But the warning sound of a neighboring church-clock, as it proclaimed midnight, interrupted the train of his reflections, and he prepared for bed; not neglecting, so strongly was the feeling of suspicion implanted in him, to secure the door by means of a bolt. When he awoke, the sun was shining through the window of his room. He had hardly dressed himself, when a faint knock was heard at the door of his room. Opening it a little ways, he saw Floy standing before him. “What! you here now?” he inquired. “Yes. Where should I go? Besides, I did not want to unlock the front door without your permission.” “That is quite right,” said Martin. “Some one, who was ill-disposed, might have entered and stolen,—that is, if he could have found any thing worth taking.” “And now, sir, if you please, I’ll make your bed,” said the child, entering the room. “I’ve made the one I slept in.” Martin looked on without a word; while Floy, taking his silence for assent, proceeded to roll back the clothes, shake the bed vigorously, and then spread them over again. Espying a broom at one corner of the room, she took it, and swept up the hearth neatly. She then glanced towards the miser, who had been watching her motions, as if to ascertain whether they met with his approval. “So you can work?” said he, after a pause. “Oh, yes! mother used to teach me. I wish,” said she, after a while, brightening up, as if struck with a new idea,—“I wish you would let me stay here: I would make your bed, take care of your room, and keep every thing nice. Besides, I could get your dinners.” “Stay with me! Impossible. I don’t have much to do: besides, I couldn’t afford it.” “It won’t cost you any thing,” said Floy, earnestly. “I know how to sew; and, when I am not doing something for you, I can sew for money, and give it to you.” This idea seemed to produce some impression upon the old miser’s mind. “But how do I know,” said he, a portion of his old suspicions returning,—“how do I know but you will steal off some day, and carry something with you?” “I never steal,” said Floy, half indignantly. “Besides, I have no place to go to, if I should leave here.” This was true; and Martin, considering that it would be against her interest to injure him in any such way,—an argument which weighed more heavily than any protestations on her part would have done,—at length said,— “Well, you may stay,—at least, a while. I suppose you are hungry. There’s a loaf of bread in the closet. You may eat some of it; but don’t eat too much. It’s—it’s hurtful to the health to eat too much.” “When will you be home to get some dinner?” asked the child. “About noon. Perhaps I will bring some sewing for you to do.” “Oh, I hope you will! It will seem so nice not to be obliged to be walking about the streets, but to be seated in a pleasant room, sewing!”