of our conversation again returned, and the old man motioning to me to approach the table, broke off, and said no more.
We had scarcely begun our repast when there was a knock at the door by which I had entered, and Nell bursting into a hearty laugh, which I was rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full of hilarity, said it was no doubt dear old Kit coming back at last.
‘Foolish Nell!’ said the old man fondling with her hair. ‘She always laughs at poor Kit.’
The child laughed again more heartily than before, and I could not help smiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle and went to open the door. When he came back, Kit was at his heels.
Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an uncommonly wide mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and certainly the most comical expression of face I ever saw. He stopped short at the door on seeing a stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat without any vestige of a brim, and resting himself now on one leg and now on the other and changing them constantly, stood in the doorway, looking into the parlour with the most extraordinary leer I ever beheld. I entertained a grateful feeling towards the boy from that minute, for I felt that he was the comedy of the child’s life.
‘A long way, wasn’t it, Kit?’ said the little old man.
‘Why, then, it was a goodish stretch, master,’ returned Kit.
‘Of course you have come back hungry?’
‘Why, then, I do consider myself rather so, master,’ was the answer.
The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways as he spoke, and thrusting his head forward over his shoulder, as if he could not get at his voice without that accompanying action. I think he would have amused one anywhere, but the child’s exquisite enjoyment of his oddity, and the relief it was to find that there was something she associated with merriment in a place that appeared so unsuited to her, were quite irresistible. It was a great point too that Kit himself was flattered by the sensation he created, and after several efforts to preserve his gravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his mouth wide open and his eyes nearly shut, laughing violently.
The old man had again relapsed into his former abstraction and took no notice of what passed, but I remarked that when her laugh was over, the child’s bright eyes were dimmed with tears, called forth by the fullness of heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite after the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself (whose laugh had been all the time one of that sort which very little would change into a cry) he carried a large slice of bread and meat and a mug of beer into a corner, and applied himself to disposing of them with great voracity.
‘Ah!’ said the old man turning to me with a sigh, as if I had spoken to him but that moment, ‘you don’t know what you say when you tell me that I don’t consider her.’
‘You must not attach too great weight to a remark founded on first appearances, my friend,’ said I.
‘No,’ returned the old man thoughtfully, ‘no. Come hither, Nell.’
The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm about his neck.
‘Do I love thee, Nell?’ said he. ‘Say—do I love thee, Nell, or no?’
The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her head upon his breast.
‘Why dost thou sob?’ said the grandfather, pressing her closer to him and glancing towards me. ‘Is it because thou know’st I love thee, and dost not like that I should seem to doubt it by my question? Well, well—then let us say I love thee dearly.’
‘Indeed, indeed you do,’ replied the child with great earnestness, ‘Kit knows you do.’
Kit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been swallowing two-thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a juggler, stopped short in his operations on being thus appealed to, and bawled ‘Nobody isn’t such a fool as to say he doosn’t,’ after which he incapacitated himself for further conversation by taking a most prodigious sandwich at one bite.
‘She is poor now’—said the old man, patting the child’s cheek, ‘but I say again that the time is coming when she shall be rich. It has been a long time coming, but it must come at last; a very long time, but it surely must come. It has come to other men who do nothing but waste and riot. When will it come to me!’
‘I am very happy as I am, grandfather,’ said the child.
‘Tush, tush!’ returned the old man, ‘thou dost not know—how should’st thou!’ then he muttered again between his teeth, ‘The time must come, I am very sure it must. It will be all the better for coming late’; and then he sighed and fell into his former musing state, and still holding the child between his knees appeared to be insensible to everything around him. By this time it wanted but a few minutes of midnight and I rose to go, which recalled him to himself.
‘One moment, sir,’ he said, ‘Now, Kit—near midnight, boy, and you still here! Get home, get home, and be true to your time in the morning, for there’s work to do. Good night! There, bid him good night, Nell, and let him be gone!’
‘Good night, Kit,’ said the child, her eyes lighting up with merriment and kindness.
‘Good night, Miss Nell,’ returned the boy.
‘And thank this gentleman,’ interposed the old man, ‘but for whose care I might have lost my little girl to-night.’
‘No, no, master,’ said Kit, ‘that won’t do, that won’t.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried the old man.
‘I’d have found her, master,’ said Kit, ‘I’d have found her. I’ll bet that I’d find her if she was above ground,
