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Title: Under the Lilacs

Author:  Louisa May Alcott

Official Release Date: February, 2003  [Etext #3795]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
[The actual date this eText first posted = 09/12/01]

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Language: English

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This edition produced by Joanne Hogan.





Under the Lilacs

by Louisa May Alcott




TO
EMMA, IDA, CARL, AND LINA,
Over The Sea,
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
BY THEIR NEW FRIEND AND SISTER,
L. M. A.




Contents

I.     A MYSTERIOUS DOG
II.    WHERE THEY FOUND HIS MASTER
III.   BEN
IV.    HIS STORY
V.     BEN GETS A PLACE
VI.    A CIRCULATING LIBRARY
VII.   NEW FRIENDS TROT IN
VIII.  MISS CELIA'S MAN
IX.    A HAPPY TEA
X.     A HEAVY TROUBLE
XI.    SUNDAY
XII.   GOOD TIMES
XIII.  SOMEBODY RUNS AWAY
XIV.   SOMEBODY GETS LOST
XV.    BEN'S RIDE
XVI.   DETECTIVE THORNTON
XVII.  BETTY'S BRAVERY
XVIII. BOWS AND ARROWS
XIX.   SPEAKING PIECES
XX.    BEN'S BIRTHDAY
XXI.   CUPID'S LAST APPEARANCE
XXII.  A BOY'S BARGAIN
XXIII. SOMEBODY COMES
XXIV.  THE GREAT GATE IS OPENED




UNDER THE LILACS

CHAPTER I: A MYSTERIOUS DOG

The elm-tree avenue was all overgrown, the great gate
was never unlocked, and the old house had been shut up
for several years.

Yet voices were heard about the place, the lilacs
nodded over the high wall as if they said," We
could tell fine secrets if we chose," and the mullein
outside the gate made haste to reach the keyhole,
that it might peep in and see what was going on.
If it had suddenly grown up like a magic bean-
stalk, and looked in on a certain June day, it would
have seen a droll but pleasant sight, for somebody
evidently was going to have a party.

From the gate to the porch went a wide walk,
paved with smooth slabs of dark stone, and bordered
with the tall bushes which met overhead, making a
green roof.  All sorts of neglected flowers and wild
weeds grew between their stems, covering the walls
of this summer parlor with the prettiest tapestry.
A board, propped on two blocks of wood, stood in
the middle of the walk, covered with a little plaid
shawl much the worse for wear, and on it a miniature
tea-service was set forth with great elegance.  To be
sure, the tea-pot had lost its spout, the cream-jug its
handle, the sugar-bowl its cover, and the cups and
plates were all more or less cracked or nicked; but
polite persons would not take notice of these trifling
deficiencies, and none but polite persons were invited
to this party.

On either side of the porch was a seat, and here
a somewhat remarkable sight would have been revealed to
any inquisitive eye peering through the
aforesaid keyhole. Upon the left-hand seat lay seven
dolls, upon the right-hand seat lay six; and so varied
were the expressions of their countenances, owing
to fractures, dirt, age, and other afflictions, that one
would very naturally have thought this a doll's hospital, and
these the patients waiting for their tea.

This, however, would have been a sad mistake; for
if the wind had lifted the coverings laid over them,
it would have disclosed the fact that all were in full
dress, and merely reposing before the feast should
begin.

There was another interesting feature of the scene
which would have puzzled any but those well acquainted
with the manners and customs of dolls.
A fourteenth rag baby, with a china head, hung by
her neck from the rusty knocker in the middle of
the door.  A sprig of white and one of purple lilac
nodded over her, a dress of yellow calico, richly
trimmed with red-flannel scallops, shrouded her slender
form, a garland of small flowers crowned her
glossy curls, and a pair of blue boots touched toes
in the friendliest, if not the most graceful, manner.
An emotion of grief, as well as of surprise, might
well have thrilled any youthful breast at such a
spectacle; for why, oh! why, was this resplendent
dolly hung up there to be stared at by thirteen of her
kindred?  Was she a criminal, the sight of whose execution
threw them flat upon their backs in speechless horror?
Or was she an idol, to be adored in
that humble posture?  Neither, my friends.  She was
blonde Belinda, set, or rather hung, aloft, in the place
of honor, for this was her seventh birthday, and a
superb ball was about to celebrate the great event.
All were evidently awaiting a summons to the
festive board; but such was the perfect breeding of
these dolls, that not a single eye out of the whole
twenty-seven (Dutch Hans had lost one of the black
beads from his worsted countenance) turned for a
moment toward the table, or so much as winked,
as they lay in decorous rows, gazing with mute
admiration at Belinda.  She, unable to repress the joy
and pride which swelled her sawdust bosom till the
seams gaped, gave an occasional bounce as the wind
waved her yellow skirts, or made the blue boots
dance a sort of jig upon the door.  Hanging was
evidently not a painful operation, for she smiled
contentedly, and looked as if the red ribbon around
her neck was not uncomfortably tight; therefore, if
slow suffocation suited her, who else had any right
to complain?  So a pleasing silence reigned, not
even broken by a snore from Dinah, the top of
whose turban alone was visible above the coverlet,
or a cry from baby Jane, though her bare feet stuck
out in a way that would have produced shrieks from
a less well-trained infant.

Presently voices were heard approaching, and
through the arch which led to a side-path came two
little girls, one carrying a small pitcher, the other
proudly bearing a basket covered with a napkin.
They looked like twins, but were not, for Bab was a
year older than Betty, though only an inch taller.
Both had on brown calico frocks, much the worse
for a week's wear; but clean pink pinafores, in honor
of the occasion, made up for that, as well as the
gray stockings and thick boots.  Both had round,
rosy faces rather sunburnt, pug noses somewhat
freckled, merry blue eyes, and braided tails of hair
hanging down their backs like those of the dear little
Kenwigses.

"Don't they look sweet?" cried Bab, gazing with
maternal pride upon the left-hand row of dolls, who
might appropriately have sung in chorus, "We are
seven."

"Very nice; but my Belinda beats them all. I do
think she is the splendidest child that ever was!"
And Betty set down the basket to run and embrace
the suspended darling, just then kicking up her heels
with joyful abandon.

"The cake can be cooling while we fix the children.
It does smell perfectly delicious!" said Bab, lifting
the napkin to hang over the basket, fondly regarding
the little round loaf that lay inside.

"Leave some smell for me!" commanded Betty,
running back to get her fair share of the spicy fragrance.
The pug noses sniffed it up luxuriously, and the
bright eyes feasted upon the loveliness of the cake,
so brown and shiny, with a tipsy-looking B in pie-crust
staggering down one side, instead of sitting
properly a-top.

"Ma let me put it on the very last minute, and it
baked so hard I couldn't pick it off.  We can give
Belinda that piece, so it's just as well," observed
Betty, taking the lead, as her child was queen of the
revel.

"Let's set them round, so they can see too," proposed
Bab, going, with a hop, skip, and jump, to
collect her young family.

Betty agreed, and for several minutes both were
absorbed in seating their dolls about the table; for
some of the dear things were so limp they wouldn't
sit up, and others so stiff they wouldn't sit down, and
all sorts of seats had to be contrived to suit the
peculiarities of their spines.  This arduous task accomplished,
the fond mammas stepped back to enjoy the
spectacle, which, I assure you, was an impressive one.
Belinda sat with great dignity at the head, her hands
genteelly holding a pink cambric pocket-handkerchief
in her lap. Josephus, her cousin, took the foot,
elegantly arrayed in a new suit of purple and green gingham,
with his speaking countenance much obscured
by a straw hat several sizes too large for him; while
on either side sat guests of every size, complexion,
and costume, producing a very gay and varied effect,
as all were dressed with a noble disregard of fashion.

"They will like to see us get tea.  Did you forget
the buns?" inquired Betty, anxiously.

"No; got them in my pocket." And Bab produced from that
chaotic cupboard two rather stale and crumbly ones, saved
from lunch for the fete. These were cut up and arranged in
plates, forming a graceful circle around the cake, still in
its basket.

"Ma couldn't spare much milk, so we must mix
water with it. Strong tea isn't good for children,
she says." And Bab contentedly surveyed the gill
of skim-milk which was to satisfy the thirst of the
company.

"While the tea draws and the cake cools, let's sit
down and rest; I'm so tired!" sighed Betty, dropping
down on the door-step and stretching out the
stout little legs which had been on the go all day; for
Saturday had its tasks as well as its fun, and much
business had preceded this unusual pleasure.
Bab went and sat beside her, looking idly down the
walk toward the gate, where a fine cobweb shone in
the afternoon sun.

"Ma says she is going over the house in a day or
two, now it is warm and dry after the storm, and we
may go with her.  You know she wouldn't take us in
the fall, cause we had whooping-cough, and it was
damp there.  Now we shall see all the nice things;
won't it be fun?" observed Bab, after a pause.

"Yes, indeed! Ma says there's lots of books in
one room, and I can look at 'em while she goes round.
May be I'll have time to read some, and then I can
tell you," answered Betty, who dearly loved stories,
and seldom got any new ones.

"I'd rather see the old spinning-wheel up garret,
and the big pictures, and the queer clothes in the
blue chest.  It makes me mad to have them all shut
up there, when we might have such fun with them.
I'd just like to bang that old door down!"  And
Bab twisted round to give it a thump with her boots.
"You needn't laugh; you know you'd like it as
much as me," she added, twisting back again, rather
ashamed of her impatience.

"I didn't laugh."

"You did!  Don't you suppose I know what laughing is?"

"I guess I know I didn't."

"You did laugh!  How darst you tell such a
fib?"

"If you say that again I'll take Belinda and go
right home; then what will you do?"

"I'll eat up the cake."

"No, you won't!  It's mine, Ma said so; and you
are only company, so you'd better behave or I won't
have any party at all, so now."

This awful threat calmed Bab's anger at once, and
she hastened to introduce a safer subject.

"Never mind; don't let's fight before the children.
Do you know, Ma says she will let us play in the
coach-house next time it rains, and keep the key if
we want to."

"Oh, goody! that's because we told her how
we found the little window under the woodbine, and
didn't try to go in, though we might have just as
easy as not," cried Betty, appeased at once, for, after
a ten years' acquaintance, she had grown used to
Bab's peppery temper.

"I suppose the coach will be all dust and rats
and spiders, but I don't care. You and the dolls
can be the passengers, and I shall sit up in front
drive."

"You always do.  I shall like riding better than
being horse all the time, with that old wooden bit in
my mouth, and you jerking my arms off," said poor
Betty, who was tired of being horse continually.

"I guess we'd better go and get the water now,"
suggested Bab, feeling that it was not safe to encourage
her sister in such complaints.

"It is not many people who would dare to leave
their children all alone with such a lovely cake, and
know they wouldn't pick at it," said Betty proudly,
as they trotted away to the spring, each with a little
tin pail in her hand.

Alas, for the faith of these too confiding mammas!
They were gone about five minutes, and when they
returned a sight met their astonished eyes which
produced a simultaneous shriek of horror.  Flat upon
their faces lay the fourteen dolls, and the cake, the
cherished cake, was gone.

For an instant the little girls could only stand
motionless, gazing at the dreadful scene.  Then Bab
cast her water-pail wildly away, and, doubling up
her fist, cried out fiercely, --

"It was that Sally!  She said she'd pay me for
slapping her when she pinched little Mary Ann, and
now she has.  I'll give it to her! You run that way.
I'll run this.  Quick! quick!"

Away they went, Bab racing straight on, and bewildered
Betty turning obediently round to trot in the
opposite direction as fast as she could, with the water
splashing all over her as she ran, for she had forgotten
to put down her pail. Round the house they
went, and met with a crash at the back door, but no
sign of the thief appeared.

"In the lane!" shouted Bab.

"Down by the spring!" panted Betty; and off
they went again, one to scramble up a pile of stones
and look over the wall into the avenue, the other to
scamper to the spot they had just left.  Still, nothing
appeared but the dandelions' innocent faces looking
up at Bab, and a brown bird scared from his bath in
the spring by Betty's hasty approach.

Back they rushed, but only to meet a new scare,
which made them both cry "Ow!" and fly into the
porch for refuge.

A strange dog was sitting calmly among the ruins
of the feast, licking his lips after basely eating up the
last poor bits of bun, when he had bolted the cake,
basket, and all, apparently.

"Oh, the horrid thing!" cried Bab, longing to give
battle, but afraid, for the dog was a peculiar as well as
a dishonest animal.

"He looks like our China poodle, doesn't he?"
whispered Betty, making herself as small as possible
behind her more valiant sister.

He certainly did; for, though much larger and
dirtier than the well-washed China dog, this live one
had the same tassel at the end of his tail, ruffles of
hair round his ankles, and a body shaven behind and
curly before.  His eyes, however, were yellow, instead
of glassy black, like the other's; his red nose worked
as he cocked it up, as if smelling for more cakes, in
the most impudent manner; and never, during the
three years he had stood on the parlor mantel-piece,
had the China poodle done the surprising feats with
which this mysterious dog now proceeded to astonish
the little girls almost out of their wits.
First he sat up, put his forepaws together, and
begged prettily; then he suddenly flung his hind-legs
into the air, and walked about with great ease.
Hardly had they recovered from this shock, when
the hind-legs came down, the fore-legs went up, and
he paraded in a soldierly manner to and fro, like
a sentinel on guard.  But the crowning performance
was when he took his tail in his mouth and waltzed
down the walk, over the prostrate dolls, to the gate
and back again, barely escaping a general upset of
the ravaged table.

Bab and Betty could only hold each other tight and
squeal with delight, for never had they seen any thing
so funny; but, when the gymnastics ended, and the
dizzy dog came and stood on the step before them
barking loudly, with that pink nose of his sniffing
at their feet, and his queer eyes fixed sharply upon
them, their amusement turned to fear again, and they
dared not stir.

"Whish, go away! " commanded Bab.

"Scat! " meekly quavered Betty.

To their great relief, the poodle gave several more
inquiring barks, and then vanished as suddenly as
he appeared.  With one impulse, the children ran to
see what became of him, and, after a brisk scamper
through the orchard, saw the tasselled tail disappear
under the fence at the far end.

"Where do you s'pose he came from?" asked
Betty, stopping to rest on a big stone.

"I'd like to know where he's gone, too, and give
him a good beating, old thief! " scolded Bab, remembering
their wrongs.

"Oh, dear, yes! I hope the cake burnt him dreadfully if he
did eat it," groaned Betty, sadly remembering the dozen good
raisins she chopped up, and the "lots of 'lasses" mother put
into the dear lost loaf.

"The party's all spoilt, so we may as well go
home; and Bab mournfully led the way back.
Betty puckered up her face to cry, but burst out
laughing in spite of her woe.

"It was so funny to see him spin round and walk on
his head!  I wish he'd do it all over again; don't you?"

"Yes: but I hate him just the same.  I wonder
what Ma will say when - why! why!" and Bab
stopped short in the arch, with her eyes as round
and almost as large as the blue saucers on the
tea-tray.

"What is it? oh, what is it? " cried Betty, all ready
to run away if any new terror appeared.

"Look! there! it's come back!" said Bab in an
awe-stricken whisper, pointing to the table.
Betty did look, and her eyes opened even wider, --
as well they might, -- for there, just where they first
put it, was the lost cake, unhurt, unchanged, except
that the big B had coasted a little further down the
gingerbread hill.

CHAPTER II: WHERE THEY FOUND HIS MASTER

Neither spoke for a minute, astonishment being too
great for words; then, as by one impulse, both stole
up and touched the cake with a timid finger, quite
prepared to see it fly away in some mysterious and
startling manner.  It remained sitting tranquilly in
the basket, however, and the children drew a long breath
of relief, for, though they did not believe in fairies,
the late performances did seem rather like witchcraft.

"The dog didn't eat it!"

"Sally didn't take it!"

"How do you know?"

"She never would have put it back."

"Who did?"

"Can't tell, but I forgive 'em."

"What shall we do now?" asked Betty, feeling as
if it would be very difficult to settle down to a quiet
tea-party after such unusual excitement.

"Eat that cake up  just as fast as ever we can", and
Bab divided the contested delicacy with one chop of
the big knife, bound to make sure of her own share
at all events.

It did not take long, for they washed it down with
sips of milk, and ate as fast as possible, glancing
round all the while to see if the queer dog was
coming again.

"There! now I'd like to see any one take my cake
away," said Bab, defiantly crunching her half of the
pie-crust B.

"Or mine either," coughed Betty, choking over a
raisin that wouldn't go down in a hurry.

"We might as well clear up, and play there had
been an earthquake," suggested Bab, feeling that
some such convulsion of Nature was needed to explain
satisfactorily the demoralized condition of her
family.

"That will be splendid. My poor Linda was
knocked right over on her nose.  Darlin' child, come
to your mother and be fixed," purred Betty, lifting
the fallen idol from a grove of chickweed, and tenderly
brushing the dirt from Belinda's heroically smiling
face.

"She'll have croup to-night as sure as the world.
We'd better make up some squills out of this sugar
and water," said Bab, who dearly loved to dose the
dollies all round.

"P'r'aps she will, but you needn't begin to sneeze
yet awhile. I can sneeze for my own children, thank
you, ma'am," returned Betty, sharply, for her usually
amiable spirit had been ruffled by the late occurrences.

"I didn't sneeze! I've got enough to do to talk
and cry and cough for my own poor dears, without
bothering about yours," cried Bab, even more ruffled
than her sister.

"Then who did?  I heard a real live sneeze just
as plain as anything," and Betty looked up to the
green roof above her, as if the sound came from that
direction.

A yellow-bird sat swinging and chirping on the tall
lilac-bush, but no other living thing was in sight.
Birds don't sneeze, do they?" asked Betty, eying
little Goldy suspiciously.

"You goose! of course they don't."

"Well. I should just like to know who is laughing
and sneezing round here. "May be it is the dog,"
suggested Betty looking relieved.

"I never heard of a dog's laughing, except Mother
Hubbard's.  This is such a queer one, may be he can,
though.  I wonder where he went to?" and Bab took
a survey down both the side-paths, quite longing to
see the funny poodle again.

"I know where I 'm going to," said Betty, piling
the dolls into her apron with more haste than care.
"I'm going right straight home to tell Ma all about
it. I don't like such actions, and I 'm afraid to stay."

"I ain't; but I guess it is going to rain, so I shall
have to go any way," answered Bab, taking advantage
of the black clouds rolling up the sky, for she scorned
to own that she was afraid of any thing.

Clearing the table in a summary manner by catching up
the four corners of the cloth, Bab put the
rattling bundle into her apron, flung her children
on the top and pronounced herself ready to depart.
Betty lingered an instant to pick up and ends
that might be spoilt by the rain, and, when she turned
from taking the red halter off the knocker, two lovely
pink roses lay on the stone steps.

"Oh, Bab, just see!  Here's the very ones we
wanted.  Wasn't it nice of the wind to blow 'em
down? " she called out, picking them up and running
after her sister, who had strolled moodily along, still
looking about for her sworn foe, Sally Folsom.
The flowers soothed the feelings of the little girls,
because they had longed for them, and bravely resisted
the temptation to climb up the trellis and help
themselves, since their mother had forbidden such
feats, owing to a fall Bab got trying to reach a honeysuckle
from the vine which ran all over the porch.

Home they went and poured out their tale, to Mrs.
Moss's great amusement; for she saw in it only some
playmate's prank, and was not much impressed by
the mysterious sneeze and laugh.

"We'll have a grand rummage Monday, and find
out what is going on over there," was all she said.
But Mrs. Moss could not keep her promise, for on
Monday it still rained, and the little girls paddled off
to school like a pair of young ducks, enjoying every
puddle they came to, since India-rubber boots made
wading a delicious possibility. They took their
dinner, and at noon regaled a crowd of comrades with
an account of the mysterious dog, who appeared to
be haunting the neighborhood, as several of the other
children had seen him examining their back yards
with interest. He had begged of them, but to none
had he exhibited his accomplishments except Bab
and Betty; and they were therefore much set up, and
called him "our dog" with an air. The cake transaction
remained a riddle, for Sally Folsom solemnly
declared that she was playing tag in Mamie Snow's
barn at that identical time.  No one had been near
the old house but the two children, and no one could
throw any light upon that singular affair.

It produced a great effect, however; for even
"teacher" was interested, and told such amazing
tales of a juggler she once saw, that doughnuts were
left forgotten in dinner-baskets, and wedges of pie
remained suspended in the air for several minutes at
a time, instead of vanishing with miraculous rapidity
as usual.  At afternoon recess, which the girls had
first, Bab nearly dislocated every joint of her little
body trying to imitate the poodle's antics.  She had
practised on her bed with great success, but the
wood-shed floor was a different thing, as her knees
and elbows soon testified.

"It looked just as easy as any thing; I don't see
how he did it," she said, coming down with a bump
after vainly attempting to walk on her hands.

"My gracious, there he is this very minute! " cried
Betty, who sat on a little wood-pile near the door.
There was a general rush, -- and sixteen small girls
gazed out into the rain as eagerly as if to behold
Cinderella's magic coach, instead of one forlorn
dog trotting by through the mud.

"Oh, do call him in and make him dance!"  cried
the girls, all chirping at once, till it sounded as if a
flock of sparrows had taken possession of the shed.

"I will call him, he knows me," and Bab scrambled
up, forgetting how she had chased the poodle
and called him names two days ago.

He evidently had not forgotten, however; for,
though he paused and looked wistfully at them, he
would not approach, but stood dripping in the rain,
with his frills much bedraggled, while his tasselled
tail wagged slowly, and his pink nose pointed suggestively
to the pails and baskets, nearly empty now.

"He's hungry; give him something to eat, and
then he'll see that we don't want to hurt him,"
suggested Sally, starting a contribution with her last
bit of bread and butter.

Bab caught up her new pail, and collected all the
odds and ends; then tried to beguile the poor beast
in to eat and be comforted.  But he only came as
far as the door, and, sitting up, begged with such
imploring eyes that Bab put down the pail and stepped
back, saying pitifully, --

"The poor thing is starved; let him eat all he
wants, and we won't touch him."

The girls drew back with little clucks of interest
and compassion; but I regret to say their charity
was not rewarded as they expected, for, the minute
the coast was clear, the dog marched boldly up,
seized the handle of the pail in his mouth, and was
off with it, galloping down the road at a great pace.

Shrieks arose from the children, especially Bab and
Betty, basely bereaved of their new dinner-pail; but
no one could follow the thief, for the Ben rang, and
in they went, so much excited that the boys rushed
tumultuously forth to discover the cause.
By the time school was over the sun was out, and
Bab and Betty hastened home to tell their wrongs and
be comforted by mother, who did it most effectually.

"Never mind, dears, I'll get you another pail, if
he doesn't bring it back as he did before.  As it is
too wet for you to play out, you shall go and see
the old coach-house as I promised, Keep on your
rubbers and come along."

This delightful prospect much assuaged their woe,
and away they went, skipping gayly down the gravelled
path, while Mrs. Moss followed, with skirts well
tucked up, and a great bunch of keys in her hand;
for she lived at the Lodge, and had charge of the
premises.

The small door of the coach-house was fastened
inside, but the large one had a padlock on it; and
this being quickly unfastened, one half swung open,
and the little girls ran in, too eager and curious even
to cry out when they found themselves at last in
possession of the long-coveted old carriage.  A dusty,
musty concern enough; but it had a high seat, a
door, steps that let down, and many other charms
which rendered it most desirable in the eyes of
children.

Bab made straight for the box and Betty for the
door; but both came tumbling down faster than they
went up, when from the gloom of the interior came
a shrill bark, and a low voice saying quickly, "Down,
Sancho! down!"

"Who is there?" demanded Mrs. Moss, in a stern
tone, backing toward the door with both children
clinging to her skirts.

The well-known curly white head was popped out
of the broken window, and a mild whine seemed to
say, "Don't be alarmed, ladies; we won't hurt you."
Come out this minute, or I shall have to come
and get you," called Mrs. Moss, growing very brave
all of a sudden as she caught sight of a pair of small,
dusty shoes under the coach.

"Yes, 'm, I'm coming, as fast as I can," answered a
meek voice, as what appeared to be a bundle of rags
leaped out of the dark, followed by the poodle, who
immediately sat down at the bare feet of his owner
with a watchful air, as if ready to assault any one who
might approach too near.

"Now, then, who are you, and how did you get
here?" asked Mrs. Moss, trying to speak sternly,
though her motherly eyes were already full of pity, as
they rested on the forlorn little figure before her.


CHAPTER III: BEN

"Please, 'm, my name is Ben Brown, and I'm travellin'."

"Where are you going?"

"Anywheres to get work."

"What sort of work can you do?"

"All kinds.  I'm used to horses."

"Bless me! such a little chap as you?

"I'm twelve, ma'am, and can ride any thing on
four legs;" and the small boy gave a nod that
seemed to say, "Bring on your Cruisers.  I'm ready
for 'em."

"Haven't you got any folks?" asked Mrs. Moss,
amused but still anxious, for the sunburnt face was
very thin, the eyes hollow with hunger or pain, and
the ragged figure leaned on the wheel as if too weak
or weary to stand alone.

"No, 'm, not of my own; and the people I was
left with beat me so, I -- run away." The last words
seemed to bolt out against his will as if the woman's
sympathy irresistibly won the child's confidence.

"Then I don't blame you.  But how did you get
here?"

"I was so tired I couldn't go any further, and
I thought the folks up here at the big house
would take me in.  But the gate was locked, and I
was so discouraged, I jest laid down outside and
give up."

"Poor little soul, I don't wonder," said Mrs. Moss,
while the children looked deeply interested at mention
of their gate.

The boy drew a long breath, and his eyes began to
twinkle in spite of his forlorn state as he went on,
while the dog pricked up his ears at mention of his
name: --

"While I was restin' I heard some one come along
inside, and I peeked, and saw them little girls playin'.
The vittles looked so nice I couldn't help wantin'
'em; but I didn't take nothin', -- it was Sancho, and
he took the cake for me."

Bab and Betty gave a gasp and stared reproachfully
at the poodle, who half closed his eyes with a meek,
unconscious look that was very droll.

"And you made him put it back?" cried Bab.

"No; I did it myself. Got over the gate when you
was racin' after Sancho, and then clim' up on the porch
and hid," said the boy with a grin.

"And you laughed?" asked Bab.

"Yes."

"And sneezed?" added Betty.

"Yes."

"And threw down the roses?" cried both.

"Yes; and you liked 'em, didn't you?"

"Course we did! What made you hide?" said
Bab.

"I wasn't fit to be seen," muttered Ben, glancing
at his tatters as if he'd like to dive out of sight into
the dark coach again.

"How came you here?" demanded Mrs. Moss,
suddenly remembering her responsibility.

"I heard 'em talk about a little winder and a shed,
and when they'd gone I found it and come in.  The
glass was broke, and I only pulled the nail out.  I
haven't done a mite of harm sleepin' here two nights.
I was so tuckered out I couldn't go on nohow, though
I tried a-Sunday."

"And came back again?

"Yes, 'm; it was so lonesome in the rain, and this
place seemed kinder like home, and I could hear 'em
talkin' outside, and Sanch he found vittles, and I was
pretty comfortable."

"Well, I never!" ejaculated Mrs. Moss, whisking
up a corner of her apron to wipe her eyes, for the
thought of the poor little fellow alone there for two
days and nights with no bed but musty straw, no food
but the scraps a dog brought him, was too much for
her.  "Do you know what I'm going to do with
you?" she asked, trying to look calm and cool, with a
great tear running down her wholesome red cheek, and
a smile trying to break out at the corners of her lips.

"No, ma'am, and I dunno as I care.  Only don't
be hard on Sanch; he's been real good to me, and
we 're fond of one another; ain't us, old chap?"
answered the boy, with his arm around the dog's
neck, and an anxious look which he had not worn
for himself.

"I'm going to take you right home, and wash and feed
and put you in a good bed; and to-morrow, --
well, we'll see what'll happen then," said Mrs. Moss,
not quite sure about it herself.

"You're very kind, ma'am, I'll be glad to work
for you.  Ain't you got a horse I can see to?" asked
the boy, eagerly.

"Nothing but hens and a cat."

Bab and Betty burst out laughing when their mother
said that, and Ben gave a faint giggle, as if he would
like to join in if he only had the strength to do it.
But his legs shook under him, and he felt a queer dizziness;
so he could only hold on to Sancho, and blink
at the light like a young owl.

"Come right along, child.  Run on, girls, and put
the rest of the broth to warming, and fill the kettle.
I'll see to the boy," commanded Mrs. Moss, waving
off the children, and going up to feel the pulse of her
new charge, for it suddenly occurred to her that he
might be sick and not safe to take home.

The hand he gave her was very thin, but clean and
cool, and the black eyes were clear though hollow,
for the poor lad was half-starved.

"I'm awful shabby, but I ain't dirty.  I had a
washin' in the rain last night, and I've jest about lived
on water lately," he explained, wondering why she
looked at him so hard.

"Put out your tongue."

He did so, but took it in again to say quickly, --

"I ain't sick, -- I'm only hungry; for I haven't had
a mite but what Sanch brought, for three days; and
I always go halves, don't I, Sanch?"

The poodle gave a shrill bark, and vibrated excitedly
between the door and his master as if he understood all
that was going on, and recommended a
speedy march toward the promised food and shelter.
Mrs. Moss took the hint, and bade the boy follow her
at once and bring his "things" with him.

"I ain't got any.  Some big fellers took away my
bundle, else I wouldn't look so bad.  There's only
this.  I'm sorry Sanch took it, and I'd like to give it
back if I knew whose it was," said Ben, bringing the
new dinner-pail out from the depths of the coach
where he had gone to housekeeping.

"That's soon done; it's mine, and you're welcome to the
bits your queer dog ran off with.  Come
along, I must lock up," and Mrs. Moss clanked her
keys suggestively.

Ben limped out, leaning on a broken hoe-handle,
for he was stiff after two days in such damp lodgings,
as well as worn out with a fortnight's wandering
through sun and rain.  Sancho was in great spirits,
evidently feeling that their woes were over and his
foraging expeditions at an end, for he frisked about
his master with yelps of pleasure, or made playful
darts at the ankles of his benefactress, which caused
her to cry, "Whish!" and "Scat!" and shake her
skirts at him as if he were a cat or hen.

A hot fire was roaring in the stove under the broth-skillet
and tea-kettle, and Betty was poking in more
wood, with a great smirch of black on her chubby
cheek, while Bab was cutting away at the loaf as if
bent on slicing her own fingers off.  Before Ben knew
what he was about, he found himself in the old rocking-chair
devouring bread and butter as only a hungry
boy can, with Sancho close by gnawing a mutton-bone
like a ravenous wolf in sheep's clothing.

While the new-comers were thus happily employed, Mrs.
Moss beckoned the little girls out of
the room, and gave them both an errand.

"Bab, you run over to Mrs. Barton's, and ask her
for any old duds Billy don't want; and Betty, you go
to the Cutters, and tell Miss Clarindy I'd like a couple
of the shirts we made at last sewing circle.  Any shoes,
or a hat, or socks, would come handy, for the poor
dear hasn't a whole thread on him."

Away went the children full of anxiety to clothe
their beggar; and so well did they plead his cause
with the good neighbors, that Ben hardly knew himself when
he emerged from the back bedroom half an
hour later, clothed in Billy Barton's faded flannel suit,
with an unbleached cotton shirt out of the Dorcas
basket, and a pair of Milly Cutter's old shoes on his
feet.

Sancho also had been put in better trim, for, after
his master had refreshed himself with a warm bath, he
gave his dog a good scrub while Mrs. Moss set a stitch
here and there in the new old clothes; and Sancho
reappeared, looking more like the china poodle than
ever, being as white as snow, his curls well brushed
up, and his tasselly tail waving proudly over his
back.

Feeling eminently respectable and comfortable, the
wanderers humbly presented themselves, and were
greeted with smiles of approval from the little girls and
a hospitable welcome from the mother, who set
them near the stove to dry, as both were decidedly
damp after their ablutions.

"I declare I shouldn't have known you!" exclaimed
the good woman, surveying the boy with great satisfaction;
for, though still very thin and tired, the lad
had a tidy look that pleased her, and a lively way of
moving about in his clothes, like an eel in a skin rather
too big for him.  The merry black eyes seemed to
see every thing, the voice had an honest sound, and
the sunburnt face looked several years younger since
the unnatural despondency had gone out of it.

"It's very nice, and me and Sanch are lots
obliged, ma'am," murmured Ben, getting red and
bashful under the three pairs of friendly eyes fixed
upon him.

Bab and Betty were doing up the tea-things with
unusual despatch, so that they might entertain their
guest, and just as Ben spoke Bab dropped a cup.
To her great surprise no smash followed, for, bending
quickly, the boy caught it as it fell, and presented it
to her on the back of his hand with a little bow.

"Gracious ! how could you do it? "asked Bab, looking as if
she thought there was magic about.

"That's nothing; look here," and, taking two plates,
Ben sent them spinning up into the air, catching and
throwing so rapidly that Bab and Betty stood with
their mouths open, as if to swallow the plates should
they fall, while Mrs. Moss, with her dish-cloth suspended,
watched the antics of her crockery with a housewife's anxiety.

"That does beat all! " was the only exclamation
she had time to make; for, as if desirous of showing
his gratitude in the only way he could, Ben took
clothes-pins from a basket near by, sent several saucers
twirling up, caught them on the pins,
balanced the pins on chin, nose, forehead, and went
walking about with a new and peculiar sort of toadstool
ornamenting his countenance.

The children were immensely tickled, and Mrs.
Moss was so amused she would have lent her best
soup-tureen if he had expressed a wish for it.  But
Ben was too tired to show all his accomplishments
at once, and he soon stopped, looking as if he almost
regretted having betrayed that he possessed any.

"I guess you've been in the juggling business,"
said Mrs. Moss, with a wise nod, for she saw the same
look on his face as when he said his name was Ben
Brown, -- the look of one who was not telling the
whole truth.

"Yes, 'm.  I used to help Senor Pedro, the Wizard
of the World, and I learned some of his tricks,"
stammered Ben, trying to seem innocent.

"Now, look here, boy, you'd better tell me the
whole story, and tell it true, or I shall have to send
you up to judge Morris.  I wouldn't like to do that,
for he is a harsh sort of a man; so, if you haven't
done any thing bad, you needn't be afraid to speak
out, and I'll do what I can for you," said Mrs. Moss,
rather sternly, as she went and sat down in her rocking-chair,
as if about to open the court.

"I haven't done any thing bad, and I ain't afraid,
only I don't want to go back; and if I tell, may be
you'll let 'em know where I be," said Ben, much distressed
between his longing to confide in his new
friend and his fear of his old enemies.

"If they abused you, of course I wouldn't.  Tell
the truth, and I'll stand by you.  Girls, you go for
the milk."

"Oh, Ma, do let us stay!  We'll never tell,
truly, truly!" cried Bab and Betty, full of dismay
being sent off when secrets were about to be
divulged.

"I don't mind 'em," said Ben handsomely.

"Very well, only hold your tongues.  Now, boy
where did you come from?" said Mrs. Moss, as the
little girls hastily sat down together on their private
and particular bench opposite their mother, brimming
with curiosity and beaming with satisfaction at the
prospect before them.


CHAPTER IV: HIS STORY

"I ran away from a circus," began Ben, but got
no further, for Bab and Betty gave a simultaneous
bounce of delight, and both cried out at once, --

"We've been to one!  It was splendid!"

"You wouldn't think so if you knew as much about
it as I do," answered Ben, with a sudden frown and
wriggle, as if he still felt the smart of the blows he
had received.  "We don't call it splendid; do we,
Sancho?" he added, making a queer noise, which
caused the poodle to growl and bang the floor irefully
with his tail, as he lay close to his master's feet,
getting acquainted with the new shoes they wore.

"How came you there?" asked Mrs. Moss, rather
disturbed at the news.

"Why, my father was the 'Wild Hunter of the
Plains.' Didn't you ever see or hear of him?" said
Ben, as if surprised at her ignorance.

"Bless your heart, child, I haven't been to a circus
this ten years, and I'm sure I don't remember what
or who I saw then," answered Mrs. Moss, amused, yet
touched by the son's evident admiration for his father.

"Didn't you see him?" demanded Ben, turning to
the little girls.

"We saw Indians and tumbling men, and the Bounding Brothers
of Borneo, and a clown and monkeys, and a little mite of a
pony with blue eyes.  Was he any of them?" answered Betty,
innocently.

"Pooh! he didn't belong to that lot.  He always
rode two, four, six, eight horses to oncet, and I used
to ride with him till I got too big.  My father was
A No. 1, and didn't do any thing but break horses
and ride 'em," said Ben, with as much pride as if his
parent had been a President.

"Is he dead?" asked Mrs. Moss.

"I don't know.  Wish I did," -- and poor Ben gave
a gulp as if something rose in his throat and choked
him.

"Tell us all about it, dear, and may be we can find
out where he is," said Mrs. Moss, leaning forward to
pat the shiny dark head that was suddenly bent over
the dog.

"Yes, ma'am.  I will, thank y'," and with an effort
the boy steadied his voice and plunged into the
middle of his story.

"Father was always good to me, and I liked bein'
with him after granny died.  I lived with her till I
was seven; then father took me, and I was trained for
rider.  You jest oughter have seen me when I was
a little feller all in white tights, and a gold belt, and
pink riggin', standing' on father's shoulder, or hangin'
on to old General's tail, and him gallopin' full pelt;
or father ridin' three horses with me on his head wavin'
flags, and every one clapping like fun."

"Oh, weren't you scared to pieces?" asked Betty,
quaking at the mere thought.

"Not a bit. I liked it."

"So should I!" cried Bab enthusiastically.

"Then I drove the four ponies in the little chariot,
when we paraded," continued Ben, "and I sat on
the great ball up top of the grand car drawed by
Hannibal and Nero. But I didn't like that, 'cause
it was awful high and shaky, and the sun was hot,
and the trees slapped my face, and my legs ached
holdin' on."

"What's hanny bells and neroes?" demanded
Betty.

"Big elephants.  Father never let 'em put me up
there, and they didn't darst till he was gone; then I
had to, else they'd 'a' thrashed me."

"Didn't any one take your part? " asked Mrs.
Moss.

"Yes, 'm, 'most all the ladies did; they were very
good to me, 'specially 'Melia.  She vowed she wouldn't
go on in the Tunnymunt act if they didn't stop knockin'
me round when I wouldn't help old Buck with the
bears. So they had to stop it, 'cause she led first
rate, and none of the other ladies rode half as well
as 'Melia."

"Bears ! oh, do tell about them!" exclaimed Bab,
in great excitement, for at the only circus she had
seen the animals were her delight.

"Buck had five of 'em, cross old fellers, and he
showed 'em off.  I played with 'em once, jest for fun,
and he thought it would make a hit to have me show
off instead of him.  But they had a way of clawin' and
huggin' that wasn't nice, and you couldn't never tell
whether they were good-natured or ready to bite your
head off. Buck was all over scars where they'd
scratched and bit him, and I wasn't going to do it;
and I didn't have to, owin' to Miss St. John's standin'
by me like a good one."

