CHAPTER XVI.
A BUD FADING.
A second summer went by with its long, hot days, when the sun seemed to stand still in the sky, and to dart down its most sultry beams into the dustiest and closest streets.

Out in the parks, and in the broad thoroughfares where the fresh breeze could sweep along early in the morning, and in the evening as soon as the air grew cooler, it was very pleasant weather; and the people who could put on light summer dresses enjoyed it very much.

But away among the thickly-built and crowded houses, where there were thousands of persons breathing over and over again the same hot and stagnant atmosphere, it seemed as if the most delicate and weakly among them must be suffocated by the breathless heat.
Old Oliver suffered very greatly, but he said nothing about it; indeed he generally forgot the cause of his languor and feebleness.

He never knew now the day of the week, nor the month of the year.

If any one had told him in the dog-days of July that it was still April, he would only have answered gently that it was bright, warm weather for the time of year.
But about old times his memory was good enough; he could tell long stories of his boyhood, and describe the hills of his native place in such a manner as to set Tony full of longings after the country, with its cornfields, and meadows, and hedge-rows, which he had never seen.