decrepid and feeble, was that some one had to
take him to the particular public-house on
which alone he would bestow his patronage
(half a mile distant), and bring him back again.

Still no word of complaint escaped either
John or Martha, until their family increased
to that extent when every halfpenny became, as
Martha said, an "object." The crisis arrived that
night, when John, in general but significant
terms, asked his good wife what was to be done.

"It is not fair to you, John," Martha said,
"and you shan't be burdened with him any
longer." And, while the old man sat dozing
in his chair, all unconscious, it was resolved
between them, after a hard struggle on John's
part and many silent tears on Martha's part,
that John should next day put old Daddy into
the workhouse. The resolution was taken, and
the old man slept on. Neither John nor Martha
had the courage to wake him. They were afraid
that he might read their terrible intentions
towards him in their guilty faces. "I cannot do
it, Martha," John said; and he made an excuse
to go out of doors to smoke his pipe. Martha
could not do it either, and sat waiting for the
old man to wake, and presently he woke and called
for her. She had withdrawn into the shade, and
he could not see her with his dim old eyes.

"Martha," he said, "where are you? Come
here and let me tell you what I've been dreaming
about. Such a pleasant dream, my dear,
about the old days when you was all at home!
I thought I saw you all round the table eating
your Christmas dinners; and there was turkey
and plum-pudding and all the nice things that
we used to have, you know; and then I dreamt
that I was taking you to the boarding-school,
where you was for a twelvemonth, you know;
and—and, as we was driving down the Edgeware-road
in the chaise, John came up and
wanted to borrow five pounds, just as he used to
do, you know, and, and I lent it him, just as I
used to do, and—and—but what's the matter
with you, Martha? you're not crying, surely."

Poor old man, he little knew what thorns he
was planting in his daughter's breast. She was
crying, but she hid her tears, and said kindly
it was time for him to go to bed.

So, taking him by the hand, and leading him
to his room, she put him to bed and tucked him
up like a child.

When Martha went down-stairs again, John
was timidly peeping in at the door.

"Have you put him to bed, Martha?" he
inquired.

"Yes, John."

"Do you think he suspected anything?"

"Oh no, poor old dear."

"No, of course not, Martha," John said,
"he would never dream that we could be such
monsters—but did he say anything?"

"Yes, he said, ' God bless you, Martha,
and God bless John, for all your kindness.'"

John, whose heart was much too big for his
other faculties, withdrew his head from the door,
and vented his smitten feelings in a howl.

John and Martha crawled up to bed that night
with the sense of a premeditated crime weighing
upon their souls. As they passed the room where
the old man lay, they turned away their faces.

Next morning Martha dressed her old baby
in his best clothes, crying over him all the while,
and hiding her tears as best she could. Daddy
wanted to know if it was Sunday, that they
were putting on his best things, and Martha
could not answer. Every innocent word he
uttered was a reproach to her. She could not
look at him at breakfast-time, neither could
John.

When breakfast was over, John said to the
old man, in as cheerful a tone as he could
command,

"Grandfather, I'm going to take you for a
walk."

"That's kind of you, John," said the old man
—"very kind."

"Well, come along, grandfather; here's your
hat and stick."

"I'm ready, John, quite ready. Eh? bless
me, what's the matter now, my dear?"

Martha had her arms round his neck, kissing
him.

"Good-bye, father," she said, through her
sobs, "good-bye."

She had resolved not to say it, but she
couldn't help it.

"Tut, tut, my dear," said the old man, " we
are not going far. Are we, John?"

"No, grandfather, not very far."

"And we'll come back soon, won't we,
John?"

"Oh yes, grandfather," John said; and the
words almost choked him.

Martha whispered to the children to go and
shake hands with their grandfather; and
wondering what this unusual ceremony meant, they
did as they were told, quietly and silently.

The old man was as much puzzled as the
children, and wanted to know if it was a birthday.
John could not answer him; his heart
was full and his utterance choked. Without
another word he took the old man by the hand,
and led him from the house; and Martha stood
in the doorway, surrounded by the children,
looking after them sadly through her tears.
It was barely a quarter of a mile to the
workhouse, but it was a long journey for Daddy,
who was getting very frail now. He dropped
his stick very often, and John had to stoop and
pick it up for him, and there were dangerous
crossings to pass, where it was necessary for
John to signal to drivers of vehicles to draw up
and slacken speed until he carried the old man
safely over to the other side of the road. Poor
old Daddy, going to the workhouse, was highly
honoured that day. The stream of traffic stayed
its current and diverted its course to let him
pass. It could not have done more for the
Lord Mayor. At length John, leading his
unconscious charge by the hand, arrived in front
of the workhouse gates. At the sight of the
gloomy portal and the high black wall, which
shuts in life and shuts out hope, his resolution
began to fail him. He stopped and hesitated.

"Grandfather," he said, "it's about time for
your glass of ale, ain't it?"