"Who was Miss St. John?" asked Mrs. Moss,
rather confused by the sudden introduction of new
names and people.

"Why she was 'Melia, -- Mrs.  Smithers, the ringmaster's
wife. His name wasn't Montgomery any more'n hers was St.
John.  They all change 'em to something fine on the bills,
you know.  Father used to be Senor Jose Montebello; and I
was Master Adolphus Bloomsbury, after I stopped bein' a
flyin' Coopid and a infant Progidy."

Mrs. Moss leaned back in her chair to laugh at
that, greatly to the surprise of the little girls, who
were much impressed with the elegance of these high-sounding
names.

"Go on with your story, Ben, and tell why you
ran away and what became of your Pa," she said,
composing herself to listen, really interested in the
child.

"Well, you see, father had a quarrel with old
Smithers, and went off sudden last fall, just before
tenting season' was over. He told me he was
goin' to a great ridin' school in New York and when
he was fixed he'd send for me. I was to stay in
the museum and help Pedro with the trick business.
He was a nice man and I liked him, and 'Melia
was goin' to see to me, and I didn't mind for
awhile.  But father didn't send for me, and I began
to have horrid times. If it hadn't been for 'Melia
and Sancho I would have cut away long before I
did."

"What did you have to do?"

"Lots of things, for times was dull and I was smart.
Smithers said so, any way, and I had to tumble up
lively when he gave the word.  I didn't mind doin'
tricks or showin' off Sancho, for father trained him,
and he always did well with me.  But they wanted
me to drink gin to keep me small, and I wouldn't,
'cause father didn't like that kind of thing.  I used
to ride tip-top, and that just suited me till I got a fall
and hurt my back; but I had to go on all the same,
though I ached dreadful, and used to tumble off, I
was so dizzy and weak."

"What a brute that man must have been!  Why
didn't 'Melia put a stop to it?" asked Mrs. Moss,
indignantly.

"She died, ma'am, and then there was no one left
but Sanch; so I run away."

Then Ben fell to patting his dog again, to hide the
tears he could not keep from coming at the thought
of the kind friend he had lost.

"What did you mean to do?"

"Find father; but I couldn't, for he wasn't at the
ridin' school, and they told me he had gone out West
to buy mustangs for a man who wanted a lot.  So
then I was in a fix, for I couldn't go to father, didn't
know jest where he was, and I wouldn't sneak back
to Smithers to be abused.  Tried to make 'em take
me at the ridin' school, but they didn't want a boy,
and I travelled along and tried to get work.  But I'd
have starved if it hadn't been for Sanch.  I left him
tied up when I ran off, for fear they'd say I stole him.
He's a very valuable dog, ma'am, the best trick dog
I ever see, and they'd want him back more than they
would me.  He belongs to father, and I hated to leave
him; but I did.  I hooked it one dark night, and
never thought I'd see him ag'in.  Next mornin' I
was eatin' breakfast in a barn miles away, and dreadful
lonesome, when he came tearin' in, all mud and
wet, with a great piece of rope draggin'.  He'd
gnawed it and come after me, and wouldn't go back
or be lost; and I'll never leave him again, will I, dear
old feller?"

Sancho had listened to this portion of the tale with
intense interest, and when Ben spoke to him he stood
straight up, put both paws on the boy's shoulders,
licked his face with a world of dumb affection in his
yellow eyes, and gave a little whine which said as
plainly as words, --

"Cheer up, little master; fathers may vanish and
friends die, but I never will desert you."

Ben hugged him close and smiled over his curly,
white head at the little girls, who clapped their
hands at the pleasing tableau, and then went to pat
and fondle the good creature, assuring him that they
entirely forgave the theft of the cake and the new
dinner-pail. Inspired by these endearments and certain
private signals given by Ben, Sancho suddenly
burst away to perform all his best antics with unusual
grace and dexterity.

Bab and Betty danced about the room with rapture,
while Mrs. Moss declared she was almost afraid to
have such a wonderfully intelligent animal in the
house.  Praises of his dog pleased Ben more than
praises of himself, and when the confusion had subsided
he entertained his audience with a lively account
of Sancho's cleverness, fidelity, and the various
adventures in which he had nobly borne his part.

While he talked, Mrs. Moss was making up her
mind about him, and when he came to an end of his
dog's perfections, she said, gravely, --

"If I can find something for you to do, would you
like to stay here awhile?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am, I'd be glad to!" answered Ben,
eagerly; for the place seemed home-like already, and
the good woman almost as motherly as the departed
Mrs. Smithers.

"Well, I'll step over to the Squire's to-morrow
to see what he says.  Shouldn't wonder if he'd
take you for a chore-boy, if you are as smart as
you say.  He always has one in the summer, and
I haven't seen any round yet.  Can you drive
cows?"

"Hope so;" and Ben gave a shrug, as if it was a
very unnecessary question to put to a person who had
driven four calico ponies in a gilded chariot.

"It mayn't be as lively as riding elephants and
playing with bears, but it is respectable; and I guess
you'll be happier switching Brindle and Buttercup
than being switched yourself," said Mrs. Moss, shaking
her head at him with a smile.

"I guess I will, ma'am," answered Ben, with sudden
meekness, remembering the trials from which he had
escaped.

Very soon after this, he was sent off For a good night's
sleep in the back bedroom, with Sancho to watch over
him.  But both found it difficult to slumber till the
racket overhead subsided; for Bab insisted on playing
she was a bear and devouring poor Betty, in
spite of her wails, till their mother came up and put
an end to it by threatening to send Ben and his dog
away in the morning, if the girls "didn't behave and
be as still as mice."

This they solemnly promised; and they were soon
dreaming of gilded cars and mouldy coaches, runaway
boys and dinner-pails, dancing dogs and twirling teacups.


CHAPTER V: BEN GETS A PLACE

When Ben awoke next morning, he looked about him for a
moment half bewildered, because there was neither a
canvas tent, a barn roof, nor the blue sky above him,
but a neat white ceiling, where several flies buzzed
sociably together, while from without came, not the tramping of
horses, the twitter of swallows, or the chirp of early
birds, but the comfortable cackle of hens and the
sound of two little voices chanting the multiplication
table.

Sancho sat at the open window, watching the old
cat wash her face, and trying to imitate her with his
great ruffled paw, so awkwardly that Ben laughed;
and Sanch, to hide his confusion at being caught,
made one bound from chair to bed, and licked his
master's face so energetically that the boy dived under
the bedclothes to escape from the rough tongue.
A rap on the floor from below made both jump up,
and in ten minutes a shiny-faced lad and a lively dog
went racing downstairs, -- one to say, "Good-mornin',
ma'am," the other to wag his tail faster than ever
tail wagged before, for ham frizzled on the stove, and
Sancho was fond of it.

"Did you rest well?  " asked Mrs. Moss, nodding
at him, fork in hand.

"Guess I did!  Never saw such a bed.  I'm used
to hay and a horse-blanket, and lately nothin' but sky
for a cover and grass for my feather-bed," laughed
Ben, grateful for present comforts and making light of
past hardships.

"Clean, sweet corn-husks ain't bad for young bones,
even if they haven't got more flesh on them than
yours have," answered Mrs. Moss, giving the smooth
head a motherly stroke as she went by.

"Fat ain't allowed in our profession, ma'am.  The
thinner the better for tight-ropes and tumblin';
likewise bareback ridin' and spry jugglin'.  Muscle's the
thing, and there you are."

Ben stretched out a wiry little arm with a clenched
fist at the end of it, as if he were a young Hercules,
ready to play ball with the stove if she gave him leave.
Glad to see him in such good spirits, she pointed to
the well outside, saying pleasantly, --

"Well, then, just try your muscle by bringing in
some fresh water."

Ben caught up a pail and ran off, ready to be useful;
but, while he waited for the bucket to fill down
among the mossy stones, he looked about him, well
pleased with all he saw, -- the small brown house with
a pretty curl of smoke rising from its chimney, the
little sisters sitting in the sunshine, green hills and
newly-planted fields far and near, a brook dancing
through the orchard, birds singing in the elm avenue,
and all the world as fresh and lovely as early summer
could make it.

"Don't you think it's pretty nice here?" asked Bab,
as his eye came back to them after a long look, which
seemed to take in every thing, brightening as it roved.

"Just the nicest place that ever was.  Only needs
a horse round somewhere to be complete," answered
Ben, as the long well-sweep came up with a dripping
bucket at one end, an old grindstone at the other.

"The judge has three, but he's so fussy about them
he won't even let us pull a few hairs out of old Major's
tail to make rings of," said Betty, shutting her arithmetic,
with an injured expression.

"Mike lets me ride the white one to water when
the judge isn't round. It's such fun to go jouncing
down the lane and back.  I do love horses!" cried
Bab, bobbing up and down on the blue bench to
imitate the motion of white Jenny.

"I guess you are a plucky sort of a girl," and Ben
gave her an approving look as he went by, taking
care to slop a little water on Mrs. Puss, who stood
curling her whiskers and humping up her back at
Sancho.

"Come to breakfast!" called Mrs. Moss; and for
about twenty minutes little was said, as mush and
milk vanished in a way that would have astonished
even Jack the Giant-killer with his leather bag.

"Now, girls, fly round and get your chores done up;
Ben, you go chop me some kindlings; and I'll make
things tidy.  Then we can all start off at once," said
Mrs. Moss, as the last mouthful vanished, and Sancho
licked his lips over the savory scraps that fell to his
share.

Ben fell to chopping so vigorously that chips flew
wildly all about the shed; Bab rattled the cups into
her dish-pan with dangerous haste, and Betty raised
a cloud of dust "sweeping-up;" while mother seemed
to be everywhere at once.  Even Sanch, feeling that
his fate was at stake, endeavored to help in his own
somewhat erratic way, -- now frisking about Ben at
the risk of getting his tail chopped off, then trotting
away to poke his inquisitive nose into every closet
and room whither he followed Mrs. Moss in her "flying
round" evolutions; next dragging off the mat
so Betty could brush the door-steps, or inspecting
Bab's dish-washing by standing on his hind-legs to
survey the table with a critical air.  When they drove
him out he was not the least offended, but gayly
barked Puss up a tree, chased all the hens over the
fence, and carefully interred an old shoe in the garden,
where the remains of the mutton-bone were already buried.

By the time the others were ready, he had worked
off his superfluous spirits, and trotted behind the party
like a well-behaved dog accustomed to go out walking with
ladies.  At the cross-roads they separated,
the little girls running on to school, while Mrs. Moss
and Ben went up to the Squire's big house on the
hill.

"Don't you be scared, child. I'LL make it all right
about your running away; and if the Squire gives
you a job, just thank him for it, and do your best to
be steady and industrious; then you'll get on, I
haven't a doubt," she whispered, ringing the Ben at
a side-door, on which the word "Morris" shone in
bright letters.

"Come in!" called a gruff voice; and, feeling very
much as if he were going to have a tooth out, Ben
meekly followed the good woman, who put on her
pleasantest smile, anxious to make the best possible
impression.

A white-headed old gentleman sat reading a paper,
and peered over his glasses at the new-comers with a
pair of sharp eyes, saying in a testy tone, which would
have rather daunted any one who did not know what a
kind heart he had under his capacious waistcoat, --

"Good-morning, ma'am.  What's the matter now?
Young tramp been stealing your chickens?"

"Oh, dear no, sir! " exclaimed Mrs. Moss, as if
shocked at the idea. Then, in a few words, she told
Ben's story, unconsciously making his wrongs and
destitution so pathetic by her looks and tones, that
the Squire could not help being interested, and even
Ben pitied himself as if he were somebody else.

"Now, then, boy, what can you do?" asked the
old gentleman, with an approving nod to Mrs. Moss
as she finished, and such a keen glance from under
his bushy brows that Ben felt as if be was perfectly
transparent.

"'Most any thing, sir, to get my livin'."

"Can you weed ? "

"Never did, but I can learn, sir."

"Pull up all the beets and leave the pigweed, hey?
Can you pick strawberries?"

"Never tried any thing but eatin' 'em, sir,"

"Not likely to forget that part of the job.  Can
you ride a horse to plow?"

"Guess I could, sir!" -- and Ben's eyes began to
sparkle, for he dearly loved the noble animals who
had been his dearest friends lately.

"No antics allowed. My horse is a fine fellow,
and I'm very particular about him."
The Squire spoke soberly, but there was a twinkle
in his eye, and Mrs. Moss tried not to smile; for the
Squire's horse was a joke all over the town, being
about twenty years old, and having a peculiar gait of
his own, lifting his fore-feet very high, with a great
show of speed, though never going out of a jog-trot.
The boys used to say he galloped before and walked
behind, and made all sorts of fun of the big, Roman-
nosed beast, who allowed no liberties to be taken
with him.

"I'm too fond of horses to hurt 'em, Sir.  As for
ridin', I ain't afraid of any thing on four legs. The
King of Morocco used to kick and bite like fun, but
I could manage him first-rate."

"Then you'd be able to drive cows to pasture,
perhaps?"

"I've drove elephants and camels, ostriches and
grizzly bears, and mules, and six yellow ponies all to
oncet.  May be I could manage cows if I tried hard,"
answered Ben, endeavoring to be meek and respectful
when scorn filled his soul at the idea of not being
able to drive a cow.

The Squire liked him all the better for the droll
mixture of indignation and amusement betrayed by
the fire in his eyes and the sly smile round his lips; and beingrather tickled by Ben's list of animals, he answered gravely, --

"Don't raise elephants and camels much round
here. Bears used to be plenty, but folks got tired of
them.  Mules are numerous, but we have the two-legged kind;
and as a general thing prefer Shanghae fowls to ostriches."

He got no farther, for Ben laughed out so infectiously that both
the others joined him; and somehow that jolly laugh seemed to
settle matters than words.  As they stopped, the Squire tapped on
the window behind him, saying, with an attempt at
the former gruffness, --

"We'll try you on cows awhile.  My man will
show you where to drive them, and give you some
odd jobs through the day.  I'll see what you are
good for, and send you word to-night, Mrs. Moss.
The boy can sleep at your house, can't he?"

"Yes, indeed, sir.  He can go on doing it, and
come up to his work just as well as not.  I can see
to him then, and he won't be a care to any one," said
Mrs. Moss, heartily.

"I'll make inquiries concerning your father, boy;
meantime mind what you are about, and have a good
report to give when he comes for you," returned the
Squire, with a warning wag of a stern fore-finger.

"Thanky', sir.  I will, sir.  Father'll come just as
soon as he can, if he isn't sick or lost," murmured
Ben, inwardly thanking his stars that he had not done
any thing to make him quake before that awful finger,
and resolved that he never would.

Here a red-headed Irishman came to the door, and
stood eying the boy with small favor while the Squire
gave his orders.

"Pat, this lad wants work.  He's to take the cows
and go for them.  Give him any light jobs you have,
and let me know if he's good for any thing."

"Yis, your honor.  Come out o' this, b'y, till I
show ye the bastes," responded Pat; and, with a
hasty good-by to Mrs. Moss, Ben followed his new
leader, sorely tempted to play some naughty trick
upon him in return for his ungracious reception.

But in a moment he forgot that Pat existed, for
in the yard stood the Duke of Wellington, so named
in honor of his Roman nose.  If Ben had known any
thing about Shakespeare, he would have cried, "A
horse, a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" for the
feeling was in his heart, and he ran up to the stately
animal without a fear.  Duke put back his ears and
swished his tail as if displeased for a moment; but
Ben looked straight in his eyes, gave a scientific
stroke to the iron-gray nose, and uttered a chirrup
which made the ears prick up as if recognizing a
familiar sound.

"He'll nip ye, if ye go botherin' that way.  Leave
him alone, and attend to the cattle as his honor told
ye," commanded Pat, who made a great show of
respect toward Duke in public, and kicked him
brutally in private.

"I ain't afraid! You won't hurt me, will you, old
feller?  See there now! -- he knows I 'm a friend, and
takes to me right off," said Ben, with an arm around
Duke's neck, and his own cheek confidingly laid
against the animal's; for the intelligent eyes spoke to
him as plainly as the little whinny which he understood
and accepted as a welcome.

The Squire saw it all from the open window, and
suspecting from Pat's face that trouble was brewing,
called out, --

"Let the lad harness Duke, if he can.  I'm going
out directly, and he may as well try that as any
thing."

Ben was delighted, and proved himself so brisk and
handy that the roomy chaise stood at the door in a
surprisingly short time, with a smiling little ostler at
Duke's head when the Squire came out.

His affection for the horse pleased the old gentleman,
and his neat way of harnessing suited as well;
but Ben got no praise, except a nod and a brief "All
right, boy," as the equipage went creaking and jogging away.

Four sleek cows filed out of the barnyard when Pat
opened the gate, and Ben drove them down the road
to a distant pasture where the early grass awaited
their eager cropping. By the school they went, and
the boy looked pityingly at the black, brown, and
yellow heads bobbing past the windows as a class
went up to recite; for it seemed a hard thing to the
liberty-loving lad to be shut up there so many hours
on a morning like that.

But a little breeze that was playing truant round
the steps did Ben a service without knowing it, for a
sudden puff blew a torn leaf to his feet, and seeing a
picture he took it up. It evidently had fallen from
some ill-used history, for the picture showed some
queer ships at anchor, some oddly dressed men just
landing, and a crowd of Indians dancing about on
the shore. Ben spelt out all be could about these
interesting personages, but could not discover what it
meant, because ink evidently had deluged the page,
to the new reader's great disappointment.

"I'll ask the girls; may be they will know," said
Ben to himself as, after looking vainly for more stray
leaves, he trudged on, enjoying the bobolink's song,
the warm sunshine, and a comfortable sense of friendliness
and safety, which soon set him to whistling as
gayly as any blackbird in the meadow.


CHAPTER VI: A CIRCULATING LIBRARY

After supper that night, Bab and Betty sat
in the old porch playing with Josephus and
Belinda, and discussing the events of the
day; for the appearance of the strange boy and his
dog had been a most exciting occurrence in their
quiet lives.  They had seen nothing of him since
morning, as he took his meals at the Squire's, and
was at work with Pat in a distant field when the children
passed. Sancho had stuck closely to his master,
evidently rather bewildered by the new order of
things, and bound to see that no harm happened to
Ben.

"I wish they'd come.  It's sundown, and I heard
the cows mooing, so I know they have gone home,"
said Betty, impatiently; for she regarded the new-comer
in the light of an entertaining book, and wished
to read on as fast as possible.

"I'm going to learn the signs he makes when he
wants Sancho to dance; then we can have fun with
him whenever we like.  He's the dearest dog I ever
saw!" answered Bab, who was fonder of animals than
her sister.

"Ma said -- Ow, what's that?" cried Betty with a
start, as something bumped against the gate outside;
and in a moment Ben's head peeped over the top as
he swung himself up to the iron arch, in the middle
of which was the empty lantern frame.

"Please to locate, gentlemen; please to locate.
The performance is about to begin with the great
Flyin' Coopid act, in which Master Bloomsbury has
appeared before the crowned heads of Europe.
Pronounced by all beholders the most remarkable youthful
progidy agoin'.  Hooray ! here we are!"

Having rattled off the familiar speech in Mr.
Smithers's elegant manner, Ben begin to cut up such
capers that even a party of dignified hens, going
down the avenue to bed, paused to look on with
clucks of astonishment, evidently fancying that salt
had set him to fluttering and tumbling as it did them.
Never had the old gate beheld such antics, though it
had seen gay doings in its time; for of all the boys
who had climbed over it, not one had ever stood
on his head upon each of the big balls which ornamented
the posts, hung by his heels from the arch,
gone round and round like a wheel with the bar for
an axis, played a tattoo with his toes while holding
on by his chin, walked about the wall on his hands,
or closed the entertainment by festooning himself
in an airy posture over the side of the lantern frame,
and kissing his hand to the audience as a well-bred
Cupid is supposed to do on making his bow.

The little girls clapped and stamped enthusiastically,
while Sancho, who had been calmly surveying the
show, barked his approval as he leaped up to snap at
Ben's feet.

"Come down and tell what you did up at the
Squire's.  Was he cross?  Did you have to work
hard?  Do you like it?" asked Bab, when the noise
had subsided.

"It's cooler up here," answered Ben, composing
himself in the frame, and fanning his hot face with a
green spray broken from the tall bushes rustling odorously
all about him.  "I did all sorts of jobs.  The
old gentleman wasn't cross; he gave me a dime, and
I like him first-rate.  But I just hate 'Carrots; ' he
swears at a feller, and fired a stick of wood at me.
Guess I'll pay him off when I get a chance."

Fumbling in his pocket to show the bright dime, he
found the torn page, and remembered the thirst for
information which had seized him in the morning.
"Look here, tell me about this, will you? What
are these chaps up to? The ink has spoilt all but the
picture and this bit of reading.  I want to know what
it means.  Take it to 'em, Sanch."

The dog caught the leaf as it fluttered to the ground,
and carrying it carefully in his mouth, deposited it at
the feet of the little girls, seating himself before them
with an air of deep interest.  Bab and Betty picked it
up and read it aloud in unison, while Ben leaned from
his perch to listen and learn.

"'When day dawned,land was visible.  A pleasant
land it was.  There were gay flowers, and tall trees
with leaves and fruit, such as they had never seen before.
On the shore were unclad copper-colored men,
gazing with wonder at the Spanish ships.  They took
them for great birds, the white sails for their wings,
and the Spaniards for superior beings brought down
from heaven on their backs."

"Why, that's Columbus finding San Salvador.
Don't you know about him?" demanded Bab, as if
she were one of the "superior beings," and intimately
acquainted with the immortal Christopher.

"No, I don't.  Who was he any way?  I s'pose
that's him paddlin' ahead; but which of the Injuns is
Sam Salvindoor?" asked Ben, rather ashamed of his
ignorance, but bent on finding out now he had begun.

"My gracious! twelve years old and not know your
Quackenbos!" laughed Bab, much amused, but rather
glad to find that she could teach the "whirligig
boy" something, for she considered him a remarkable
creature.

"I don't care a bit for your quackin' boss, whoever
he is.  Tell about this fine feller with the ships; I
like him," persisted Ben.

So Bab, with frequent interruptions and hints from
Betty, told the wonderful tale in a simple way, which
made it easy to understand; for she liked history, and
had a lively tongue of her own.

"I'd like to read some more. Would my ten cents
buy a book?" asked Ben, anxious to learn a little
since Bab laughed at him.

"No, indeed! I'll lend you mine when I'm not
using it, and tell you all about it," promised Bab;
forgetting that she did not know "all about it" herself
yet.

"I don't have any time only evenings, and then
may be you'II want it," begun Ben, in whom the inky
page had roused a strong curiosity.

"I do get my history in the evening, but you could
have it mornings before school."

"I shall have to go off early, so there won't be any
chance.  Yes, there will, -- I'LL tell you how to do it.
Let me read while I drive up the cows.  Squire likes
'em to eat slow along the road, so's to keep the grass
short and save mowin'.  Pat said so, and I could do
history instead of loafin' round!" cried Ben full of
this bright idea.

"How will I get my book back in time to recite?"
asked Bab, prudently.

"Oh, I'll leave it on the window-sill, or put it inside
the door as I go back.  I'll be real careful, and just
as soon as I earn enough, I'll buy you a new one and
take the old one.  Will you?"

"Yes; but I'll tell you a nicer way to do.  Don't
put the book on the window, 'cause teacher will see
you; or inside the door, 'cause some one may steal
it. You put it in my cubby-houae, right at the corner
of the wall nearest the big maple.  You'll find a
cunning place between the roots that stick up under
the flat stone. That's my closet, and I keep things
there.  It's the best cubby of all, and we take turns
to have it."

"I'll find it, and that'll be a first-rate place," said
Ben, much gratified.

"I could put my reading-book in sometimes, if
you'd like it.  There's lots of pretty stories in it and
pictures," proposed Betty, rather timidly; for she
wanted to share the benevolent project, but had little
to offer, not being as good a scholar as Bab.

"I'd like a 'rithmetic better. I read tip-top, but I
ain't much on 'rithmetic"; so, if you can spare yours,
I might take a look at it. Now I'm goin' to earn
wages, I ought to know about addin' 'em up, and so
on," said Ben, with the air of a Vanderbilt oppressed
with the care of millions.

"I'll teach you that.  Betty doesn't know much
about sums.  But she spells splendidly, and is always
at the head of her class.  Teacher is real proud of her,
'cause she never misses, and spells hard, fussy words,
like chi-rog-ra-phy and bron-chi-tis as easy as any
thing.

Bab quite beamed with sisterly pride, and Betty
smoothed down her apron with modest satisfaction,
for Bab seldom praised her, and she liked it very
much.

"I never went to school, so that's the reason I ain't
smart. I can write, though, better 'n some of the boys
up at school. I saw lots of names on the shed door.
See here, now," -- and scrambling down, Ben pulled
out a cherished bit of chalk, and flourished off ten
letters of the alphabet, one on each of the dark stone
slabs that paved the walk.

"Those are beautiful!  I can't make such curly
ones.  Who taught you to do it? " asked Bab, as she
and Betty walked up and down admiring them.

"Horse blankets," answered Ben, soberly.

"What!" cried both girls, stopping to stare.

"Our horses all had their names on their blankets,
and I used to copy 'em.  The wagons had signs, and I
learned to read that way after father taught me my
letters off the red and yellow posters.  First word I
knew was lion, 'cause I was always goin' to see old
Jubal in his cage.  Father was real proud when I read
it right off.  I can draw one, too."

Ben proceeded to depict an animal intended to
represent his lost friend; but Jubal would not have
recognized his portrait, since it looked much more
like Sancho than the king of the forest.  The children
admired it immensely, however, and Ben gave them
a lesson in natural history which was so interesting
that it kept them busy and happy till bedtime; for
the boy described what he had seen in such lively
language, and illustrated in such a droll way, it was
no wonder they were charmed.


CHAPTER VII

NEW FRIENDS TROT IN

Next day Ben ran off to his work with
Quackenbos's "Elementary History of the
United States" in his pocket, and the
Squire's cows had ample time to breakfast on way-
side grass before they were put into their pasture.
Even then the pleasant lesson was not ended, for
Ben had an errand to town; and all the way he read
busily, tumbling over the hard words, and leaving
bits which he did not understand to be explained at
night by Bab.

At "The First Settlements" he had to stop, for the
schoolhouse was reached, and the book must be returned.
The maple-tree closet was easily found, and
a little surprise hidden under the flat stone; for Ben
paid two sticks of red and white candy for the privilege
of taking books from the new library.

When recess came, great was the rejoicing of the
children over their unexpected treat, for Mrs. Moss
had few pennies to spare for sweets, and, somehow,
this candy tasted particularly nice, bought out of
grateful Ben's solitary dime.  The little giris shared
their goodies with their favorite mates, but said
nothing about the new arrangement, fearing it would
be spoilt if generally known.  They told their mother,
however, and she gave them leave to lend their books
and encourage Ben to love learning all they could.
She also proposed that they should drop patch-work,
and help her make some blue shirts for Ben. Mrs.
Barton had given her the materials, and she thought
it would be an excellent lesson in needle-work as well
as a useful gift to Ben, -- who, boy-like, never troubled
himself as to what he should wear when his one suit
of clothes gave out.

Wednesday afternoon was the sewing time; so the
two little B's worked busily at a pair of shirt-sleeves,
sitting on their bench in the doorway, while the rusty
needles creaked in and out, and the childish voices
sang school-songs, with frequent stoppages for lively
chatter.

For a week, Ben worked away bravely, and never
shirked nor complained, although Pat put many a
hard or disagreeable job upon him, and chores grew
more and more distasteful. His only comfort was
the knowledge that Mrs. Moss and the Squire were
satisfied with him; his only pleasure the lessons he
learned while driving the cows, and recited in the evening
when the three children met under the lilacs
to " play school."

He had no thought of studying when he began,
and hardly knew that he was doing it as he pored
over the different books he took from the library.
But the little girls tried him with all they Possessed,
and he was mortified to find how ignorant he was.
He never owned it in words, but gladly accepted
all the bits of knowledge they offered from their small store;
getting Betty to hear him spell "just for
fun;" agreeing to draw Bab all the bears and tigers
she wanted if she would show him how to do sums
on the flags, and often beguiled his lonely labors by
trying to chant the multiplication table as they did.
When Tuesday night came round, the Squire paid
him a dollar, said he was "a likely boy," and might
stay another week if he chose.  Ben thanked him and
thought he would; but the next morning, after he
had put up the bars, he remained sitting on the top
rail to consider his prospects, for he felt uncommonly
reluctant to go back to the society of rough Pat.
Like most boys, he hated work, unless it was of a
sort which just suited him; then he could toil like a
beaver and never tire.  His wandering life had given
him no habits of steady industry; and, while he was
an unusually capable lad of his age, he dearly loved
to "loaf" about and have a good deal of variety and
excitement in his life.

Now he saw nothing before him but days of patient
and very uninteresting labor.  He was heartily sick
of weeding; even riding Duke before the cultivator
had lost its charms, and a great pile of wood lay in
the Squire's yard which he knew he would be set
to piling up in the shed.  Strawberry-picking would
soon follow the asparagus cultivation; then haying;
and and so on all the long bright summer, without any
fun, unless his father came for him.

On the other hand, he was not obliged to stay a
minute longer unless he liked. With a comfortable
suit of clothes, a dollar in his pocket, and a row of
dinner-baskets hanging in the school-house entry to
supply him with provisions if he didn't mind stealing
them, what was easier than to run away again?
Tramping has its charms in fair weather, and Ben
had lived like a gypsy under canvas for years; so he
feared nothing, and began to look down the leafy road
with a restless, wistful expression, as the temptation
grew stronger and stronger every minute.

Sancho seemed to share the longing, for he kept
running off a little way and stopping to frisk and
bark; then rushed back to sit watching his master
with those intelligent eyes of his, which seemed to
say, "Come on, Ben, let us scamper down this pleasant
road and never stop till we are tired." Swallows
darted by, white clouds fled before the balmy west
wind, a squirrel ran along the wall, and all things
seemed to echo the boy's desire to leave toil behind
and roam away as care-free as they.  One thing restrained
him, the thought of his seeming ingratitude
to good Mrs. Moss, and the disappointment of the
little girls at the loss of their two new play-fellows.
While he paused to think of this, something happened
which kept him from doing what he would have been
sure to regret afterward.

Horses had always been his best friends, and one
came trotting up to help him now; though he did
not know how much he owed it till long after. Just
in the act of swinging himself over the bars to take a
shortcut across the fields, the sound of approaching
hoofs, unaccompanied by the roll of wheels, caught
his ear; and, pausing, he watched eagerly to see who
was coming at such a pace.

At the turn of road, however, the quick trot
stopped, and in a moment a lady on a bay mare came
pacing slowly into sight, -- a young and pretty lady,
all in dark blue, with a bunch of dandelions like
yellow stars in her button-hole, and a silver-handled
whip hanging from the pommel of her saddle, evidently
more for ornament than use.  The handsome
mare limped a little, and shook her head as if something
plagued her; while her mistress leaned down
to see what was the matter, saying, as if she expected
an answer of some sort,--

"Now, Chevalita, if you have got a stone in your
foot, I shall have to get off and take it out.  Why
don't you look where you step, and save me all this
trouble?"

"I'll look for you, ma'am; I'd like to!" said an
eager voice so unexpectedly, that both horse and rider
started as a boy came down the bank with a jump.

"I wish you would.  You need not be afraid; Lita
is as gentle as a lamb," answered the young lady,
smilint, as if amused by the boy's earnestness.

"She's a beauty, any way," muttered Ben, lifting
one foot after another till he found the stone, and
with some trouble got it out.

"That was nicely done, and I'm much obliged.
Can you tell me if that cross-road leads to the
Elms?" asked the lady, as she went slowly on with
Ben beside her.

"No, ma'am; I'm new in these parts, and I only
know where Squire Morris and Mrs. Moss live."

"I want to see both of them, so suppose you show
me the way. I was here long ago, and thought I
should remember how to find the old house with the
elm avenue and the big gate, but I don't."

"I know it; they call that place the Laylocks now,
'cause there's a hedge of 'em all down the path and
front wall.  It's a real pretty place; Bab and Betty
play there, and so do I."

Ben could not restrain a chuckle at the recollection
of his first appearance there, and, as if his merriment
or his words interested her, the lady said pleasantly,

"Tell me all about it.  Are Bab and Betty your sisters?"
Quite forgetting his intended tramp, Ben plunged
into a copious history of himself and new-made
friends, led on by a kind look, an inquiring word,
and sympathetic smile, till he had told every thing.
At the school-house corner he stopped and said,
spreading his arms like a sign-post, --

"That's the way to the Laylocks, and this is the
way to the Squire's."

"As I'm in a hurry to see the old house, I'll go
this way first, if you will be kind enough to give my
love to Mrs. Morris, and tell the Squire Miss Celia is
coming to dine with him.  I won't say good-by,
because I shall see you again."

With a nod and a smile, the young lady cantered
away, and Ben hurried up the hill to deliver his
message, feeling as if something pleasant was going
to happen; so it would be wise to defer running away,
for the present at least.

At one o'clock Miss Celia arrived, and Ben had the
delight of helping Pat stable pretty Chevalita; then,
his own dinner hastily eaten, he fell to work at the
detested wood-pile with sudden energy; for as he
worked he could steal peeps into the dining-room,
and see the curly brown head between the two gay
ones, as the three sat round the table.  He could not
help hearing a word now and then, as the windows
were open, and these bits of conversation filled him
with curiosity for the names "Thorny,"  Celia,"
and "George" were often repeated, and an occasional
merry laugh from the young lady sounded like music
in that usually quiet place.

When dinner was over, Ben's industrious fit left
him, and he leisurely trundled his barrow to and fro
till the guest departed.  There was no chance for
him to help now, since Pat, anxious to get whatever
trifle might be offered for his services, was quite
devoted in his attentions to the mare and her mistress,
till she was mounted and off.  But Miss Celia
did not forget her little guide, and, spying a wistful
face behind the wood-pile, paused at the gate and
beckoned with that winning smile of hers.  If ten
Pats had stood scowling in the way, Ben would have
defied them all; and, vaulting over the fence, he ran
up with a shining face, hoping she wanted some last
favor of him.  Leaning down, Miss Celia slipped a
new quarter into his hand, saying,

"Lita wants me to give you this for taking the
stone out of her foot."

"Thank y', ma'am; I liked to do it, for I hate to
see 'em limp, 'specially such a pretty one as she is,"
answered Ben, stroking the glossy neck with a loving
touch.

"The Squire says you know a good deal about
horses, so I suppose you understand the Houyhnhnm
language?  I'm learning it, and it is very nice,"
laughed Miss Celia, as Chevalita gave a little whinny
and snuffled her nose into Ben's pocket.

"No, miss, I never went to school."

"That is not taught there.  I'll bring you a book
all about it when I come back.  Mr. Gulliver went to
the horse-country and heard the dear things speak
their own tongue."

"My father has been on the prairies, where there's
lots of wild ones, but he didn't hear 'em speak.  I
know what they want without talkin'," answered Ben,
suspecting a joke, but not exactly seeing what it was.

"I don't doubt it, but I won't forget the book.
Good-by, my lad, we shall soon meet again," and
away went Miss Celia as if she were in a hurry to
get back.

"If she only had a red habit and a streamin' white
feather, she'd look as fine as 'Melia used to.  She is
'most as kind and rides 'most as well.  Wonder
where she's goin' to.  Hope she will come soon,"
thought Ben, watching till the last flutter of the blue
habit vanished round the corner; and then he went
back to his work with his head full of the promised
book, pausing now and then to chink the two silver
halves and the new quarter together in his pocket,
wondering what be should buy with this vast sum.

Bab and Betty meantime had had a most exciting
day; for when they went home at noon they found
the pretty lady there, and she had talked to them
like an old friend, given them a ride on the little
horse, and kissed them both good-by when they went
back to school.  In the afternoon the lady was gone,
the old house all open, and their mother sweeping,
airing, in great spirits.  So they had a splendid
frolic tumbling on feather-beds, beating bits
of carpet, opening closets, and racing from garret to
cellar like a pair of distracted kittens.

Here Ben found them, and was at once overwhelmed
with a burst of news which excited him as
much as it did them.  Miss Celia owned the house,
was coming to liver there, and things  were to be made
ready as soon as possible.  All thought the prospect
a charming one: Mrs. Moss, because life had been
dull for her during the year she had taken charge of
the old house; the little girls had heard rumors of
various pets who were coming; and Ben, learning
that a boy and a donkey were among them, resolved
that nothing but the arrival of his father should tear
him from this now deeply interesting spot.

"I'm in such a hurry to see the peacocks and hear
them scream. She said they did, and that we'd laugh
when old Jack brayed," cried Bab, hopping about on
one foot to work off her impatience.

"Is a faytun a kind of a bird? I heard her say
she could keep it in the coach-house," asked Betty,
inquiringly.

"It's a little carriage," and Ben rolled in the grass,
much tickled at poor Betty's ignorance.

"Of course it is.  I looked it out in the dic., and
you mustn't call it a payton, though it is spelt with
a p," added Bab, who liked to lay down the law on
all occasions, and did not mention that she had looked
vainly among the Vs till a school-mate set her right.

"You can't tell me much about carriages.  But what
I want to know is where Lita will stay?" said Ben.

"Oh, she's to be up at the Squire's till things are
fixed, and you are to bring her down.  Squire came
and told Ma all about it, and said you were a boy to
be trusted, for he had tried you."

Ben made no answer, but secretly thanked his stars
that he had not proved himself untrustworthy by running
away, and so missing all this fun.

"Won't it be fine to have the house open all the
time?  We can run over and see the pictures and
books whenever we like.  I know we can, Miss Celia is
so kind," began Betty, who cared for these things more
than for screaming peacocks and comical donkeys.

"Not unless you are invited," answered their
mother, locking the front door behind her.  "You'd
better begin to pick up your duds right away, for she
won't want them cluttering round her front yard.  If
you are not too tired, Ben, you might rake round a
little while I shut the blinds.  I want things to look
nice and tidy."

Two little groans went up from two afflicted little
girls as they looked about them at the shady bower,
the dear porch, and the winding walks where they
loved to run "till their hair whistled in the wind," as
the fairy-books say.

"Whatever shall we do!  Our attic is so hot and
the shed so small, and the yard always full of hens
or clothes.  We shall have to pack all our things
away, and never play any more," said Bab, tragically.

"May be Ben could build us a little house in the
orchard," proposed Betty, who firmly believed that
Ben could do any thing.

"He won't have any time.  Boys don't care for
baby-houses," returned Bab, collecting her homeless
goods and chattels with a dismal face.

"We sha'n't want these much when all the new
things come; see if we do," said cheerful little Betty,
who always found out a silver lining to every cloud.


