Lost Gip by Hesba Stretton

IT was a little sooner than usual one evening when Sandy returned from the wood-yard, with a bundle of wood under his arm, which Mr. Mason had sent for Mrs. Shafto. Gip was not yet waiting for him at the street corner, ready to jump about him gleefully along the narrow pavement which led across the grave-yard; and Sandy loitered for a minute to give her time to see him.

The place had grown into a dear home for him. He knew every blackened tombstone, and could read all the English words on the tablet in memory of Mr. Shafto's grandfather. What a quiet spot it was! how little Gip's laugh echoed round the high walls! And the fleeting beam of sunshine that peeped round the angle of the tallest chimney, just about the time when he reached the house, how bright it always seemed! He had ceased to think that he had ever lived anywhere else. The small house, too, looked more cheerful than it used to do; for the hatchment was gone, and the plumes, and the child's coffin, which had so much distressed little Gip that it had been disposed of immediately. The shop window was quite empty now, except for the single announcement of "Pinking done here."