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ROTTY seems a strange name for an old man, but it was given to Toby Veck because of his always going at a trot to do his errands; for he was a porter, and carried letters and messages for people who were in too great a hurry to send them by the post. He did not earn very much, and had to be out in all weathers and all day long. But Toby was of a cheerful disposition, and looked on the bright side of everything. His greatest joy was his dear daughter Meg, who loved him dearly. One cold day Toby had been trotting up and down in his usual place before the church, when the bells chimed twelve o'clock, which made Toby think of dinner. There's nothing, he remarked, more regular in coming round than dinner-time, and nothing less regular in coming round than dinner. That's the great difference between 'em. He went on talking to himself never noticing who was coming near to him. Why, father, father, said a pleasant voice, and Toby turned to find his daughter's sweet, bright eyes close to his. Why, pet, said he, kissing her, what's-to-do? I didn't expect you to-day, Meg. Neither did I expect to come, father, said Meg, smiling. But here I am! And not alone, not alone! Why, you don't mean to say, observed Trotty, looking curiously at the covered basket she carried, that you?-- Smell it, father dear, said Meg; only smell it, and guess what it is. Toby took the shortest possible sniff at the edge of the basket. Why, it's hot, he said. But to Meg's great delight he could not guess what it was that smelt so good. At last he exclaimed in triumph, Why, what am I a-thinking of? It's tripe! And it was.

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