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 yet have reached it, he grew so absorbed, that he did not know how the time was passing by, and both he and his little grand-daughter were hungry before he had thought of getting ready any meal. He tried all kinds of devices for strengthening his failing memory; but in vain. He even forgot that he did forget; and when Dolly was laughing and frolicking about him he grew a child again, and felt himself the happiest man in London.
The person who took upon himself the heaviest weight of anxiety and responsibility about Dolly was Tony, who began to make it his daily custom to pass by the house at the hour when old Oliver ought to be going for his morning papers; and if he found no symptom of life about the place, he did not leave off kicking and butting at the shop-door until the owner appeared. It was very much the same thing at night, when the time for shutting up came; though it generally happened now that the boy was paying his friends an evening visit, and was therefore at hand to put up the shutters for Oliver. Tony could not keep away from the place. Though he felt a boy's contemptuous pity for the poor old man's declining faculties as regarded business, he had a very high veneration for his learning. Nothing pleased him better than to sit upon the old box near the door, his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, while Oliver read aloud, with Dolly upon his knee, her curly hair and small pretty features making a strange contrast to his white head and withered, hollow face. Tony, who had never had anything to love except a stray cur or two, which he had always lost after a few days' friendship, felt as if he could have suffered himself to be put to death for either of these two; while Beppo came in for a large share of his unclaimed affections. The chief subject of their reading was the life of the Master, who was so intimately dear to the heart of old Oliver. Tony was very eager to learn all he could of this great friend who did so much for the old man, and who might perhaps be persuaded some day or other to take a little notice of him, if he should fail to get a crossing for himself. Oliver, in his long, unbroken solitude of six years, had fallen into a notion, amounting to a firm belief, that his Lord was not dead and far off, as most of the world believed, but was a very present, living friend, always ready to listen to the meanest of his words. He had a vague suspicion that his faith had got into a different course from that of most other people; and he bore meekly the rebukes of his sister Charlotte for the unwholesomeness of his visions. But none the less, when he was alone, he talked and prayed to, and spoke to Tony of this Master, as one who was always very near at hand.
 
"I s'pose he takes a bit o' notice o' the little un," said Tony, "when he comes in now and then of an evening."
"Ay, does he!" answered Oliver, earnestly. "My boy, he loves every child as if it was his very own, and it is his own in one sense. Didn't I read you last night how he said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.' Why, he'd love all the young children in the world, if they weren't hindered from coming to him."
"I should very much like to see him some day," pursued Tony, reflectively, "and the rest of them,—Peter, and John, and them. I s'pose they are getting pretty old by now, aren't they?"
"They are dead," said Oliver.
"All of 'em?" asked Tony.
"All of them," he repeated.
"Dear, dear!" cried Tony, his eyes glistening. "Whatever did the Master do when they all died? I'm very sorry for him now. He's had a many troubles, hasn't he?"
"Yes, yes," replied old Oliver, with a faltering voice. "He was called a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. Nobody ever bore so many troubles as him."
"How long is it ago since they all died?" asked Tony.
"I can't rightly say," he answered. "I heard once, but it is gone out of my head. I only know it was the same when I was a boy. It must have been a long, long time ago."
"The same when you was a boy!" repeated Tony, in a tone of disappointment. "It must ha' been a long while ago. I thought all along as the Master was alive now.
"So he is, so he is!" exclaimed old Oliver, eagerly. "I'll read to you all about it. They put him to death on the cross, and buried him in a rocky grave; but he is the Prince of Life, and he came to life again three days after, and now he can die no more. His own words to John were, 'I am he that liveth, and was dead; and behold, I am alive for evermore.' What else can it mean but that he is living now, and will never die again?"
Tony made no answer. He sat with his sharp, unboyish face gazing intently into the fire; for by this time autumn had set in, and the old man was chilly of an evening. A very uncertain, dim idea was dawning upon him that this master and friend of old Oliver's was a being very different from an ordinary man, however great and rich he might be. He had grown to love the thought of him, and to listen attentively to the book which told the manner of life he led; but it was a chill to find out that he could not look into his face, and hear his voice, as he could Oliver's. His heart was heavy, and very sad.
"I s'pose I can't see him, then," he murmured to himself, at last.
"Not exactly like other folks," said Oliver. "I think sometimes that perhaps there's a little darkness of the grave where he was buried about him still. But he sees us, and hears us. He himself says, 'Behold, I am with you always.' I don't know whatever I should do, even with my little love here, if I wasn't sure Jesus was with me as well."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Tony, after another pause. "I'm going to ask him to give me somethink, and then if he does, I shall know he hears me.—I should very much like to have a broom and a crossing, and get my living a bit more easy, if you please."
He had turned his face away from Oliver, and looked across into the darkest corner of the room, where he could see nothing but shadow. The old man felt puzzled, and somewhat troubled, but he only sighed softly to himself; and opening the Testament, he read aloud in it till he was calmed again, and Tony was listening in rapt attention.
"My boy," he said, as the hour came for Tony to go, "where are you sleeping now?"
"Anywhere as I can get out o' the wind," he answered. "It's cold now, nights—wery cold, master. But I must get along a bit farder on. Lodgings is wery dear."
"I've been thinking," said Oliver, "that you'd find it better to have some sort of a shake-down under my counter. I've heard say that newspapers stitched together make a coverlid pretty near as warm as a blanket; and we could do no harm by trying them, Tony. Look here, and see how you'd like it."
It looked very much like a long box, and was not much larger. Two or three beetles crawled sluggishly away as the light fell upon them, and dusty cobwebs festooned all the corners; but to Tony it seemed so magnificent an accommodation for sleeping, that he could scarcely believe he heard old Oliver aright. He looked up into his face with a sharp, incredulous gaze, ready to wink and thrust his tongue into his cheek, if there was the least sign of making game of him. But the old man was simply in earnest, and without a word Tony slipped down upon a heap of paper shavings strewed within, drew his ragged jacket up about his ears, and turned his face away, lest his tears should be seen. He felt, a minute or two after, that a piece of an old rug was laid over him, but he could say nothing; and old Oliver could not hear the sob which broke from his lips.