CHAPTER VIII: MISS CELIA'S MAN

Ben was not too tired, and the clearing-up began that very
night.  None too soon, for in a day or two things arrived,
to the great delight of the children, who considered moving
a most interesting play.  First came the phaeton, which Ben
spent all his leisure moments in admiring; wondering
with secret envy what happy boy would ride in the
little seat up behind, and beguiling his tasks by planning
how, when he got rich, he would pass his time
driving about in just such an equipage, and inviting
all the boys he met to have a ride.

Then a load of furniture came creaking in at the
lodge gate, and the girls had raptures over a cottage
piano, several small chairs, and a little low table, which
they pronounced just the thing for them to play at.
The live stock appeared next, creating a great stir
in the neighborhood, for peacocks were rare birds
there; the donkey's bray startled the cattle and convulsed
the people with laughter; the rabbits were
continually getting out to burrow in the newly made
garden; and Chevalita scandalized old Duke by
dancing about the stable which he had inhabited for
years in stately solitude.

Last but by no means least, Miss Celia, her houng
brother, and two maids arrived one evening so late
that only Mrs. Moss went over to help them settle.
The children were much disappointed, but were appeased
by a promise that they should all go to pay
their respects in the morning.

They were up so early, and were so impatient to be
off, that Mrs.  Moss let them go with the warning that
they would find only the servants astir.  She was mistaken,
however, for, as the procession approached, a
voice from the porch called out, "Good-morning
little neighbors!" so unexpectedly, that Bab nearly
spilt the new milk she carried, Betty gave such a start
that the fresh-laid eggs quite skipped in the dish, and
Ben's face broke into a broad grin over the armful of
clover which he brought for the bunnies, as he bobbed
his head, saying briskly, --

"She's all right, miss, Lita is; and I can bring her
over any minute you say."

"I shall want her at four o'clock.  Thorny will
be too tired to drive, but I must hear from the
post-office, rain or shine;" and Miss Celia's pretty
color brightened as she spoke, either from some
happy thought or because she was bashful, for the
honest young faces before her plainly showed their
admiration of the white-gowned lady under the
honeysuckles.

The appearance of Miranda, the maid, reminded the
children of their errand; and having delivered their
offerings, they were about to retire in some confusion,
when Miss Celia said pleasantly, --

"I want to thank you for helping put things in such
nice order.  I see signs of busy hands and feet both
inside the house and all about the grounds, and I
am very much obliged."

"I raked the beds," said Ben, proudly eying the
neat ovals and circles.

"I swept all the paths," added Bab, with a reproachful
glance at several green sprigs fallen from
the load of clover on the smooth walk.

"I cleared up the porch," and Betty's clean pinafore
rose and fell with a long sigh, as she surveyed the late
summer residence of her exiled family.
Miss Celia guessed the meaning of that sigh, and
made haste to turn it into a smile by asking anxiously, --

"What has become of the playthings? I don't see
them anywhere."

"Ma said you wouldn't want our duds round,
so we took them all home," answered Betty, with a
wistful face.

"But I do want them round.  I like dolls and toys
almost as much as ever, and quite miss the little 'duds'
from porch and path.  Suppose you come to tea with
me to-night and bring some of them back? I should
be very sorry to rob you of your pleasant play-place."

"Oh, yes, 'm, we'd love to come! and we'll bring
our best things."

"Ma always lets us have our shiny pitchers and the
china poodle when we go visiting or have company at
home," said Bab and Betty, both speaking at once.

"Bring what you like, and I'll hunt up my toys,
too. Ben is to come also, and his poodle is especially
invited," added Miss Celia, as Sancho came and
begged before her, feeling that some agreeable project
was under discussion.

"Thank you, miss.  I told them you'd be willing
they should come sometimes.  They like this place
ever so much, and so do I," said Ben, feeling that
few spots combined so many advantages in the way of
climbable trees, arched gates, half-a-dozen gables, and
other charms suited to the taste of an aspiring youth
who had been a flying Cupid at the age of seven.

"So do I," echoed Miss Celia, heartily.  "Ten years
ago I came here a little girl, and made lilac chains
under these very bushes, and picked chickweed over
there for my bird, and rode Thorny in his baby-wagon
up and down these paths. Grandpa lived here then,
and we had fine times; but now they are all gone
except us two."

"We haven't got any father, either," said Bab, for
something in Miss Celia's face made her feel as if a
cloud had come over the sun.

"I have a first-rate father, if I only knew where
he'd gone to," said Ben, looking down the path as
eagerly as if one waited for him behind the locked gate.

"You are a rich boy, and you are happy little girls
to have so good a mother; I've found that out already,"
and the sun shone again as the young lady
nodded to the neat, rosy children before her.

"You may have a piece of her if you want to, 'cause
you haven't got any of your own," said Betty with a
pitiful look which made her blue eyes as sweet as two
wet violets.

"So I will ! and you shall be my little sisters.  I
never had any, and I'd love to try how it seems;"
and Celia took both the chubby hands in hers,
feeling ready to love every one this first bright morning
in the new home, which she hoped to make a very
happy one.

Bab gave a satisfied nod, and fell to examining the
rings upon the white hand that held her own.  But
Betty put her arms about the new friend's neck, and
kissed her so softly that the hungry feeling in Miss
Celia's heart felt better directly; for this was the food
it wanted, and Thorny had not learned yet to return
one half of the affection he received.  Holding the
child close, she played with the yellow braids while
she told them about the little German girls in their
funny black-silk caps, short-waisted gowns, and wooden
shoes, whom she used to see watering long webs of
linen bleaching on the grass, watching great flocks of
geese, or driving pigs to market, knitting or spinning
as they went.

Presently "Randa," as she called her stout maid,
came to tell her that "Master Thorny couldn't wait
another minute;" and she went in to breakfast with
a good appetite, while the children raced home to
bounce in upon Mrs. Moss, talking all at once like
little lunatics.

"The phaeton at four, -- so sweet in a beautiful
white gown, -- going to tea, and Sancho and all the
baby things invited.  Can't we wear our Sunday
frocks?  A splendid new net for Lita.  And she likes
dolls. Goody, goody, won't it be fun!"

With much difficulty their mother got a clear account
of the approaching festivity out of the eager
mouths, and with still more diffculty, got breakfast
into them, for the children had few pleasures, and this
brilliant prospect rather turned their heads.

Bab and Betty thought the day would never end,
and cheered the long hours by expatiating on the
pleasures in store for them, till their playmates were
much afflicted because they were not going also.  At
noon their mother kept them from running over to
the old house lest they should be in the way; so they
consoled themselves by going to the syringa bush at
the corner and sniffing the savory odors which came
from the kitchen, where Katy, the cook, was evidently
making nice things for tea.

Ben worked as if for a wager till four; then stood
over Pat while he curried Lita till her coat shone like
satin, then drove her gently down to the coach-house,
where he had the satisfaction of harnessing her "all
his own self".

"Shall I go round to the great gate and wait for
you there, miss?" he asked, when all was ready,
looking up at the porch, where the young lady stood
watching him as she put on her gloves.

"No, Ben, the great gate is not to be opened till
next October. I shall go in and out by the lodge, and
leave the avenue to grass and dandelions, meantime,"
answered Miss Celia, as she stepped in and took the
reins, with a sudden smile.

But she did not start, even when Ben had shaken
out the new duster and laid it neatly over her knees.

"Isn't it all right now?" asked the boy, anxiously.

"Not quite; I need one thing more.  Can't you
guess what it is?" and Miss Celia watched his
anxious face as his eyes wandered from the tips of
Lita's ears to the hind-wheel of the phaeton, trying
to discover what had been omitted.

"No, miss, I don't see -- " he began, much mortified
to think he had forgotten any thing.

"Wouldn't a little groom up behind improve the
appearance of my turnout?" she said, with a look
which left no doubt in his mind that he was to be the
happy boy to occupy that proud perch.

He grew red with pleasure, but stammered, as he
hesitated, looking down at his bare feet and blue
shirt, --

"I ain't fit, miss; and I haven't got any other
clothes."

Miss Celia only smiled again more kindly than
before, and answered, in a tone which he understood
better than her words, --
"A great man said his coat-of-arms was a pair of
shirt-sleeves, and a sweet poet sang about a barefooted
boy; so I need not be too proud to ride with one.
Up with you, Ben, my man, and let us be off, or we
shall be late for our party."

With one bound the new groom was in his place,
sitting very erect, with his legs stiff, arms folded, and
nose in the air, as he had seen real grooms sit behind
their masters in fine dog-carts or carriages.  Mrs.
Moss nodded as they drove past the lodge, and Ben
touched his torn hat-brim in the most dignified manner,
though he could not suppress a broad grin of delight,
which deepened into a chuckle when Lita went off at
a brisk trot along the smooth road toward town.

It takes so little to make a child happy, it is a pity
grown people do not oftener remember it and scatter
little bits of pleasure before the small people, as they
throw crumbs to the hungry sparrows.  Miss Celia
knew the boy was pleased, but he had no words in
which to express his gratitude for the great contentment
she had given him.  He could only beam at all
he met, smile when the floating ends of the gray veil
blew against his face, and long in his heart to give the
new friend a boyish hug, as he used to do his dear
'Melia when she was very good to him.

School was just out as they passed; and it was a
spectacle, I assure you, to see the boys and girls stare
at Ben up aloft in such state; also to see the superb
indifference with which that young man regarded the
vulgar herd who went afoot.  He couldn't resist an
affable nod to Bab and Betty, for they stood under
the maple-tree, and the memory of their circulating
library made him forget his dignity in his gratitude.

"We will take them next time, but now I want to
talk to you," began Miss Celia, as Lita climbed the
hill.  "My brother has been ill, and I have brought
him here to get well. I want to do all sorts of things
to amuse him, and I think you can help me in many
ways.  Would you like to work for me instead of the
Squire?

"I guess I would!" ejaculated Ben, so heartily that
no further assurances were needed, and Miss Celia
went on, well pleased: --

"You see, poor Thorny is weak and fretful, and
does not like to exert himself, though he ought to be
out a great deal, and kept from thinking of his little
troubles. He cannot walk much yet, so I have a
wheeled chair to push him in; and the paths are so hard,
it will be easy to roll him about. That will be one thing
you can do. Another is to take care of his pets till he
is able to do it himself.  Then you can
tell him your adventures, and talk to him as only a
boy can talk to a boy.  That will amuse him when I
want to write or go out; but I never leave him long,
and hope he will soon be running about as well as the
rest of us.  How does that sort of work look to you?"

"First-rate! I'll take real good care of the little
feller, and do every thing I know to please him, and
so will Sanch; he's fond of children," answered Ben,
heartily, for the new place looked very inviting to him.
Miss Celia laughed, and rather damped his ardor
by her next words.

"I don't know what Thorny would say to hear you
call him  'little.' He is fourteen, and appears to get
taller and taller every day.  He seems like a child to
me, because I am nearly ten years older than he is;
but you needn't be afraid of his long legs and big
eyes, he is too feeble to do any harm; only you
mustn't mind if he orders you about."

"I'm used to that. I don't mind it if he won't call
me a 'spalpeen,' and fire things at me," said Ben,
thinking of his late trials with Pat.

"I can promise that; and I am sure Thorny will
like you, for I told him your story, and he is anxious
to see 'the circus boy' as he called you.  Squire
Allen says I may trust you, and I am glad to do so,
for it saves me much trouble to find what I want all
ready for me.  You shall be well fed and clothed,
kindly treated and honestly paid, if you like to stay
with me."

"I know I shall like it -- till father comes, anyway.
Squire wrote to Smithers right off, but hasn't got any
answer yet. I know they are on the go now, so may
be we won't hear for ever so long," answered Ben,
feeling less impatient to be off than before this fine
proposal was made to him.

"I dare say; meantime, we will see how we get on
together, and perhaps your father will be willing
leave you for the summer if he is away.  Now show
me the baker's, the candy-shop, and the post-office,"
said Miss Celia, as they rattled down the main street
of the village.

Ben made himself useful; and when all the other
errands were done, received his reward in the shape
of a new pair of shoes and a straw hat with a streaming
blue ribbon, on the ends of which shone silvery
anchors.  He was also allowed to drive home, while
his new mistress read her letters.  One particularly
long one, with a queer stamp on the envelope, she
read twice, never speaking a word till they got back.
Then Ben was sent off with Lita and the Squire's
letters, promising to get his chores done in time
for tea.


CHAPTER IX: A HAPPY TEA

Exactly five minutes before six the party
arrived in great state, for Bab and Betty wore
their best frocks and hair-ribbons, Ben had
a new blue shirt and his shoes on as full-dress, and
Sancho's curls were nicely brushed, his frills as white
as if just done up.

No one was visible to receive them, but the low
table stood in the middle of the walk, with four chairs
and a foot-stool around it.  A pretty set of green and
white china caused the girls to cast admiring looks
upon the little cups and plates, while Ben eyed the
feast longingly, and Sancho with difficulty restrained
himself from repeating his former naughtiness.  No
wonder the dog sniffed and the children smiled, for
there was a noble display of little tarts and cakes,
little biscuits and sandwiches, a pretty milk-pitcher
shaped like a white calla rising out of its green leaves,
and a jolly little tea-kettle singing away over the
spirit-lamp as cosily as you please.

"Isn't it perfectly lovely?" whispered Betty, who
had never seen any thing like it before.

"I just wish Sally could see us now," answered Bab,
who had not yet forgiven her enemy.

"Wonder where the boy is," added Ben, feeling
as good as any one, but rather doubtful how others
might regard him.

Here a rumbling sound caused the guests to look
toward the garden, and in a moment Miss Celia appeared,
pushing a wheeled chair, in which sat her
brother. A gay afghan covered the long legs, a
broad-brimmed hat half hid the big eyes, and a discontented
expression made the thin face as unattractive as the
fretful voice, which said, complainingly, --

"If they make a noise, I'll go in.  Don't see what
you asked them for."

"To amuse you, dear.  I know they will, if you
will only try to like them," whispered the sister, smiling,
and nodding over the chair-back as she came on,
adding aloud, "Such a punctual party! I am all
ready, however, and we will sit down at once.   This
is my brother Thornton, and we are all going to be
very good friends by-and-by.  Here 's the droll dog,
Thorny; isn't he nice and curly?"

Now, Ben had heard what the other boy said, and
made up his mind that he shouldn't like him; and
Thorny had decided beforehand that he wouldn't
play with a tramp, even if he cut capers; go
both looked decidedly cool and indifferent when Miss
Celia introduced them.  But Sancho had better manners
and no foolish pride; he, therefore, set them a good
example by approaching the chair, with his tail waving
like a flag of truce, and politely presented his
ruffled paw for a hearty shake.

Thorny could not resist that appeal, and patted the
white head, with a friendly look into the affectionate
eyes of the dog, saying to his sister as he did so, --

"What a wise old fellow he is! It seems as if he
could almost speak, doesn't it?"

"He can.  Say 'How do you do,' Sanch," commanded Ben,
relenting at once, for he saw admiration in Thorny's face.

"Wow, wow, wow!" remarked Sancho, in a mild
and conversational tone, sitting up and touching one
paw to his head, as if he saluted by taking off his hat.
Thorny laughed in spite of himself, and Miss Celia
seeing that the ice was broken, wheeled him to his
place at the foot of the table.  Then, seating the little
girls on one side, Ben and the dog on the other, took
the head herself and told her guests to begin.
Bab and Betty were soon chattering away to their
pleasant hostess as freely as if they had known her for
months; but the boys were still rather shy, and made
Sancho the medium through which they addressed
one another.  The excellent beast behaved with wonderful
propriety, sitting upon his cushion in an attitude of such
dignity that it seemed almost a libertyto offer him food.
A dish of thick sandwiches had been provided for his especial
refreshment; and, as Ben from time to time laid one on his
plate, he affected entire unconsciousness of it till the word
was given, when it vanished at one gulp, and Sancho again
appeared absorbed in deep thought.

But, having once tasted of this pleasing delicacy, it
was very hard to repress his longing for more; and, in
spite of all his efforts, his nose would work, his eye
kept a keen watch upon that particular dish, and his
tail quivered with excitement as it lay like a train
over the red cushion.  At last, a moment came when
temptation proved too strong for him. Ben was
listening to something Miss Celia said; a tart lay
unguarded upon his plate; Sanch looked at Thorny
who was watching him; Thorny nodded, Sanch gave
one wink, bolted the tart, and then gazed pensively
up at a sparrow swinging on a twig overhead.

The slyness of the rascal tickled the boy so much
that he pushed back his hat, clapped his hands,
and burst out laughing as he had not done before
for weeks.  Every one looked round surprised, and
Sancho regarded them with a mildly inquiring air, as
if he said, "Why this unseemly mirth, my friends?"

Thorny forgot both sulks and shyness after that,
and suddenly began to talk.  Ben was flattered by his
interest in the dear dog, and opened out so delightfully
that he soon charmed the other by his lively
tales of circus-life.  Then Miss Celia felt relieved, and
every thing went splendidly, especially the food; for
the plates were emptied several times, the little tea-pot
ran dry twice, and the hostess was just wondering
if she ought to stop her voracious guests, when something
occurred which spared her that painful task.

A small boy was suddenly discovered standing in
the path behind them, regarding the company with
an air of solemn interest.  A pretty, well-dressed child
of six, with dark hair cut short across the brow, a
rosy face, a stout pair of legs, left bare by the socks
which had slipped down over the dusty little shoes.
One end of a wide sash trailed behind him, a straw
hat hung at his back, his right hand firmly
grasped a small turtle, and his left a choice collection
of sticks.  Before Miss Celia could speak, the stranger
calmly announced his mission.

"I have come to see the peacocks."

"You shall presently --" began Miss Celia, but got
no further, for the child added, coming a step nearer,--

"And the wabbits."

"Yes, but first won't you --"

"And the curly dog," continued the small voice,
as another step brought the resolute young personage
nearer.

"There he is."

A pause, a long look; then a new demand with the
same solemn tone, the same advance.

"I wish to hear the donkey bray."

"Certainly, if he will."

"And the peacocks scream."

"Any thing more, sir?

Having reached the table by this time, the insatiable
infant surveyed its ravaged surface, then pointed a fat
little finger at the last cake, left for manners, and said,
commandingly, --

"I will have some of that."

"Help yourself; and sit upon the step to eat it,
while you tell me whose boy you are," said Miss
Celia, much amused at his proceedings.

Deliberately putting down his sticks, the child took
the cake, and, composing himself upon the step, answered
with his rosy mouth full, --

"I am papa's boy.  He makes a paper.  I help
him a great deal."

"What is his name?"

"Mr. Barlow.  We live in Springfield," volunteered
the new guest, unbending a trifle, thanks to the charms
of the cake.

"Have you a mamma, dear?"

"She takes naps.  I go to walk then."

"Without leave, I suspect.  Have you no brothers or
sisters to go with you?" asked Miss Celia, wondering
where the little runaway belonged.

"I have two brothers, Thomas Merton Barlow
and Harry Sanford Barlow.  I am Alfred Tennyson
Barlow.  We don't have any girls in our house, only
Bridget."

"Don't you go to school?"

"The boys do.  I don't learn any Greeks and
Latins yet.  I dig, and read to mamma, and make
poetrys for her."

"Couldn't you make some for me?  I'm very fond
of poetrys," proposed Miss Celia, seeing that this
prattle amused the children.

"I guess I couldn't make any now; I made some
coming along.  I will say it to you."
And, crossing his short legs, the inspired babe half
said, half sung the following poem: (1)

"Sweet are the flowers of life,
Swept o'er my happy days at home;
Sweet are the flowers of life
When I was a little child.

"Sweet are the flowers of life
That I spent with my father at home;
Sweet are the flowers of life
When children played about the house.

"Sweet are the flowers of life
When the lamps are lighted at night;
Sweet are the flowers of life
When the flowers of summer bloomed.

"Sweet are the flowers of life
Dead with the snows of winter;
Sweet are the flowers of life
When the days of spring come on.

(1) These lines were actually composed by a six-year
old child.

"That's all of that one.  I made another one when
I digged after the turtle.  I will say that. It is a
very pretty one," observed the poet with charming
candor; and, taking a long breath, he tuned his little
lyre afresh:

Sweet, sweet days are passing
O'er my happy home.
Passing on swift wings through the valley of life.
Cold are the days when winter comes again.
When my sweet days were passing at my happy home,
Sweet were the days on the rivulet's green brink ;
Sweet were the days when I read my father's books;
Sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing."

"Bless the baby! where did he get all that?" exclaimed
Miss Celia, amazed; while the children giggled as Tennyson,
Jr., took a bite at the turtle instead of the half-eaten cake,
and then, to prevent further mistakes, crammed the unhappy
creature into a diminutive pocket in the most business-like way
imaginable.

"It comes out of my head.  I make lots of them,"
began the imperturbable one, yielding more and more
to the social influences of the hour.

"Here are the peacocks coming to be fed," interrupted Bab, as
the handsome birds appeared with their splendid plumage
glittering in the sun.

Young Barlow rose to admire; but his thirst for
knowledge was not yet quenched, and he was about
to request a song from Juno and Jupiter, when old
Jack, pininng for society, put his head over the garden
wall with a tremendous bray.

This unexpected sound startled the inquiring
stranger half out of his wits; for a moment the stout
legs staggered and the solemn countenance lost its
composure, as he whispered, with an astonished air,

"Is that the way peacocks scream?"

The children were in fits of laughter, and Miss
Celia could hardly make herself heard as she answered
merrily, --

"No, dear; that is the donkey asking you to come
and see him: will you go?

"I guess I couldn't stop now. Mamma might want
me."

And, without another word, the discomfited poet
precipitately retired, leaving his cherished sticks
behind him.

Ben ran after the child to see that he came to no
harm, and presently returned to report that Alfred
had been met by a servant, and gone away chanting a
new verse of his poem, in which peacocks, donkeys,
and "the flowers of life" were sweetly mingled.

"Now I'll show you my toys, and we';; have a
little play before it gets too late for Thorny to stay
with us," said Miss Celia, as Randa carried away the
tea-things and brought back a large tray full of
picture-books, dissected maps, puzzles, games, and
several pretty models of animals, the whole crowned
with a large doll dressed as a baby.

At sight of that, Betty stretched out her arms to
receive it with a cry of delight.  Bab seized the games,
and Ben was lost in admiration of the little Arab chief
prancing on the white horse, -- all saddled and bridled
and fit for the fight. Thorny poked about to find a
certain curious puzzle which he could put together
without a mistake after long study. Even Sancho
found something to interest him; and, standing on his
hind-legs, thrust his head between the boys to paw
at several red and blue letters on square blocks.

"He looks as if he knew them," said Thorny,
amused at the dog's eager whine and scratch.

"He does.  Spell your name, Sanch;" and Ben put
all the gay letters down upon the flags with a chirrup
which set the dog's tail to wagging as he waited till the
alphabet was spread before him.  Then, with great
deliberation, he pushed the letters about till he had
picked out six; these he arranged with nose and
paw till the word "Sancho" lay before him correctly
spelt.

"Isn't that clever?  Can he do any more?" cried
Thorny, delighted.

"Lots; that's the way he gets his livin', and mine
too," answered Ben; and proudly put his poodle
through his well-learned lessons sith Such success
that even Miss Celia was surprised.

"He has been carefully trained.  Do you know how
it was done?" she asked, when Sancho lay down to
rest and be caressed by the children.

"No, 'm, father did it when I was a little chap, and
never told me how. I used to help teach him to dance,
and that was easy enough, he is so smart. Father said
the middle of the night was the best time to give him
his lessons; it was so still then, and nothing disturbed
Sanch and made him forget.  I can't do half the tricks,
but I'm goin' to learn when father comes back.  He'd
rather have me show off Sanch than ride, till I'm
older."

"I have a charming book about animals, and in it an
interesting account of some trained poodles who could
do the most wonderful things.  Would you like to hear
it while you put your maps and puzzles together?"
asked Miss Celia, glad to keep her brother interested
in their four-footed guest at least.

"Yes,'m, yes,'m," answered the children; and, fetching
the book, she read the pretty account, shortening
and simplifying it here and there to suit her hearers.

"I invited the two dogs to dine and spend the
evening; and they came with their master, who was a
Frenchman. He had been a teacher in a deaf and
dumb school, and thought he would try the same plan
with dogs.  He had also been a conjurer, and now was
supported by Blanche and her daughter Lyda.  These
dogs behaved at dinner just like other dogs; but when
I gave Blanche a bit of cheese and asked if she knew
the word for it, her master said she could spell it.  So
a table was arranged with a lamp on it, and round the
table were laid the letters of the alphabet painted on
cards. Blanche sat in the middle, waiting till her
master told her to spell cheese, which she at once
did in French, F R O M A G E. Then she translated a
word for us very cleverly. Some one wrote pferd, the
German for horse, on a slate.  Blanche looked at it and
pretended to read it, putting by the slate with her paw
when she had done.  'Now give us the French for that
word,' said the man; and she instantly brought
CHEVAL.  'Now, as you are at an Englishman's
house, give it to us in English;' and she brought me
HORSE.  Then we spelt some words wrong, and she
corrected them with wonderful accuracy.  But she did
not seem to like it, and whined and growled and looked
so worried, that she was allowed to go and rest and eat
cakes in a corner.

"Then Lyda took her place on the table, and did
sums on the slate with a set of figures.  Also mental
arithmetic, which was very pretty.  'Now, Lyda,'
said her master, 'I want to see if you understand
division.  Suppose you had ten bits of sugar, and you
met ten Prussian dogs, how many lumps would you, a
French dog, give to each of the Prussians?' Lyda
very decidedly replied to this with a cipher.  'But,
suppose you divided your sugar with me, how many
lumps would you give me?' Lyda took up the figure
five and politely presented it to her master."

"Wasn't she smart? Sanch can't do that," exclaimed
Ben, forced to own that the French doggie
beat his cherished pet.

"He is not too old to learn.  Shall I go on?"
asked Miss Celia, seeing that the boys liked it, though
Betty was absorbed with the doll, and Bab deep in a
puzzle.

"Oh, yes!  What else did they do?"

"They played a game of dominoes together, sitting
in chairs opposite each other, and touched the dominoes
that were wanted; but the man placed them and
kept telling how the game went.  Lyda was beaten,
and hid under the sofa, evidently feeling very badly
about it.  Blanche was then surrounded with playing-cards,
while her master held another pack and told us to choose
a card; then he asked her what one had been chosen, and
she always took up the right one in her teeth. I was asked
to go into another room, put a light on the floor with cards
round it, and leave the doors nearly shut.  Then the man
begged some one to whisper in the dog's ear what card she
was to bring, and she went at once and fetched it, thus showing
that she understood their names. Lyda did many tricks
with the numbers, so curious that no dog could possibly
understand them; yet what the secret sign was I could
not discover, but suppose it must have been in the
tones of the master's voice, for he certainly made none
with either head or hands.

"It took an hour a day for eighteen months to
educate a dog enough to appear in public, and (as
you say, Ben) the night was the best time to give the
lessons.  Soon after this visit, the master died; and
these wonderful dogs were sold because their mistress
did not know how to exhibit them."

"Wouldn't I have liked to see 'em and find out how
they were taught! Sanch, you'll have to study up
lively, for I'm not going to have you beaten by French
dogs," said Ben, shaking his finger so sternly that
Sancho grovelled at his feet and put both paws over
his eyes in the most abject manner.

"Is there a picture of those smart little poodles?"
asked Ben, eying the book, which Miss Celia left open
before her.

"Not of them, but of other interesting creatures;
also anecdotes about horses, which will please you,
I know," and she turned the pages for him, neither
guessing how much good Mr. Hamerton's charming
Chapters on Animals" were to do the boy when he
needed comfort for a sorrow which was very near.

CHAPTER X: A HEAVY TROUBLE

"Thank you, ma'am, that's a tip-top book, 'specially the
pictures.  But I can't bear to see these poor fellows;"
and Ben brooded over the fine etching of the dead and dying
horses on a battle-field, one past all further pain, the other
helpless, but lifting his head from his dead master to
neigh a farewell to the comrades who go galloping away in a
cloud of dust.

"They ought to stop for him, some of 'em," muttered Ben,
hastily turning back to the cheerful picture of the three
happy horses in the field, standing knee-deep among the
grass as they prepare to drink at the wide stream.

"Ain't that black one a beauty?  Seems as if I could
see his mane blow in the wind, and hear him whinny
to that small feller trotting down to see if he can't
get over and be sociable.  How I'd like to take a
rousin' run round that meadow on the whole lot of
'em!" and Ben swayed about in his chair as if he was
already doing it in imagination.

"You may take a turn round my field on Lita any
day.  She would like it, and Thorny's saddle will be
here next week," said Miss Celia, pleased to see that
the boy appreciated the fine pictures, and felt such
hearty sympathy with the noble animals whom she
dearly loved herself.

"Needn't wait for that.  I'd rather ride bareback.
Oh, I say, is this the book you told about, where
the horses talked?" asked Ben, suddenly recollecting
the speech he had puzzled over ever since he heard it.

"No; I brought the book, but in the hurry of my
tea-party forgot to unpack it.  I'll hunt it up to-
night. Remind me, Thorny."

"There, now, I've forgotten something, too! Squire
sent you a letter; and I'm having such a jolly time, I
never thought of it."

Ben rummaged out the note with remorseful haste,
protesting that he was in no hurry for Mr. Gulliver,
and very glad to save him for another day.
Leaving the young folks busy with their games,
Miss Celia sat in the porch to read her letters, for
there were two; and as she read her face grew so
sober, then so sad, that if any one had been looking
he would have wondered what bad news had chased
away the sunshine so suddenly.  No one did look;
no one saw how pitifully her eyes rested on Ben's
happy face when the letters were put away, and no
one minded the new gentleness in her manner as she
came back, to the table.  But Ben thought there never
was so sweet a lady as the one who leaned over him
to show him how the dissected map went together
and never smiled at his mistakes.

So kind, so very kind was she to them all, that
when, after an hour of merry play, she took her
brother in to bed, the three who remained fell to
praising her enthusiastically as they put things to
rights before taking leave.

"She's like the good fairies in the books, and has
all sorts of nice, pretty things in her house," said
Betty, enjoying a last hug of the fascinating doll
whose lids would shut so that it was a pleasure to
Sing, "Bye, sweet baby, bye," with no staring eyes to
Spoil the illusion.

"What heaps she knows!  More than Teacher, I do
believe; and she doesn't mind how many questions
we ask.  I like folks that will tell me things," added
Bab, whose inquisitive mind was always hungry.

"I like that boy first-rate, and I guess he likes me,
though I didn't know where Nantucket ought to go.
He wants me to teach him to ride when he's on his
pins again, and Miss Celia says I may.  She knows
how to make folks feel good, don't she?" and Ben
gratefully surveyed the Arab chief, now his own,
though the best of all the collection.

"Won't we have splendid times?  She Says we
may come over every night and play with her and
Thorny."

"And she's goin', to have the seats in the porch
lift up, so we can put our things in there all day and
have 'em handy."

"And I'm going to be her boy, and stay here all
the time. I guess the letter I brought was a
recommend from the Squire."

"Yes, Ben; and if I had not already made up my
mind to keep you before, I certainly would now, my
boy."

Something in Miss Celia's voice, as she said the last
two words with her hand on Ben's shoulder, made him
look up quickly and turn red with pleasure, wondering
what the Squire had written about him.

"Mother must have some of the party; so you
shall take her these, Bab, and Betty may carry Baby
home for the night.  She is so nicely asleep, it is a
pity to wake her. Good by till to-morrow, little
neighbors," continued Miss Celia, and dismissed the
girls with a kiss.

"Is Ben coming, too?" asked Bab, as Betty
trotted off in a silent rapture with the big darling
bobbing over her shoulder.

"Not yet; I've several things to settle with my
new man.  Tell mother he will come by-and-by."

Off rushed Bab with the plateful of goodies; and,
drawing Ben down beside her on the wide step, Miss
Celia took out the letters, with a shadow creeping
over her face as softly as the twilight was stealing
over the world, while the dew fell, and every thing
grew still and dim.

"Ben, dear, I've something to tell you," she began,
slowly; and the boy waited with a happy face, for no
one had called him so since 'Melia died.

"The Squire has heard about your father, and this
is the letter Mr. Smithers sends."

"Hooray! where is he, please?" cried Ben, wishing
she would hurry up; for Miss Celia did not even offer
him the letter, but sat looking down at Sancho on the
lower step, as if she wanted him to come and help her.
"He went after the mustangs, and sent some home,
but could not come himself."

"Went further on, I s'pose.  Yes, he said he might
go as far as California, and if he did he'd send for me.
I'd like to go there; it's a real splendid place, they
say."

"He has gone further away than that, to a lovelier
country than California, I hope." And Miss Celia's
eyes turned to the deep sky, where early stars were
shining.

"Didn't he send for me?  Where's he gone?
When 's he coming back?" asked Ben, quickly; for
there was a quiver in her voice, the meaning of which
he felt before he understood.

Miss Celia put her arms about him, and answered
very tenderly, --
"Ben, dear, if I were to tell you that he was never
coming back, could you bear it?"

"I guess I could, -- but you don't mean it?  Oh,
ma'am, he isn't dead?" cried Ben, with a cry that
made her heart ache, and Sancho leap up with a
bark.

"My poor little boy, I wish I could say no."

There was no need of any more words, no need
of tears or kind arms around him. He knew he was
an orphan now, and turned instinctively to the old
friend who loved him best.  Throwing himself down
beside his dog, Ben clung about the curly neck,
sobbing bitterly, --

"Oh, Sanch, he's never coming back again; never,
never any more!"

Poor Sancho could only whine and lick away the
tears that wet the half-hidden face, questioning the
new friend meantime with eyes so full of dumb love
and sympathy and sorrow that they seemed almost
human. Wiping away her own tears, Miss Celia
stooped to pat the white head, and to stroke the
black one lying so near it that the dog's breast was
the boy's pillow.  Presently the sobbing ceased, and
Ben whispered, without looking up,--

"Tell me all about it; I'll be good."

Then, as kindly as she could, Miss Celia read the
brief letter which told the hard news bluntly; for
Mr. Smithers was obliged to confess that he had
known the truth months before, and never told the
boy, lest he should be unfitted for the work they
gave him.  Of Ben Brown the elder's death there
was little to tell, except that he was killed in some
wild place at the West, and a stranger wrote the fact
to the only person whose name was found in Ben's
pocket-book.  Mr. Smithers offered to take the boy
back and "do well by him," averring that the father
wished his son to remain where he left him, and
follow the profession to which he was trained.

"Will you go, Ben?" asked Miss Celia, hoping to
distract his mind from his grief by speaking of other
things.

"No, no; I'd rather tramp and starve.  He's
awful hard to me and Sanch; and he'd be worse,
now father's gone. Don't send me back! Let me
stay here; folks are good to me; there's nowhere
else to go." And the head Ben had lifted up with a
desperate sort of look, went down again on Sancho's
breast as if there were no other refuge left.

"You shall stay here, and no one shall take you
away against your will.  I called you 'my boy' in
play, now you shall be my boy in earnest; this shall
be your home, and Thorny your brother.  We are
orphans, too; and we will stand by one another till a
stronger friend comes to help us," said Miss Celia,
with such a mixture of resolution and tenderness in
her voice, that Ben felt comforted at once, and
thanked her by laying his cheek against the pretty
slipper that rested on the step beside him, as if he
had no words in which to swear loyalty to the gentle
mistress whom be meant henceforth to serve with
grateful fidelity.

Sancho felt that he must follow suit; and gravely
put his paw upon her knee, with a low whine, as if
he said, "Count me in, and let me help to pay my
master's debt if I can."

Miss Celia shook the offered paw cordially, and
the good creature crouched at her feet like a small
lion, bound to guard her and her house for evermore.

"Don't lie on that cold stone, Ben; come here
and let me try to comfort you," she said, stooping
to wipe away the great drops that kept rolling down
the brown cheek half hidden in her dress.
But Ben put his arm over his face, and sobbed out
with a fresh burst of grief, --

"You can't, you didn't know him!  Oh, daddy!
daddy! if I'd only seen you jest once more!"

No one could grant that wish; but Miss Celia did
comfort him, for presently the sound of music floated
out from the parlor, -- music so soft, so sweet, that
involuntarily the boy stopped his crying to listen;
then quieter tears dropped slowly, seeming to soothe
his pain as they fell, while the sense of loneliness
passed away, and it grew possible to wait till it was
time to go to father in that far-off country lovelier
than golden California.

How long she played Miss Celia never minded;
but, when she stole out to see if Ben had gone, she
found that other friends, even kinder than herself,
had taken the boy into their gentle keeping.  The
wind had sung a lullaby among the rustling lilacs,
the moon's mild face looked through the leafy arch
to kiss the heavy eyelids, and faithful Sancho still
kept guard beside his little master, who, with his
head pillowed on his arm, lay fast asleep, dreaming,
happily, that Daddy had come home again.

CHAPTER XI: SUNDAY

Mrs. Moss woke Ben with a kiss next morning, for
her heart yearned over the fatherless lad as if he
had been her own, and she had no other way of showing
her sympathy. Ben had forgotten his troubles in sleep;
but the memory of them returned as soon as he opened
his eyes, heavy with the tears they had shed.  He
did not cry any more, but felt strange and lonely
till he called Sancho and told him all about it, for
he was shy even with kind Mrs. Moss, and glad
when she went away.

Sancho seemed to understand that his master was
in trouble, and listened to the sad little story with
gurgles of interest, whines of condolence, and intelligent
barks whenever the word "daddy " was uttered. He was only
a brute, but his dumb affection comforted the boy more
than any words; for Sanch had known and loved "father"
almost as long and well as his son, and that seemed to
draw them closely together, now they were left alone.

"We must put on mourning, old feller.  It's the
proper thing, and there's nobody else to do it now,"
said Ben, as he dressed, remembering how all the
company wore bits of crape somewhere about them
at 'Melia's funeral.

It was a real sacrifice of boyish vanity to take the
blue ribbon with its silver anchors off the new hat,
and replace it with the dingy black band from the
old one; but Ben was quite sincere in doing this,
though doubtless his theatrical life made him think
of the effect more than other lads would have done.
He could find nothing in his limited wardrobe with
which to decorate Sanch except a black cambric
pocket. It was already half torn out of his trousers
with the weight of nails, pebbles, and other light
trifles; so he gave it a final wrench and tied it
into the dog's collar, saying to himself, as he put
away his treasures, with a sigh,--

"One pocket is enough; I sha'n't want anything
but a han'k'chi'f to-day."

Fortunately, that article of dress was clean, for he
had but one; and, with this somewhat ostentatiously
drooping from the solitary pocket, the serious hat
upon his head, the new shoes creaking mournfully,
and Sanch gravely following, much impressed with
his black bow, the chief mourner descended, feeling
that he had done his best to show respect to the
dead.

Mrs. Moss's eyes filled as she saw the rusty band,
and guessed why it was there; but she found it difficult
to repress a smile when she beheld the cambric
symbol of woe on the dog's neck.  Not a word was
said to disturb the boy's comfort in these poor attempts,
however; and he went out to do his chores, conscious that
he was an object of interest to his friends, especially so
to Bab and Betty, who, havinq been told of Ben's loss, now
regarded him with a sort of pitying awe very grateful to his
feelings.

