Kit, who in eating his bread and meat had been swallowing two-thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a juggler, stopped short and bawled, "Nobody isn’t such a fool as to say he doesn’t," after which he took a huge sandwich at one bite. "She is poor now," said the old man, patting the child’s cheek, "but, I say again, 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 time and money. 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 shouldst 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 still holding the child between his knees, appeared to be insensible to everything around him. By this time it was very near midnight, and the Old Gentleman rose to go, a movement which recalled his host 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," said 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 if she was above ground. I would, as quick as anybody, master. Ha, ha, ha!" Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes and laughing loudly, Kit gradually backed to the door and roared himself out. When he had gone, and the child was busily clearing the table, the old man said,— "I haven’t seemed to thank you enough, sir, for what you have done to-night, but I do thank you, humbly and heartily; and so does she, and her thanks are worth more than mine. I should be sorry that you went away and thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of her; I am not, indeed." The Old Gentleman said he was sure of that from what he had seen. "But," he added, "may I ask you a question?" "Ay, sir," replied the old man; "what is it?" "This delicate child," said the other, "with so much beauty and brightness—has she nobody to care for her but you?" "No," he returned, looking anxiously into the other’s face, "no, and she wants no other." Seeing that he seemed excited and impatient, the visitor turned to put on an outer coat which he had thrown off on entering the room, meaning to say no more. He was surprised to see the child standing by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat and stick. "Those are not mine, my dear," said the visitor.