Tony was busy behind the counter wrapping up
magazines, which he was going to take out the next morning, and the
soldier looked very inquisitively at him.
"Hallo! my lad, who are you?" he asked, in a tone of surprise.
"I'm Antony Oliver," he said; for of late he had taken to call himself by
his old master's name.
"Antony Oliver!" repeated the stranger; "I never heard of you before."
"Well, I'm only Tony," he answered; "but I live with old Mr. Oliver now,
and call him grandfather. He likes it, and it does me good. It's like
somebody belonging to me."
"Why! how long have you called him grandfather?" asked the soldier again.
"Ever since our little Dolly died," said Tony, in a faltering voice.
"Dolly dead!" exclaimed the man, looking ready to fall down; for his
face went very white, and he leaned upon the counter with his one hand.
"Oh! my poor Susan!--my poor, dear girl!--however can I tell her this
bad news?"
"Who are you?" cried Tony. "Are you Dolly's father? Oh, she's dead!
She died last January, and we are more lonesome without her than you
can think."
"Let me see poor Susan's father," he said, after a minute or two, and
with a very troubled face.
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