And then his eyes went along the columns of the paper, and he read aloud to Ellen such things as he thought would interest her. Among others was a reminiscence by the editor—the same that we have just given. The old man’s voice faltered as he read. The little incident, so feelingly described, had long since been hidden in his memory under the gathering dust of time. But now the dust was swept away, and he saw his own beautiful garden. He was in it and among the flowers; and wishfully looking through the fence stood the orphan boy. He remembered having felt pity for him, and he remembered now as distinctly as if it were but yesterday, though thirty years had intervened, the light that went over the child’s face as he handed him a few flowers that were to fade and wither in a day. Yes, the old man’s voice faltered while he read; and when he came to the last sentence, the paper dropped upon the floor, and clasping his hands together, he lifted his dim eyes upward, while his lips moved in whispered words of thankfulness. “What ails you, grandpa?” asked Ellen, in surprise. But the old man did not seem to hear her voice. “Dear grandpa,” repeated the girl, “why do you look so strangely?” She had risen in bed, and was bending toward him. “Ellen, child,” said the old man, a light breaking over his countenance, as though a sunbeam had suddenly come into the room, “it was your old grandfather who gave the flowers to that poor little boy. Did you hear what he said?—he would divide his last morsel.” The old man moved about the room with his unsteady steps, talking in a wandering way, so overjoyed at the prospect of relief for his child, that he was nearly beside himself. But there yet lingered some embers of pride in his heart; and from these the ashes were blown away, and they became bright and glowing. The thought of asking a favor as a return for that little act, which was to him, at the time, a pleasure, came with a feeling of reluctance. But when he looked at the pale young girl who lay with her eyes closed and her face half buried in the pillow, he murmured to himself, “It is for you—for you!” And taking up his staff, he went tottering forth into the open air. The editor was sitting in his office, writing, when he heard the door open, and turning, he saw before him an old man with bent form and snowy head. Something in the visiter’s countenance struck him as familiar; but he did not recognize him as one whom he had seen before. “Is Mr. T—— in?” inquired the old man. “My name is T——,” replied the editor. “You?” There was a slight expression of surprise in the old man’s voice. “Yes, I am T——, my friend,” was kindly said. “Can I do any thing for you? Take this chair.” The offered seat was accepted; and as the old man sunk into it, his countenance and manner betrayed his emotion.