“Charles,” said I, “when you arise in the morning, I hope your doll will be found. At present, however, you must be resigned and go to sleep. I’ll cover you up nicely”; here I began to rearrange the bed clothing, when the fateful dolly, source of all my woes, tumbled out of them. Toddie clutched it, his whole face lighting up with affectionate delight, and he screamed:— “Oh, dare is my dee dolly; turn to your own papa, dolly, an’ I’ll love you.” And that ridiculous child was so completely satisfied by his outlay of affection, that my own indignation gave place to genuine artistic pleasure. One _can_ tire of even beautiful pictures, though, when he is not fully awake, and is holding a candle in a draught of air; so I covered my nephews and returned to my own room, where I mused upon the contradictoriness of childhood until I fell asleep. [Illustration: THE DOLLY FOUND] In the morning I was awakened very early by the light streaming in the window, the blinds of which I had left open the night before. The air was alive with bird-song, and the eastern sky was flushed with tints which no painter’s canvas ever caught. But ante-sunrise skies and songs are not fit subjects for the continued contemplation of men who read until midnight; so I hastily closed the blinds, drew the shade, dropped the curtains and lay down again, dreamily thanking Heaven that I was to fall asleep to such exquisite music. I am sure that I mentally forgave all my enemies as I dropped off into a most delicious doze, but the sudden realization that a light hand was passing over my cheek roused me to savage anger in an instant. I sprang up, and saw Budge shrink timidly away from my bedside. “I was only lovin’ you, ’cos you was good, and brought us candy. Papa lets us love him whenever we want to—every morning he does.” “As early as this?” demanded I. “Yes, just as soon as we can see, if we want to.” Poor Tom! I never _could_ comprehend why, with a good wife, a comfortable income, and a clear conscience, he need always look thin and worn—worse than he ever did in Virginia woods or Louisiana swamps. But now I knew all. And yet, what could one do? That child’s eyes and voice, and his expression, which exceeded in sweetness that of any of the angels I had ever imagined,—that child could coax a man to do more self-forgetting deeds than the shortening of his precious sleeping-hours amounted to. In fact, he was fast divesting me of my rightful sleepiness, so I kissed him and said:— “Run to bed, now, dear old fellow, and let uncle go to sleep again. After breakfast I’ll make you a whistle.” “Oh! will you?” The angel turned into a boy at once. “Yes; now run along.” “A _loud_ whistle—a real loud one?” “Yes, but not if you don’t go right back to bed.”