My Home. 35

 

so much that he would not leave
them to grow rich and honoured
as a London physician. But there
was no grandpapa left now to be
angry; and grandmamma, though
we had never seen her, we had
always loved for the beautiful pre-
sents she sent us.

There were only three of us at
this time—my little self; Bobbie, a
boy of four years old, boasting of
the fattest, rosiest cheeks in the
world; and wee Willie, the white-
faced, fretful baby of six months.
Oh, how well I remember the old
house, with its great lamp hanging
out over the lonely road, and shining