very well observed. Then will you consider about it
neighbour?"

"I will, certainly," replied the old man. "We shall
not stop here."

"So I supposed," said the dwarf. "I have sold the
things. They have not yielded quite as much as they might
have done, but pretty well--pretty well. To-day's Tuesday.
When shall they be moved? There's no hurry--shall we
say this afternoon?"

"Say Friday morning," returned the old man.

"Very good," said the dwarf. "So be it,--with the
understanding that I can't go beyond that day, neighbour,
on any account."

"Good," returned the old man. "I shall remember it."

Mr. Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the strange, even
spiritless way in which all this was said; but as the old
man nodded his head and repeated "on Friday morning.
I shall remember it," he had no excuse for dwelling upon
the subject any further, and so took a friendly leave with
many expressions of good-will and many compliments to
his friend on his looking so remarkably well; and went
below stairs to report progress to Mr. Brass.

All that day, and all the next, the old man remained in
this state. He wandered up and down the house and into
and out of the various rooms, as if with some vague intent
of bidding them adieu, but he referred neither by direct
allusions nor in any other manner to the interview of the
morning or the necessity of finding some other shelter. An
indistinct idea he had, that the child was desolate and in
want of help, for he often drew her to his bosom and bade
her be of good cheer, saying that they would not desert
each other; but he seemed unable to contemplate their real
position more distinctly, and was still the listless, passion-
less creature, that suffering of mind and body had left
him.

We call this a state of childishness, but it is the same
poor hollow mockery of it, that death is of sleep. Where,
in the dull eyes of doating men, are the laughing light and
life of childhood, the gaiety that has known no check, the
frankness that has felt no chill, the hope that has never
withered, the joys that fade in blossoming? Where, in the
sharp lineaments of rigid and unsightly death, is the calm
beauty of slumber, telling of rest for the waking hours that
are past, and the gentle hopes and loves for those which

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