"I want you to drive me to church by-and-by.
It is going to be pretty warm, and Thorny is hardly
strong enough to venture yet," said Miss Celia, when
Ben ran over after breakfast to see if she had any
thing for him to do; for he considered her his mistress
now, though he was not to take possession of
his new quarters till the morrow.

"Yes, 'm, I'd like to, if I look well enough,"
answered Ben, pleased to be asked, but impressed
with the idea that people had to be very fine on
such occasions.

"You will do very well when I have given you a
touch. God doesn't mind our clothes, Ben, and the
poor are as welcome as the rich to him.  You have
not been much, have you?" asked Miss Celia, anxious
to help the boy, and not quite sure how to begin.

"No, 'm; our folks didn't hardly ever go, and
father was so tired he used to rest Sundays, or go
off in the woods with me."

A little quaver came into Ben's voice as he spoke,
and a sudden motion made his hat-brim hide his eyes,
for the thought of the happy times that would never
come any more was almost too much for him.

"That was a pleasant way to rest. I often do so,
and we will go to the grove this afternoon and try it.
But I have to go to church in the morning,; it seems to
start me right for the week; and if one has a sorrow
that is the place where one can always find comfort.
Will you come and try it, Ben, dear?"

"I'd do any thing to please you," muttered Ben,
without looking up; for, though he felt her kindness
to the bottom of his heart, he did wish that no one
would talk about father for a little while; it was so
hard to keep from crying, and he hated to be a
baby.

Miss Celia seemed to understand, for the next thing
she said, in a very cheerful tone, was, "See what a
pretty sight that is. When I was a little girl I used
to think spiders spun cloth for the fairies, and spread
it on the grass to bleach."

Ben stopped digging a hole in the ground with his
toe, and looked up, to see a lovely cobweb like a
wheel, circle within circle, spun across a corner of
the arch over the gate.  Tiny drops glittered on every
thread as the light shone through the gossamer curtain,
and a soft breath of air made it tremble as if
about to blow it away.

"It's mighty pretty, but it will fly off. just as the
others did.  I never saw such a chap as that spider
is. He keeps on spinning a new one every day, for
they always get broke. and he don't seem to be
discouraged a mite," said Ben, glad to change the
subject, as she knew he would be.

"That is the way he gets his living. he spins his
web and waits for his daily bread, -- or fly, rather;
and it always comes, I fancy. By-and-by you will
see that pretty trap full of insects, and Mr. Spider
will lay up his provisions for the day.  After that he
doesn't care how soon his fine web blows away."

"I know him; he's a handsome feller, all black
and yellow, and lives up in that corner where the
shiny sort of hole is.  He dives down the minute I
touch the gate, but comes up after I've kept still a
minute.  I like to watch him.  But he must hate me,
for I took away a nice green fly and some little
millers one day."

"Did you ever hear the story of Bruce and his
spider? Most children know and like that," said
Miss Celia, seeing that he seemed interested.

"No, 'm ; I don't know ever so many things most
children do," answered Ben, soberly; for, since he
had been among his new friends, he had often felt
his own deficiencies.

"Ah, but you also know many things which they
do not. Half the boys in town would give a great
deal to be able to ride and run and leap as you do;
and even the oldest are not as capable of taking care
of themselves as you are.  Your active life has done
much in some ways to make a man of you; but in
other ways it was bad, as I think you begin to see.
Now, suppose you try to forget the harmful part, and
remember only the good, while learning to be more
like our boys, who go to school and church, and fit
themselves to become industrious, honest men."
Ben had been looking straight up in Miss Celia's
face as she spoke, feeling that every word was true,
though he could not have expressed it if he had
tried; and, when she paused, with her bright eyes
inquiringly fixed on his, he answered heartily,--

"I'd like to stay here and be respectable; for,
since I came, I've found out that folks don't think
much of circus riders, though they like to go and see
'em.  I didn't use to care about school and such
things, but I do now; and I guess he'd like it better
than to have me knockin' round that way without him
to look after me."

"I know he would; so we will try, Benny.  I dare
say it will seem dull and hard at first, after the gay
sort of life you have led, and you will miss the excitement.
But it was not good for you, and we will do our best to find
something safer.  Don't be discouraged; and, when things trouble
you, come to me as Thorny does, and I'll try to straighten them
out for you.  I've got two boys now, and I want to
do my duty by both."

Before Ben had time for more than a grateful look,
a tumbled head appeared at an upper window, and a
sleepy voice drawled out, --

"Celia!  I can't find a bit of a shoe-string, and I
wish you'd come and do my neck-tie."

"Lazy boy, come down here, and bring one of
your black ties with you. Shoe-strings are in the
little brown bag on my bureau," called back Miss
Celia; adding, with a laugh, as the tumbled head
disappeared mumbling something about "bothering
old bags, "Thorny has been half spoiled since he
was ill. You mustn't mind his fidgets and dawdling ways.
He'll get over them soon, and then I know you two
will be good friends."

Ben had his doubts about that, but resolved to
do his best for her sake; so, when Master Thorny
presently appeared, with a careless "How are you,
Ben?" that young person answered respectfully, --
"Very well, thank you," though his nod was as
condescending as his new master's; because he felt
that a boy who could ride bareback and turn a
double somersault in the air ought not to "knuckle
under" to a fellow who had not the strength of a
pussy-cat.

"Sailor's knot, please; keeps better so," said
Thorny, holding up his chin to have a blue-silk scarf
tied to suit him, for he was already beginning to be
something of a dandy.

"You ought to wear red till you get more color,
dear;" and his sister rubbed her blooming cheek
against his pale one, as if to lend him some of her
own roses.

"Men don't care how they look," said Thorny,
squirming out of her hold, for he hated to be
"cuddled" before people.

"Oh, don't they?  Here 's a vain boy who brushes
his hair a dozen times a day, and quiddles over his
collar till he is so tired he can hardly stand," laughed
Miss Celia, with a little tweak of his ear.

"I should like to know what this is for? " demanded
Thorny, in a dignified tone, presenting a black tie.

"For my other boy.  He is going to church with
me," and Miss Celia tied a second knot for this young
gentleman, with a smile that seemed to brighten up
even the rusty hat-band.

"Well, I like that--" began Thorny, in a tone
that contradicted his words.

A look from his sister reminded him of what she
had told him half an hour ago, and he stopped short,
understanding now why she was "extra good to the
little tramp."

"So do I, for you are of no use as a driver yet,
and I don't like to fasten Lita when I have my best
gloves on," said Miss Celia, in a tone that rather
nettled Master Thorny.

"Is Ben going to black my boots before he goes?
with a glance at the new shoes which caused them to
creak uneasily.

"No; he is going to black mine, if he will be so kind.
You won't need boots for a week yet, so we
won't waste any time over them.  You will find
every thing in the shed, Ben; and at ten you may go
for Lita."

With that, Miss Celia walked her brother off to the
diningroom, and Ben retired to vent his ire in such
energetic demonstrations with the blacking-brush that
the little boots shone splendidly.

He thought he had never seen any thing as pretty
as his mistress when, an hour later, she came out of
the house in her white shawl and bonnet, holding a
book and a late lily-of-the-valley in the pearl-colored
gloves, which he hardly dared to touch as he helped
her into the carriage.  He had seen a good many fine
ladies in his life; and those he had known had been
very gay in the colors of their hats and gowns, very
fond of cheap jewelry, and much given to feathers,
lace, and furbelows; so it rather puzzled him to discover
why Miss Celia looked so sweet and elegant in
such a simple suit. He did not then know that the
charm was in the woman, not the clothes; or that
merely living near such a person would do more to
give him gentle manners, good principles, and pure
thoughts, than almost any other training he could
have had.  But he was conscious that it was pleasant
to be there, neatly dressed, in good company, and
going to church like a respectable boy.  Somehow,
the lonely feeling got better as be rolled along
between green fields, with the June sunshine brightening
every thing, a restful quiet in the air, and a friend
beside him who sat silently looking out at the lovely
world with what he afterward learned to call her
"Sunday face," -- a soft, happy look, as if all the
work and weariness of the past week were forgotten,
and she was ready to begin afresh when this blessed
day was over.

"Well, child, what is it?" she asked, catching his
eye as he stole a shy glance at her, one of many which
she had not seen.

"I was only thinking, you looked as if --"

"As if what?  Don't be afraid," she said, for Ben
paused and fumbled at the reins, feeling half ashamed
to tell his fancy.

"You were saying prayers," he added, wishing
she had not caught him.

"So I was.  Don't you, when you are happy?

"No,'m.  I'm glad, but I don't say any thing."

"Words are not needed; but they help, sometimes,
if they are sincere and sweet.  Did you never learn
any prayers, Ben?"
"Only 'Now I lay me.' Grandma taught me that
when I was a little mite of a boy."

"I will teach you another, the best that was ever
made, because it says all we need ask."

"Our folks wasn't very pious; they didn't have
time, I s'pose."

"I wonder if you know just what it means to be
pious?"

"Goin' to church, and readin' the Bible, and sayin'
prayers and hymns, ain't it?"

"Those things are a part of it; but being kind and
cheerful, doing one's duty, helping others, and loving
God, is the best way to show that we are pious in the
true sense of the word."

"Then you are! " and Ben looked as if her acts had
been a better definition than her words.

"I try to be, but I very often fail; so every Sunday
I make new resolutions, and work hard to keep them
through the week.  That is a great help, as you will
find when you begin to try it."

"Do you think if I said in meetin', ' I won't ever
swear any more,' that I wouldn't do it again?" asked
Ben, soberly; for that was his besetting sin just now.

"I'm afraid we can't get rid of our faults quite so
easily; I wish we could: but I do believe that if you
keep saying that, and trying to stop, you will cure the
habit sooner than you think."

"I never did swear very bad, and I didn't mind
much till I came here; but Bab and Betty looked so
scared when I said 'damn,' and Mrs. Moss scolded
me so, I tried to leave off. It's dreadful hard, though,
when I get mad.  'Hang it!' don't seem half so good
if I want to let off steam."

"Thorny used to 'confound!' every thing, so I
proposed that he should whistle instead; and now he
sometimes pipes up so suddenly and shrilly that it
makes me jump.  How would that do, instead of
swearing?" proposed Miss Celia, not the least surprised
at the habit of profanity, which the boy could
hardly help learning among his former associates.

Ben laughed, and promised to try it, feeling a mischievous
satisfaction at the prospect of out-whistling
Master Thorny, as he knew he should; for the objectionable
words rose to his lips a dozen times a day.

The Ben was ringing as they drove into town; and,
by the time Lita was comfortably settled in her shed,
people were coming up from all quarters to cluster
around the steps of the old meeting-house like bees
about a hive.  Accustomed to a tent, where people
kept their hats on, Ben forgot all about his, and was
going down the aisle covered, when a gentle hand
took it off, and Miss Celia whispered, as she gave it
to him, --

"This is a holy place; remember that, and uncover
at the door."

Much abashed, Ben followed to the pew, where the
Squire and his wife soon joined them.

"Glad to see him here," said the old gentleman
with an appioving nod, as he recognized the boy and
remembered his loss.

"Hope he won't nestle round in meeting-time,"
whispered Mrs. Allen, composing herself in the corner
with much rustling of black silk.

"I'll take care that he doesn't disturb you," answered
Miss Celia, pushing a stool under the short
legs, and drawing a palm-leaf fan within reach.

Ben gave an inward sigh at the prospect before
him; for an hour's captivity to an active lad is hard
to bear, and he really did want to behave well. So
he folded his arms and sat like a statue, with nothing
moving but his eyes.  They rolled to and fro, up and
down, from the high red pulpit to the worn hymnbooks
in the rack, recognizing two little faces under
blue-ribboned hats in a distant pew, and finding it
impossible to restrain a momentary twinkle in return
for the solemn wink Billy Barton bestowed upon him
across the aisle. Ten minutes of this decorous demeanor
made it absolutely necessary for him to stir;
so he unfolded his arms and crossed his legs as
cautiously as a mouse moves in the presence of a
cat; for Mrs.  Allen's eye was on him, and he knew by
experience that it was a very sharp one.

The music which presently began was a great relief
to him, for under cover of it he could wag his foot
and no one heard the creak thereof; and when they
stood up to sing, he was so sure that all the boys were
looking at him, he was glad to sit down again.  The
good old minister read the sixteenth chapter of Samuel,
and then proceeded to preach a long and somewhat dull
sermon.  Ben listened with all his ears, for
he was interested in the young shepherd, " uddy and
of a beautiful countenance," who was chosen to be
Saul's armor-bearer. He wanted to hear more about
him, and how he got on, and whether the evil spirits
troubled Saul again after David had harped them
out.  But nothing more came; and the old gentleman
droned on about other things till poor Ben felt that
he must either go to sleep like the Squire, or tip the
stool over by accident, since "nestling" was forbidden,
and relief of some sort he must have.

Mrs. Allen gave him a peppermint, and he dutifully
ate it, though it was so hot it made his eyes water.
Then she fanned him, to his great annoyance, for it
blew his hair about; and the pride of his life was to
have his head as smooth and shiny as black satin.
An irrepressible sigh of weariness attracted Miss
Celia's attention at last; for, though she seemed to
be listening devoutly, her thoughts had flown over
the sea, with tender prayers for one whom she loved
even more than David did his Jonathan.  She guessed
the trouble in a minute, and had provided for it, knowing
by experience that few small boys can keep quiet
through sermon-time. Finding a certain place in the
little book she had brought, she put it into his hands,
with the whisper, "Read if you are tired."

Ben clutched the book and gladly obeyed, though
the title, "Scripture Narratives," did not look very
inviting.  Then his eye fell on the picture of a slender
youth cutting a large man's head off, while many
people stood looking on.

"Jack, the giant-killer," thought Ben, and turned
the page to see the words "David and Goliath",
which was enough to set him to reading the story
with great interest; for here was the shepherd boy
turned into a hero. No more fidgets now; the sermon
was no longer heard, the fan flapped unfelt, and
Billy Barton's spirited sketches in the hymnbook
were vainly held up for admiration.  Ben was quite
absorbed in the stirring history of King David, told
in a way that fitted it for children's reading, and illustrated
with fine pictures which charmed the boy's eye.

Sermon and story ended at the same time; and,
while he listened to the prayer, Ben felt as if he understood
now what Miss Celia meant by saying that
words helped when they were well chosen and sincere.
Several petitions seemed as if especially intended for
him; and he repeated them to himself that he might
remember them, they sounded so sweet and comfortable
heard for the first time just when he most
needed comfort.  Miss Celia saw a new expression
in the boy's face as she glanced down at him, and
heard a little huniming at her side when all stood up
to sing the cheerful hymn with which they were
dismissed.

"How do you like church?" asked the young lady,
as they drove away.

"First-rate!" answered Ben, heartily.

"Especially the sermon?"

Ben laughed, and said, with an affectionate glance
at the little book in her lap,--

"I couldn't understand it; but that story was just
elegant.  There's more; and I'd admire to read 'em,
if I could."

"I'm glad you like them; and we will keep the
rest for another sermon-time.  Thorny used to do
so, and always called this his 'pew book.' I don't
expect you to understand much that you hear yet
awhile; but it is good to be there, and after reading
these stories you will be more interested when you
hear the names of the people mentioned here."

"Yes, 'm.  Wasn't David a fine feller?  I liked all
about the kid and the corn and the ten cheeses, and
killin' the lion and bear, and slingin' old Goliath dead
first shot. I want to know about Joseph next time,
for I saw a gang of robbers puttin' him in a hole, and
it looked real interesting."

Miss Celia could not help smiling at Ben's way of
telling things; but she was pleased to see that he was
attracted by the music and the stories, and resolved
to make church-going so pleasant that he would learn
to love it for its own sake.

"Now, you have tried my way this morning, and
we will try yours this afternoon.  Come over about
four and help me roll Thorny down to the grove.  I
am going to put one of the hanmmocks there, because
the smell of the pines is good for him, and you can
talk or read or amuse yourselves in any quiet way
you like."

"Can I take Sanch along?  He doesn't like to be
left, and felt real bad because I shut him up, for fear
he'd follow and come walkin' into meetin' to find me."

"Yes, indeed; let the clever Bow-wow have a good
time and enjoy Sunday as much as I want my boys to."

Quite content with this arrangement, Ben went home
to dinner, which he made very lively by recounting
Billy Barton's ingenious devices to beguile the tedium
of sermon time.  He said nothing of his conversation
with Miss Celia, because he had not quite made up
his mind whether he liked it or not; it was so new
and serious, he felt as if he had better lay it by, to
think over a good deal before he could understand all
about it.  But he had time to get dismal again, and
long for four o'clock; because he had nothing to do
except whittle.  Mrs. Moss went to take a nap; Bab
and Betty sat demurely on their bench reading Sunday
books; no boys were allowed to come and play;
even the hens retired under the currant-bushes, and
the cock stood among them, clucking drowsily, as if
reading them a sermon.

"Dreadful slow day!" thought Ben; and, retiring
to the recesses of his own room, he read over the two
letters which seemed already old to him.  Now that
the first shock was over, he could not make it true
that his father was dead, and he gave up trying; for
he was an honest boy, and felt that it was foolish to
pretend to be more unhappy than he really was.  So
he put away his letters, took the black pocket off
Sanch's neck, and allowed himself to whistle softly as
he packed up his possessions, ready to move next
day, with few regrets and many bright anticipations
for the future.

"Thorny, I want you to be good to Ben, and
amuse him in some quiet way this afternoon.  I
must stay and see the Morrises, who are coming
over; but you can go to the grove and have a
pleasant time," said Miss Celia to her brother.

"Not much fun in talking to that horsey fellow.
I'm sorry for him, but I can't do anything to amuse
him," objected Thorny, pulling himself up from the
sofa with a great yawn.

You can be very agreeable when you like; and
Ben has had enough of me for this time.  To-morrow
he will have his work, and do very well; but we
must try to help him through to-day, because he
doesn't know what to do with himself. Besides, it
is just the time to make a good impression on him,
while grief for his father softens him, and gives us a
chance.  I like him, and I'm sure he wants to do
well; so it is our duty to help him, as there seems
to be no one else."

"Here goes, then! Where is he?" and Thorny
stood up, won by his sister's sweet earnestness, but
very doubtful of his own success with the "horsey
fellow."

"Waiting with the chair.  Randa has gone on
with the hammock.  Be a dear boy, and I'll do as
much for you some day."

"Don't see how you can be a dear boy. You're
the best sister that ever was; so I'lllove all the
scallywags you ask me to."

With a laugh and a kiss, Thorny shambled off
to ascend his chariot, good-humoredly saluting his
pusher, whom he found sitting on the high rail
behind, with his feet on Sanch.

"Drive on, Benjamin.  I don't know the way, so I
can't direct.  Don't spill me out, -- that's all I've
got to say."

:All right, sir," -- and away Ben trundled down
the long walk that led through the orchard to a little
grove of seven pines.

A pleasant spot; for a soft rustle filled the air,
a brown carpet of pine needles, with fallen cones
for a pattern, lay under foot; and over the tops
of the tall brakes that fringed the knoll one had
glimpses of hill and valley, farm-houses and winding
river, like a silver ribbon through the low, green
meadows.

"A regular summer house!" said Thorny, surveying
it with approval. "What's the matter, Randa?
Won't it do?" he asked, as the stout maid dropped
her arms with a puff, after vainly trying to throw the
hammock rope over a branch.

"That end went up beautiful, but this one won't;
the branches is so high, I can't reach 'em; and I'm
no hand at flinging ropes round."

"I'll fix it;" and Ben went up the pine like a
squirrel, tied a stout knot, and swung himself down
again before Thorny could get out of the chair.

"My patience, what a spry boy!" exclaimed
Randa, admiringly.

"That 's nothing; you ought to see me shin up a
smooth tent-pole," said Ben, rubbing the pitch off
his hands, with a boastful wag of the head.

"You can go, Randa. just hand me my cushion
and books, Ben; then you can sit in the chair while
I talk to you," commanded Thorny, tumbling into
the hammock.

"What's he goin' to say to me?" wondered Ben
to himself, as he sat down with Sanch sprawling
among the wheels.

"Now, Ben, I think you'd better learn a hymn; I
always used to when I was a little chap, and it is a
good thing to do Sundays," began the new teacher,
with a patronizing air, which ruffled his pupil as
much as the opprobrious term "little chap."

"I'll be -- whew -- if I do! " whistled Ben,  stopping
an oath just in time.

"It is not polite to whistle in company," said
Thorny, with great dignity.

"Miss Celia told me to. I'll say 'confound it,' if
you like that better," answered Ben, as a sly smile
twinkled in his eyes.

"Oh, I see! She 's told you about it?  Well,
then, if you want to please her, you'll learn a hymn
right off.  Come, now, she wants me to be clever to
you, and I'd like to do it; but if you get peppery,
how can I?"

Thorny spoke in a hearty, blunt way, which suited
Ben much better than the other, and he responded
pleasantly, --

"If you won't be grand I won't be peppery.
Nobody is going to boss me but Miss Celia; so I'll
learn hymns if she wants me to."

"'In the soft season of thy youth' is a good one
to begin with. I learned it when I was six. Nice
thing; better have it." And Thorny offered the
book like a patriarch addressing an infant.

Ben surveyed the yellow page with small favor, for
the long s in the old-fashioned printing bewildered
him; and when he came to the last two lines, he
could not resist reading them wrong, --

"The earth affords no lovelier fight
Than a religious youth."

"I don't believe I could ever get that into my
head straight. Haven't you got a plain one any
where round?" he asked, turning over the leaves
with some anxiety.

"Look at the end, and see if there isn't a piece of
poetry pasted in.  You learn that, and see how funny
Celia will look when you say it to her.  She wrote it
when she was a girl, and somebody had it printed for
other children.  I like it best, myself."

Pleased by the prospect of a little fun to cheer his
virtuous task, Ben whisked over the leaves, and read
with interest the lines Miss Celia had written in her
girlhood:

"MY KINGDOM

A little kingdom I possess,
Where thoughts and feelings dwell;
And very hard I find the task
Of governing it well.
For passion tempts and troubles me,
A wayward will misleads,
And selfishness its shadow casts
On all my words and deeds.

"How can I learn to rule myself,
To be the child I should, --
Honest and brave, -- nor ever tire
Of trying to be good?
How can I keep a sunny soul
To shine along life's way?
How can I tune my little heart
To sweetly sing all day?

"Dear Father, help me With the love
That casteth out my fear!
Teach me to lean on thee, and feel
That thou art very near;
That no temptation is unseen,
No childish grief too small,
Since Thou, with patience infinite,
Doth soothe and comfort all.

"I do not ask for any crown,
But that which all may will
Nor seek to conquer any world
Except the one within.
Be then my guide until I find,
Led by a tender hand,
Thy happy kingdom in myself,
And dare to take command."

"I like that!" said Ben, emphatically, when he had
read the little hymn. "I understand it, and I'll learn
it right away. Don't see how she could make it all
come out so nice and pretty."

"Celia can do any thing!" and Thorny gave an
all-embracing wave of the hand, which forcibly
expressed his firm belief in his sister's boundless
powers.

"I made some poetry once. Bab and Betty thought
it was first-rate, I didn't," said Ben, moved to confidence
by the discovery of Miss Celia's poetic skill.

"Say it," commanded Thorny, adding with tact,
I can't make any to save my life, -- never could
but I'm fond of it."

"Chevalita,
Pretty cretr,
I do love her
Like a brother;
Just to ride
Is my delight,
For she does not
Kick or bite,"

recited Ben, with modest pride, for his first attempt
had been inspired by sincere affection, and pronounced
"lovely" by the admiring girls.

"Very good! You must say them to Celia, too.
She likes to hear Lita praised.  You and she and that
little Barlow boy ought to try for a prize, as the poets
did in Athens.  I'II tell you all about it some time.
Now, yao peg away at your hymn."

Cheered by Thorny's commendation, Ben fell to
work at his new task, squirming about in the chair as
if the process of getting words into his memory was a
very painful one. But he had quick wits, and had
often learned comic songs; so he soon was able to
repeat the four verses without mistake, much to his
own and Thorny's satisfaction.

"Now we'll talk," said the well-pleased preceptor;
and talk they did, one swinging in the hammock, the
other rolling about on the pine-needles, as they related
their experiences boy fashion.  Ben's were the most
exciting; but Thorny's were not without interest,
for he had lived abroad for several years, and could
tell all sorts of droll stories of the countries he had
seen.

Busied with friends, Miss Celia could not help wondering
how the lads got on; and, when the tea-Ben
rang, waited a little anxiously for their return, knowing
that she could tell at a glance if they had enjoyed
thernselves.

"All goes well so far," she thought, as she watched
their approach with a smile; for Sancho sat bolt upright
in the chair which Ben pushed, while Thorny
strolled beside him, leaning on a stout cane newly
cut. Both boys were talking busily, and Thorny
laughed from time to time, as if his comrade's chat
was very amusing.

"See what a jolly cane Ben cut for me!  He's
great fun if you don't stroke him the wrong way",
said the elder lad, flourishing his staff as they
came up.

"What have you been doing down there?  You
look so merry, I suspect mischief," asked Miss Celia,
surveying them front the steps.

"We've been as good as gold.  I talked, and Ben
learned a hymn to please you.  Come, young man,
say your piece," said Thorny, with an expression of
virtuous content.

Taking off his hat, Ben soberly obeyed, much enjoying
the quick color that came up in Miss Celia's
face as she listened, and feeling as if well repaid for
the labor of learning by the pleased look with which
She said, as he ended with a bow, --

"I feel very proud to think you chose that, and to
hear you say it as if it meant something to you. I
was only fourteen when I wrote it; but it came right
out of my heart, and did me good.  I hope it may
help you a little."

Ben murmured that he guessed it would; but felt
too shy to talk about such things before Thorny, so
hastily retired to put the chair away, and the others
went in to tea.  But later in the evening, when Miss
Celia was singing like a nightingale, the boy slipped
away from sleepy Bab and Betty to stand by the
syringa bush and listen, with his heart full of new
thoughts and happy feelings; for never before had he
spent a Sunday like this.  And when he went to bed,
instead of saying "Now I lay me," he repeated the
third verse of Miss Celia's hymn; for that was his
favorite, because his longing for the father whom he
had seen made it seem sweet and natural now to love
and lean, without fear upon the Father whom he had
not seen.

CHAPTER XII: GOOD TIMES

Every one was very kind to Ben when his loss
was known.  The Squire wrote to Mr. Smithers
that the boy had found friends and would stay
where he was.  Mrs. Moss consoled him in her motherly
way, and the little girls did their very best to "be
good to poor Benny." But Miss Celia was his truest
comforter, and completely won his heart, not only by
the friendly words she said and the pleasant things she
did, but by the unspoken sympathy which showed itself
just at the right minute, in a look, a touch, a smile,
more helpful than any amount of condolence.  She
called him "my man," and Ben tried to be one, bearing
his trouble so bravely that she respected him. although
he was only a little boy, because it promised well for
the future.

Then she was so happy herself, it was impossible for
those about her to be sad, and Ben soon grew cheerful
again in spite of the very tender memory of his father
laid quietly away in the safest corner of his heart.  He
would have been a very unboyish boy if he had not been
happy, for the new place was such a pleasant one, he
soon felt as if, for the first time, he really had a home.
No more grubbing now, but daily tasks which never
grew tiresome, they were so varied and so light.  No
more cross Pats to try his temper, but the sweetest
mistress that ever was, since praise was oftener on her
lips than blame, and gratitude made willing service a
delight.

At first, it seemed as if there was going to be trouble
between the two boys; for Thorny was naturally masterful,
and illness had left him weak and nervous, so he
was often both domineering and petulant.  Ben had
been taught instant obedience to those older than him
self, and if Thorny had been a man Ben would have
made no complaint; but it was hard to be "ordered
round" by a boy, and an unreasonable one into the
bargain.

A word from Miss Celia blew away the threatening
cloud, however; and for her sake her brother promised
to try to be patient; for her sake Ben declared he never
would "get mad" if Mr. Thorny did fidget; and both
very soon forgot all about master and man and lived
together like two friendly lads, taking each other's ups
and downs good-naturedly, and finding mutual pleasure
and profit in the new companionship.

The only point on which they never could agree was
legs, and many a hearty laugh did they give Miss Celia
by their warm and serious discussion of this vexed question.
Thorny insisted that Ben was bow1egged; Ben
resented the epithet, and declared that the legs of all
good horsemen must have a slight curve, and any one
who knew any thing about the matter would acknowledge
both its necessity and its beauty.  Then Thorny
Would observe that it might be all very well in the saddle,
but it made a man waddle like a duck when afoot;
whereat Ben would retort that, for his part, he would
rather waddle like a duck than tumble about like a
horse with the staggers. He had his opponent there,
for poor Thorny did look very like a weak-kneed colt
when he tried to walk; but he would never own it, and
came down upon Ben with crushing allusions to centaurs,
or the Greeks and Romans, who were famous both
for their horsemanship and fine limbs.  Ben could not
answer that, except by proudly referring to the chariot-
races copied from the ancients, in which he had borne
a part, which was more than somefolks with long legs
could say. Gentlemen never did that sort of thing,
nor did they twit their best friends with their misfortunes,
Thorny would remark; casting a pensive glance
at his thin hands, longing the while to give Ben a good
shaking.  This hint would remind the other of his
young master's late sufferings and all he owed his dear
mistress; and he usually ended the controversy by
turning a few lively somersaults as a vent for his swelling
wrath, and come up with his temper all right again.
Or, if Thorny happened to be in the wheeled chair, he
would trot him round the garden at a pace which nearly
took his breath away, thereby proving that if "bow-
legs" were not beautiful to some benighted beings they
were "good to go."

Thorny liked that, and would drop the subject for
the time by politely introducing some more agreeable
topic; so the impending quarrel would end in a
laugh over some boyish joke, and the word "legs
be avoided by mutual consent till accident brought
it up again.

The spirit of rivalry is hidden in the best of us, and
is a helpful and inspiring power if we know how to use
it. Miss Celia knew this, and tried to make the lads
help one another by means of it, -- not in boastful or
ungenerous comparison of each other's gifts, but by
interchanging them, giving and taking freely, kindly,
and being glad to love what was admirable wherever
they found it.  Thorny admired Ben's strength, activ-
ity, and independence; Ben envied Thorny's learning,
good manners, and comfortable surroundings; and,
when a wise word had set the matter rightly before
them, both enjoyed the feeling that there was a certain
equality between them, since money could not buy
health, and practical knowledge was as useful as any
that can be found in books.  So they interchanged
their small experiences, accomplishments, and pleasures,
and both were the better, as well as the happier,
for it; because in this way only can we truly love our
neighbor as ourself, and get the real sweetness out of
life.

There was no end to the new and pleasant things
Ben had to do, from keeping paths and flower-beds
neat, feeding the pets, and running errands, to waiting
on Thorny and being right-hand man to Miss Celia.
He had a little room in the old house, newly papered
with hunting scenes, which he was never tired of admiring.
In the closet hung several out-grown suits
of Thorny's, made over for his valet; and, what Ben
valued infinitely more, a pair of boots, well blacked
and ready for grand occasions, when he rode abroad,
with one old spur, found in the attic, brightened up
and merely worn for show, since nothing would have
induced him to prick beloved Lita with it.

Many pictures, cut from illustrated papers, of races,
animals, and birds, were stuck round the room, giving
it rather the air of a circus and menagerie.  This, however,
made it only the more home-like to its present
owner, who felt exceedingly rich and respectable as he
surveyed his premises; almost like a retired showman
who still fondly remembers past successes, though now
happy in the more private walks of life.

In one drawer of the quaint little bureau which he
used, were kept the relics of his father; very few and
poor, and of no interest to any one but himself, --
only the letter telling of his death, a worn-out watch-chain,
and a photograph of Senor Jose Montebello,
with his youthful son standing on his head, both airily
attired, and both smiling with the calmly superior expression
which gentlemen of their profession usually
wear in public.  Ben's other treasures had been stolen
with his bundle; but these he cherished and often
looked at when he went to bed, wondering what
heaven was like, since it was lovelier than California,
and usually fell asleep with a dreamy impression that
it must be something like America when Columbus
found it, -- "a pleasant land, where were gay flowers
and tall trees, with leaves and fruit such as they had
never seen before." And through this happy hunt-ing-ground
"father" was for ever riding on a beautiful white horse
with wings, like the one of which Miss
Celia had a picture.

Nice times Ben had in his little room poring over
his books, for he soon had several of his own; but
his favorites were Hamerton's "Animals" and "Our
Dumb Friends," both full of interesting pictures and
anecdotes such as boys love.  Still nicer times working
about the house, helping get things in order; and
best of all were the daily drives with Miss Celia and
Thorny, when weather permitted, or solitary rides to
town through the heaviest rain, for certain letters
must go and come, no matter how the elements raged.
The neighbors soon got used to the "antics of that
boy," but Ben knew that he was an object of interest
as he careered down the main street in a way that
made old ladies cry out and brought people flying to
the window, sure that some one was being run away
with. Lita enjoyed the fun as much as he, and apparently
did her best to send him heels over head, having rapidly
earned to understand the signs he gave
her by the touch of hand and foot, or the tones of
his voice.

These performances caused the boys to regard Ben
Brown with intense admiration, the girls with timid
awe, all but Bab, who burned to imitate him, and tried
her best whenever she got a chance, much to the anguish
and dismay of poor Jack, for that long-suffering
animal was the only steed she was allowed to ride.
Fortunately, neither she nor Betty had much time for
play just now, as school was about to close for the
long vacation, and all the little people were busy
finishing up, that they might go to play with free
minds.  So the "lilac-parties," as they called them,
were deferred till later, and the lads amused themselves
in their own way, with Miss Celia to suggest
and advise.

It took Thorny a long time to arrange his possessions,
for he could only direct while Ben unpacked,
wondering and adiniring as he worked, because he had
never seen so many boyish treasures before. The
litte printing-press was his especial delight, and leaving
every thing else in confusion, Thorny taught him
its and planned a newspaper on the spot, with Ben
for printer, himself for editor, and "Sister" for chief
contributor, while Bab should be carrier and Betty
office-boy.  Next came a postage-stamp book, and a
rainy day was happily spent in pasting a new collection
where each particular one belonged, with copious
explanations from Thorny as they went along.  Ben
did not feel any great interest in this amusement after
one trial of it, but when a book containing patterns
of the flags of all nations turned up, he was seized
with a desire to copy them all, so that the house
could be fitly decorated on gala occasions.  Finding
that it amused her brother, Miss Celia generously
opened her piece-drawer and rag-bag, and as the
mania grew till her resources were exhausted, she
bought bits of gay cambric and many-colured papers,
and startled the store-keeper by purchasing several
bottles of mucilage at once.  Bab and Betty were
invited to sew the bright strips of stars, and pricked
their little fingers assiduously, finding this sort of
needle-work much more attractive than piecing bed-
quilts.

Such a snipping and pasting, planning and stitching
as went on in the big back room, which was given
up to them, and such a noble array of banners and
petitions as soon decorated its walls, would have
caused the dullest eye to brighten with amusement,
if not with admiration. Of course, the Stars and
Stripes hung highest, with the English lion ramping
on the royal standard close by; then followed a regular
picture-gallery, for there was the white elephant of
Siam, the splendid peacock of Burmah, the double-
headed Russian eagle, and black dragon of China,
the winged lion of Venice, and the prancing pair on
the red, white, and blue flag of Holland.  The keys
and mitre of the Papal States were a hard job, but up
they went at last, with the yellow crescent of Turkey
on one side and the red full moon of Japan on the
other; the pretty blue and white flag of Greece hung
below and the cross of free Switzerland above.  If
materials had held out, the flags of all the United
States would have followed; but paste and patience
were exhausted, so the busy workers rested awhile
before they "flung their banner to the breeze," as
the newspapers have it.

A spell of ship-building and rigging followed the
flag fit; for Thorny, feeling too old now for such
toys, made over his whole fleet to "the children,"
condescending, however, to superintend a thorough
repairing of the sa,e before he disposed of all but
the big man-of-war, which continued to ornament his
own room, with all sail set and a little red officer
perpetually waving his sword on the quarter-deck.

These gifts led to out-of-door water-works, for the
brook had to be dammed up, that a shallow ocean
might be made, where Ben's piratical "Red Rover,"
with the black flag, might chase and capture Bab's
smart frigate, "Queen," while the "Bounding Betsey,"
laden with lumber, safely sailed from Kennebunkport to
Massachusetts Bay.  Thorny, from his
chair, was chief-engineer, and directed his gang of
one how to dig the basin, throw up the embankment,
and finally let in the water till the mimic ocean was
full; then regulate the little watrr-gate, lest it should
overflow and wreck the pretty squadron or ships, boats,
canoes, and rafts, which soon rode at anchor there.

Digging and paddling in mud and water proved
such a delightful pastime that the boys kept it up, till
a series of water-wheels, little mills and cataracts
made the once quiet brook look as if a manufacturing
town was about to spring up where hitheto minnows had
played in peace and the retiring frog had
chanted his serenade unmolested.

Miss Celia liked all this, for any thing which would
keep Thorny happy out-of-doors in the sweet June
weather found favor in her eyes, and when the novelty
had worn off from home affairs, she planned a series
of exploring expeditions which filled their boyish souls
with delight.  As none of them knew much about the
place, it really was quite exciting to start off on a
bright morning with a roll of wraps and cushions,
lunch, books, and drawing materials packed into the
phaeton, and drive at random about the shady roads
and lanes, pausing when and where they liked. Wonderful
discoveries were made, pretty places were
named, plans were drawn, and all sorts of mrrry
adventures befell the pilgrims.

Each day they camped in a new spot, and while Lita
nibbled the fresh grass at her ease, Miss Celia sketched
under the big umbrella, Thorny read or lounged or
slept on his rubber blanket, and Ben made himself
generally useful.  Unloading, filling the artist's water-
bottle, piling the invalid's cushions, setting out the
lunch, running to and fro for a Bower or a butterfly,
climbing a tree to report the view, reading, chatting, or
frolicking with Sancho,-- any sort of duty was in
Ben's line, and he did them all well, for an out-of-door
life was natural to him and he liked it.

"Ben, I want an amanuensis," said Thorny, dropping
book and pencil one day after a brief interval of
silence, broken only by the whisper of the young
leaves overhead and the soft babble of the brook
close by.

"A what?" asked Ben, pushing back his hat with
such an air of amazement that Thorny rather loftily
inquired:

"Don't you know what an amanuensis is?"

"Well, no; not unless it's some relation to an anaconda.
Shouldn't think you'd want one of them, anyway."

Thorny rolled over with a hoot of derision, and his
sister, who sat close by, sketching an old gate, looked
up to see what was going on.

"Well, you needn't laugh at a feller. You didn't
know what a wombat was when I asked you, and I
didn't roar," said Ben, giving his hat a slap, as nothing
else was handy.

