CHAPTER XXIII.

Pure thoughts are angel visitants! be such The frequent inmates of thy guileless breast; They hallow all things by their sacred touch, And ope the portals of the land of rest.

At eight o'clock precisely, Wilkins stepped down from his desk, gave orders to have the store closed, and told Guly he would be ready in one moment. The clerks, most of them, dropped the curtain of linen over the goods, and went out, not sleeping in the store and having no pass key.

While Jeff was putting up the shutters, Guly went to Arthur and told him he was going out to see one of Wilkins' friends a little while, but would be back soon, and begged him to go to bed and try to sleep that haggard look from his face.

"Yes," Arthur said, he had no doubt but he needed rest and would try to gain it; and shaking hands they parted. Wilkins seemed waiting for the two or three clerks who yet remained, to go away before he left, but as he stood drawing on his gloves, Quirk came up and whispered something in his ear which Guly did not hear, but to which Wilkins answered aloud, saying: "I can't leave the key with you, but I'll lock you in."

"And how long will you be gone?"

"Only an hour or two."

"All right, then."

Wilkins and Guly went out and locked the door, leaving the young men in there. They walked on, through the busy streets thronged with pleasure seekers, some on foot, some riding, all gaily dressed and full apparently of bright anticipations and buoyant life. Sometimes a lamp gleam would fall through the plate-glass windows of some princely structure, where light forms of beauty, attired in fashion's garb, were flitting through the mazy dance or listening to music's enrapturing strain. As Guly walked on, noting the panorama of life which passed by him, he fell into a fit of musing from which he was unable to rouse himself, until they turned into another street, and Wilkins remarked quietly that it was the one in which Blanche lived. Then his whole attention was awakened, and there was no more musing, no more lack of conversation till they paused to rap at the door of the little house where Blanche lived. She opened it herself, and held out a hand to each of the new comers.

"I am so happy to see you," said she earnestly, as she permitted them to enter. "Guly, this is grandpapa, you will soon be acquainted with him, for we have been talking about you all day, and I have been describing you to him, so that he might know how you looked, and could know just how you would always act when I was giving you my work for sale, and all that."

The old gentleman was very venerable in appearance, and sat in a large stuffed chair with his grey locks floating over his shoulders, and his hands clasped upon a staff he held before him. His sightless orbs were turned in the direction whence came his good child's voice, and when she mentioned Guly's name he held out one trembling hand, and expressed, in a feeble, faltering tone, his pleasure at "seeing" them.

Guly took the extended hand, shook it cordially, and sat down near the old gentleman and entered into a brisk conversation with him, leaving Blanche to be entertained by, and to entertain, Wilkins.

"She called you Guly, this child of mine," said the old man, suddenly breaking a slight pause which had occured in the conversation. "Blanche, my love, when will you ever learn to be polite?"

"Dear grandpapa," returned Blanche, approaching him and stroking down his snow-white locks with her soft hand, "don't call me impolite, only a little too thoughtless and informal, grandpapa."

"Thoughtless and informal then, my dear; but I could wish you not to address young gentlemen by their given names."

"Well, grandpapa, I always say 'Mr.' to Monsieur Wilkins, because he is twice as tall as I, and looks always as if he expected to be mistered; but, grandpapa, just feel of Guly--he is nothing but a boy, only a little taller and a little older than I. Do let us be Blanche and Guly to each other."

There was no withstanding the simple and artless manner with which these words were spoken, and Blanche hung fondly over her grandfather's chair.

The old man smiled as he listened to her, and, turning to the side where Guly sat, he said, in an apologetic manner:

"Blanche's reasoning springs from her heart; she studies no etiquette save that which nature teaches."

"Which will carry such a spirit as hers through the world more safely than any other," said Wilkins, drawing his chair also to the side of his blind friend.

"Still," said Guly, blushing as he spoke, "it may make her heart so rare a gem that too many will covet it."

A shade of anxiety crossed the blind man's features as he heard the words, and he turned his dim eyes toward Guly as if he would give worlds to read the expression of face with which the sentence had been spoken.

"Lately," said he, leaning forward more heavily on his staff, "I have such thoughts myself. I am a weak, powerless old man, already bending over the grave into which I must so soon drop. When I think of this poor, dear child, left unprotected and alone in this great city, I am very unhappy, very miserable."

Guly saw a tear sparkle, and trickle down through the wrinkles of that aged face, and his own heart yearned sorrowfully.

"Blanche will never be without friends," said Wilkins, encouragingly.

"At least she will never lack for one while I live."

