"I know I have been naughty, father; I 'have been,' oh! so cross at times; but, father, I could not help it--at least, it seemed as if I could not--my back ached so, and indeed," she added, clasping her hands, "I am very sorry, father, very sorry." He stooped still nearer to her; he laid his cheek on her pillow; he kissed her hot brow, little Mary half smiled. "You forgive me, don't you?" she murmured faintly. "Forgive you! my pet--my darling." "Yes, pray do," she said. She could scarcely speak now; there was a film on her eyes, too. He saw it gathering fast, very fast. Suddenly she seemed to revive like a dying flame. Again she addressed him. "Father!" she said, "why don't you take down the shutters?" And with singular earnestness she fixed her eyes on his. Take down the shutters? The question seemed a stab sent through his very heart. Yet he mastered himself, and replied: "'Tis early yet; 'tis very early, my darling." "No 'taint," she said, in her old pettish way, and then she murmured in a low and humbled tone: "Ah! I forget--I forget. I did not mean to be cross again. Indeed I did not, father, so pray forgive me." "Don't think of it, my pet. Do you wish for anything?" "Nothing, father, but that you would take down the shutters." He tried to speak--he could not; only a few broken sounds gasped on his lips for utterance. "Because you see," she continued with strange earnestness, "the customers will all be coming and wondering if they see the shop shut; and they will think me worse, and so--and so--" She could not finish the sentence, but she tried to do so. "And so you see, father." Again the words died away. Her father raised his head; he looked at her; he saw her growing very white. Again he bent, and softly whispered: "My darling, did you say your prayers this morning?" An expression of surprise stole over the child's wan face. "I had forgotten," she replied, faintly, "I shall say them now." She folded her thin hands, her lips moved. "Our father who art in heaven," she said, and she began a prayer that was never finished upon earth. The dread moment had come. The angel of death stood in that hushed room; swiftly and gently he fulfilled his errand, then departed, leaving all in silence, breathless and deep. He knew it was all over. He rose; he closed the eyes, composed the slender limbs, then he sat down by his dead child, a desolate man--a heart-broken father. How long he sat thus he knew not; a knock at the door at length roused him. Mechanically he rose and went and opened. He saw a man who at once stepped in and closed the door, and before the man spoke, Jones knew his errand. "It's all right," he said, "I know, the landlord could scarcely help it; come in." The bailiff was a bluff, hearty-looking man; he gave Jones a sound slap on the shoulder. "You are a trump! that's what you are," he said, with a big oath. Jones did not answer, but showed his guest into the back parlour.