"The idea of wanting an anaconda tickled me so, I
couldn't help it.  I dare say you'd have got me one
if I had asked for it, you are such an obliging chap,"

"Of course I would if I could.  Shouldn't be surprised
if you did some day, you want such funny
things," answered Ben, appeased by the compliment.

"I'll try the amanuensis first.  It's only some one
to write for me; I get so tired doing it without a table.
You write well enough, and it will be good for you to
know something about botany.  I intend to teach you,
Ben," said Thorny, as if conferring a great favor.

"It looks pretty hard," muttered Ben, with a doleful
Glance at the book laid open upon a strew of torn
leaves and flowers.

"No, it isn't; it's regularly jolly; and you'd be no
end of a help if you only knew a little. Now, suppose
I say, 'Bring me a "ranunculus bulbosus,"' how
would yoy know what I wanted?" demanded Thorny,
waving his microscope with a learned air.

"Shouldn't."

"There are quantities of them all round us; and I
want to analyze one.  See if you can't guess."

Ben stared vaguely from earth to sky, and was about
to give it up, when a buttercup fell at his feet, and he
caught sight of Miss Celia smiling at him from behind
her brother, who did not see the flower.

"S'pose you mean this?  I don't call 'em rhinocerus
bulburses, so I wasn't sure." And, taking the hint as
quickly as it was given, Ben presented the buttercup
as if he knew all about it.

"You guessed that remarkably well. Now bring
me a 'leontodon taraxacum,'" said Thorny, charmed
with the quickness of his pupil, and glad to display his
learning.

Again Ben gazed, but the field was full of early
flowers; and, if a long pencil had not pointed to a
dandelion close by, he would have been lost.

"Here you are, sir," he answered with a chuckle
and Thorny took his turn at being astonished now.

"How the dickens did you know that?"

"Try it again, and may be you'll find out," laughed
Ben.

Diving hap-hazard into his book, Thorny demanded
a "trifolium pratense."

The clever pencil pointed, and Ben brought a red
clover, mightily enjoying the joke, and thinking that
their kind of botany wasn't bad fun.

"Look here, no fooling!" and Thorny sat up to investigate
the matter, so quickly that his sister had not
time to sober down.  "Ah, I've caught you! Not
fair to tell, Celia.  Now, Ben, you've got to learn all
about this buttercup, to pay for cheating."

"Werry good, sir; bring on your rhinoceriouses,"
answered Ben, who couldn't help imitating his old
friend the clown when he felt particularly jolly.

"Sit there and write what I tell you," ordered
Thorny, with all the severity of a strict schoolmaster.
Perching himself on the mossy stump, Ben obediently
floundered through the following analysis, with
constant help in the spelling, and much private wonder
what would come of it: --

"Phaenogamous.  Exogenous.  Angiosperm.  Polypetalous.
Stamens, more than ten.  Stamens on the
receptacle. Pistils, more than one and separate.
Leaves without stipules.  Crowfoot family.   Genus
ranunculus.  Botanical name, Ranunculus bulbosus."

"Jerusalem! what a flower! Pistols and crows'
feet, and Polly put the kettles on, and Angy sperms
and all the rest of 'em! If that's your botany, I
won't take any more, thank you," said Ben, as he
paused as hot and red as if he had been running a
race.

"Yes, you Will; you'll learn that all by heart, and
then I shall give you a dandelion to do.  You'll like
that, because it means dent de lion, or lion's tooth;
and I'll show them to you through my glass.  You've
no idea how interesting it is, and what heaps of pretty
things you'll see," answered Thorny, who had already
discovered how charming the study was, and had
found great satisfaction in it, since he had been
forbidden more active pleasures.

"What's the good of it, anyway?" asked Ben, who
would rather have been set to mowing the big field
than to the task before him.

"It tells all about it in my book here, -- 'Gray's
Botany for Young People.' But I can tell you what
use it is to us," continued Thorny, crossing his legs in
the air and preparing to argue the matter, comfortably
lying flat on his back.  "We are a Scientific Exploration
Society, and we must keep an account of all
the plants, animals, minerals, and so on, as we come
across them.  Then, suppose we get lost, and have
to hunt for food, how are we to know what is safe
and what isn't? Come, now, do you know the
difference between a toadstool and a mushroom?"

"No, I don't."

"Then I'll teach you some day.  There is sweet
flag and poisonous flag, and all sorts of berries and
things; and you'd better look out when you are
in the woods, or you'll touch ivy and dogwood,
and have a horrid time, if you don't know your
botany."

"Thorny learned much of his by sad experience;
and you will be wise to take his advice," said Miss
Celia, recalling her brother's various mishaps before
the new fancy came on.

"Didn't I have a time of it, though, when I had to
go round for a week with plantain leaves and cream
stuck all over my face! Just picked some pretty red
dogwood, Ben; and then I was a regular guy, with a
face like a lobster, and my eyes swelled out of sight.
Come along, and learn right away, and never get into
scrapes like most fellows."

Impressed by this warning, and attracted by
Thorny's enthusiasm, Ben cast himself down upon
the blanket, and for an hour the two heads bobbed
to and fro, from microscope to book, the teacher
airing his small knowledge, the pupil more and more
interested in the new and curious things he saw or
heard, -- though it must be confessed that Ben infinitely
prefered to watch ants and bugs, queer little
worms and gauzy-winged flies, rather than "putter"
over plants with long names. He did not dare to
say so, however; but, when Thorny asked him if it
wasn't capital fun, he dodged cleverly by proposing
to hunt up the flowers for his master to gtudy, offering
to learn about the dangerous ones, but pleading
want of time to investigate this pleasing science very
deeply.

As Thorny had talked himself hoarse, he was very
ready to dismiss his class of one to fish the milk-
bottle out of the brook; and recess was prolonged
till next day. But both boys found a new pleasure
in the pretty pastime they made of it; for active Ben
ranged the woods and fields with a tin box slung over
his shoulder, and feeble Thorny had a little room
fitted up for his own use, where he pressed flowers
in newspaper books, dried herbs on the walls, had
bottles and cups, pans and platters, for his treasures,
and made as much litter as he liked.

Presently, Ben brought such lively accounts of the
green nooks where jacks-in-the-pulpit preached their
little sermons; brooks, beside which grew blue violets
and lovely ferns; rocks, round which danced the
columbines like rosy elves, or the trees where birds
built, squirrels  chattered, and woodchucks burrowed,
that Thorny was seized with a desire to go and see
these beauties for himself.  So Jack was saddled, and
went plodding, scrambling, and wandering into all
manner of pleasant places, always bringing home a
stronger, browner rider than he carried away.

This delighted Miss Celia; and she gladly saw
them ramble off together, leaving her time to stitch
happily at certain dainty bits of sewing, write voluminons
letters, or dream over others quite as long,
swinging in her hammock under the lilacs.

CHAPTER XIII: SOMEBODY RUNS AWAY

"'School is done,
Now we'll have fun,"

Sung Bab and Betty, slamming down their
books as if they never meant to take them up
again, when they came home on the last day
of June.

Tired teacher had dismissed them for eight whole
weeks, and gone away to rest; the little school-house
was shut up, lessons were over, spirits rising fast,
and vacation had begun.  The quiet town seemed
suddenly inundated with children, all in such a
rampant state that busy mothers wondered how they
ever should be able to keep their frisky darlings out
of mischief; thrifty fathers planned how they could
bribe the idle hands to pick berries or rake hay; and
the old folks, while wishing the young folks well,
secretly blessed the man who invented schools.

The girls immediately began to talk about picnics,
and have them, too; for little hats sprung up in the
fields like a new sort of mushroom, -- every hillside
bloomed with gay gowns, looking as if the flowers
had gone out for a walk; and the woods were full of
featherless birds chirping away as blithely as the
thrushes, robins, and wrens.

The boys took to base-ball like ducks to water,
and the common was the scene of tremendous battles,
waged with much tumult, but little bloodshed.  To
the uninitiated, it appeared as if these young men
had lost their wits; for, no matter how warm it was,
there they were, tearing about in the maddest mannet,
jackets off, sleeves rolled up, queer caps flung on
any way, all batting shabby leather balls, and catching
the same, as if their lives depended on it.  Every
one talking in his gruffest tone, bawling at the top of
his voice, squabbling over every point of the game,
and seeming to enjoy himself immensely, in spite
of the heat, dust, uproar, and imminent danger of
getting eyes or teeth knocked out.

Thorny was an excellent player, but, not being
strong enough to show his prowess, he made Ben
his proxy; and, sitting on the fence, acted as umpire
to his heart's content.  Ben was a promising pupil,
and made rapid progress; for eye, foot, and hand
had been so well trained, that they did him good
service now; and Brown was considered a first-rate
"catcher".

Sancho distinguished himself by his skill in hunting
up stray balls, and guarding jackets when not
needed, with the air of one of the Old Guard on duty
at the tomb of Napoleon. Bab also longed to join
in the fun, which suited her better than "stupid picnics"
or "fussing over dolls;" but her heroes would not
have her at any price; and she was obliged to content
herself with sitting by Thorny, and watching
with breathless interest the varying fortunes of "our
side."

A grand match was planned for the Fourth of
July; but when the club met, things were found to
be unpropitious.  Thorny had gone out of town with
his sister to pass the day, two of the best players did
not appear, and the others were somewhat exhausted
by the festivities, which began at sunrise for them.
So they lay about on the grass in the shade of the
big elm, languidly discussing their various wrongs
and disappointments.

"It's the meanest Fourth I ever saw. Can't have
no crackers, because somebody's horse got scared
last year," growled Sam Kitteridge, bitterly resenting
the stern edict which forbade feee-born citizens to
burn as much gunpowder as they liked on that glorious
day.

"Last year Jimmy got his arm blown off when
they fired the old cannon.  Didn't we have a lively
time going for the doctors and getting him home?"
asked another boy, looking as if he felt defrauded of
the most interesting part of the anniversary, because
no accident had occurred.

"Ain't going to be fireworks either, unless somebody's
barn burns up.  Don't I just wish there would,:
gloomily responded another youth who had so rashly
indulged in pyrotechnics on a former occasion that a
neighbor's cow had been roasted whole.

"I wouldn't give two cents for such a slow old
place as this.  Why, last Fourth at this time, I was
rumbling thiough Boston streets on top of our big
car, all in my best toggery. Ht as pepper, but
good fun looking in at the upper windows and hearing
the women scream when the old thing waggled
round and I made believe I was going to tumble off,
said Ben, leaning on his bat with the air of a man
who had seen the world and felt some natural regret
at descending from so lofty a sphere.

"Catch me cuttin, away if I had such a chance
as that!" answered Sam, trying to balance his bat on
his chin and getting a smart rap across the nose as he
failed to perform the feat.

"Much you know about it, old chap.  It's hard
work, I can tell you, and that wouldn't suit such a
lazy-bones.  Then you are too big to begin, though you
might do for a fat boy if Smithers wanted one," said
Ben, surveying the stout youth, with calm contempt.

"Let's go in swimming, not loaf round here, if we
can't play," proposed a red and shiny boy, panting
for a game of leap-frog in Sandy pond.

"May as well; don't see much else to do," sighed
Sam, rising like a young elephant.

The others were about to follow, when a shrill " Hi,
hi, boys, hold on!" made them turn about to behold
Billy Barton tearing down the street like a runaway
colt, waving a long strip of paper as he ran.

"Now, then, what's the matter? " demanded Ben,
as the other came up grinning and puffing, but full
of great news.

"Look here, read it! I'm going; come along,
the whole of you," panted Billy, putting the paper
into Sam's hand, and surveying the crowd with a face
as beaming as a full moon.

"Look out for the big show," read Sam. "Van
Amburgh & Co.'s New Great Golden Menagerie, Circus
and Colosseum, will exhibit at Berryville, July
4th, at 1 and 7 precisely.  Admission 50 cents, chil-
dren half-price.  Don't forget day and date.   H.
Frost, Manager."

While Sam read, the other boys had been gloating
over the enticing pictures which covered the bill.
There was the golden car, filled with noble beings in
helmits, all playing on immense trumpets; the twenty-
four prancing steeds with manes, tails, and feathered
heads tossing in the breeze; the clowns, the tumblers,
the strong men, and the riders flying about in the air
as if the laws of gravitation no longer existed.  But,
best of all, was the grand conglomeration of animals
where the giraffe appears to stand on the elephant's
back, the zebra to be jumping over the seal, the hippopotamus
to be lunching off a couple of crocodiles,
and lions and tigers to be raining down in all directions
with their mouths, wide open and their tails as stiff as
that of the famous Northumberland House lion.

"Cricky! wouldn't I like to see that," said little
Cyrus Fay, devoutly hoping that the cage, in which
this pleasing spectacle took place, was a very strong
one.

"You never would, it's only a picture! That,
now, is something like," and Ben, who had pricked
up his ears at the word "circus," laid his finger on a
smaller cut of a man hanging by the back of his neck
with a child in each hand, two men suspended from
his feet, and the third swinging forward to alight on
his head.

"I 'm going," said Sam, with calm decision, for this
superb array of unknown pleasures fired his soul and
made him forget his weight.

"How will you fix it?" asked Ben, fingering the
bill with a nervous thrill all through his wiry limbs,
just as he used to feel it when his father caught him
up to dash into the ring.

"Foot it with Billy. It's only four miles, and
we've got lots of time, so we can take it easy.   Mother
won't care, if I send word by Cy," answered Sam, producing
half a dollar, as if such magnificent sums were
no strangers to his pocket.

"Come on, Brown; you'll be a first-rate fellow to
show us round, as you know all the dodges," said
Billy, anxious to get his money's worth.

"Well, I don't know," began Ben, longing to go,
but afraid Mrs. Moss would say "No!" if he asked
leave.

"He's afraid," sneered the red-faced boy, who felt
bitterly toward all mankind at that instant, because
he knew there was no hope of his going.

"Say that again, and I'll knock your head off,"
and Ben faced round with a gesture which caused the
other to skip out of reach precipitately.

"Hasn't got any money, more likely," observed a
shabby youth, whose pockets never had any thing in
them but a pair of dirty hands.

Ben calmly produced a dollar bill and waved it
defiantly before this doubter, observing with dignity:

"I've got money enough to treat the whole crowd,
if I choose to, which I don't."

"Then come along and have a jolly time with Sam
and me.  We can buy some dinner and get a ride
home, as like as not," said the amiable Billy, with
a slap on the shoulder, and a cordial grin which made
it impossible for Ben to resist.

"What are you stopping for?" demanded Sam,
ready to be off, that they might "take it rasy."

"Don't know what to do with Sancho.  He'll get
lost or stolen if I take him, and it's too far to carry
him home if you are in a hurry," began Ben, persuading
himself that this was the true reason of his delay.

"Let Cy take him back. He'll do it for a cent;
won't you, Cy?" proposed Billy, smoothing away all
objections, for he liked Ben, and saw that he wanted
to go.

"No, I won't; I don't like him. He winks at me,
and growls when I touch him," muttered naughty Cy,
remembering how much reason poor Sanch had to
distrust his tormentor.

"There 's Bab; she'll do it.  Come here, sissy;
Ben wants you," called Sam, beckoning to a small
figure just perching on the fence.

Down it jumped and Came fluttering up, much
elated at being summoned by the captain of the
sacred nine.

"I want you to take Sanch home, and tell your
mother I'm going to walk, and may be won't be back
till sundown. Miss Celia said I Might do what I
pleased, all day.  You remember, now."

Ben spoke without looking up, and affected to be
very busy buckling a strap into Sanch's collar, for the
two were so seldom parted that the dog always rebelled.
It was a mistake on Ben's part, for while his eyes
were on his work Bab's were devouring the bill which
Sam still held, and her suspicions were aroused by
the boys' faces.

"Where are you going?  Ma will want to know,"
she said, as curious as a magpie all at once.

"Never you mind; girls can't know every thing.
You just catch hold of this and run along home.
Lock Sanch up for an hour, and tell your mother I'm
all right," answered Ben, bound to assert his manly
supremacy before his mates.

"He's going to the circus," whispered Fay, hoping
to make mischief.

"Circus! Oh, Ben, do take me!" cried Bab,
falling into a state of great excitement at the mere
thought of such delight.

"You couldn't walk four miles," began Ben.

"Yes, I could, as easy as not."

"You haven't got any money."

"You have; I saw you showing your dollar, and
you could pay for me, and Ma would pay it back."

"Can't wait for you to get ready."

"I'll go as I am.  I don't care if it is my old hat,"
and Bab jerked it on to her head.

"Your mother wouldn't like it."

"She won't like your going, either."

"She isn't my missis now.  Miss Celia wouldn't
care, and I'm going, any way."

"Do, do take me, Ben! I'll be just as good as
ever was, and I'll take care of Sanch all the way,"
pleaded Bab, clasping her hands and looking round
for some sign of relenting in the faces of the boys.

"Don't you bother; we don't want any girls tagging
after us," said Sam, walking off to escape the
annoyance.

"I'll bring you a roll of chickerberry lozengers, if
you won't tease," whispered kind-hearted Billy, with a
consoling pat on the crown of the shabby straw hat.

"When the circus comes here you shall go, certain
sure, and Betty too," said Ben, feeling mean while he
proposed what he knew was a hollow mockery.

"They never do come to such little towns; you
said so, and I think you are very cross, and I won't
take care of Sanch, so, now!" cried Bab, getting into
a passion, yet ready to cry, she was so disappointed.

"I Suppose it wouldn't do -- " hinted Billy, with a
look from Ben to the little girl, who stood winking
hard to keep the tears back.

"Of Course it wouldn't.  I'd like to see her walking
eight miles. I don't mind paying for her; it's
getting her there and back.  Girls are such a bother
when you want to knock round. No, Bab, you can't
go. Travel right home and don't make a fuss.  Come
along, boys; it 's most eleven, and we don't want
to walk fast."

Ben spoke very decidedly; and, taking Billy's arm,
away they went, leaving poor Bab and Sanch to watch
them out of sight, one sobbing, the other whining
dismally.

Somehow those two figures seemed to go before
Ben all along the pleasant road, and half spoilt his
fun; for though he laughed and talked, cut canes, and
seemed as merry as a grig, he could not help feeling
that he ought to have asked leave to go, and been
kinder to Bab.

"Perhaps Mrs. Moss would have planned somehow
so we could all go, if I'd told her, I'd like to show
her round, and she's been real good to me. No use
now. I'll take the girls a lot of candy and make
it all right."

He tried to settle it in that way and trudged gayly
off, hoping Sancho wouldn't feel hurt at being left,
wondering if any of "Smithers's lot" would be round,
and planning to do the honors handsomely to the
boys.

It was very warm; and just outside of the town they
paused by a wayside watering-trough to wash their
dusty faces, and cool off before plunging into the excitements
of the afternoon.  As they stood refreshing
themselves, a baker's cart came jingling by; and Sam
proposed a hasty lunch while they rested.  A supply
of gingerbread was soon bought; and, climbing the
green bank above, they lay on the grass under a wild
cherry-tree, munching luxuriously, while they feasted
their eyes at the same time on the splendors awaiting
them; for the great tent, with all its flags flying, was
visible from the hill.

"We'll cut across those fields, -- it 's shorter than
going by the road, -- and then we can look round
outside till it's time to go in.  I want to have a good
go at every thing, especially the lions," said Sam, beginning
on his last cookie.

"I heard 'em roar just now;" and Billy stood up
to gaze with big eyes at the flapping canvas which hid
the king of beasts from his longing sight.

"That was a cow mooing.  Don't you be a donkey,
Bill.  When you hear a real roar, you'll shake in your
boots," said Ben, holding up his handkerchief to dry,
after it had done double duty as towel and napkin.

"I wish you'd hurry up, Sam.  Folks are going in
now. I see 'em!" and Billy pranced with impatience;
for this was his first circus, and he firmly
believed that he was going to behold all that the
pictures promised.

"Hold on a minute, while I get one more drink.
Buns are dry fodder," said Sam, rolling over to the
edge of the bank and preparing to descend with as
little trouble as possible.

He nearly went down head first, however; for, as
he looked before he leaped, he beheld a sight which
caused him to stare with all his might for an instant,
then turn and beckon, saying in an eager whisper,
Look here, boys, -- quick!"

Ben and Billy peered over, and both suppressed an
astonished "Hullo!" for there stood Bab, waiting for
Sancho to lap his fill out of the overflowing trough.

Such a shabby, tired-looking couple as they were!
Bab with a face as red as a lobster and streaked with
tears, shoes white with dust, Playfrock torn at the
gathers, something bundled up in her apron, and one
shoe down at the heel as if it hurt her.  Sancho lapped
eagerly, with his eyes shut; all his ruffles were gray
with dust, and his tail hung wearily down, the tassel
at half mast, as if in mourning for the master whom
be had come to find.  Bab still held the strap, intent
on keeping her charge safe, though she lost herself;
but her courage seemed to be giving out, as she
looked anxiously up and down the road,seeing no sign
of the three familiar figures she had been following as
steadily as a little Indian on the war-trail.

"Oh, Sanch, what shall I do if they don't come
along?  We must have gone by them somewhere, for
I don't see any one that way, and there isn't any
other road to the circus, seems to me."

Bab spoke as if the dog could understand and
answer; and Sancho looked as if he did both, for he
stopped drinking, pricked up his cars, and, fixing his
sharp eyes on the grass above him, gave a suspicious
bark.

"It's only squirrels; don't mind, but come along
and be good; for I 'm so tired, I don't know what to
do!" sighed Bab, trying to pull him after her as she
trudged on, bound to see the outside of that wonderful
tent, even if she never got in.

But Sancho had heard a soft chirrup; and, with a
sudden bound, twitched the strap away, sprang up the
bank, and landed directly on Ben's back as he lay
peeping over.  A peal of laughter greeted him; and,
having got the better of his master in more ways than
one, he made the most of the advantage by playfully
worrying him as he kept him down, licking his face
in spite of his struggles, burrowing in his neck with a
ticklish nose, snapping at his buttons, and yelping
joyfully, as if it was the best joke in the world to play
hide-and-seek for four long miles.

Before Ben could quiet him, Bab came climbing up
the bank, with such a funny mixture of fear, fatigue,
determination, and relief in her dirty little face, that
the boys could not look awful if they tried.

"How dared you come after us, miss?" demanded
Sam, as she looked calmly about her, and took a seat
before she was asked.

"Sanch would come after Ben; I couldn't make
him go home, so I had to hold on till he was safe here,
else he'd be lost, and then Ben would feel bad."

The cleverness of that excuse tickled the boys immensely;
and Sam tried again, while Ben was getting
the dog down and sitting on him.

"Now you expect to go to the circus, I suppose."

"Course I do.  Ben said he didn't mind paying, if
I could get there without bothering him, and I have;
and I'll go home alone.  I ain't afraid.  Sanch will take
care of me, if you won't," answered Bab, stoutly.

"What do you suppose your mother will say to
you?" asked Ben, feeling much reproached by her
last words.

"I guess she'll say you led me into mischief;
and the sharp child nodded, as if she defied him to
deny the truth of that.

"You'll catch it when you get home, Ben; so you'd
better have a good time while you can," advised Sam.
thinking Bab great fun, since none of the blame of
her pranks would fall on him.
"What would you have done if you hadn't found us?" a
sked Billy, forgetting his impatience in his admiration
for this plucky young lady.

"I'd have gone on and seen the circus, and then I'd
have gone home again and told Betty all about it,"
was the prompt answer.

"But you haven't any money."

"Oh, I'd ask somebody to pay for me.  I 'm so
little, it wouldn't be much."

"Nobody would do it; so you'd have to stay outside,
you see."

"No, I wouldn't.  I thought of that, and planned
how I'd fix it if I didn't find Ben. I'd make Sanch
do his tricks, and get a quarter that way; so, now!
answered Bab, undaunted by any obstacle.

"I do believe she would! You are a smart child,
Bab; and if I had enough I'd take you in myself,"
said Billy, heartily; for, having sisters of his own,
he kept a soft place in his heart for girls, especially
enterprising ones.

"I'll take care of her.  It was very naughty to
come, Bab; but, so long as you did, you needn't
worry about any thing.  I'll see to you; and you
shall have a real good time," said Ben, accepting his
responsibilities without a murmur, and bound to do
the handsome thing by his persistent friend.

"I thought you would;" and Bab folded her arms,
as if she had nothing further to do but enjoy herself.

"Are you hungry?" asked Billy, fishing out several
fragments of gingerbread.

"Starving!" and Bab ate them with such a relish
that Sam added a small contribution; and Ben
caught some water for her in his hand, where the
little spring bubbled up beside a stone.

"Now, you wash your face and spat down your
hair, and put your hat on straight, and then we'll
go," commanded Ben, giving Sanch a roll on the
grass to clean him.

Bab scrubbed her face till it shone; and, pulling
down her apron to wipe it, scattered a load of
treasures collected in her walk. Some of the dead
flowers, bits of moss, and green twigs fell near Ben,
and one attracted his attention, -- a spray of broad,
smooth leaves, with a bunch of whitish berries on it.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, poking it
with his foot.

"In a swampy place, coming along.  Sanch saw
something down there; and I went with him, 'cause
I thought may be it was a musk-rat, and you'd like
one if we could get him."

"Was it?" asked the boys all at once, and with
intense interest.

"No; only a snake, and I don't care for snakes.
I picked some of that, it was so green and pretty.
Thorny likes queer leaves and berries, you know,"
answered Bab, "spatting," down her rough locks.

"Well, he won't like that, nor you either; it's
poisonous, and I shouldn't wonder if you'd got
poisoned, Bab.  Don't touch it! Swamp-sumach is
horrid stuff, -- Miss Celia said so;" and Ben looked
anxiously at Bab, who felt her chubby face all over,
and examined her dingy hands with a solemn air,
asking, eagerly, --

"Will it break out on me 'fore I get to the circus?"

"Not for a day or so, I guess; but it's bad when
it does come."

"I don't care, if I see the animals first.  Come
quick, and never mind the old weeds and things,"
said Bab, much relieved; for present bliss was all
she had room for now in her happy little heart.


CHAPTER XIV: SOMEBODY GETS LOST

Putting all care behind them, the young folks
ran down the hill, with a very lively dog gambolling
beside them, and took a delightfully
tantalizing survey of the external charms of the big
tent.  But people were beginning to go in, and it
was impossible to delay when they came round to
the entrance.

Ben felt that now "his foot was on his native
heath," and the superb air of indifference with which
he threw down his dollar at the ticket-office, carelessly
swept up the change, and strolled into the tent
with his hands in his pockets, was so impressive that
even big Sam repressed his excitement and meekly
followed their leader, as he led them from cage to
cage, doing the honors as if he owned the whole concern.
Bab held tight to the flap of his jacket, staring
about her with round eyes, and listening with
little gasps of astonishment or delight to the roaring
of lions, the snarling of tigers, the chatter of the
monkeys, the groaning of camels, and the music of
the very brass band shut up in a red bin.

Five elephants were tossing their hay about in the
middle of the menagerie, and Billy's legs shook under
him as he looked up at the big beasts whose long
noses and small, sagacious eyes filled him with awe.
Sam was so tickled by the droll monkeys that the
others left him before the cage and went on to see
the zebra, "striped just like Ma's muslin gown," Bab
declared.  But the next minute she forgot all about
him in her raptures over the ponies and their tiny
colts; especially one mite of a thing who lay asleep
on the hay, such a miniature copy of its little mouse-colored
mamma that one could hardly believe it was alive.

"Oh, Ben, I must feel of it! -- the cunning baby
horse!" and down went Bab inside the rope to pat
and admire the pretty creature, while its mother
smelt suspiciously at the brown hat, and baby lazily
opened one eye to see what was going on.

"Come out of that, it isn't allowed" commanded
Ben, longing to do the same thing, but mindful of the
proprieties and his own dignity.

Bab reluctantly tore herself away to find consolation
in watching the young lions, who looked so like
big puppies, and the tigers washing their faces just
as puss did.

"If I stroked 'em, wouldn't they purr?" she
asked, bent on enjoying herself, while Ben held her
skirts lest she should try the experiment.

"You'd better not go to patting them, or you'll
get your hands clawed up.  Tigers do purr like fun
when they are happy, but these fellers never are, and
you'll only see 'em spit and snarl," said Ben, leading
the way to the humpy carrels, who were peacefully
chewing their cud and longing for the desert,
with a dreamy, far-away look in their mournful eyes.

Here, leaning on the rope, and scientifically biting
a straw while he talked, Ben played showman to his
heart's content till the neigh of a horse from the
circus tent beyond reminded him of the joys to come.

"We'd better hurry along and get good seats before
folks begin to crowd. I want to sit near the curtain
and see if any of Smitthers's lot are 'round."

"I ain't going way off there; you can't see half so
well, and that big drum makes such a noise you can't
hear yourself think," said Sam, who had rejoined
them.

So they settled in good places where they could
see and hear all that went on in the ring and still
catch glimpses of white horses, bright colors, and the
glitter of helmets beyond the dingy red curtains.  Ben
treated Bab to peanuts and pop-corn like an indulgent
parent, and she murmured protestations of undying
gratitude with her mouth full, as she sat blissfully
between him and the congenial Billy.

Sancho, meantime, had been much excited by the
familiar sights and sounds, and now was greatly exercised
in his doggish mind at the unusual proceeding
of his master; for he was sure that they ought to be
within there, putting on their costumes, ready to take
their turn. He looked anxiously at Ben, sniffed
disdainfully at the strap as if to remind him that a
scarlet ribbon ought to take its place, and poked peanut
shells about with his paw as if searching for the letters
with which to spell his famous name.

"I know, old boy, I know; but it can't be done.
We've quit the busin'ess and must just look on.  No
larks for us this time, Sanch, so keep quiet and behave,'
whispered Ben, tucking the dog away under
the seat with a sympathetic cuddle of the curly head
that peeped out from between his feet.

"He wants to go and cut up, don't he?" said Billy,
"and so do you, I guess.  Wish you were going
to. Wouldn't it be fun to see Ben showing off in
there?"

"I'd be afraid to have him go up on a pile of elephants
and jump through hoops like these folks," answered
Bab, poring over her pictured play-bill with
unabated relish.

"Done it a hundred times, and I'd just like to
show you what I can do.  They don't seem to have
any boys in this lot; shouldn't wonder if they'd take
me if I asked 'em," said Ben, moving uneasily on his
seat and casting wistful glances toward the inner tent
where he knew he would feel more at home than in
his present place.

"I heard some men say that it's against the law to
have small boys now; it's so dangerous and not good
for them, this kind of thing. If that's so, you're done
for, Ben," observed Sam, with his most grown-up air,
remembering Ben's remarks on "fat boys."

"Don't believe a word of it, and Sanch and I could
go this minute and get taken on, I'll bet.  We are a
valuable couple, and I could prove it if I chose to,"
began Ben, getting excited and boastful.

"Oh, see, they're coming! -- gold carriages and
lovely horses, and flags and elephants, and every
thing, cried Bab, giving a clutch at Ben's arm as
the opening procession appeared headed by the band,
tooting and banging till their faces were as red as
their uniforms.

Round and round they went till every one had seen
their fill, then the riders alone were left caracoling
about the ring with feathers flying, horses prancing,
and performers looking as tired and indifferent as if
they would all like to go to sleep then and there.

"How splendid!" sighed Bab, as they went dashing out,
to tumble off almost before the horses stopped.

"That's nothing! You wait till you see the bareback
riding and the 'acrobatic exercises,' " said Ben,
quoting from the play-bill, with the air of one who
knew all about the feats to come, and could never be
surprised any more.

"What are 'crowbackic exercises'?" asked Billy,
thirsting for information.

"Leaping and climbing and tumbling; you'll see
George! what a stunning horse!" and Ben forgot
every thing else to feast his eyes on the handsome
creature who now came pacing in to dance, upset
and replace chairs, kneel, bow, and perform many
wonderful or graceful feats, ending with a swift gallop
while the rider sat in a chair on its back fanning
himself, with his legs crossed, as comfortably as you
please.

"That, now, is something like," and Ben's eyes shone
with admiration and envy as the pair vanished, and the
pink and silver acrobats came leaping into the ring.

The boys were especially interested in this part,
and well they might be; for strength and agility are
manly attributes which lads appreciate, and these
lively fellows flew about like India-rubber balls, each
trying to outdo the other, till the leader of the acrobats
capped the climax by turning a double somersault
over five elephants standing side by side.

"There, Sir, how's that for a jump?" asked Ben,
rubbing his hands with satisfaction as his friends
clapped till their palms tingled.

"We'll rig up a spring-board and try it," said
Billy, fired with emulation.

"Where'll you get your elephants?" asked Sam,
scornfully. for gymnastics were not in his line.

"You'll do for one," retorted Ben, and Billy and
Bab joined in his laugh so heartily that a rough-
looking, man who sat behind them, hearing all they
said, pronounced them a "jolly set," and kept his eye
on Sancho, who now showed signs of insubordination.

"Hullo, that wasn't on the bill!" cried Ben, as a
parti-colored clown came in, followed by half a dozen
dogs.

"I'm so glad; now Sancho will like it.  There's a
poodle that might be his ownty donty brother -- the
one with the blue ribbon," said Bab. beaming with delight
as the dogs took their seats in the chairs arranged
for them.

Sancho did like it only too well, for be scrambled
out from under the seat in a great hurry to go and
greet his friends; and, being sharply checked, sat up
and begged so piteously that Ben found it very hard
to refuse and order him down.  He subsided for a
moment, but when the black spaniel, who acted the
canine clown, did something funny and was applauded,
Sancho made a dart as if bent on leaping into the
ring to outdo his rival, and Ben was forced to box
his ears and put his feet on the poor beast, fearing he
would be ordered out if he made any disturbance.

Too well trained to rebel again, Sancho lay meditating
on his wrongs till the dog act was over, carefully
abstaining from any further sign of interest in
their tricks, and only giving a sidelong g;ance at the
two little poodles who came out of a basket to run
up and down stairs on their fore-paws, dance jigs on
their hind-legs, and play various pretty pranks to the
great delight of all the children in the audience.   If
ever a dog expressed by look and attitude, "Pooh!
I could fo much better than that, and astonish you
all, if I were only allowed to," that dog was Sancho,
as he curled himself up and affected to turn his back
on an unappreciative world.

"It's too bad, when he knows motr than all those
chaps put together. I'd give any thing if I could
show him off as I used to.  Folks always like it, and
I was ever so proud of him.  He's mad now because
I had to cuff him, and won't take any notice of me
till I make up," said Ben, regretfully eying his offended
friend, but not daring to beg pardon yet.

More riding followed, and Bab was kept in a breathless
state by the marvellous agility and skill of the
gauzy lady who drove four horses at once, leaped
through hoops, over banners and bars, sprang off and
on at full speed, and seemed to enjoy it all so much
it was impossible to believe that there could be any
danger or exertion in it. Then two girls flew about
on the trapeze, and walked on a tight rope, causing
Bab to feel that she had at last found her sphere; for,
young as she was, her mother often said,

"I really don't know what this child is fit for, except
mischief, like a monkey."

"I'll fix the clothes-line when I get home, and
show Ma how nice it is. Then, may be, she'd let me
wear red and gold trousers, and climb round like
these girls," thought the busy little brain, much excited
by all it saw on that memorable day.

Nothing short of a pyramid of elephants with a
glittering gentleman in a turban and top boots on the
summit would have made her forget this new and
charming plan. But that astonishing spectacle, and
the prospect of a cage of Bengal tigers with a man
among them, in immenent danger of being eaten
before her eyes, entirely absorbed her thoughts till,
just as the big animals went lumbering out, a peal of
thunder caused considerable commotion in the audience.
Men on the highest seats popped their heads
through the openings in the tent-cover and reported
that a heavy shower was coming up.  Anxious mothers
began to collect their flocks of children as hens do
their chickens at sunset; timid people told cheerful
stories of tents blown over in gales, cages upset and
wild beasts let loose. Many left in haste, and the
performers hurried to finish as soon as possible.

"I'm going now before the crowd comes, so I can
get a lift home. I see two or three folks I know, so
I'm off;" and, climbing hastily down, Sam vanished
without further ceremony.

"Better wait till the shower is over. We can go
and see the animals again, and get home all dry, just
as well as not," observed Ben, encouraginly, as Billy
looked anxiously at the billowing canvas over his
head, the swaying posts before him, and heard the
quick patter of drops outside, not to mention the
melancholy roar of the lion which sounded rather awful
through the sudden gloom which filled the strange
place.

"I wouldn't miss the tigers for any thing. See,
they are pulling in the cart now, and the shiny man
is all ready with his gun. Will he shoot any of them,
apprehension, for the sharp crack of a rifle startled her
more than the loudest thunder-clap she ever heard.

"Bless you, no, child; it 's only powder to make
a noise and scare 'em.  I wouldn't like to be in his
place, though; father says you can never trust tiglers
as you can lions, no matter how tame they are.  Sly
fellers, like cats, and when they scratch it's no joke,
I tell you," answered Ben, with a knowing wag of the
head, as the sides of the cage rattled down, and the
poor, fierce creatures were seen leaping and snarling
as if they resented this display of their captivity.

Bab curled up her feet and winked fast with excitement
as she watched the "shiny man" fondle the
great cats, lie down among them, pull open their red
mouths, and make them leap over him or crouch at
his feet as be snapped the long whip.  When he fired
the gun and they all fell as if dead, she with difficulty
suppressed a small scream and clapped her hands
over her ears; but poor Billy never minded it a bit,
for he was pale and quaking with the fear of "heaven's
artillery" thundering overhead, and as a brighht flash
of lightning seemed to run down the tall tent-poles he
hid his eyes and wished with all his heart that he was
safe with mother.

"Afraid of thunder, Bill?" asked Ben, trying to
speak stoutly, while a sense of his own responsibilities
began to worry him, for how was Bab to be got home
in such a pouring rain?

"It makes me sick; always did.  Wish I hadn't
come," sighed Billy, feeling, all too late, that lemonade
and "lozengers" were not the fittest food for man, or
a stifling tent the best place to be in on a hot July
day, especially in a thunder-storm.

"I didn't ask you to come; you asked me; so it
isn't my fault," said Ben, rather gruffly, as people
crowded by without pausing to hear the comic song
the clown was singing in spite of the confusion.

"Oh, I'm so tired," groaned Bab, getting up with
a long stretch of arms and legs.

"You'll be tireder before you get home, I guess.
Nobody asked you to Come, any way;" and Ben
gazed dolefully round him, wishing he could see a
familiar face or find a wiser head than his own to help
him out of the scrape he was in.

"I said I wouldn't be a bother, and I won't.  I'll
walk right home this minute.  I ain't afraid of thunder,
and the rain won't hurt these old clothes. Come
along," cried Bab, bravely, bent on keeping her word,
though it looked much harder after the fun was all
over than before.

"My head aches like fury.  Don't I wish old Jack
was here to take me back," said Billy, following his
companions in misfortune with sudden energy, as a
louder peal than before rolled overhead.

