Oliver, in his long, unbroken solitude of six years, had fallen into a notion, amounting to a firm belief, that his Lord was not dead and far off, as most of the world believed, but was a very present, living friend, always ready to listen to the meanest of his words.

He had a vague suspicion that his faith had got into a different course from that of most other people; and he bore meekly the rebukes of his sister Charlotte for the unwholesomeness of his visions.

But none the less, when he was alone, he talked and prayed to, and spoke to Tony of this Master, as one who was always very near at hand.
"I s'pose he takes a bit o' notice o' the little un," said Tony, "when he comes in now and then of an evening." "Ay, does he!" answered Oliver, earnestly.

"My boy, he loves every child as if it was his very own, and it is his own in one sense.

Didn't I read you last night how he said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.' Why, he'd love all the young children in the world, if they weren't hindered from coming to him." "I should very much like to see him some day," pursued Tony, reflectively, "and the rest of them,--Peter, and John, and them.