"Or I," exclaimed Guly, earnestly.

The old man shook his head, and smiled sadly.

"Two young men, however worthy and noble they may be, are not exactly the ones to offer their protection to an orphaned and beautiful girl.

Such things I don't doubt may be done uprightly and honestly; but the world, the suspicious world, is ever ready to cast the blight of shame and slander on such things."

Blanche suddenly left her grandfather's chair and hurried away to a distant corner of the room, from whence she brought a little stand containing a work-basket and the lamp. She placed it just in front of her grandpapa's chair, and between Guly and Wilkins. With a smile she seated herself at it, and began to embroider a strip of insertion; nimbly plying her needle among the slender vines and tendrils she was working.

"Are you there, darling?" said the old man, stretching out his unsteady hand and laying it on her head.

"Yes, grandpapa, right here in my old place."

He withdrew his hand with an air of pleased satisfaction, and resumed the subject he had just dropped.

"Blanche needs a mother--some female friend to guard and protect her, when--when her old grandfather shall be gone. I am afraid I shall drop off suddenly one of these days; I have sudden turns of illness which are very severe. I was quite sick last night--ah, she told me of your kindness to her, Mr. Wilkins; God be praised--and I could not help feeling then that my thoughts turned more upon my poor desolate child here, than on that other world to which I might be hastening."

Blanche dropped her head lower and lower over her work, till her short glossy ringlets shaded her soft brown eyes.

"This world," continued he, with that love of pursuing the prominent subject of thought so common with aged persons, "has, of course, lost its fascination for me. I am blind, and very old; and am swiftly descending from the summit of life's mount, and must soon drop from its base into that vast eternity of which we know so little. Poor Blanche! I am of course a trouble, so helpless and blind, but she will miss me when she's left alone. Poor child, poor child!"

Blanche lifted up her head quickly, and showed her cheeks wet with streaming tears. She rose from her seat, took the staff from the old man's hands, and threw herself sobbing aloud upon his bosom.

He folded his aged arms around her and drew her to his heart, while he bent his head, and his white hair, so silvery, floated forward and mingled with the raven blackness of hers. Thus they sat, a touching picture of youth and hoary age, of life's spring-time and the calm tranquillity of its withered autumn.

"Oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed Blanche at last, lifting up her face and looking tearfully into those dim eyes as though they could see all that she wished them. "Never, never talk any more about dying and leaving me here alone, unless you wish to break poor Blanche's heart. You are all that God has left me on this earth to love, and if He takes you, I want to go too. And you said you were a trouble! Don't ever, ever say that again, dear grandfather, if you love me dearly, as I know you do."

"But I wish to prepare you, darling, for the change that must surely come."

"Don't say so. You never could prepare me for such a dreadful thing, and please don't try to."

The old man drew a long shivering sigh, and leaned back in his chair.

Blanche sat up, smoothed his thin locks, kissed his brow, and soothed him once more into a placid calm. She slid from his arms, then placed the staff in his hands, and he bent forward on it as if already forgetful of the scene just passed.

Guly and Wilkins were deeply impressed by this simple occurrence, and the former had looked on, with difficulty keeping the answering drops from his large blue eyes. There had been something so natural in it all, yet so affecting and heart-touching. There had been no attempt to check the heart's first impulse, no struggle of affected prudery, but the free gushing forth of her warm affection, forgetful of everything save the strong love for her blind grandfather.

"Now, Guly," said Blanche, playfully, breaking the sad pause which had followed the recent excitement, "I am anxious to finish this piece of work this evening, and you must thread my needle for me. That will help me."

Guly expressed his willingness to obey, and drew his chair closer to the little table for the purpose, as he said, of receiving instructions.

Blanche gave them, and he sat watching her taper fingers, and waiting impatiently to see the thread used up that he might proffer another.

The old man talked pleasantly, Guly loved to hear him talk; Wilkins conversed with them all in a general maner, yet watched, with a pleased expression of countenance, Blanche and Guly as they sat side by side at the little table, the blue eyes looking into the brown, and the locks of gold lending a tinge of additional brightness to the curls of jetty black.

They rose to leave at ten o'clock, and the old man took Guly's hand, expressing a hope that he would repeat his visit; the boy uttered what his heart at the moment felt, that it was the pleasantest evening of his life, and his memory of it would not fail to induce him soon to seek a like enjoyment.

Guly walked home like one in a dream. A seed had fallen on his heart's rich soil, to spring up in time into fragrant bloom. In the holiest niche of his heart a new lamp was lighted, and it burned before the image of a Virgin!