"You might as well wish for Lita and the covered
wagon while you are about it, then we could all ride,"
answered Ben, leading the way to the outer tent, where
many people were lingering in hopes of fair weather.

"Why, Billy Barton, how in the world did you get
here? " cried a surprised voice as the crook of a cane
caught the boy by the collar and jerkcd him face to
face with a young farmer, who was pushing along,
followed by his, wife and two or three children.

"Oh, Uncle Eben, I'm so glad you found Me! I
walked over, and it's raining, and I don't feel well.
Let me go with you, can't I? " asked Billy, casting
himself and all his woes upon the strong arm that
had laid hold of him.

"Don't see what your mother was about to let you
come so far alone, and you just over scarlet fever.
We are as full as ever we can be, but we'll tuck you
in somehow," said the pleasant-faced woman, bundling
up her baby, and bidding the two little lads
"keep close to father."

"I didn't come alone.  Sam got a ride, and can't
you tuck Ben and Bab in too?  They ain't very big,
either of them," whispeied Billy, anxious to serve his
friends now that he was provided for himself.

"Can't do it, any way.  Got to pick up mother at
the corner, and that will be all I can carry.  It's
lifting a little; hurry along, Lizzie, and let us get
out of this as quick is possible," said Uncle Eben,
impatiently; for going to a circus with a young
family is not an easy task, as every one knows who
has ever tried it.

"Ben, I'm real sorry there isn't room for you.
I'll tell Bab's mother where she is, and may be some
one will come for you," said Billy, hurriedly, as he
tore himself away, feeling rather mean to desert the
others, though he could be of no use.

"Cut away, and don't mind us. I'm all right, and
Bab must do the best she can," was all Ben had time
to answer before his comrade was hustled away by
the crowd pressing round the entrance with much
clashing of umbrellas and scrambling of boys and
men, who rather enjoyed the flurry.

"No use for us to get knocked about in that
scrimmage.  We'll wait a minute and then go out
easy. It's a regular rouser, and you'll be as wet as
a sop before we get home. Hope you'll like that?"
added Ben, looking out at the heavy rain poring
down as if it never meant to stop.

"Don't care a bit," said Bab, swinging on one of
the ropes with a happy-go-lucky air, for her spirits
were not extinguished yet, and she was bound to
enjoy this exciting holiday to the very end.  "I like
circuses so much!  I wish I lived here all the time,
and slept in a wagon, as you did, and had these dear
little colties to play with."

"It wouldn't be fun if you didn't have any folks
to take care of you," began Ben, thoughtfully looking
about the familiar place where the men were now
feeding the animals, setting their refreshment tables,
or lounging on the hay to get such rest as they
could before the evening entertainment. Suddenly
he started, gave a long look, then turned to Bab, and
thrusting Sancho's strap into her hand, said, hastily:

"I see a fellow I used to know. May be he can tell
me something about father.  Don't you stir till I
come back."

Then he was off like a shot, and Bab saw him run
after a man with a bucket who bad been watering the
zebra. Sancho tried to follow, but was checked with
an impatient,--

"No, you can't go!  What a plague you are,
tagging around when people don't want you."

Sancho might have answered, "So are you," but,
being a gentlemanly dog, he sat down with a resigned
expression to watch the little colts, who were now
awake and seemed ready for a game of bo-peep behind
their mammas. Bab enjoyed their funny little
frisks so much that she tied the wearisome strap to
a post, and crept under the rope to pet the tiny
mouse-colored one who came and talked to her with
baby whinnies and confiding glances of its soft, dark
eyes.

"Oh, luckless Bab! why did you turn your back?
Oh, too accomplished Sancho! why did you neatly
untie that knot and trot away to confer with the disreputable
bull-dog who stood in the entrance beckoning with
friendly wavings of an abbreviated tail?
Oh, much afflicted Ben! why did you delay till it
was too late to save your pet from the rough man
who set his foot upon the trailing strap, and led poor
Sanch quickly out of sight among the crowd?

"It was Bascum, but he didn't know any thing.
Why, where's Sanch?" said Ben, returning.
A breathless voice made Bab turn to see Ben
looking about him with as much alarm in his hot
face as if the dog had been a two years' child.

"I tied him -- he's here somewhere --ith the
ponies," stammered Bab, in sudden dismay, for no
sign of a dog appeared as her eyes roved wildly to
and fro.

Ben whistled, called and searched in vain, till one
of the lounging men said, lazily,

"If you are looking after the big poodle you'd
better go outside; I saw him trotting off with another
dog."

Away rushed Ben, with Bab following, regardless
of the rain, for both felt that a great misfortune had
befallen them.  But, long before this, Sancho had
vanished, and no one minded his indignant howls as
he was driven off in a covered cart.

"If he is lost I'll never forgive you; never, never,
never!" and Ben found it impossible to resist giving
Bab several hard shakes, which made her yellow
braids fly up and down like pump handles.

"I'm dreadful sorry. He'll come back -- you
said he always did," pleaded Bab, quite crushed by
her own afflictions, and rather scared to see Ben look
so fierce, for he seldom lost his temper or was rough
with the little girls.

"If he doesn't come back, don't you speak to me
for a year.  Now, I'm going home." And, feeling
that words were powerless to express his emotions,
Ben walked away, looking as grim as a small boy
could.

A more unhappy little lass is seldom to be found
than Bab was, as she pattered after him, splashing
recklessly through the puddles, and getting as wet
and muddy as possible, as a sort of penance for her
sins.  For a mile or two she trudged stoutly along,
while Ben marched before in solemn silence, which
soon became both impressive and oppressive because
so unnsual, and such a proof of his deep displeasure.
Penitent Bab longed for just one word, one sign of
relenting; and when none came, she began to wonder
how she could possibly bear it if he kept his dreadful
threat and did not speak to her for a whole year.

But presently her own discomfort absorbed her,
for her feet were wet and cold as well as very tired;
pop-corn and peanuts were not particularly nourishing food;
and hunger made her feel faint; excitement
was a new thing, and now that it was over she longed
to lie down and go to sleep; then the long walk with
a circus at the end seemed a very different affair from
the homeward trip with a distracted mother awaiting
her.  The shower had subsided into a dreary drizzle,
a chilly east wind blew up, the hilly road seemed to
lengthen before the weary feet, and the mute, blue
flannel figure going on so fast with never a look
or sound, added the last touch to Bab's remorseful
anguish.

Wagons passed, but all were full, and no one offered
a ride. Men and boys went by with rough jokes on
the forlorn pair, for rain soon made them look like
young tramps.  But there was no brave Sancho to
resent the impertinence, and this fact was sadly
brought to both their minds by the appearance of a
great Newfoundland dog who came trotting after a
carriage. The good creature stopped to say a friendly
word in his dumb fashion, looking up at Bab with
benevolent eyes, and poking his nose into Ben's hand
before he bounded away with his plumy tail curled
over his back.

Ben started as the cold nose touched his fingers,
gave the soft head a lingering pat, and watched the
dog out of sight through a thicker mist than any the
rain made.  But Bab broke down; for the wistful look
of the creature's eyes reminded her of lost Sancho,
and she sobbed quietly as she glanced back longing
to see the dear old fellow jogging along in the rear.

Ben heard the piteous sound and took a sly peep
over his shoulder, seeing such a mournful spectacle
that he felt appeased, saying to himself as if to excuse
his late sternness, --

"She is a naughty girl, but I guess she is about
sorry enough now.  When we get to that sign-post
I'll speak to her, only I won't forgive her till Sanch
comes back."

But he was better than his word; for, just before
the post was reached, Bab, blinded by tears, tripped
over the root of a tree, and, rolling down the bank,
landed in a bed of wet nettles. Ben had her out in a
jiffy, and vainly tried to comfort her; but she was
past any consolation he could offer, and roared dismally
as she wrung her tingling hands, with great
drops running over her cheeks almost as fast as the
muddy little rills ran down the road.

"Oh dear, oh dear! I'm all stinged up, and I want
my supper; and my feet ache, and I'm cold, and
every thing is so horrid!" wailed the poor child lying
on the grass, such a miserable little wet bunch that
the sternest parent would have melted at the sight.

"Don't cry so, Babby; I was real cross, and I'm
sorry.  I'll forgive you right away now, and never
shake you any more," cried Ben, so full of pity for
her tribulations that he forgot his own, like a
generous little man.

"Shake me again, if you want to; I know I was
very bad to tag and lose Sanch.  I never will any
more, and I'm so sorry, I don't know what to do,"
answered Bab, completely bowed down by this magnanimity.

"Never mind; you just wipe up your face and come
along, and we'll tell Ma all about it, and she'll fix us
as nice as can be. I shouldn't wonder if Sanch got
home now before we did," said Ben, cheering himself
as well as her by the fond hope.

"I don't believe I ever shall.  I'm so tired my legs
won't go, and the water in my boots makes them feel
dreadfully. I wish that boy would wheel me a piece.
Don't you s'pose he would? asked Bab, wearily picking
herself up as a tall lad trundling a barrow came
out of a yard near by.

"Hullo, Joslyn!" said Ben, recognizing the boy as
one of the "hill fellows" who came to town Saturday
nights for play or business.

"Hullo, Brown! " responded the other, arresting
his squeaking progress with signs of surprise at the
moist tableau before him.

"Where goin'? " asked Ben with masculine brevity.

"Got to carry this home, hang the old thing."

"Where to?"

"Batchelor's, down yonder," and the boy pointed
to a farm-house at the foot of the next hill.

"Goin' that way, take it right along."

"What for?" questioned the prudent youth,
distrusting such unusual neighborliness.

"She's tired, wants a ride; I'll leave it all right,
true as I live and breathe," explained Ben, half
ashamed yet anxious to get his little responsibility
home as soon as possible, for mishaps seemed to
thicken.

"Ho, you couldn't cart her all that way! she's
most as heavy as a bag of meal," jeered the taller lad,
amused at the proposition.

"I'm stronger than most fellers of my size. Try,
if I ain't," and Ben squared off in such scientific style
that Joslyn responded with sudden amiability, --

"All right, let's see you do it."

Bab huddled into her new equipage without the
least fear, and Ben trundled her off at a good pace,
while the boy retired to the shelter of a barn to watch
their progress, glad to be rid of an irksome errand.

At first, all went well, for the way was down hill,
and the wheel squeaked briskly round and round;
Bab smiled gratefully upon her bearer, and Ben
"went in on his muscle with a will," as he expressed
it. But presently the road grew sandy, began to
ascend, and the load seemed to grow heavier with
every step.

"I'll get out now.  It's real nice, but I guess I am
too heavy," said Bab, as the face before her got redder
and redder, and the breath began to come in puffs.

"Sit still. He said I couldn't.  I'm not going to
give in with him looking on," panted Ben, and he
pushed gallantly up the rise, over the grassy lawn to
the side gate of the Batchelors' door-yard, with his
head down, teeth set, and every muscle of his slender
body braced to the task.

"Did ever ye see the like of that now?  Ah, ha!

"The streets were so wide, and the lanes were so narry,
He brought his wife home on a little wheelbarry,"

sung a voice with an accent which made Ben drop his
load and push back his hat, to see Pat's red head
looking over the fence.

To have his enemy behold him then and there was
the last bitter drop in poor Ben's cup of humiliation.
A shrill approving whistle from the hill was some
comfort, however, and gave him spirit to help Bab
out with composure, though his hands were blistered
and he had hardly breath enough to issue the Command, --

"Go along home, and don't mind him."

"Nice childer, ye are, runnin' off this way, settin'
the women distracted, and me wastin' me time comin'
after ye when I'd be milkin' airly so I'd get a bit of
pleasure the day," grumbled Pat, coming up to untie
the Duke, whose Roman nose Ben had already recognized,
as well as the roomy chaise standing before the
door.

"Did Billy tell you about us?" asked Bab, gladly
following toward this welcome refuge.

"Faith he did, and the Squire sent me to fetch ye
home quiet and aisy.  When ye found me, I'd jist
stopped here to borry a light for me pipe. Up wid
ye, b'y, and not be wastin' me time stramashin' after a
spalpeen that I'd like to lay me whip over," said Pat,
gruffly, as Ben came along, having left the barrow in
the shed.

"Don't you wish you could?  You needn't wait
for me; I'll come when I'm ready," answered Ben
dodging round the chaise, bound not to mind Pat, if
he spent the night by the road-side in consequence.

"Bedad, and I won't then.  It's lively ye are; but
four legs is better than two, as ye'll find this night,
me young man."

With that he whipped up and was off before Bab
could say a word to persuade Ben to humble himself
for the sake of a ride. She lamented and Pat chuckled,
both forgetting what an agile monkey the boy was,
and as neither looked back, they were unaware
Master Ben was hanging on behind among the straps
and springs, making derisive grimaces at his unconscious
foe through the little glass in the leathern
back.

At the lodge gate Ben jumped down to run before
with whoops of naughty satisfaction, which brought
the anxious waiters to the door in a flock; so Pat
could only shake his fist at the exulting little rascal
as he drove away, leaving the wanderers to be
welcomed as warmly as if they were a pair of model
children.

Mrs. Moss had not been very much troubled after
all; for Cy had told her that Bab went after Ben, and
Billy had lately reported her safe arrival among them,
so, mother-like, she fed, dried, and warmed the runaways,
before she scolded them.

Even then, the lecture was a mild one, for when
they tried to tell the adventures which to them seemed
so exciting, not to say tragical, the effect astonished
them immensely, as their audience went into gales of
laughter, especially at the wheelbarrow episode, which
Pat insisted on telling, with grateful minuteness, to
Ben's confusion.  Thorny shouted, and even tender-
hearted Betty forgot her tears over the lost dog to
join in the familiar melody when Bab mimicked Pat's
quotation from Mother Goose.

"We must not laugh any more, or these naughty
children will think they have done something very
clever in running away," said Miss Celia, when the
fun subsided, adding, soberly, "I am displeased, but
I will say nothing, for I think Ben is already punished
enough."

"Guess I am," muttered Ben, with a choke in his
voice as he glanced towaid the empty mat where a
dear curly bunch used to he with a bright eye twinkling
out of the middle of it.


CHAPTER XV: BEN'S RIDE

Great was the mourning for Sancho, because
his talents and virtues made him universally
admired and beloved. Miss Celia advertised,
Thorny offered rewards, and even surly Pat kept a
sharp look-out for poodle dogs when he went to
market; but no Sancho or any trace of him appeared.
Ben was inconsolable, and sternly said it
served Bab right when the dogwood poison affected
both face and hands.  Poor Bab thought so, too,
and dared ask no sympathy from him, though Thorny
eagerly prescribed plantain leaves, and Betty kept her
supplied with an endless succession of them steeped
in cream and pitying tears.  This treatment was so
successful that the patient soon took her place in
society as well as ever, but for Ben's affliction there was
no cure, and the boy really suffered in his spirits.

"I don't think it's fair that I should have so much
trouble, -- first losing father and then Sanch.  If it
wasn't for Lita and Miss Celia, I don't believe I could
stand it," he said, one day, in a fit of despair, about a
week after the sad event.

"Oh, come now, don't give up so, old fellow.  We'll
find him if he s alive, and if he isn't I'll try and get
you another as good," answered Thorny, with a
friendly slap on the shoulder, as Ben sat disconsolately
among the beans he had been hoeing.

"As if there ever could be another half as good!"
cried Ben, indignant at the idea; "or as if I'd ever
try to fill his place with the best and biggest dog that
ever wagged a tail!  No, sir, there's only one Sanch
in all the world, and if I can't have him I'll never
have a dog again."

"Try some other sort of pet, then.  You may have
any of mine you like.  Have the peacocks; do now,"
urged Thorny, full of boyish sympathy and good-will.

"They are dreadful pretty, but I don't seem to care
about em, thank you," replied the mourner.

"Have the rabbits, all of them," which was a handsome
offer on Thorny's part, for there were a dozen
at least.

"They don't love a fellow as a dog does; all they
care for is stuff to eat and dirt to burrow in.  I'm
sick of rabbits." And well he might be, for he had
had the charge of them ever since they came, and
any boy who has ever kept bunnies knows what a
care they are.

"So am I! Guess we'll have an auction and sell
out.  Would Jack be a comfort to you? If he will,
you may have him.  I'm so well now, I can walk,
or ride anything," added Thorny, in a burst of
generosity.

"Jack couldn't be with me always, as Sanch was,
and I couldn't keep him if I had him."

Ben tried to be grateful, but nothing short of Lita
would have healed his wounded heart, and she was
not Thorny's to give, or he would probably have
offered her to his afflicted friend.

"Well, no, you couldn't take Jack to bed with you,
or keep him up in your room, and I'm afraid he
Would never learn to do any thing clever. I do wish
I had something you wanted, I'd so love to give it to
you."

He spoke so heartily and was so kind that Ben looked
up, feeling that he had given him one of the sweetest
things in the world -- friendship; he wanted to tell him
so, but did not know how to do it, so caught up his hoe
and fell to work, saying, in a tone Thorny understood
better than words, --

"You are real good to me -never mind, I won't
worry about it; only it seems extra hard coming so soon
after the other--"

He stopped there, and a bright drop fell on the bean
leaves, to shine like dew till Ben saw clearly enough to
bury it out of sight in a great flurry.

"By Jove! I'll find that dog, if he is out of the
ground. Keep your spirits up, my lad, and we'll have
the dear old fellow back yet."

With which cheering prophecy Thorny went off to
rack his brains as to what could be done about the
matter.

Half an hour afterward, the sound of a hand-organ in
the avenue roused him from the brown study into which
he had fallen as he lay on the newly mown grass of the
lawn. Peeping over the wall, Thorny reconnoitred,
and, finding the organ a good one, the man a pleasant-
faced Italian, and the monkey a lively animal, he
ordered them all in, as a delicate attention to Ben,
for music and monkey together might suggest soothing
memories of the past, and so be a comfort.

In they came by way of the Lodge, escorted by Bab
and Betty, full of glee, for hand-organs were rare in
those parts, and the children delighted in them.  Smiling
till his white teeth shone and his black eyes
sparkled, the man played away while the monkey
made his pathetic little bows, and picked up the pennies
Thorny threw him.

"It is warm, and you look tired.  Sit down and I'll
get you Some dinner," said the young master, pointing
to the seat which now stood near the great gate.

With thanks in broken English the man gladly
obeyed, and Ben begged to be allowed to make Jacko
equally comfortable, explaining that he knew all about
monkeys and what they liked.  So the poor thing was
freed from his cocked hat and uniform, fed with bread
and milk, and allowed to curl himself up in the cool
grass for a nap, looking so like a tired littie old man
in a fur coat that the children were never weary of
watching him.

Meantime, Miss Celia had come out, and was talking
Italian to Giacomo in a way that delighted his
homesick heart.  She had been to Naples, and could
understand his longing for the lovely city of his birth,
so they had a little chat in the language which is all
Music, andd the good fellow was so grattful that he
played for the children to dance till they were glad to
stop, lingering afterward as if he hated to set out again
upon his lonely, dusty walk.

"I'd rather like to tramp round with him for a week
or so.  Could make enough to live on as easy as not,
if I only I had sanch to show off," said Ben, as he was
coaxing Jacko into the suit which he detested.
"You go wid me, yes?" asked the man, nodding and
smiling, well pleased at the prospect of company, for
his quick eye and what the boys let fall in their talk
showed him that Ben was not one of them.

If I had my dog I'd love to," and with sad eagerness
Ben told the tale of his loss, for the thought of it
was never long out of his mind.

"I tink I see droll dog like he, way off in New York.
He do leetle trick wid letter, and dance, and go on he
head, and many tings to make laugh," said the man,
when he had listened to a list of Sanch's beauties and
accomplishments.

"Who had him? " asked Thorny, full of interest at
once.

"A man I not know.  Cross fellow what beat him
when he do letters bad."

"Did he spell his name?" cried Ben, breathlessly.

"No; that for why man beat him.  He name Generale,
and he go spell Sancho all times, and cry when
whip fall on him. Ha! yes! that name true one; not
Generale? " and the man nodded, waved his hands,
and showed his teeth, almost as much excited as the
boys.

"It's Sanch! let's go and get him now, right off!
cried Ben, in a fever to be gone.

"A hundred miles away, and no clue but this man's
story?  We must wait a little, Ben, and be sure before
we set out," said Miss Celia, ready to do almost any
thing, but not so certain as the boys.  " What sort of
a dog was it?  A large, curly, white poodle, with a
queer tail ?" she asked of Giacomo.

"No, Signorina mia, he no curly, no wite; he black,
smooth dog, littel tail, small, so;" and the man held
up one brown finger with a gesture which suggested a
short, wagging tail.

"There, you see how mistaken we were.  Dogs are
often named Sancho, especially Spanish poodles; for
the original Sancho was a Spaniard, you know.  This
dog is not ours, and I'm so sorry."

The boys' faces had fallen dismally as their hope was
destroyed; but Ben would not give up.  For him there
was and could be only one Sancho in the world, and
his quick wits suggested an explanation which no one
else thought of.

"It may be my dog, -- they color 'em as we used to
paint over trick horses. I told you he was a valuable
chap, and those that stole him hide him that way, else
he'd be no use, don't you see? because we'd know
him."

"But the black dog had no tail," began Thorny,
longing to be convinced, but still doubtful.

Ben shivered as if the mere thought hurt him, as he
said, in a grim tone, --

"They might have cut Sanch's off."

"Oh, no! no! they mustn't, -- they wouldn't!
How Could any one be so wicked?" cried Bab and
Betty, horrified at the suggestion.

"You don't know what such fellows would do to
make all safe, so they could use a dog to earn their
living for 'em," said Ben, with mysterious significance,
quite forgetting in his wrath that be had just proposed
to get his own living in that way himself.

"He no your dog?  Sorry I not find him for you.
Addio, signorina!  Grazia, signor!  Buon giorno, buon
giorno!" and, kissing his hand, the Italian shouldered
organ and monkey, ready to go.

Miss Celia detained him long enough to give him
her address, and beg him to let her know if he met
poot Sanch in any of his wanderings; for such itinerant
showmen often cross each other's paths. Ben and
Thorny walked to the school-corner with him, getting
more exact information about the black dog and his
owner, for they had no intention of giving it up so
soon.

That very evening, Thorny wrote to a boy cousin
in New York, giving all the particulars of the case,
and begging him to hunt up the man, investigate the
dog, and see that the police made sure that every thing
was right.  Much relieved by this performance, the
boys waited anxiously for a reply, and when it came
found little comfort in it.  Cousin Horace had done
his duty like a man, but regretted that he could only
report a failure.  The owner of the black poodle was
a suspicious character, but told a straight story, how
he had bought the dog from a stranger, and exhibited
him with success till he was stolen. Knew nothing of
his history, and was very sorry to lose him, for he
was a remarkably clever beast.

"I told my dog-man to look about for him, but he
says he has probably been killed, with ever so many
more; so there is an end of it, and I call it a mean
shame."

"Good for Horace!  I told you he'd do it up
thoroughly and see the end of it," said Thorny, as
he read that paragraph in the deeply interesting letter.

"May be the end of that dog, but not of mine.
I'll bet he ran away; and if it was Sanch, he'll come
home.  You see if he doesn't!" cried Ben, refusing
to believe that all was over.

"A hundred wiles off? Oh, he couldn't find you
without help, smart as he is," answered Thorny,
incredulously.

Ben looked discouraged, but Miss Celia cheered
him up again by saying, --

"Yes, he could.  My father had a friend who left
a little dog in Paris; and the creature found her in
Milan, and died of fatigue next day.  That was very
wonderful, but true; and I've no doubt that if Sanch
is alive he will come home.  Let us hope so, and be
happy, while we wait."

"We will!" said the boys; and day after day
looked for the wanderer's return, kept a bone ready
in the old place if he should arrive at night, and
shook his mat to keep it soft for his weary bones
when he came. But weeks passed, and still no
Sanch.

Something else happened, however, so absorbing
that he was almost forgotten for a time; and Ben
found a way to repay a part of all he owed his best
friend.

Miss Celia went off for a ride one afternoon, and an
hour afterward, as Ben sat in the porch reading, Lita
dashed into the yard with the reins dangling about
her legs, the saddle turned round, and one side covered
with black mud, showing that she had been
down.  For a minute, Ben's heart stood still; then
he flung away his book, ran to the horse, and saw at
once by her heaving flanks, dilated nostrils, and wet
coat, that she must have come a long way and at full
speed.

"She has had a fall, but isn't hurt or frightened,"
thought the boy, as the pretty creature rubbed her nose
against his shoulder, pawed the ground, and champed
her bit, as if she tried to tell him all about the
disaster, whatever it was.

"Lita, where's Miss Celia?" he asked, looking
straight into the intelligent eyes, which were troubled
but not wild.

Lita threw up her head, and neighed loud and
clear, as if she called her mistress; and, turning, would
have gone again if Ben had not caught the reins and
held her.

"All right, we'll find her;" and, pulling off the
broken saddle, kicking away his shoes, and ramming
his hat firmly on, Ben was up like a flash, tingling all
over with a sense of power as he felt the bare back
between his knees, and caught the roll of Lita's eye
as she looked round with an air of satisfaction.

"Hi, there! Mrs. Moss! Something has happened
to Miss Celia, and I'm going to find her.  Thorny
is asleep; tell him easy, and I'll come back as soon
as I can!"

Then, giving Lita her head, he was off before the
startled woman had time to do more than wring her
hands and cry out, --

"Go for the Squire! Oh, what shall we do?"

As if she knew exactly what was wanted of her,
Lita went back the way she had come, as Ben could
see by the fresh, irregular tracks that cut up the road
where she had galloped for help.  For a mile or
more they went, then she paused at a pair of bars,
which were let down to allow the carts to pass into the
wide hay-fields beyond.  On she went again, cantering
across the new-mown turf toward a brook, across
which she had evidently taken a leap before; for, on
the further side, at a place where cattle went to drink,
the mud showed signs of a fall.

"You were a fool to try there; but where is Miss
Celia?" said Ben, who talked to animals as if they
were people, and was understood much better than
any one not used to their companionship would imagine.

Now Lita seemed at a loss, and put her head down,
as if she expected to find her mistress where she had
left her, somewhere on the ground.  Ben called, but
there was no answer; and he rode slowly along the
brook-side, looking far and wide with anxious
eyes.

"May be she wasn't hurt, and has gone to that
house to wait," thought the boy, pausing for a last
survey of the great, sunny field, which had no place
of shelter in it but one rock on the other side of the
little stream.  As his eye wandered over it, something
dark seemed to blow out from behind it, as if the
wind played in the folds of a shirt, or a human limb
moved.  Away went Lita, and in a moment Ben had
found Miss Celia, lying in the shadow of the rock,
so white and motionless, he feared that she was dead.
He leaped down, touched her, spoke to her; and,
receiving no answer, rushed away to bring a little
water in his leaky hat to sprinkle in her face, as he
had seen them do when any of the riders got a fall
in the circus, or fainted from exhaustion after they
left the ring, where "do or die" was the motto all
adopted.

In a minute, the blue eyes opened, and she recognized
the anxious face bending over her, saying
faintly, as she touched it, --

"My good little Ben, I knew you'd find me, -- I
sent Lita for you, -- I'm so hurt, I couldn't come."

"Oh,where?  What shall I do?  Had I better run
up to the house?" asked Ben, overjoyed to hear
her speak, but much dismayed by her seeming
helplessness, for he had seen bad falls, and had them,
too.

"I feel bruised all over, and my arm is broken, I'm
afraid.  Lita tried not to hurt me.  She slipped, and
we went down.  I came here into the shade, and the
pain made me faint, I suppose.  Call somebody, and
get me home."

Then she shut her eyes, and looked so white
that Ben hurried away, and burst upon old Mrs.
Paine, placidly knitting at the end door, so suddenly
that, as she afterward said, "It sca't her like a clap o'
thunder."

"Ain't a man nowheres around.  All down in the
big medder gettin' in hay," was her reply to Ben's
breathless demand for "everybody to come and see
to Miss Celia."

He turned to mount, for he had flung himself off
before Lita stopped, but the old lady caught his jacket,
and asked half a dozen questions in a breath.

"Who's your folks?  What's broke? How'd she
fall?  Where is she?  Why didn't she come right
here?  Is it a sunstroke?"

As fast as words could tumble out of his mouth,
Ben answered, and then tried to free himself; but the
old lady held on, while she gave her directions,
expressed her sympathy, and offered her hospitality
with incoherent warmth.

"Sakes alive! poor dear! Fetch her right in.
Liddy, get out the camphire; and, Melissy, you haul
down a bed to lay her on.  Falls is dretful uncert'in
things; shouldn't wonder if her back was broke.
Father's down yender, and he and Bijah will see
to her.  You go call 'em, and I'll blow the horn to
start 'em up.  Tell her we'd be pleased to see her,
and it won't make a mite of trouble."

Ben heard no more, fur as Mrs. Paine turned to take
down the tin horn he was up and away.

Several long and dismal toots sent Lita galloping
through the grassy path as the sound of the trumpet
excites a war-horse, and "father and Bijah," alarmed
by the signal at that hour, leaned on their rakes to
survey with wonder the distracted-looking little horseman
approaching like a whirlwind.

"Guess likely grandpa's had 'nother stroke.  Told
'em to send over soon 's ever it come," said the
farmer, calmly.

"Shouldn't wonder ef suthing was afire some'r's,"
conjectured the hired man, surveying the horizon for
a cloud of smoke.

Instead of advancing to meet the messenger, both
stood like statues in blue overalls and red flannel shirts,
till the boy arrived and told his tale.

"Sho, that's bad," said the farmer, anxiously.

"That brook always was the darndest place," added
Bijah; then both men bestirred themselves helpfully,
the former hurrying to Miss Cella while the latter
brought up the cart and made a bed of hay to lay
her on.

"Now then, boy, you go for the doctor.  Myw omen
folks will see to the lady, and she'd better keep quiet
up yender till we see what the matter is," said the
farmer, when the pale girl was lifted in as carefully as
four strong arms could do it.  "Hold on," he added,
as Ben made one leap to Lita's back.  You'll have
to go to Berryville.  Dr. Mills is a master hand for
broken bones and old Dr. Babcock ain't.  'Tisn't but
about three miles from here to his house, and you'll
fetch him 'fore there's any harm done waitin'."

"Don't kill Lita," called Miss Celia from the cart, as
it began to move.

But Ben did not hear her, for he was off across the
fields, riding as if life and death depended upon his
speed.

"That boy will break his neck," said Mr. Paine,
standing still to watch horse and rider go over the
wall as if bent on instant destruction.

"No fear for Ben, he can ride any thing, and Lita
was trained to leap," answered Miss Celia, falling back
on the hay with a groan, for she had involuntarily
raised her head to see her little squire dash away in
gallant style.

"I should hope so; regular jockey, that boy.
Never see any thing like it out of a race-ground,"
and Farmer Paine strode on, still following with his
eye the figures that went thundering over the bridge,
up the hill, out of sight, leaving a cloud of cloud
of dust behind.

Now that his mistress was safe, Ben enjoyed that
wild ride mightily, and so did the bay mare; for Lita
had good blood in her, and proved it that day by
doing her three miles in a wonderfully short time.
People jogging along in wagons and country carry-alls
stared amazed as the reckless pair went by.  Women,
placidly doing their afternoon sewing at the front windows,
dropped their needles to run out with exclamations
of alarm, sure some one was being run away with;
children playing by the roadside scattered like
chickens before a hawk, as Ben passed with a warning
whoop, and baby-carriages were scrambled into
door-yards with perilous rapidity at his approach.

But when he clattered into town, intense interest
was felt in this barefooted boy on the foaming steed,
and a dozen voices asked, "Who's killed?" as he
pulled up at the doctor's gate.

"Jest drove off that way; Mrs. Flynn's baby's in a
fit," cried a stout lady from the piazza, never ceasing
to rock, though several passers-by paused to hear the
news, for she was a doctor's wife, and used to the
anival of excited messengers from all quarters at all
hours of the day and night.

Deigning no reply to any one, Ben rode away, wishing
he could leap a yawning gulf, scale a precipice, or
ford a raging torrent, to prove his devotion to Miss
Celia, and his skill in horsemanship.  But no dangers
beset his path, and he found the doctor pausing to
water his tired horse at the very trough where Bab
and Sancho had been discovered on that ever-memorable
day. The story was quickly told, and, promising
to be there as soon as possible, Dr. Mills drove on to
relieve baby Flynn's inner man, a little disturbed by a
bit of soap and several buttons, upon which he had
privately lunched while his mamma was busy at the
wash-tub.

Ben thanked his stars, as he had already done more
than once, that he knew how to take care of a horse;
for he delayed by the watering-place long enough to
wash out Lita's mouth with a handful of wet grass,
to let her have one swallow to clear her dusty throat,
and then went slowly back over the breezy hills, patting
and praising the good creature for her intelligence
and speed.  She knew well enough that she had been
a clever little mare, and tossed her head, arched her
glossy neck, and ambled daintily along, as conscious
and coquettish as a pretty woman, looking round at
her admiring rider to return his compliments by glance
of affection, and caressing sniffs of a velvet nose at his
bare feet.

Miss Celia had been laid comfortably in bed by the
farmer's wife and daughter; and, when the doctor
arrived, bore the setting of her arm bravely. No
other serious damage appeared, and bruises soon
heal, so Ben was sent home to comfort Thorny with
a good report, and ask the Squire to drive up in his
big carry-all for her the next day, if she was able to
be moved.

Mrs. Moss had been wise enough to say nothing,
but quietly made what preparations she could, and
waited for tidings. Bab and Betty were away berrying,
so no one had alarmed Thorny, and he had his
afternoon nap in peace, -- an unusually long one,
owing to the stillness which prevailed in the absence
of the children; and when he awoke he lay reading
for a while before he began to wonder where every
one was. Lounging out to see, he found Ben and
Lita reposing side by side on the fresh straw in the
loose box, which had been made for her in the coach-
house. By the pails, sponges and curry-combs lying
about, it was evident that she had been refreshed by
a careful washing and rubbing down, and my lady
was now luxuriously resting after her labors, with
her devoted groom half asleep close by.

"Well, of all queer boys you are the queerest, to
spend this hot afternoon fussing over Lita, just for
the fun of it!" cried Thorny, looking in at them with
much amusement.

"If you knew what we'd been doing, you'd think I
ought to fuss over her, and both of us had a right to
rest! " answered Ben, rousing up as bright as a button;
for he longed to tell his thrilling tale, and had
with difficulty been restrained from bursting in on
Thorny as soon as he arrived.

He made short work of the story, but was quite
satisfied with the sensation it produced; for his
listener was startled, relieved, excited and charmed,
in such rapid succession, that he was obliged to sit
upon the meal-chest and get his breath before he
Could exclaim, with an emphatic demonstration of
his heels against the bin,--

"Ben Brown, I'll never forget what you've done
for Celia this day, or say 'bow-legs' again as long as
I live

"George! I felt as if I had six legs when we
were going the pace. We were all one piece, and
had a jolly spin, didn't we, my beauty?" and Ben
chuckled as he took Lita's head in his lap, while
she answered with a gusty sigh that nearly blew him
away.

Like the fellow that brought the good news from
Ghent to Aix," said Thorny, surveying the recumbent
pair with great admiration.

"What follow?" asked Ben, wondering if he didn't
mean Sheridan, of whose ride he had heard.

"Don't you know that piece? I spoke it at school.
Give it to you now; see if it isn't a rouser."

And, glad to find a vent from his excitement, Thorny
mounted the meal-chest, to thunder out that stirring
ballad with such spirit that Lita pricked up her ears
and Ben gave a shrill "Hooray!" as the last verse
ended.

"And all I remember is friends flocking round,
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent."

CHAPTER XVI: DETECTIVE THORNTON

A few days later, Miss Celia was able to go
about with her arm in a sling, pale still, and
rather stiff, but so much better than any one
expected, that all agreed Mr. Paine was right in
pronouncing Dr. Mills "a master hand with broken
bones." Two devoted little maids waited on her,
two eager pages stood ready to run her errands, and
friendly neighbors sent in delicacies enough to keep
these four young persons busily employed in disposing
of them.

Every afternoon the great bamboo lounging chair
was brought out and the interesting invalid conducted
to it by stout Randa, who was head nurse, and
followed by a train of shawl, cushion, foot-stool and
book bearers, who buzzed about like swarming bees
round a new queen.  When all were settled, the little
maids sewed and the pages read aloud, with much
conversation by the way; for one of the rules was,
that all should listen attentively, and if any one did
not understand what was read, he or she should ask
to have it explained on the spot.  Whoever could
answer was invited to do so, and at the end of the
reading Miss Celia could ask any she liked, or add
any explanations which seemed necessary. In this
way much pleasure and profit was extracted from the
tales Ben and Thorny read, and much unexpected
knowledge as well as ignorance displayed, not to
mention piles of neatly hemmed towels for which Bab
and Betty were paid like regular sewing-women.

So vacation was not all play, and the girls found
their picnics, berry parties, and "goin' a visitin'," all
the more agreeable for the quiet hour spent with Miss
Celia. Thorny had improved wonderfully, and was
getting to be quite energetic, especially since his
sister's accident; for while she was laid up he was
the head of the house, and much enjoyed his promotion.
But Ben did not seem to flourish as he had
done at first.  The loss of Sancho preyed upon him
sadly, and the longing to go and find his dog grew
into such a strong temptation that he could hardly
resist it. He said little about it; but now, and then a
word escaped him which might have enlightened any
one who chanced to be watching him. No one was,
just then, so he brooded over this fancy, day by day,
in silence and solitude, for there was no riding and
driving now. Thorny was busy with his sister trying
to show her that he remembered how good she had
been to him when he was ill, and the little girls had
their own affairs.

Miss Celia was the first to observe the change,
having nothing to do but lie on the sofa and amuse
herself by seeing others work or play. Ben was
bright enough at the readings, because theyn he forgot
his troubles; but when they were over and his various
duties done, he went to his own room or sought
consolation with Lita, being sober and quiet, and
quite unlike the merr monkey all knew and liked so
well.

"Thorny, what is the matter with Ben?" asked Miss
Celia, one day, when she and her brother were alone
in the "green parlor," as they called the lilac-tree
walk.

"Fretting about Sanch, I suppose.  I declare I
wish that dog had never been born!  Losing him has
just spoilt Ben.  Not a bit of fun left in him, and he
won't have any thing I offer to cheer him up."

Thorny spoke impatiently, and knit his brows over
the pressed flowers he was neatly gumming into his
herbal.

"I wonder if he has any thing on his mind? He
acts as if he was hiding a trouble he didn't dare
to tell.  Have you talked with him about it?" asked
Miss Celia, looking as if she was hiding a trouble she
did not like to tell.

"Oh, yes, I poke him up now and then, but he gets
peppery, so I let him alone.  May be he is longing
for his old circus again. Shouldn't blame him much
if he was; it isn't very lively here, and he's used to
excitement, you know."

"I hope it isn't that.  Do you think he would slip
away without telling us, and go back to the old life
again?
"Don't believe he would.  Ben isn't a bit of a
sneak; that's why I like him."

