smoking from his full red lips, and held it somehow concealed in his hand. As he was constantly about in the house, or lingering close at hand with his great-coat buttoned on round his throat like a cloak, and the empty sleeves waving from his shoulders, stamping his feet on the ground, and whistling like a bird, this smell of bad cigars was perpetually about the house. Poor Mrs. Goldsworthy went up and down with the most grieved look upon her face. If any one made the least sign of having smelt anything disagreeable, she held up her hands in the most imploring way, and said, “What can a poor body do? He’s the obligingest creatur as ever was! and he don’t know a word of Christian language; and the gentleman--which is a _real_ gentleman, and none o’ your make-believes--as good as left him in my charge; and, bless you, if he will smoke them cigars, and don’t understand a word a body says to him, what am I to do?” Indeed, for my own part, I had not only a great sympathy for him, but I could not help liking the fat fellow; and after a few days it was astonishing how we got used to the cigars. Then we ourselves occupied the two next floors. It was a strange little house; two rooms, back and front, piled on the top of each other four stories high; the top-story rooms were attics; and there was actually a lodger in each of those attics! Where Mrs. Goldsworthy and her daughter slept themselves was more than either Lizzie or I could make out. One of the attic lodgers was a thin, wistful man, whom I could not help looking at. He worked at something in his own room, and used to go out to dine. He was always very neat and clean; but very threadbare, and with a hungry look that went to one’s heart. Perhaps it was not want; maybe he was hungry for something else than mere money or nourishment; but sometimes I am sure I should not have been surprised to hear that he was starving too. Sometimes he looked at me or at baby in his wistful way, just as he vanished past us. I can’t say he ever smiled, even at little Harry; but still we drew his eyes when he chanced to meet us going out or in. I felt a great compassion for this poor solitary man. He was a man that might have been found starved, but never would have asked any charity; at least so I thought of him. I used to fancy him sitting in his solitary room upstairs by the window, and not by the fire,--for we never heard him poking any fire, and often saw him at the window,--and wondered how people could get so isolated, and chilled, and solitary; how they lived at all when they came to that condition--benumbed of all comfort, and still not frozen to death. How strange to think of keeping on living, years and years after one’s heart is dead! Harry said I was fanciful and continually made stories about people; but I did not tell Harry one half of my fancies; I don’t know what he would have done to me if I had; but I did so wish I could have some chance of doing something to please that old man.