There was silence in the room for a few moments, and then placing his disengaged hand upon the fair head of the weeping girl, the curate, in low reverent tones, but loud enough to thrill the hearts of the living, said, "No, it is life--the life eternal!" And now, amidst the bitter sobs of those who mourned, the curate stepped softly from the room, and left the house with bended head. Then there was silence, till a step was heard upon the stairs, which stopped by the partly-closed door, where stood the old compositor with little Tom asleep in his arms, the bright, soft, golden locks mingling like dashes of sunshine with the old man's ragged, grizzly whiskers. For a few moments the old printer stood gazing into the room, when, waking to the consciousness of the affliction that had befallen its inmates, he turned, and with halting step descended to the office. At last the recollection of the living came to the stricken mother's heart, and wildly sobbing as she clasped Lucy in her arms, she asked for her boy. Half-stunned with this new shock, Septimus Hardon staggered down to where he had left the child, having till his wife spoke forgotten its very existence; but when he reached the office, stricken as he was, he could not but stop to gaze at the group before him. Seated upon a low stool, beneath the dingy skylight of the back-office, where the light that filtered through the foul panes looked dim and gloomy, was the old man with the child in his lap, gazing, too, intently down at the little fair face which so wonderingly looked up into his own--not fearfully, but with a puzzled expression, as if some problem were there that the little brain could not solve; while the biscuit the tiny fist held was hardly touched, but told its own tale of how the old man had carried the child to the nearest baker's for its purchase. The printer's back was towards Septimus as he stood in the doorway, and as he listened the old man was apostrophising the child: "Why, God bless your little innocent face, this is me, old Matt--Matthew Space--old Quad, as they call me; a battered, snuff-taking, drinking old scamp; and here have I been these two hours drinking innocence, and feeling my heart swell till it cracked and the scales fell off. Why-- save and bless his little heart, sir!" he cried, for the child saw its father and sprang up--"see how good he is! Work's slack, sir; let him stop, for it seems to do one good--it does indeed, sir. Why, how rich you must be!" Septimus Hardon thought mournfully of the treasure he had just lost, and, taking the child, he hurriedly bore it to its mother, telling the old man to wait. Matthew Space, compositor, waited until the owner of the office came down, when, friendless as he was, Septimus Hardon was glad to turn even to this rough old waif of the streets in his helplessness. "Why, I wouldn't do that, sir," said the old man, after listening for some time in silence; "you may want it to-morrow."