"Have you ever found him sly or untrue in any
way?" asked Miss Celia, lowering her voice.

"No; he's as fair and square a fellow as I ever saw.
Little bit low, now and then, but he doesn't mean it,
and wants to be a gentleman, only he never lived
with one before, and it's all new to him.  I'll get
him polished up after a while."

"Oh, Thorny, there are three peacocks on the place,
and you are the finest! " laughed Miss Celia, as her
brother spoke in his most condescending way with
a lift of the eyebrows very droll to see.

"And two donkeys, and Ben's the biggest, not to
know when he is well off and happy!" retorted the
"gentleman," slapping a dried specimen on the page
as if he were pounding discontented Ben.

"Come here and let me tell you something which
worries me. I would not breathe it to another soul,
but I feel rather helpless, and I dare say you can
manage the matter better than I."

Looking much mystified, Thorny went and sat on
the stool at his sister's feet, while she whispered
confidentially in his ear: " I've lost some money out
of my drawer, and I'm so afraid Ben took it."

"But it's always locked up and you keep the keys
of the drawer and the little room?"

"It is gone, nevertheless, and I've had my keys
safe all the time."

"But why think it is he any more than Randa, or
Katy, or me?"

"Because I trust you three as I do myself. I've
known the girls for years, and you have no object in
taking it since all I have is yours, dear."

"And all mine is yours, of course. But, Celia, how
could he do it?  He can't pick locks, I know, for we
fussed over my desk together, and had to break it
after all."

"I never really thought it possible till to-day when
you were playing ball and it went in at the upper
window, and Ben climbed up the porch after it;
you remember you said, 'If it had gone in at the
garret gable you couldn't have done that so well; '
and he answered, 'Yes, I could, there isn't a spout
I can't shin up, or a bit of this roof I haven't been
over.'"

"So he did ; but there is no spout near the little
room window."

"There is a tree, and such an agile boy as Ben
could swing in and out easily.  Now, Thorny, I hate
to think this of him, but it has happened twice, and
for his own sake I must stop it.  If he is planning to
run away, money is a good thing to have.  And he
may feel that it is his own; for you know he asked
me to put his wages in the bank, and I did.  He may
not like to come to me for that, because he can give
no good reason for wanting it. I'm so troubled I
really don't know what to do."

She looked troubled, and Thorny put his arms
about her as if to keep all worries but his own away
from her.

"Don't you fret, Cely, dear; you leave it to me.
I'll fix him - ungrateful little scamp!"

"That is not the way to begin.  I am afraid you
will make him angry and hurt his feelings, and then
we can do nothing."

"Bother his feelings! I shall just say, calmly and
coolly: 'Now, look here, Ben, hand over the money
you took out of my sister's drawer, and we'll let you
off easy,' or something like that."

"It wouldn't do, Thorny; his temper would be up
in a minute, and away he would go before we could
find out whether he was guilty or not.  I wish I knew
how to manage."

Let me think," and Thorny leaned his chin on the
arm of the chair, staring hard at the knocker as
if he expected the lion's mouth to open with words
of counsel then and there.

"By Jove, I do believe Ben took it!" he broke
out suddenly; "for when I went to his room this
morning to see why he didn't come and do my
boots, he shut the drawer in his bureau as quick as
a flash, and looked red and queer, for I didn't knock,
and sort of startled him."

"He wouldn't be likely to put stolen money there.
Ben is too wise for that."

"He wouldn't keep it there, but he might be
looking at it and pitch it in when I called.  He's
hardly spoken to me since, and when I asked him
what his flag was at half-mast for, he wouldn't answer.
Besides, you know in the reading this afternoon he
didn't listen, and when you asked what he
was thinking about, he colored up and muttered
something about Sanch.  I tell you, Celia, it looks
bad -- very bad," and Thorny shook his head with a
wise air.

"It does, and yet we may be all wrong. Let us
wait a little and give the poor boy a chance to clear
himself before we speak. I'd rather lose my money
than suspect him falsely."

"How much was it?"

"Eleven dollars; a one went first, and I supposed
I'd miscalculated somewhere when I took some out;
but when I missed a ten, I felt that I ought not to let
it pass."

"Look here, sister, you just put the case into
my hands and let me work it up. I won't say any
thing to Ben till you give the word; but I'll watch
him, and now that my eyes are open, it won't be easy
to deceive me."

Thorny was evidently pleased with the new play
of detective, and intended to distinguish himself in
that line; but when Miss Celia asked how he meant
to begin, he could only respond with a blank
expression: "Don't know! You give me the keys and
leave a bill or two in the drawer, and may be I can
find him out somehow."

So the keys were given, and the little dressing-
room where the old secretary stood was closely
watched for a day or two.  Ben cheered up a trifle
which looked as if he knew an eye was upon him,
but otherwise he went on as usual, and Miss Celia
feeling a little guilty at even harboring a suspicion
of him, was kind and patient with his moods.
Thorny was very funny in the unnecessary mystery
and fuss he made; his affectation of careless indifference
to Ben's movements and his clumsy attempts to
watch every one of them; his dodgings up and down
stairs, ostentatious clanking of keys, and the elaborate
traps he set to catch his thief, such as throwing his
ball in at the dressing-room window and sending Ben
up the tree to get it, which he did, thereby proving
beyond a doubt that he alone could have taken
the money, Thorny thought.  Another deep discovery
was, that the old drawer was so shrunken that the
lock could be pressed down by slipping a knife-blade
between the hasp and socket.

"Now it is as clear as day, and you'd better let
me speak," he said, full of pride as well as regret at
this triumphant success of his first attempt as a
detective.

"Not yet, and you need do nothing more.  I'm
afraid it was a mistake of mine to let you do this;
and if it has spoiled your friendship with Ben, I shall
be very sorry; for I do not think he is guilty,"
answered Miss Celia.

"Why not?" and Thorny looked annoyed.

"I've watched also, and he doesn't act like a
deceitful boy.  To-day I asked him if he wanted any
money, or should I put what I owe him with the rest,
and he looked me straight in the face with such
honest, grateful eyes, I could not doubt him when he
said 'Keep it, please, I don't need any thing here,
you are all so good to me.'"

"Now, Celia, don't you be soft-hearted.  He's a
sly little dog, and knows my eye is on him. When
I asked him what he saw in the dressing-room, after
he brought out the ball, and looked sharply at him,
he laughed, and said 'Only a mouse,' as saucy as
you please."

"Do set the trap there, I heard the mouse nibbling
last night, and it kept me awake.  We must have a
cat or we shall be overrun."

"Well, shall I give Ben a good blowing up, or will
you?" asked Thorny, scorning such poor prey as
mice, and bound to prove that he was in the right.

"I'll let you know what I have decided in the
morning. Be kind to Ben, meantime, or I shall feel
as if I had done you harm by letting you watch him."

So it was left for that day, and by the next, Miss
Celia had made up her mind to speak to Ben. She
was just going down to breakfast when the sound of
loud voices made her pause and listen.  It came from
Ben's room, where the two boys seemed to be disputing
about something.

"I hope Thorny has kept his promise," she
thought, and hurried through the back entry, fearing
a general explosion.

Ben's chamber was at the end, and she could see
and hear what was going on before she was near
enough to interfere. Ben stood against his closet
door looking as fierce and red as a turkey-cock;
Thorny sternly confronted him, saying in an excited
tone, and with a threatening gesture: "You are
hiding something in there, and you can't deny it."

"I don't."

"Better not; I insist on seeing it."

"Well, you won't."

"What have you been stealing now?"

"Didn't steal it, -- used to be mine, -- I only took
it when I wanted it."

"I know what that means.  You'd better give it
back or I'll make you."

"Stop! " cried a third voice, as Thorny put out
his arm to clutch Ben, who looked ready to defend
himself to the last gasp, "Boys, I will settle this
affair.  Is there anything hidden in the closet, Ben?
and Miss Celia came between the belligerent parties
with her one hand up to part them.

Thorny fell back at once, looking half ashamed of
his heat, and Ben briefly answered, with a gulp as if
shame or anger made it hard to speak steadily:

"Yes 'm, there is."

"Does it belong to you?"

"Yes 'm, it does."

"Where did you get it?"

"Up to Squire's."

"That's a lie!" muttered Thorny to himself.

Ben's eye flashed, and his fist doubled up in spite
of him, but he restrained himself out of respect for
Miss Celia, who looked puzzled, as she asked another
question, not quite wure how to proceed with the
investigation: "Is it money, Ben?"

"No 'm, it isn't."

"Then what can it be?"

"Meow!" answered a fourth voice from the closet;
and as Ben flung open the door a gray kitten walked
out, purring with satisfaction at her release.

Miss Celia fell into a chair and laughed till her eyes
were full; Thorny looked foolish, and Ben folded his
arms, curled up his nose, and regarded his accuser
with calm defiance, while pussy sat down to wash her
face as if her morning toilette had been interrupted
by her sudden abduction.

"That's all very well, but it doesn't mend matters
much, so you needn't laugh, Celia," began Thorny,
recovering hiniself, and stubbornly bent on sifting the
case to the bottom, now he had begun.

"Well, it would, if you'd let a feller alone.  She said
she wanted a cat, so I went and got the one they gave
me when I was at the Squire's. I went early and took
her without asking, and I had a right to," explained
Ben, much aggrieved by having his surprise spoiled.

"It was very kind of you, and I'm glad to have
this nice kitty. We will shut her up in my room to
catch the mice that plague me," said Miss Celia,
picking up the little cat, and woindering how she would
get her two angry boys safely down stairs.

"The dressing-room, she means; you know the
way, and you don't need keys to get in," added
Thorny, with such sarcastic emphasis that Ben felt
some insult was intended, and promptly resented it.

" You won't get me to climb any more trees after
your balls, and my cat won't catch any of your mice,
so you needn't ask me."

"Cats don't catch thieves, and they are what I'm
after!"

"What do you mean by that?" fiercely demanded
Ben.

"Celia has lost some money out of her drawer, and
you won't let me see what's in yours; So I thought,
perhaps, you'd got it!" blurted out Thorny, finding
it hard to say the words, angry as he was, for the
face opposite did not look like a guilty one.

For a minute, Ben did not seem to understand him,
plainly as he spoke; then he turned an angry scarlet,
and, with a reproachful glance at his mistress, opened
the little drawer so that both could see all that it
contained.

"They ain't any thing; but I'm fond of 'em
they are all I've got -- I was afraid he'd laugh at me
that time, so I wouldn't let him look -- it was father's
birthday, and I felt bad about him and Sanch -- "
Ben's indignant voice got more and more indistinct
as he stumbled on, and broke down over the last
words. He did not cry, however. but threw back his
little treasures as if half their sacredness was gone;
and, making a strong effort at self-control, faced
around, asking of Miss Celia, with a grieved look,

"Did you think I'd steal anything of yours?"

"I tried not to, Ben, but what could I do? It was
gone, and you the only stranger about the place."

"Wasn't there any one to think bad of but me?
he said, so sorrowfully that Miss Celia made up her
mind on the spot that he was as innocent of the theft
as the kitten now biting her buttons, no other refreshment
being offered.

"Nobody, for I know my girls well.  Yet, eleven
dollars are gone, and I cannot imagine where or how
for both drawer and door are always locked, because
my papers and valuables are in that room."

"What a lot! But how could I get it if it was
locked up?" and Ben looked as if that question was
unanswerable.

"Folks that can climb in at windows for a ball, can
go the same way for money, and get it easy enough
when they've only to pry open an old lock!"

Thorny's look and tone seemed to make plain to
Ben all that they had been suspecting, and, being
innocent, he was too perplexed and unhappy to
defend himself. His eye went from one to the other,
and, seeing doubt in both faces, his boyish heart sunk
within him; for he could prove nothing, and his first
impulse was to go away at once.

"I can't say any thing, only that I didn't take the
money.  You won't believe it, so I'd better go back
where I come from. They weren't so kind, but they
trusted me, and knew I wouldn't steal a cent.  You
may keep my money, and the kitty, too; I don't
want 'em," and, snatching up his hat, Ben would
gone straight away, if Thorny had not barred his
passage.

"Come, now, don't be mad.  Let's talk it over,
and if I 'm wrong I'll take it all back and ask your
pardon," he said, in a friendly tone, rather scared at
the consequences of his first attempt, though as sure
as ever that he was right.

"It would break my heart to have you go in that
way, Ben.  Stay at least till your innocence is proved,
then no one can doubt what you say now."

"Don't see how it can be proved," answered Ben,
appeased by her evident desire to trust him.

"We'll try as well as we know how, and the first
thing we will do is to give that old secretary a good
rummage from top to bottom. I've done it once,
but it is just possible that the bills may have slipped
out of sight.  Come, now, I can't rest till I've done
all I can to comfort you and convince Thorny."
Miss Celia rose as she spoke, and led the way to the
dressing-room, which had no outlet except through
her chamber.  Still holding his hat, Ben followed with
a troubled face, and Thorny brought up the rear, doggedly
determined to keep his eye on "the little
scamp" till the matter was satisfactorily cleared up.
Miss Celia had made her proposal more to soothe the
feelings of one boy and to employ the superfluous
energies of the other, than in the expectation of
throwing any light upon the mystery; for she was
sadly puzzled by Ben's manner, and much regretted
that she had let her brother meddle in the matter.

"There," she said, unlocking the door with the key
Thorny reluctantly gave up to her, "this is the room
and that is the drawer on the right.  The lower ones
have seldom been opened since we came, and hold
only some of papa's old books.  Those upper ones
you may turn out and investigate as much as you--
Bless me! here 's something in your trap, Thorny
and Miss Celia gave a little skip as she nearly trod
on a long, gray tall, which hung out of the bole now
filled by a plump mouse.

But her brother was intent on more serious things,
and merely pushed the trap aside as he pulled out the
drawer with an excited gesture, which sent it and all
its contents clattering to the floor.

"Confound the old thing! It always stuck so I
had to give a jerk.  Now, there it is, topsy-turvy,"
and Thorny looked Much disgusted at his own
awkwardness.

"No harm done; I left nothing of value in it.
Look back there, Ben, and see if there is room for a
paper to get worked over the top of the drawer. I
felt quite a crack, but I don't believe it is possible f6r
things to slip out; the place was never full enough to
overflow in any way."

Miss Celia spoke to Ben, who was kneeling down
to pick up the scattered papers, among which were
two marked dollar bills, -- Thorny's bait for the thief.
Ben looked into the dusty recess, and then put in his
hand, saying carelessly, -

"There's nothing but a bit of red stuff."

"My old pen-wiper -- Why, what's the matter?"
asked Miss Celia, as Ben dropped the handful Of what
looked like rubbish.

Something warm and wiggly inside of it," answered Ben,
stooping to examine the contents of
the little scarlet bundle. "Baby mice ! Ain't they
funny? Look just like mites of young pigs. We'll
have to kill 'em if you've caught their mamma," he
said, forgetting his own trials in boyish curiosity about
his "find,"

Miss Celia stooped also, and gently poked the red
cradle with her finger; for the tiny mice were
nestling deeper into the fluff with small squeals of alarm.
Suddenly she cried out: "Boys, boys, I've found the
thief! Look here; pull out these bits and see if
they won't make up my lost bills."

Down went the motherless babies as four ruthless
hands pulled apart their cosey nest, and there,
among the nibbled fragments, appeared enough
finely printed, greenish paper, to piece out parts of
two bank bills.  A large cypher and part of a figure
one were visible, and that accounted for the ten; but
though there were other bits, no figures could be
found, and they were willing to take the other bill
on trust.

"Now, then, am I a thief and a liar? " demanded
Ben, pointing proudly to the tell-tale letters spread
forth on the table, over which all three had been
eagerly bending.

"No; I beg your pardon, and I'm very sorry that
we didn't look more caiefully before we spoke, then
we all should have been spared this pain."

"All right, old fellow, forgive and forget.  I'll never
think hard of you again, -- on my honor I won't."

As they spoke, Miss Celia and her brother held out
their hands frankly and heartily. Ben shook both,
but with a difference; for he pressed the soft one
gratefully, remembering that its owner had always
been good to him; but the brown paw he gripped
with a vengeful squeeze that made Thorny pull it
away in a hurry, exclaiming, good-naturedly, in spite
of both physical and mental discomfort, --

"Come, Ben, don't you bear malice; for you've
got the laugh on your side, and we feel pretty small.
I do, any way; for, after my fidgets, all I've caught
is a mouse!"

"And her family.  I'm so relieved I'm almost
sorry the poor little mother is dead -- she and her
babies were so happy in the old pen-wiper," said Miss
Celia, hastening to speak merrily, for Ben still looked
indignant, and she was much grieved at what had
happened.

"A pretty expensive house," began Thorny, looking
about for the interesting orphans, who had been
left on the floor while their paper-hangings were
examined.

No further anxiety need be felt for them, however;
Kitty had come upon the scene, and as judge, jury,
and prisoner, turned to find the little witnesses, they
beheld the last pink mite going down Pussy's throat
in one mouthful.

"I call that summary justice, -- the whole family
executed on the spot! Give Kit the mouse also, and
let us go to breakfast. I feel as if I had found my
appetite, now this worry is off my mind," said Miss
Celia, laughing so infectiously that Ben had to join
in spite of himself, as she took his arm and led him
away with a look which mutely asked his pardon over again.

"Rather lively for a funeral procession," said
Thorny, following with the trap in his hand and Puss
at his heels, adding, to comfort his pride as a detective:

"Well, I said I'd catch the thief, and I have,
though it is rather a small one!"

CHAPTER XVII: BETTY'S BRAVERY

Celia, I've a notion that we ought to give
Ben something.  A sort of peace-offering,
you know; for he feels dreadfully hurt about
our suspecting him," said Thorny, at dinner that day.

"I see he does, though he tries to seem as bright
and pleasant as ever. I do not wonder, and I've been
thinking what I could do to soothe his feelings.  Can
you suggest any thing? "

"Cuff-buttons.  I saw some jolly ones over at Berryville,
oxidized silver, with dogs' heads on them,
yellow eyes, and all as natural as could be.  Those,
now, would just suit him for his go-to-meeting white
shirts, -- neat, appropriate, and in memoriam."

Miss Celia could not help laughing, it was such a
boyish suggestion; but she agreed to it, thinking
Thorny knew best, and hoping the yellow-eyed dogs
would be as balm to Ben's wounds.

"Well, dear, you may give those, and Lita shall
give the little whip with a horse's foot for a handle, if
it is not gone. I saw it at the harness shop in town;
and Ben admired it so much that I planned to give it
to him on his birthday."

"That will tickle him immensely; and if you'd
just let him put brown tops to my old boots, and stick
a cockade in his hat when he sits up behind the phae-
ton, he'd be a happy fellow," laughed Thorny, who
had discovered that one of Ben's ambitions was to be
a tip-top groom."

"No, thank you; those things are out of place in
America, and would be absurd in a small country
place like this. His blue suit and straw hat please
me better for a boy; though a nicer little groom, in
livery or out, no one could desire, and you may tell
him I said so."

"I will, and he'll look as proud as punch; for he
thinks every word you say worth a dozen from any one
else. But won't you give him something? Just some
little trifle, to show that we are both eating humble
pie, feeling sorry about the mouse money."

"I shall give him a set of school-books, and try to
get him ready to begin when vacation is over.   An
education is the best present we can make him; and
I want you to help me fit him to enter as well is he
can. Bab and Betty began, little dears, -- lent him
their books and taught all they knew; so Ben got a
taste, and, with the right encouragement, would like
to go on, I am sure."

"That's so like you Celia!  Always thinking of
the best thing and doing it handsomely. I'll help
like a house a-fire, if he will let me; but, all day, he's
been as stiff as a poker, so I don't believe he forgives
me a bit."

"He will in time, and if you are kind and patient,
he will be glad to have you help him.  I shall make
it a sort of favor to me on his part, to let you see to
his lessons, now and then.  It will be quite true, for
I don't want you to touch your Latin or algebra till
cool weather; teaching him will be play to you."

Miss Celia's last words made her brother unbend
his brows, for he longed to get at his books again,
and the idea of being tutor to his "man-servant" did
not altogether suit him.

"I'll tool him along at a great pace, if he will only
go. Geography and arithmetic shall be my share,
and you may have the writing and spelling; it gives
me the fidgets to set copies', and hear children make
a mess of words.  Shall I get the books when I buy
the other things? Can I go this afternoon?"

"Yes, here is the list; Bab gave it to me.  You can
go if you will come home early and have your tooth
filled."

Gloom fell at once upon Thorny's beaming face, and
he gave such a shrill whistle that his sister jumped in
her chair, as she added, persuasively, --

"It won't hurt a bit, now, and the longer you
leave it the worse it will be.  Dr. Mann is ready at
any time; and, once over, you will be at peace for
months.  Come, my hero, give your orders, and take
one of the girls to support you in the trying hour.
Have Bab; she will enjoy it, and amuse you with
her chatter."

"As if I needed girls round for such a trifle as
that!" returned Thorny with a shrug, though he
groaned inwardly at the prospect before him, as most
of us do on such occasions.  "I wouldn't take Bab
at any price; she'd only get into some scrape, and
upset the whole plan.  Betty is the chicken for me, --
a real little lady, and as nice and purry as a kitten."

"Very well; ask her mother, and take good care
of her.  Let her tuck her dolly in, and she will be
contented anywhere. There's a fine air, and the
awning is on the phaeton, so you won't feel the sun.
Start about three, and drive carefully."

Betty was charmed to go, for Thorny was a sort of
prince in her eyes; and to be invited to such a grand
expedition was an overwhelming honor.  Bab was not
surprised, for, since Sancho's loss, she had felt herself
in disgrace, and been unusually meek; Ben let her
"severely alone," which much afflicted her, for he was
her great admiration, and had been pleased to express
his approbation of her agility and courage so often,
that she was ready to attempt any fool-hardy feat to
recover his regard. But vainly did she risk her neck
jumping off the highest beams in the barn, trying to
keep her balance standing on the donkey's back, and
leaping the lodge gate at a bound; Ben vouchsafed
no reward by a look, a smile, a word of commendation;
and Bab felt that nothing but Sancho's return
would ever restore the broken friendship.

Into faithful Betty's bosom did she pour forth her
remorseful lamentations, often bursting out with the
passionate exclamation, "If I could only find Sanch,
and give him back to Ben, I wouldn't care if I
tumbled down and broke all my legs right away!"
Such abandonment of woe made a deep impression
on Betty; and she fell into the way of consoling her
sister by cheerful prophecies, and a firm belief that
the organ-man would yet appear with the lost darling.

"I've got five cents of my berry money, and I'll
buy you an orange if I see any," promised Betty
stepping to kiss Bab, as the phaeton came to the
door, and Thorny handed in a young lady whose
white frock was so stiff with starch that it crackled
like paper.

"Lemons will do if oranges are gone.  I like 'em
to suck with lots of sugar," answered Bab, feeling
that the sour sadly predominated in her cup just
now.

"Don't she look sweet, the dear!" murmured Mrs.
Moss, proudly surveying her youngest.

She certainly did, sitting under the fringed canopy
with "Belinda," all in her best, upon her lap, as she
turned to smile and nod, with a face so bright and
winsome under the little blue hat, that it was no wonder
mother and sister thought there never was such a
perfect child as "our Betty."

Dr. Mann was busy when they arrived, but would
be ready in an hour; so they did their shopping at
once, having made sure of the whip as they came
along.  Thorny added some candy to Bab's lemon,
and Belinda had a cake, which her mamma obligingly
ate for her.  Betty thought that Aladdin's palace
could not have been more splendid than the jeweller's
shop where the canine cuff-buttons were bought;
but when they came to the book-store, she forgot
gold, silver, and precious stones, to revel in picture-
books, while Thorny selected Ben's modest school
outfit. Seeing her delight, and feeling particularly
lavish with plenty of money in his pocket, the young
gentleman completed the child's bliss by telling her
to choose whichever one she liked best out of the
pile of Walter Crane's toy-books lying in bewildering
colors before her.

"This one; Bab always wanted to see the dreadful
cupboard, and there's a picture of it here," answered
Betty, clasping a gorgeous copy of "Bluebeard" to
the little bosom, which still heaved with the rapture
of looking at that delicious mixture of lovely Fatimas
in pale azure gowns, pink Sister Annes on the turret
top, crimson tyrants, and yellow brothers with forests
of plumage blowing wildly from their mushroom-shaped caps.

Very good; there you are, then.  Now, come
on, for the fun is over and the grind begins," said
Thorny, marching away to his doom, with his tongue
in his tooth, and trepidation in his manly breast.

"Shall I shut my eyes and hold your head?"
quavered devoted Betty, as they went up the stairs
so many reluctant feet had mounted before them.

"Nonsense, child, never mind me!  You look out
of window and amuse yourself; we shall not be long,
I guess;" and in went Thorn silently hoping that
the dentist had been suddenly called away, or some
person with an excruciating toothache would be waiting
to take ether, and so give our young man an
excuse for postponing his job.

But no; Dr. Mann was quite at leisure, and, full of
smiling interest, awaited his victim, laying forth his
unpleasant little tools with the exasperating alacrity
of his kind.  Glad to be released from any share in
the operation, Betty retired to the back window to
be as far away as possible, and for half in hour was
so absorbed in her book that poor Thorny might
have groaned dismally without disturbing her.

"Done now, directly, only a trifle of  polishing off
and a look round," said Dr. Mann, at lat; and
Thorny, with a yawn that nearly rent him asunder,
called out, --

"Thank goodness! Pack up, Bettykin."

"I'm all ready!" and, shutting her book with a
start, she slipped down from the easy chair in a great
hurry.

But "looking round" took time; and, before the
circuit of Thorny's mouth was satisfactorily made,
Betty had become absorbed by a more interesting
tale than even the immortal "Bluebeard." A noise
of children's voices in the narrow alley-way behind
the house attracted her attention; the long window
opened directly on the yard, and the gate swung in
the wind.  Curious as Fatima, Betty went to look;
but all she saw was a group of excited boys peeping
between the bars of another gate further down.

"What's the matter?" she asked of two small
girls, who stood close by her, longing but not daring
to approach the scene of action.

"Boys chasing a great black cat, I believe,"
answered one child.

"Want to come and see?" added the other,
politely extending the invitation to the stranger.

The thought of a cat in trouble would have nerved
Betty to face a dozen boys; so she followed at once,
meeting several lads hurrying away on some important
errand, to judge from their anxious countenances.

"Hold tight, Jimmy, and let 'em peek, if they want
to. He can't hurt anybody now," said one of the
dusty huntsmen, who sat on the wide coping of the
wall, while two others held the gate, as if a cat could
only escape that way.

"You peek first, Susy, and see if it looks nice,"
said one little girl, boosting her friend so that she
could look through the bars in the upper part of the
gate.

"No; it 's only an ugly old dog!" responded
Susy, losing all interest at once, and descending with
a bounce.

"He's mad! and Jud's gone to get his gun, so we
can shoot him!" called out one mischievous boy,
resenting the contempt expressed for their capture.

"Ain't, neither!" howled another lad from his
perch.  "Mad dogs won't drink; and this one is
lapping out of a tub of water."

"Well, he may be, and we don't know him, and he
hasn't got any muzzle on, and the police will kill him if
Jud don't," answered the sanguinary youth who had
first started the chase after the poor animal, which
had come limping into town, so evidently a lost
dog that no one felt any hesitation in stoning him.

"We must go right home; my mother is dreadful
'fraid of mad dogs, and so is yours," said Susy;
and, having satisfted their curiosity, the young ladies
prudently retired.

But Betty had not had her "peep," and could not
resist one look; for she had heard of these unhappy
animals, and thought Bab would like to know how
they looked.  So she stood on tip-toe and got a good
view of a dusty, brownish dog, lying on the grass
close by, with his tongue hanging out while he
panted, as if exhausted by fatigue and fear, for he
still cast apprehensive glances at the wall which
divided him from his tormentors.

His eyes are just like Sanch's," said Betty to
herself, unconscious that she spoke aloud, till she saw
the creature prick up his cars and half rise, as if he
had been called.

"He looks as if he knew me, but it isn't our
Sancho; he was a lovely dog." Betty said that to
the little boy peeping in beside her; but before he
could make any reply, the brown beast stood straight
up with an inquiring bark, while his eyes shone like
topaz, and the short tail wagged excitedly.

"Why, that's just the way Sanch used to do!"
cried Betty, bewildered by the familiar ways of this
unfamiliar-looking dog.

As if the repetition of his name settled his own
doubts, he leaped toward the gate and thrust a pink
nose between the bars, with a howl of recognition as
Betty's face was more clearly seen.  The boys tumbled
precipitately from their perches, and the little
girl fell back alarmed, yet could not bear to run
away and leave those imploring eyes pleading to her
through the bars so eloquently.

"He acts just like our dog, but I don't see how it
can be him.  Sancho, Sancho, is it really you?" called
Betty, at her wits' end what to do.

"Bow, wow, wow!" answered the well-known bark,
and the little tail did all it could to emphasize the
sound, while the eyes were so full of dumb love and
joy, the child could not refuse to believe that this ugly
stray was their own Sancho strangely transformed.

All of a sudden, the thought rushed into her mind,
how glad Ben would be! -- and Bab would feel all
happy again. I must carry him home."

Never stopping to think of danger, and forgetting
all her doubts, Betty caught the gate handle out of
Jimmy's grasp, exclaiming eagerly: "He is our dog!
Let me go in; I ain't afraid."
"Not till Jud comes back; he told us we mustn't,"
answered the astonished Jimmy, thinking the little
girl as mad as the dog.

With a confused idea that the unknown Jud had
gone for a gun to shoot Sanch, Betty gave a desperate
pull at the latch and ran into the yard, bent on saving
her friend.  That it was a friend there could he
no further question; for, though the cleature rushed
at her as if about to devour her at a mouthful, it was
only to roll ecstatically at her feet, lick her hands, and
gaze into her face, trying to pant out the welcome
which he could not utter.  An older and more prudent
person would have waited to make sure before
venturing in; but confiding Betty knew little of the
danger which she might have run; her heart spoke
more quickly than her head, and, not stopping to have
the truth proved, she took the brown dog on trust,
and found it was indeed dear Sanch.

Sitting on the grass, she hugged him close, careless
of tumbled hat, dusty paws on her clean frock, or a
row of strange boys staring from the wall.

"Darling doggy, where have you been so long?
she cried, the great thing sprawling across her lap, as
if he could not get near enough to his brave little
protector. "Did they make you black and beat you,
dear?  Oh, Sanch, where is your tail -- your pretty
tail?"

A plaintive growl and a pathetic wag was all the
answer he could make to these tender inquiries; for
never would the story of his wrongs be known, and
never could the glory of his do-gsh beauty be restored.
Betty was trying to comfort him with pats
and praises, when a new face appeaerd; at the gate,
and Thorny's authoritative voice called out, --

"Betty Moss, what on earth are you doing in  there
with that dirty beast?"

"It's Sanch, it's Sanch! Oh, come and see!
shrieked Betty, flying up to lead forth her prize.
But the gate was held fast, for some one said the
words, "Mad dog," and Thorny was very naturally
alarmed, because he had already seen one.  "Don't
stay there another minute. Get up on that bench
and I'll pull you over," directed Thorny, mounting
the wall to rescue his charge in hot haste; for the
dog did certainly behave queerly, limping hurriedly
to and fro, as if anxious to escape.  No wonder,
when Sancho heard a voice he knew, and recognized
another face, yet did not meet as kind a welcome as
before.

"No, I'm not coming out till he does.  It is Sanch,
and I'm going to take him home to Ben," answered
Betty, decidedly, as she wet her handkerchief in the
rain water to bind up the swollen paw that had
travelled many miles to rest in her little hand again.

"You're crazy, child.  That is no more Ben's dog
than I am."

"See if it isn't!" cried Betty, perfectly unshaken
in her faith; and, recalling the words of command as
well as she could, she tried to put Sancho through his
little performance, as the surest proof that she was
right.  The poor fellow did his best, weary and foot-sore
though he was; but when it came to taking his
tail in his mouth to waltz, he gave it up, and, dropping
down, hid his face in his paws, as he always did when
any of his tricks failed.  The act was almost pathetic
now, for one of the paws was bandaged, and his
whole attitude expressed the humiliation of a broken
spirit.

That touched Thorny, and, quite convinced both
of the dog's sanity and identity, he sprung down
from the wall with Ben's own whistle, which gladdened
Sancho's longing ear as much as the boy's rough
caresses comforted his homesick heart.

"Now, let's carry him right home, and surprise
Ben.  Won't he be pleased?" said Betty, so in
earnest that she tried to lift the big brute in
spite of his protesting yelps.

"You are a little trump to find him out in spite of
all the horrid things that have been done to him. We
must have a rope to lead him, for he's got no collar
and no muzzle. He has got friends though, and I'd
like to see any one touch him now. Out of the way,
there, boy!" Looking as commanding as a drum-major,
Thorny cleared a passage, and with one arm
about his neck, Betty proudly led her treasure
magnanimously ignoring his late foes, and keeping
his eye fixed on the faithful friend whose tender little
heart had known him in spite of all disguises.

"I found him, sir," and the lad who had been most
eager for the shooting, stepped fowward to claim any
reward that might be offered for the now valuable
victim.

"I kept him safe till she came," added the jailer
Jimmy, speaking for himself.

"I said he wasn't mad", cried a third, feeling that
his discrimination deserved approval.

"Jud ain't my brother," said the fourth, eager to
clear his skirts from all ofi-ence.

"But all of you chased and stoned him, I suppose?
You'd better look out or you'll get reported to the
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals."

With this awful and mysterious threat, Thorny
slammed the doctor's gate in the faces of the mercenary
youths, nipping their hopes in the bud, and teaching
them a good lesson.

After one astonished stare, Lita accepted Sancho
without demur, and they greeted one another cordially,
nose to nose, instead of shaking hands.  Then
the dog nestled into his old place under the linen
duster with a grunt of intense content, and soon fell
fast asleep, quite worn out with fatigue.
No Roman conqueror bearing untold treasures
with him, ever approached the Eternal City feeling
richer or prouder than did Miss Betty as she rolled
rapidly toward the little brown house with the captive
won by her own arms.  Poor Belinda was forgotten in a
corner, "Bluebeard" was thrust under the
cushion, and the lovely lemon was squeezed before
its time by being sat upon; for all the child could
think of was Ben's delight, Bab's remorseful burden
lifted off, "Ma's" surprise, and Miss Celia's pleasure.
She could hardly realize the happy fact, and kept
peeping under the cover to be sure that the dear
dingy bunch at her feet was truly there.

"I'll tell you how we'll do it," said Thorny, breaking
a long silence as Betty composed herself with an
irrepressible wriggle of delight after one of these
refreshing peeps.  "We'll keep Sanch hidden, and
smuggle him into Ben's old room at your house.
Then I'll drive on to the barn, and not say a word,
but send Ben to get something out of that room.
You just let him in, to see what he'll do.  I'll bet
you a dollar he won't know his own dog."

"I don't believe I can keep from screaming right
out when I see him, but I'll try.  Oh, won't it be
fun!" -- and Betty clapped her hands in joyful
anticipation of that exciting moment.

A nice little plan, but Master Thorny forgot the
keen senses of the amiable animal snoring peacefully
among his boots; and, when they stopped at the
Lodge, he had barely time to say in a whisper,

"Ben's coming; cover Sanch and let me get him in
quick!" before the dog was out of the phaeton like
a bombshell, and the approaching boy went down as
if shot, for Sancho gave one leap, and the two rolled
over and over, with a shout and a bark of rapturous
recognition.

"Who is hurt?" asked Mrs. Moss, running out
with floury hands uplifted in alarm.

"Is it a bear?" cried Bab, rushing after her,
beater in hand, for a dancing bear was the delight of
her heart.

"Sancho's found! Sancho's found!"  shouted
Thorny, throwing up his hat like a lunatic.

"Found, found, found!" echoed Betty, dancing
wildly about as if she too had lost her little wits.

"Where? how? when? who did it?" asked Mrs.
Moss, clapping her dusty hands delightedly.

"It isn't; it's an old dirty brown thing," stammered
Bab, as the dog came uppermost for a minute, and
then rooted into Ben's jacket as if he
smelt a woodchuck, and was bound to have him out
directly.

Then Thorny, with many interruptions from Betty,
poured forth the wondrous tale, to which Bab and his
mother listened breathlessly, while the muffins burned
as black as a coal, and nobody cared a bit.

"My precious lamb, how did you dare to do such
a thing?" exclaimed Mrs. Moss, hugging the small
heroine with mingled admiration and alarm.

"I'd have dared, and slapped those horrid boys,
too. I wish I'd gone!" and Bab felt that she had
for ever lost the chance of distinguishing herself.

"Who cut his tail off?" demanded Ben, in a menacing
tone, as he came uppermost in his turn, dusty,
red and breathless, but radiant.

"The wretch who stole him,  I suppose; and he de-
serves to be hung," answered Thorny, hotly.

"If ever I catch him, I'll -- I'll cut his nose off,"
roared Ben, with such a vengeful glare that Sanch
barked fiercely; and it was well that the unknown
"wretch" was not there, for it would have gone
hardly with him, since even gentle Betty frowned,
while Bab brandished the egg-beater menacingly,
and their mother indignantly declared that "it was
too bad!"

Relieved by this general outburst, they composed
their outraged feelings; and while the returned
wanderer went from one to another to receive a tender
welcome from each, the story of his recovery was
more calmly told. Ben listened with his eye devouring
the injured dog; and when Thorny paused, he
turned to the little heroine, saying solemnly, as
he laid her hand with his own on Sancho's head,

"Betty Moss, I'll never forget what you did; from
this minute half of Sanch is your truly own, and if I
die you shall have the whole of him," and Ben sealed
the precious gift with a sounding kiss on either chubby
check.

Betty was so deeply touched by this noble bequest,
that the blue eyes filled and vwuld have overflowed
if Sanch had not politely offered his tongue like a
red pocket-handkerchlef, and so made her laugh the
drops away, while Bab set the rest off by saying
gloomily, --

"I mean to play with all the mad dogs I can find;
then folks will think I'm smart and give me nice
things."

"Poor old Bab, I'll foigive you now, and lend you
my half whenever you want it," said Ben, feeling at
peace now with all mankind, including, giris who tagged.

"Come and show him to Celia," begged Thorny,
eager to fight his battles over again.

"Better wash him up first; he's a sight to see,
poor thing," suggested Mrs. Moss, as she ran in,
suddenly remembering her muffins.

"It will take a lot of washings to get that brown
stuff off.  See, his pretty, pink skin is all stained with
it. We'll bleach him out, and his curls will grow, and
he'll be as good as ever -- all but -- "

Ben could not finish, and a general wail went up for
the departed tassel that would never wave proudly in
the breeze again.

"I'll buy him a new one.  Now form the proccession
and let us go in style," said Thorny, cheerily, as
he swung Betty to his shoulder and marched away
whistling "Hail! the conquering hero comes," while
Ben and his Bow-wow followed arm-in-arm, and Bab
brought up the rear, banging on a milk-pan with the
egg-beater.


