It was a very strange event which had befallen old Oliver. He went back to his own chair, where he smoked his Broseley pipe every night, and sank down in it, rubbing his legs softly; for it was a long time since he had nursed any child, and even Dolly's small weight was a burden to him. Her tiny clothes were scattered up and down, and there was no one beside himself to gather them together, and fold them straight. In shaking out her frock a letter fell from it, and Oliver picked it up, wondering whoever it could be for. It was directed to himself, "Mr. James Oliver, News-agent," and he broke the seal with eager expectation. The contents were these, written in a handwriting which he knew at first sight to be his daughter's:—

"DEAR FATHER,
"I am very very sorry I ever did anything to make you angry with me. This is your poor Susan's little girl, as is come to be a little peacemaker betwixt you and me. I'm certain sure you'll never turn her away from your door. I'm going down to Portsmouth for three days, because he listed five months ago, and his regiment's ordered out to India, and he sails on Friday. So I thought I wouldn't take my little girl to be in the way, and I said I'll leave her with father till I come back, and her pretty little ways will soften him towards me, and we'll live all together in peace and plenty till his regiment comes home again, poor fellow. For he's very good to me when he's not in liquor, which is seldom for a man. Please do forgive me for pity's sake, and for Christ's sake, if I'm worthy to use his name, and do take care of my little girl till I come home to you both on Friday. From your now dutiful daughter,
"POOR SUSAN."

The tears rolled fast down old Oliver's cheeks as he read this letter through twice, speaking the words half aloud to himself. Why! this was his own little grandchild, then—his very own! And no doubt Susan had christened her Dorothy, after her own mother, his dear wife, who had died so many years ago. Dolly was the short for Dorothy, and in early times he had often called his wife by that name. He had turned his gas off and lighted a candle, and now he took it up and went to the bedside to look at his new treasure. The tiny face lying upon his pillow was rosy with sleep, and the fair curly hair was tossed about in pretty disorder. His spectacles grew very dim indeed, and he was obliged to polish them carefully on his cotton handkerchief before he could see his grand-daughter plainly enough. Then he touched her dimpled cheek tremblingly with the end of his finger, and sobbed out, "Bless her! bless her!" He returned to his chair, his head shaking a good deal before he could regain his composure; and it was not until he had kindled his pipe, and was smoking it, with his face turned towards the sleeping child, that he felt at all like himself again.
"Dear Lord!" he said, half aloud, between the whiffs of his pipe, "dear Lord! how very good thou art to me! Didst thee not say, 'I'll not leave thee comfortless, I'll come to thee?' I know what that means, bless thy name; and the good Spirit has many a time brought me comfort, and cheered my heart. I know thou didst not leave me alone before. No, no! that was far from thee, Lord. Alone!—why, thou'rt always here; and now there's the little lass as well. Lonesome!—they don't know thee, Lord, and they don't know me. Thou'rt here, with the little lass and me. Yes, yes,—yes."
He murmured the word "yes" in a tone of contentment over and over again, until, the pipe being finished, he prepared for sleep also. But no sleep came to the old man. He was too full of thought, and too fearful of the child waking in the night and wanting something. The air was close and hot, and now and then a peal of thunder broke overhead; but a profound peace and tranquillity, slightly troubled by his new joy, held possession of him. His grandchild was there, and his daughter was coming back to him in three days.
Oh, how he would welcome her! He would not let her speak one word of her wilfulness and disobedience, and the long, cruel neglect which had left him in ignorance of where she lived, and what had become of her. It was partly his fault, for having been too hard upon her, and too hasty and hot-tempered. He had learnt better since then.