In triumph he spread over his sleeping father his dead mother's old plaid of Gordon tartan, all the bedding they had, and without a moment's further delay--no shoes even to put off--crept under it, and nestled close upon the bosom of his unconscious parent.

A victory more! another day ended with success! his father safe, and all his own! the canopy of the darkness and the plaid over them, as if they were the one only two in the universe! his father unable to leave him--his for whole dark hours to come! It was Gibbie's paradise now! His heaven was his father's bosom, to which he clung as no infant yet ever clung to his mother's.

He never thought to pity himself that the embrace was all on his side, that no answering pressure came back from the prostrate form.

He never said to himself, "My father is a drunkard, but I must make the best of it; he is all I have!" He clung to his one possession--only clung: this was his father--all in all to him.

What must be the bliss of such a heart--of any heart, when it comes to know that there is a father of fathers, yea, a father of fatherhood! a father who never slumbers nor sleeps, but holds all the sleeping in his ever waking bosom--a bosom whose wakefulness is the sole fountain of their slumber! The conscious bliss of the child was of short duration, for in a few minutes he was fast asleep; but for the gain of those few minutes only, the day had been well spent..