A BUD FADING.
A second summer went by with its long, hot days, when the sun seemed
to stand still in the sky, and to dart down its most sultry beams
into the dustiest and closest streets. Out in the parks, and in the
broad thoroughfares where the fresh breeze could sweep along early in
the morning, and in the evening as soon as the air grew cooler, it
was very pleasant weather; and the people who could put on light
summer dresses enjoyed it very much. But away among the
thickly-built and crowded houses, where there were thousands of
persons breathing over and over again the same hot and stagnant
atmosphere, it seemed as if the most delicate and weakly among them
must be suffocated by the breathless heat. Old Oliver suffered very
greatly, but he said nothing about it; indeed he generally forgot the
cause of his languor and feebleness. He never knew now the day of
the week, nor the month of the year. If any one had told him in the
dog-days of July that it was still April, he would only have answered
gently that it was bright, warm weather for the time of year.
But about old times his memory was good enough; he could tell long
stories of his boyhood, and describe the hills of his native place in
such a manner as to set Tony full of longings after the country, with
its corn-fields, and meadows, and hedge-rows, which he had never
seen. He remembered his Bible, too, and could repeat chapter after
chapter describing his Master's life, as they sat together in the
perpetual twilight of their room; for now that it was summer-time it
did not seem right to keep the gas burning.
Tony's crossing had failed him altogether, for in dry weather nobody
wanted it; but in this extremity Mr. Ross came to his aid, and
procured him a place as errand-boy, where he was wanted from eight
o'clock in the morning till seven at night; so that he could still
open old Oliver's shop, and fetch him his right papers before he went
out, and put the shutters up when he came back. To become an
errand-boy was a good step forwards, and Tony was more than content.
He never ran about bare-headed and bare-footed now as he had done
twelve months before; and he had made such good progress in reading
and writing that he could already make out the directions upon the
parcels he had to deliver, after they had been once read over to him.
He did not object to the dry weather and clean streets as he had done
when his living depended upon his crossing; on the contrary, he
enjoyed the sunshine, and the crowds of gaily-dressed people, for he
could hold up his head amongst them, and no longer went prowling
about in the gutters searching after bits of orange-peel. He kicked
them into the gutters instead, mindful of that accident which had
befallen him, but which turned out so full of good for him.
[Illustration: DOLLY'S MONTHLY REGISTER.]
But, if there had been any eye to see it, a very slow, and very sad
change was creeping over Dolly; so slowly indeed, that perhaps none
but her mother's eye could have seen it at first. On the first of
every month, which old Oliver knew by the magazines coming in, he
marked how much his little love had grown by placing her against the
side-post of the door, and making a thick pencil line where her curly
head reached to. He looked at this record often, smiling at the rate
his little woman was growing taller; but it was really no wonder that
his dim eyes, loving as they were, never saw how the rosy colour was
dying away out of her cheeks, as gradually as the red glow fades away
in the west after the sun has set, nor how the light grew fainter and
fainter in her blue eyes, until they looked at him very heavily from
under her drooping eyelids. The house was too dark for any sight to
see very clearly; the full, strong, healthy light of the sun, could
not find its way into it, and day after day Dolly became more like
one of those plants growing in shady places, which live and shoot up,
but only put out pale and sickly leaves, and feeble buds. One by
one, and by little and little, with degrees as small as her own tiny
footsteps, she lost all her merry ways, dropping them, here one and
there another, upon the path she was silently treading; as little
children let fall the flowers they have gathered in the meadows,
along their road homewards. Yet all the time old Oliver was loving
and cherishing her as the dearest of all treasures, second only to
the Master whom he loved so fully; but he never discovered that there
was any change in her. Dolly fell into very quiet ways, and would
sit still for hours together, her arm around Beppo, and her sweet,
patient little face, which was growing thin and hollow, turned
towards the flickering light of the fire, while Oliver pottered
toilsomely about his house, forgetting many things, but always ready
with a smile and a fond word for his grand-daughter.
Just as Oliver was too old to feel any anxiety about Dolly, so Tony
was too young, and knew too little of sickness and death. Moreover,
when he came home in the evening, full of the business of the day,
with a number of stories to tell of what had happened to him, and
what he had seen, Dolly was always more lively, and had a feverish
colour on her face, and a brilliant light in her eyes. He seemed to
bring life and strength with him, and she liked him to nurse her on
his knee, which did not grow tired and stiff like her grandfather's.
How should Tony detect anything amiss with her? She never complained
of feeling any pain, and he was glad for her to be very quiet and
still while he was busy with his lessons.
But when the summer was ended, and after the damp warm fogs of
November were over, and a keen, black frost set in sharply before
Christmas--a frost which had none of the beauty of white rime and
clear blue skies, but which hung over the city like a pall, and
penetrated to every fireside with an icy breath; when only the strong
and the healthy, who were well clothed and well fed, could meet it
bravely, while the delicate, and sickly, and poverty-stricken, shrank
before it, and were chilled through and through, then Dolly drooped
and failed altogether. Even old Oliver's dull ears began to hear a
little cough, which seemed to echo from some grave not very far away;
and when he drew his little love between his knees, and put on his
spectacles to gaze into her face, the dearest face in all the world
to him, even his eyes saw something of its wanness, and the hollow
lines which had come upon it since the summer had passed away. The
old man felt troubled about her, yet he scarcely knew what to do. He
bought sweetmeats to soothe her cough, and thought sometimes that he
must ask somebody or other about a doctor for her; but his
treacherous memory always let the thought slip out of his mind. He
intended to take counsel with his sister when she came to see him;
but aunt Charlotte was herself very ill with an attack of rheumatism,
and could not get up to old Oliver's house.