Old Oliver laid aside his pipe, and rested his worn face upon his hands,
while the heavy tears came slowly and painfully to his eyes, and
trickled down his withered cheeks. His joy had fled, and his unmingled
gladness had faded quite away. He was a very poor, very old man; and the
little child was very, very young. What would become of them both, alone
in London?

He did not know whether it was a voice speaking within himself in his own
heart, or words whispered very softly into his ear; but he heard a low,
quiet, still, small voice, which said, "Even to your old age I am he,
and even to hoar hairs I will carry you: I have made, and I will bear;
even I will carry, and will deliver you." And old Oliver answered, with a
sob, "Yes, Lord, yes!"




CHAPTER VII.

THE PRINCE OF LIFE.


In the new life which had now fairly begun for Oliver, it was partly as
he had foreseen; he was apt to forget many things, and he had a fretting
consciousness of this forgetfulness. When he was in the house playing
with Dolly, or reading to her, the shop altogether slipped away from his
memory, and he was only recalled to it by the loud knocking or shouting
of some customer in it. On the other hand, when he was sitting behind the
counter looking for news from India in the papers, news in which he was
already profoundly concerned, though it was impossible that Susan could