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 sadly in want of comforts. Often and often would the old man question me as to my usage at the printing office; but I could not bear to tell him how utterly neglected I was; it would have killed him. Every time I saw him he appeared weaker and weaker, and at length his eye-sight failed, and it was with great difficulty that he could grope his way to our accustomed haunts. He never would allow me to come to the alms-house, not so much as to meet him at the door or near it; but I bribed a poor man to lead him to the place and call for him again; this I was enabled to do from the few shillings that I received from Mr. Bartlett on the new year's day and the fourth of July.

My master called me to him, one morning, with some little show of sympathy; he said that Patrick O'Brien was very ill, and that it was doubtful whether he would live till night; that he had been to the alms-house and was satisfied that the poor man was properly treated. I begged to go to him, but Mr. Bartlett said that Patrick had desired that I should not, and that I should not follow him to the grave; but, added he, on seeing my grief, if you really desire to go, I will send you there or go with you myself.

I was so astonished at this unexpected kindness, that my tears dried up in an instant, and I blessed and blessed him over and over again—not by speech, for I was unfit for it, but mentally. My master told me to go to my room and remain there till he sent for me, bidding me say nothing to any one either respecting my poor godfather or what had recently occurred. He need not have enjoined this on me; no one had ever thought it worth while to inquire whence I came, or to whom I belonged. The general opinion was, that I was a poor, spiritless, melancholy creature.

The last link was broken; I followed my only