‘Good night, Miss Nell,’ returned the boy. ‘And thank this gentleman,’ interposed 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. I’ll bet that I’d find 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 like a stentor, Kit gradually backed to the door, and roared himself out. Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his departure; when he had gone, and the child was occupied in clearing the table, the old man said: ‘I haven’t seemed to thank you, sir, for what you have done to-night, but I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she, and her thanks are better worth 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.’ I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. ‘But,’ I added, ‘may I ask you a question?’ ‘Ay, sir,’ replied the old man, ‘What is it?’ ‘This delicate child,’ said I, ‘with so much beauty and intelligence--has she nobody to care for her but you? Has she no other companion or advisor?’ ‘No,’ he returned, looking anxiously in my face, ‘no, and she wants no other.’ ‘But are you not fearful,’ said I, ‘that you may misunderstand a charge so tender? I am sure you mean well, but are you quite certain that you know how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man, like you, and I am actuated by an old man’s concern in all that is young and promising. Do you not think that what I have seen of you and this little creature to-night must have an interest not wholly free from pain?’ ‘Sir,’ rejoined the old man after a moment’s silence. ‘I have no right to feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects I am the child, and she the grown person--that you have seen already. But waking or sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the one object of my care, and if you knew of how much care, you would look on me with different eyes, you would indeed. Ah! It’s a weary life for an old man--a weary, weary life--but there is a great end to gain and that I keep before me.’ Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and impatience, I turned to put on an outer coat which I had thrown off on entering the room, purposing to say no more. I was surprised to see the child standing patiently by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat, and stick. ‘Those are not mine, my dear,’ said I. ‘No,’ returned the child, ‘they are grandfather’s.’ ‘But he is not going out to-night.’ ‘Oh, yes, he is,’ said the child, with a smile. ‘And what becomes of you, my pretty one?’ ‘Me! I stay here of course. I always do.’