CHAPTER XVIII

BOWS AND ARROWS

If Sancho's abduction made a stir, one may easily
imagine with what warmth and interest he was
welcomed back when his wrongs and wanderings
were known. For several days he held regular levees,
that curious boys and sympathizing girls might see
and pity the changed and curtailed dog. Sancho behaved
with dignified affability, and sat upon his mat
in the coach-house pensively eying his guests, and
patiently submitting to their caresses; while Ben and
Thorny took turns to tell the few tragical facts which
were not shrouded in the deepest mystery.  If the
interesting sufferer could only have spoken, what
thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes he might
have related.  But, alas! he was dumb; and the secrets
of that memorable month never were revealed.

The lame paw soon healed, the dingy color slowly
yielded to many washings, the woolly coat began to
knot up into little curls, a new collar, handsomely
marked, made him a respectable dog, and Sancho
was himself again. But it was evident that his sufferings
were not forgotten; his once sweet temper was a
trifle soured; and, with a few exceptions, he had lost
his faith in mankind.  Before, he had been the most
benevolent and hospitable of dogs; now, he eyed all
strangers suspiciously, and the sight of a shabby man
made him growl and bristle up, as if the mernory of
his wrongs still burned hotly within him.

Fortunately, his gratitude was stronger than his
resentment, and he never seemed to forget that he
owed his life to Betty, -- running to meet her whenever
she appeared, instantly obeying her commands,
and suffering no one to molest her when he walked
watchfully beside her, with her hand upon his neck,
as they had walked out of the almost fatal backyard
together, faithful friends for ever.

Miss Celia called them little Una and her lion, and
read the pretty story to the childien when they
wondered what she meant. Ben, with great pains,
taught the dog to spell "Betty," and surprised her
with a display of this new accomplishment, which
gratified her so much that she was never tired of
seeing Sanch paw the five red letters into place, then
come and lay his nose in her hand, as if he added,
"That's the name of my dear mistress."

Of course Bab was glad to have eveiything pleasant
and friendly again; but in a little dark corner of her
heart there was a drop of envy, and a despeiate desire
to do something which would make every one in
her small world like and piaise her as they did Betty.
Trying to be as good and gentle did not satisfy her;
she must do something brave or surprising, and no
chance for distinguishing herself in that way seemed
likely to appear.  Betty was as fond as ever, and
the boys were very kind to her; but she felt that
they both liked "little Beteinda," as they called her,
best, because she found Sanch, and never seemed to know
that she had done any thing brave in defending
him against all odds.  Bab did not tell any one how
she felt, but endeavored to be amiable, while waiting
for her chance to come; and, when it did arrive,
made the most of it, though there was nothing heroic
to add a charm.

Miss Celia's arm had been doing very well, but
would, of course, be useless for some time longer.
Finding that the afternoon readings amused herself
as much as they did the children, she kept them
up, and brought out all her old favorites enjoying a
double pleasure in seeing that her young audience
relished them as much as she did when a child  for
to all but Thorny they were brand new.  Out of one
of these stories came much amusement for all, and
satisfaction for one of the party.

"Celia, did you bring our old bows?" asked her
brother, eagerly, as she put down the book from
which she had been reading Miss Edgeworth's capital
story of "Waste not Want not; or, Two Strings
to your Bow."

"Yes, I brought all the playthings we left stored
away in uncle's garret when we went abroad.  The
bows are in the long box where you found the mallets,
fishing-rods, and bats.  The old quivers and a
few arrows are there also, I believe.  What is the
idea now?  asked Miss Celia in her turn, as Thorny
bounced up in a great hurry.

"I'm going to teach Ben to shoot.  Grand fun
this hot weather; and by-and-by we'll have an
archery meeting, and you can give us a prize. Come
on, Ben. I've got plenty of whip-cord to rig up the
bows, and then we'll show the ladies some first-class
shooting."

"I can't; never had a decent bow in my life.  The
little gilt one I used to wave round when I was a
Coopid wasn't worth a cent to go," answered Ben,
feeling as if that painted "prodigy" must have been
a very distant connection of the respectable young
person now walking off arm in arm with the lord of
the manor.

"Practice is all you want.  I used to be a capital
shot, but I don't believe I could hit any thing but a
barn-door now," answered Thorny, encouragingly.

As the boys vanished, with much tramping of boots
and banging of doors, Bab observed, in the young-
ladyish tone she was apt to use when she composed
her active little mind and body to the feminine task
of needlework, --

"We used to make bows of whalebone when we
were little girls, but we are too old to play so now."

"I'd like to, but Bab won't, 'cause she 's most
'leven years old," said honest Betty, placidly rubbing
her needle in the "ruster," as she called the family
emery-bag.

"Grown people enjoy archery, as bow and arrow
shooting is called, especially in England.  I was
reading about it the other day, and saw a picture of
Queen Victoria with her bow; so you needn't be
ashamed of it, Bab," said Miss Celia, rummaging
among the books and papers in her sofa corner to
find the magazine she wanted, thinking a new play
would be as good for the girls as for the big boys.

"A queen, just think!" and Betty looked much impressed
by the fact, as well as uplifted by the knowledge
that her friend did not agree in thinking her
silly because she preferred playing with a halmless
home-made toy to firing stones or snapping a pop-gun.

"In old times, bows and arrows were used to fight
great battles with; and we read how the English archers
shot so well that the air was dark with arrows, and
many men were killed."

"So did the Indians have 'em; and I've got some
stone arrow-heads, -- found 'em by the river, in the
dirt!" cried Bab, waking up, for battles interested her
more than queens.

"While you finish your stints I'll tell you a little
story about the Indians," said Miss Celia, lying
back on her cushions, while the needles began to
go again, for the piospect of a story could not be
resisted.

"A century or more ago, in a small settlement on
the banks of the Connecticut, -- which means the Long
River of Pines, -- there lived a little girl called Matty
Kilburn.  On a hill stood the fort where the people ran
for protection in any danger, for the country was new
and wild, and more than once the Indians had come
down the river in their canoes and burned the houses,
killed men, and carried away women and children.
Matty lived alone with her father, but felt quite safe
in the log house, for he was never far away.   One
afternoon, as the farmers were all busy in their fields,
the bell rang suddenly, -- a sign that there was danger
near, -- and, dropping their rakes or axes, the men
hurried to their houses to save wives and babies, and
such few treasures as they could.  Mr. Kilburn caught
up his gun with one hand and his little girl with the
other, and ran as fast as he could toward the fort. But
before he could reach it he heard a yell, and saw the
red men coming up from the river.  Then he knew it
would be in vain to try to get in, so he looked about for
a safe place to hide Matty till he could come for her.
He was a brave man, and could fight, so he had no
thought of hiding while his neighbors needed help;
but the dear little daughter must he cared for first.

"In the corner of the lonely pasture which they
dared not cross, stood a big hollow elm, and there the
farmer hastily hid Matty, dropping her down into the
dim nook, round the mouth of which youg shoots had
grown, so that no one would have suspected any hole
was there.

"Lie still, child, till I come; say your prayers and
wait for father,' said the man, as he parted the leaves
for a last glance at the small, frightened face looking up
at him.

"' Come soon,' whispered Matty, and tried to smile
bravely, as a stout settler's girl should.

"Mr. Kilburn went away, and was taken prisoner
in the fight, carried off, and for years no one knew
whether he was alive or dead. People missed Matty,
but supposed she was with her father, and never
expected to see her again.  A great while afterward the
poor man came back, having escaped and made his way
through the wilderness to his old home.  His first question
was for Matty, but no one had seen her; and when
he told them where he had left her, they shook their
heads as if they thought he was crazy. But they
went to look, that he might be satisfied; and he was;
for they they found some little bones, some faded
bits of cloth, and two rusty silver buckles marked with
Matty's name in what had once been her shoes. An
Indian arrow lay there, too, showing why she had
never cried for help, but waited patiently so long for
father to come and find her."

If Miss Celia expected to see the last bit of hem done
when her story ended, she was disappointed; for not a
dozen stitches had been taken. Betty was using her
crash towel for a handkerchief, and Bab's lay on the
ground as she listened with snapping eyes to the little
tragedy.

"Is it true?" asked Betty, hoping to find relief in
being told that it was not.

"Yes; I have seen the tree, and the mound where
the fort was, and the rusty buckles in an old farmhouse
where other Kilburns live, near the spot where it
all happened," answered Miss Celia, looking out the
picture of Victoria to console her auditors.

"We'll play that in the old apple-tree.  Betty can
scrooch down, and I'll be the father, and put leaves on
her, and then I'll be a great Injun and fire at her.  I
can make arrows, and it will be fun, won't it?" cried
Bab, charmed with the new drama in which she could
act the leading parts.

"No, it won't!" I don't like to go in a cobwebby
hole, and have you play kill me, I'll make a nice fort
of hay, and be all safe, and you can put Dinah down
there for Matty. I don't love her any more, now her
last eye has tumbled out, and you may shoot her just
as much as yon like."

Before Bab could agree to this satisfactory arrangement,
Thorny appeared, singing, as he aimed at a fat
robin, whose red waistcoat looked rather warm and
winterish that August day, --

"So he took up his bow,
And he feathered his arrow,
And said, 'I will shoot
This little cock-sparrow.'"

But he didn't," chirped the robin, flying away,
with a contemptuous flirt of his rusty-black tail.

"That is exactly what you must promise not to do,
boys.  Fire away at your targets as much as you like,
but do not harm any living creature," said Miss Celia,
as Ben followed armed and equipped with her own long-
unused accoutrements.

"Of course we won't if you say so; but, with a little
practice, I could bring down a bird as well as that
fellow you read to me about with his woodpeckers and
larks and herons," answered Thorny, who had much
enjoyed the article, while his sister lamented over the
destruction of the innocent birds.

"You'd do well to borrow the Squire's old stuffed
owl for a target; there would be some chance of your
hitting him, he is so big," said his sister, who always
made fun of the boy when he began to brag.

Thorny's only reply was to send his arrow straight
up so far out of sight that it was a long while coming
down again to stick quivering in the ground near by,
whence Sancho brought it in his mouth, evidently
highly approving of a game in which he could join.

"Not bad for a beginning.  Now, Ben, fire away."

But Ben's experience with bows was small, and, in
spite of his praiseworthy efforts to imitate his great
exemplar, the arrow only turned a feeble sort of somersault
and descended perilously near Bab's uplifted nose.

"If you endanger other people's life and liberty in
your pursuit of happiness, I shall have to confiscate
your arms, boys.  Take the orchard for your archery
ground; that is safe, and we can see you as we sit
here. I wish I had two hands, so that I could paint
you a fine, gay target;" and Miss Celia looked
regretfully at the injured arm, which as yet was of
little use.

"I wish you could shoot, too; you used to beat all
the girls, and I was proud of you," answered Thorny,
with the air of a fond elder brother; though, at the
time he alluded to, he was about twelve, and hardly up
to his sister's shoulder.

"Thank you. I shall be happy to give my place to
Bab and Betty if you will make them some bows and
arrows; they could not use those long ones."

The young gentlemen did not take the hint as
quickly as Miss Celia hoped they would; in fact, both
looked rather blank at the suggestion, as boys generally
do when it is proposed that girls -- especially
small ones -- shall join in any game they are playing.

"P'r'aps it would be too much trouble," began
Betty, in her winning little voice.

"I can make my own," declared Bab, with an
independent toss of the head.

"Not a bit; I'll make you the jolliest small bow
that ever was, Belinda," Thorny hastened to say,
softened by the appealing glance of the little maid.

"You can use mine, Bab ; you've got such a strong
fist, I guess you could pull it," added Ben, remembering
that it would not be amiss to have a comrade who
shot worse than he did, for he felt very inferior to
Thorny in many ways, and, being used to praise, had
missed it very much since he retired to private life.

"I will be umpire, and brighten up the silver arrow
I sometimes pin my hair with, for a prize, unless we
can find something better," proposed Miss Celia, glad
to see that question settled, and every prospect of the
new play being a pleasant amusement for the hot
weather.

It was astonishing how soon archery became the
fashion in that town, for the boys discussed it
enthusiastically all that evening, formed the
"William Tell Club" next day, with Bab and Betty as
honorary members, and, before the week was out, nearly every
lad was seen, like young Norval, " With bended bow
and quiver full of arrows," shooting away, with a
charming disregard of the safety of their fellow
citizens. Banished by the authorities to secluded
spots, the members of the club set up their targets
and practised indefatigably, especially Ben, who soon
discovered that his early gymnastics had given hin a
sinewy arm and a true eye; and, taking Sanch into
partnership as picker-up, he got more shots out of an
hour than those who had to run to and fro.

Thorny easily recovered much of his former skill,
but his strength had not fully returned, and he soon
grew tired. Bab, on the contrary, threw herself into
the contest heart and soul, and tugged alvay at the
new bow Miss Celia gave her, for Ben's was too heavy.
No other girls were admitted, so the outsiders got up
a club of their own, and called it "The Victoria," the
name being suggested by the magazine article, which
went the rounds as a general guide and reference
book. Bab and Betty belonged to this club  and
duly reported the doings of the boys, with whom they
had a right to shoot if they chose, but soon waived
the right, plainly seeing that their absence would be
regarded in the light of a favor.

The archery fever raged as fiercely as the base-ball
epidemic had done before it, and not only did the
magazine circulate freely, but Miss Edgeworth's story,
which was eagerly read, and so much admired that
the girls at once mounted green ribbons, and the
boys kept yards of whip-cord in their pockets like the
provident Benjamin of the tale.

Every one enjoyed the new play very much, and
something grew out of it which was a lasting pleasure
to many, long after the bows and arrows were forgotten.
Seeing how glad the children were to get a new
story, Miss Celia was moved to send a box of books
-- old and new -- to the town library, which was
but scantily supplied, as country libraries are apt to
be. This donation produced a good effect; for other
people hunted up all the volumes they could spare
for the same purpose, and the dusty shelves in the
little room behind the post-office filled up amazingly.
Coming in vacation time they were hailed with delight,
and ancient books of travel, as well as modern tales,
were feasted upon by happy young folks, with plenty
of time to enjoy them in peace.

The success of her first attempt at being a public
benefactor pleased Miss Celia veru much, and suggested
other ways in which she might serve the quiet
town, where she seemed to feel that work was waiting
for her to do.  She said little to any one but the
friend over the sea, yet various plans were made then
that blossomed beautifully by-and-by.

CHAPTER XIX: SPEAKING PIECES

The first of September came all too soon, and
school began.  Among the boys and girls
who went trooping up to the "East Corner
knowledge-box," as they called it, was our friend Ben,
with a pile of neat books under his arm.  He felt
very strange, and decidedly shy; but put on a bold
face, and let nobody guess that, though nearly thirteen,
he had never been to school before.  Miss Celia
had told his story to Teacher, and she, being a kind
little woman, with young brothers of her own, made
things as easy for him as she could.  In reading and
writing he did very well, and proudly took his place
among lads of his own age; but when it came to
arithmetic and geography, he had to go down a long
way, and begin almost at the beginning, in spite of
Thorny's efforts to "tool him along fast." It mortified
him sadly, but there was no help for it; and in
some of the classes he had dear little Betty to console
with him when he failed, and smile contentedly
when he got above her, as he soon began to do, --
for she was not a quick child, and plodded through
First Parts long after sister Bab was flourishing away
among girls much older than herself.

Fortunately, Ben was a short boy and a clever one,
so he did not look out of place among the ten and
eleven year olders, and fell upon his lessons with the
same resolution with which he used to take a new
leap, or practise patiently till he could touch his heels
with his head.  That sort of exercise had given him
a strong, elastic little body; this kind was to train
his mind, and make its faculties as useful, quick and
sure, as the obedient muscles, nerves and eye, which
kept him safe where others would have broken their
necks. He knew this, and found much consolation
in the fact that, though mental arithmetic was a
hopeless task, he could turn a dozen somersaults, and
come up as steady as a judge.  When the boys
laughed at him for saying that China was in Africa,
he routed them entirely by his superior knowledge
of the animals belonging to that wild country; and
when "First class in reading" was called, he marched
up with the proud consciousness that the shortest
boy in it did better than tall Moses Towne or fat Sam
Kitteridge.

Teacher praised him all she honestly could, and
corrected his many blunders so quietly that he soon
ceased to be a deep, distressful red during recitation,
and tugged away so manfully that no one could
help respecting him for his efforts, and trying to
make light of his failures.  So the fiist hard week
went by, and though the boy's heart had sunk many
a time at the prospect of a protracted wrestle with
his own ignorance, he made up his mind to win, and
went at it again on the Monday with fresh zeal, all
the better and braver for a good, cheery talk with
Miss Celia in the Sunday evening twilight.

He did not tell her one of his greatest trials,
however, because he thought she could not help him
there. Some of the children rather looked down
upon him, called him "tramp" and "beggar," twitted
him with having been a circus boy, and lived in a
tent like a gypsy.  They did not mean to be cruel,
but did it for the sake of teasing, never stopping to
think how much such sport can make a fellow-creature
suffer. Being a plucky fellow, Ben pretended not
to mind; but he did feel it keenly, because he wanted
to start afresh, and be like other boys. He was not
ashamed of the old life; but, finding those around
him disapproved of it, he was glad to let it be forgotten,
even by himself; for his latest recollections were
not happy ones, and present comforts made past
hardships seem harder than before.

He said nothing of this to Miss Celia; but she
found it out, and liked him all the better for keeping
some of his small worries to hiniself.  Bab and Betty
came over Monday afternoon full of indignation
at some boyish insult Sam had put upon Ben; and,
finding them too full of it to enjoy the reading, Miss
Celia asked what the matter was.  Then both little
girls burst out in a rapid succession of broken
exclamations, which did not give a very clear idea of
the difficulty, --

"Sam didn't like it because Ben jumped farther
than he did -- "

"And he said Ben ought to be in the poor-house."

"And Ben said he ought to be in it pigpen."

"So he had! -- such a greedy thing, bringing lovely
big apples, and not giving any one a single bite!"

"Then he was mad, and we all laughed; and he
said, 'Want to fight?'

"And Ben said, 'No, thanky, not much fun in
pounding a feather-bed.'"

"Oh, he was awfully mad then, and chased Ben up
the big maple."

"He's there now, for Sam won't let him come
down till he takes it all back."

"Ben won't; and I do believe he'll have to stay
up all night," said Betty, distressfully.

"He won't care, and we'll have fun firing up his
supper.  Nut cakes and cheese will go splendidly;
and may be baked pears wouldn't get smashed, he's
such a good catch," added Bab, decidedly relishing
the prospect.

"If he does not come by tea-time, we will go and
look after him. It seems to me I have heard surne-
thing about Sam's troubling him before, haven't I?"
asked Miss Celia, ready to defend her protege against
all unfair persecution.

"Yes,'m, Sam and Mose are always plaguing Ben.
They are big boys, and we can't make them stop. I
won't let the girls do it, and the little boys don't dare
to, since Teacher spoke to them." answered Bab.

"Why does not Teacher speak to the big ones?

"Ben won't tell of them, or let us.  He says he'll
fight his own battles, and hates tell-tales.  I guess
he won't like to have us tell you, but I don't care, for
it is too bad!" and Betty looked ready to cry over
her friend's tribulations.

"I'm glad you did, for I will attend to it, and stop
this sort of thing," said Miss Celia, after the children
had told some of the tormenting speeches which had
tried poor Ben.

Just then Thorny appeared, looking much amused.
and the little girls both called out in a breath, "Did
you see Ben and get him down?"

"He got himself down in the neatest way you can
imagine;" and Thorny laughed at the recollection.

"Where is Sam? " asked Bab.

"Staring up at the sky to see where Ben has flown
to."

"Oh, tell about it!" begged Betty.

"Well, I came along and found Ben treed, and Sam
stoning him. I stopped that at once, and told the
'fat boy' to be off. He said he wouldn't till Ben
begged his pardon; and Ben said he wouldn't do it,
if he stayed up for a week.  I was just preparing
to give that rascal a scientific thrashing, when a load
of hay came along, and Ben dropped on to it so quietly
that Sam, who was trying to bully me, never saw him
go. It tickled me so, I told Sam I guessed I'd let
him off that time, and walked away, leaving him to
hunt for Ben, and wonder where the dickens he
had vanished to."

The idea of Sam's bewilderment amused the others
as much as Thorny, and they all had a good laugh
over it before Miss Celia asked, --

"Where has Ben gone now?"

" Oh, he'll take a little ride, and then slip down
and race home full of the fun of it.  But I've got
to settle Sam. I won't have our Ben hectored by any
one -- "

"But yourself," put in his sister, with a sly smile,
for Thorny was rather domineering at times.

"He doesn't mind my poking him up now and
then, it's good for him; and I always take his part
against other people.  Sam is a bully, and so is
Mose; and I'll thrash them both if they don't
stop."

Anxious to curb her brother's pugnacious propensities,
Miss Celia proposed milder measures, promising
to speak to the boys herself if there was any more
trouble.

"I have been thinking that we should have some
sort of merry-making for Ben on his birthday. My
plan was a very simple one; but I will enlarge it, and
have all the young folks come, and Ben shall be king
of the fun. he needs encouragement in well-doing,
for he does try; and now the first hard part is nearly
over, I am sure he will get on bravely.  If we treat
him with respect, and show our regard for him, others
will follow our example; and that will be better than
fighting about it."

"So it will!  What shall we do to make our party
tip-top?" asked Thorny, falling into the trap at once;
for he dearly loved to get up theatricals, and had not
had any for a long time.

"We will plan something splendid, a 'grand combination,'
as you used to call your droll mixtures
of tragedy, comedy, melodrama and farce," answered
his sister, with her head already full of lively plots.

"We'll startle the natives.  I don't believe they
ever saw a play in all their lives, hey, Bab?"

"I've seen a circus."

"We dress up and do ' Babes in the Wood,"' added
Betty, with dignity.

"Pho! that's nothing.  I'll show you acting that
will make your hair stand on end, and you shall
act too. Bab will be capital for the naughty girls,"
began Thorny, excited by the prospect of producing
a sensation on the boards, and always ready to
tease the girls.

Before Betty could protest that she did not want
her hair to stand up, or Bab could indignantly decline
the rele offered her, a shrill whistle was heard, and
Miss Celia whispered, with a warning look, --

"Hush! Ben is coming, and he must not know any
thing about this yet."

The next day was Wednesday, and in the afternoon
Miss Celia went to hear the children "speak pieces,"
though it was very seldom that any of the busy
matrons and elder sisters found time or inclination for
these displays of youthful oratory. Miss Celia and
Mrs. Moss were all the audience on this occasion, but
Teacher was both pleased and proud to see them,
and a general rustle went through the school as they
came in, all the girls turning from the visitors to nod
at Bab and Betty, who smiled all over their round
faces to see "Ma" sitting up "'side of Teacher,"
and the boys grinned at Ben, whose heart began
to beat fast at the thought of his dear mistress coming
so far to hear him say his piece.

Thorny had recommended Marco Bozzaris, but
Ben preferred John Gilpin, and ran the famous race
with much spirit, making excellent time in some parts
and having to be spurred a little in others, but came out
all right, though quite breathless at the end, sitting
down amid great applause, some of which, curiously
enough, seemed to come from outside; which in fact
it did, for Thorny was bound to hear but would not
come in, lest his presence should abash one orator at
least.

Other pieces followed, all more or less patriotic and
warlike, among the boys; sentimental among the
girls.  Sam broke down in his attempt to give one
of Webster's great speeches, Little Cy Fay boldly
attacked

"Again to the battle, Achaians!"

and shrieked his way through it in a shrill, small
voice, bound to do honor to the older brother who
had trained him even if he broke a vessel in the
attempt.  Billy chose a well-worn piece, but gave it a
new interest by his style of delivery; for his gestures
were so spasmodic he looked as if going into a fit,
and he did such astonishing things with his voice that
one never knew whether a howl or a growl would
come next.  When

"The woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed; "

Billy's arms went round like the sails of a windmill;
the "hymns of lofty cheer" not only "shook the
depths of the desert gloom," but the small children
on their little benches, and the school-house literally
rang "to the anthems of the free!" When "the
ocean eagle soared," Billy appeared to be going
bodily up, and the "pines of the forest roared" as if
they had taken lessons of Van Amburgh's biggest
lion.  "Woman's fearless eye" was expressed by a
wild glare; manhood's brow, severely high," by a
sudden clutch at the reddish locks falling over the
orator's hot forehead, and a sounding thump on his
blue checked bosom told where "the fiery heart of
youth" was located.  "What sought they thus far?"
he asked, in such a natural and inquiring tone, with his
eye fixed on Mamie Peters, that the startled innocent
replied, "Dunno," which caused the speaker to close
in haste, devoutly pointing a stubby finger upward at
the last line.

This was considered the gem of the collection, and
Billy took his seat proudly conscious that his native
town boasted an orator who, in time, would utterly
eclipse Edward Everett and Wendell Phillips.

Sally Folsom led off with "The Coral Grove,"
chosen for the express purpose of making her friend
Almira Mullet start and blush, when she recited the
second line of that pleasing poem,

"Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove."

One of the older girls gave Wordsworth's "Lost
Love" in a pensive tone, clasping her hands and
bringing out the "O" as if a sudden twinge of
toothache seized her when she ended.

"But she is in her grave, and O,
'he difference to me!

Bab always chose a funny piece, and on this afternoon
set them all laughing by the spirit with which
she spoke the droll poem, "Pussy's Class," which some
of my young readers may have read.  The "meou"
and the "sptzz" were capital, and when the "fond
mamma rubbed her nose," the children shouted, for
Miss Bab made a paw of her hand and ended with an
impromptu purr, which was considered the best imitation
ever presented to an appreciative public.   Betty
bashfully murmurred "Little White Lily," swaying to
and fro as regularly as if in no other way could the
rhymes be ground out of her memory.

"That is all, I believe.  If either of the ladies would
like to say a few words to the children, I should
be pleased to have them," said Teacher, politely,
pausing before she dismissed school with a song.

"Please, 'm.  I'd like to speak my piece," answered
Miss Celia, obeying a sudden impulse; and, stepping
forward with her hat in her hand, she made a pretty
courtesy before she recited Mary Howitt's sweet little
ballad, "Mabel on Midsummer Day."

She looked so young and merry, and used such
simple but expressive gestures, and spoke in such a
clear, soft voice that the children sat as if spell-bound,
learning several lessons from this new teacher, whose
performance charmed them from beiginning to end, and
left a moral which all could understand and carry
away in that last verse, --

"'Tis good to make all duty sweet,
To be alert and kind;
'Tis good, like Littie Mabel,
To have a willing mind."

Of course there was an enthusiastic clapping when
Miss Celia sat down, but even while hands applauded,
consciences pricked, and undone tasks, complaining
words and sour faces seemed to rise up reproachfully
before many of the children, as well as their own
faults of elocution.

"Now we will sing," said Teacher, and a great
clearing of throats ensued, but before a note could be
uttered, the half-open door swung wide, and Sancho,
with Ben's hat on, walked in upon his hind-legs, and
stood with his paws meekly folded, while a voice from
the entry sang rapidly, --

"Benny had a little dog,
His fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Benny went,
The dog was sure to go.

He went into the School one day,
which was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play
To see a dog --"

Mischievous Thorny got no further, for a general
explosion of laughter drowned the last words, and
Ben's command "Out, you rascal!" sent Sanch to the
right-about in double-quick time.

Miss Celia tried to apologize for her bad brother,
and Teacher tried to assure her that it didn't matter
in the least, as this was always a merry time, and
Mrs. Moss vainly shook her finger at her naughty
daughters; they as well as the others would have
their laugh out,a nd only partially sobered down when
the Bell rang for "Attention." They thought they
were to be dismissed, and repressed their giggles as
well as they could in order to get a good start for a
vociferous roar when they got out.  But, to their great
surprise, the pretty lady stood up again and said, in
her friendly way, --

"I just want to thank you for this pleasant little
exhibition, and ask leave to come again.  I also wish to
invite you all to my boy's birthday party on Saturday
week. The archery meeting is to be in the afternoon,
and both clubs will be there, I believe.  In the evening
we are going to have some fun, when we can laugh
as much as we please without breaking any of the
rules. In Ben's name I invite you, and hope you will
all come, for we mean to make this the happiest
birthday he ever had."

There were twenty pupils in the room, but the
eighty hands and feet made such a racket at this
announcement that an outsider would have thought a
hundred children, at least, must have been at it. Miss
Celia was a general favorite because she nodded to all
the girls, called the boys by their last names, even
addressing some of the largest as "Mr." which won
their hearts at once, so that if she had invited them
all to come and be whipped they would have gone
sure that it was some delightful joke.   With what
eagerness they accepted the present invitation one
can easily imagine, though they never guessed why
she gave it in that way, and Ben's face was a sight to
see, he was so pleased and proud at the honor done
him that he did not know where to look, and was glad
to rush out with the other boys and vent his emotions
in whoops of delight. He knew that some little plot
was being concocted for his birthday, but never
dreamed of any thing so grand as asking the whole
school, Teacher and all.  The effect of the invitation
was seen with comical rapidity, for the boys became
overpowering in their friendly attentions to Ben.
Even Sam, fearing he might be left out, promptly
offered the peaceful olive-branch in the shape of a
big apple, warm from his pocket, and Mose proposed
a trade of jack-knives which would be greatly to
Ben's advantage.  But Thorny made the noblest
sacrifice of all, for he said to his sister, as they walked
home together, --

"I'm not going to try for the prize at all.  I shoot
so much better than the rest, having had more practice,
you know, that it is hardly fair. Ben and Billy
are next best, and about even, for Ben's strong wrist
makes up for Billy's true eye, and both want to win.
If I am out of the way Ben stands a good chance, for
the other fellows don't amount to much."

"Bab does; she shoots nearly as well as Ben, and
wants to win even more than he or Billy.  She must
have her chance at any rate."

"So she may, but she won't do any thing; girls
can't, though it 's good exercise and pleases them to
try.  "

"If I had full use of both my arms I'd show you
that girls can do a great deal when they like.  Don't
be too lofty, young man, for you may have to come
down," laughed Miss Celia, amused by his airs.

"No fear," and Thorny calmly departed to set his
targets for Ben's practice.

"We shall see," and from that moment Miss Celia
made Bab her especial pupil, feeling that a little lesson
would be good for Mr. Thorny, who rather lorded it
over the other young people.  There was a spice of
mischief in it, for Miss Celia was very young at heart,
in spite of her twenty-four years, and she was bound
to see that her side had a fair chance, believing that
girls can do whatever they are willing to strive patiently
and wisely for.

So she kept Bab at work early and late, giving her
all the hints and help she could with only one efficient
hand, and Bab was delighted to think she did well
enough to shoot with the club. Her arms ached and
her fingers grew hard with twanging the bow, but she
was indefatigable, and being a strong, tall child of her
age, with a great love of all athletic sports, she got on
fast and well, soon learning to send arrow after arrow
with ever increasing accuracy nearer and nearer to
the bull's-eye.

The boys took very little notice of her, being much
absorbed in their own affairs, but Betty did for Bab
what Sancho did for Ben, and trotted after arrows till
her short legs were sadly tired, though her patience
never gave out.  She was so sure Bab would win that
she cared nothing about her own success, practising
little and seldom hitting any thing when she tried.


CHAPTER XX: BEN'S BIRTHDAY

A superb display of flags flapped gayly in
the breeze on the September morning when
Ben proudly entered his teens.  An irruption
of bunting seemied to have broken out all over the
old house, for banners of every shape and size, color
and design, flew from chimney-top to gable, porch
and gate-way, making the quiet place look as lively
as a circus tent, which was just what Ben most desired
and delighted in.

The boys had been up very early to prepare the
show, and when it was ready enjoyed it hugely, for
the fresh wind made the pennons cut strange capers.
The winged lion of Venice looked as if trying to fly
away home; the Chinese dragon appeared to brandish
his forked tail as he clawed at the Burmese peacock;
the double-headed eagle of Russia pecked at the
Turkish crescent with one beak, while the other
seemed to be screaming to the English royal beast,
"Come on and lend a paw." In the hurry of hoisting
the Siamese elephant got turned upside down,
and now danced gayly on his head, with the stars and
stripes waving proudly over him.  A green flag with
a yellow harp and sprig of shamrock hung in sight of
the kitchen window, and Katy, the cook, got breakfast
to the tune of "St. Patrick's day in the morning."
Sancho's kennel was half hidden under a rustling
paper imitation of the gorgeous Spanish banner, and
the scarlet sun-and-moon flag of Arabia snapped and
flaunted from the pole over the coach-house, as a
delicate compliment to Lita, Arabian horses being
considered the finest in the world.

The little girls came out to see, and declared it was
the loveliest sight they ever beheld, while Thorny
played "Hail Columbia" on his fife, and Ben, mounting
the gate-post, crowed long and loud like a happy
cockerel who had just reached his majority.  He had
been surprised and delighted with the gifts he found
in his room on awaking and guessed why Miss Celia
and Thorny gave him such pretty things, for among
them was a match-box made like a mouse-trap.  The
doggy buttons and the horsey whip were treasures,
indeed, for Miss Celia had not given them when they
first planned to do so, because Sancho's return seemed
to be joy and reward enough for that occasion.  But
he did not forget to thank Mrs. Moss for the cake she
sent him, nor the girls for the red mittens which they
had secretly and painfully knit.  Bab's was long and
thin, with a very pointed thumb, Betty's short and
wide, with a stubby thumb, and all their mother's
pulling and pressing could not make them look alike,
to the great affliction of the little knitters.  Ben,
however, assured them that he rather preferred odd ones,
as then he could always tell which was right and
which left. He put them on immediately and went
about cracking the new whip with an expression of
content which was droll to see, while the children
followed after, full of admiration for the hero of the
day.

They were very busy all the morning preparing for
the festivities to come, and as soon as dinner was over
every one scrambled into his or her best clothes as
fast as possible, because, although invited to come at
two, impatient boys and girls were seen hovering
about the avenue as early as one.

The first to arrive, however, was an uninvited
guest, for just as Bab and Betty sat down on the
porch steps, in their stiff pink calico frocks and white
ruffled aprons, to repose a moment before the party
came in, a rustling was heard among the lilacs, and
out stepped Alfred Tennyson Barlow, looking like a
small Robin Hood, in a green blouse with a silver
buckle on his broad belt, a feather in his little cap
and a bow in his hand.

"I have come to shoot.  I heard about it.  My
papa told me what arching meant. Will there be
any little cakes? I like them."

With these opening remarks the poet took a seat
and calmly awaited a response.  The young ladies,
I regret to say, giggled, then remembering theii
manners, hastened to inform him that there would be
heaps of cakes, also that Miss Celia would not mind
his coming without an invitation, they were quite sure.

"She asked me to come that day.  I have been
very busy. I had measles. Do you have them
here?" asked the guest, as if anxious to compare
notes on the sad subject.

"We had ours ever so long ago.  What have you
been doing besides having measles?" said Betty,
showing a polite interest.

"I had a fight with a bumble-bee."

"Who beat?" demanded Bab.

"I did.  I ran away and he couldn't catch me."

"Can you shoot nicely?

"I hit a cow. She did not mind at all.  I guess
she thought it was a fly."

"Did your mother know you were coming?" asked
Bab, feeling an interest in runaways.

"No; she is gone to drive, so I could not ask
her."

"It is very wrong to disobey. My Sunday-school
book says that children who are naughty that way
never go to heaven," observed virtuous Betty, in a
warning tone.

"I do not wish to go," was the startling reply.

"Why not?" asked Betty, severely.

"They don't have any dirt there.  My mamma
says so. I am fond of dirt. I shall stay here where
there is plenty of it," and the candid youth began to
grub in the mould with the satisfaction of a genuine
boy.

"I am afraid you're a very bad child."

"Oh yes, I am.  My papa often says so and he knows
all about it," replied Alfred with an involuntary
wriggle suggestive of painful memories.  Then,
as if anxious to change the conversation from its
somewhat personal channel, he asked, pointing to a
row of grinning heads above the wall, "Do you shoot
at those?"

Bab and Betty looked up quickly and recognized
the familiar faces of their friends peering down at
them, like a choice collection of trophies or targets.

"I should think you'd be ashamed to peek before
the party was ready!" cried Bab, frowning darkly
upon the merry young ladies.

"Miss Celia told us to come before two, and be
ready to receive folks, if she wasn't down," added
Betty, importantly.

"It is striking two now.  Come along, girls;" and
over scrambled Sally Folsom, fo11owed by three or
four kindred spirits, just as their hostess appeared.

"You look like Amazons storming a fort," she
said, as the girls cattle up, each carrying her bow and
arrows, while green ribbons flew in every direction.

"How do you do, sir?  I have been hoping you
would call again," added Miss Celia, shaking hands
with the pretty boy, who regarded with benign
interest the giver of little cakes.

Here a rush of boys took place, and further remarks
were cut short, for every one was in a hurry to
begin. So the procession was formed at once, Miss
Celia taking the lead, escorted by Ben in the post of
honor, while the boys and girls paired off behind,
arm in arm, bow on Shoulder, in martial array.
Thorny and Billy were the band, and marched before,
fifing and drumming "Yankee Doodle" with a
vigor which kept feet moving briskly, made eyes
sparkle, and young hearts dance under the gay
gowns and summer jackets.  The interesting stranger
was elected to bear the prize, laid out on a red pin-
cushion; and did so with great dignity, as he went
beside the standard bearer, Cy Fay, who bore Ben's
choicest flag, snow-white, with a green wreath
surrounding a painted bow and arrow, and with the
letters W. T. C. done in red below.

Such a merry march all about the place, out at the
Lodge gate, up and down the avenue, along the winding
paths, till they halted in the orchard, where the
target stood, and seats were placed for the archers
while they waited for their turns. Various rules and
regulations were discussed, and then the fun began.
Miss Celia had insisted that the girls should be
invited to shoot with the boys; and the lads consented
without much concern, whispering to one another with
condescending shrugs, "Let 'em try, if th@y like; they
can't do any thing."

There were various trials of skill before the great
match came off, and in these trials the young gentlemen
discovered that two at least of the girls could do
something; for Bab and Sally shot better than many
of the boys, and were well rewarded for their exertions
by, the change which took place in the faces and
conversation of their mates.

"Why, Bab, you do as well as if I'd taught you
myself," said Thorny, much surprised and not
altogether pleased at the little girl's skill.

"A lady taught me; and I mean to beat every one
of you," answered Bab, saucily, while her sparkling
eyes turned to Miss Celia with a mischievous
twinkle in them.

"Not a bit of it," declared Thorny, stoutly; but he
went to Ben and whispered, "Do your best, old
fellow, for sister has taught Bab all the scientific
points, and the little rascal is ahead of Billy."

"She won't get ahead of me," said Ben, picking
out his best arrow, and trying the string of his bow
with a confident air which re-assured Thorny, who
found it impossible to believe that a girl ever could,
would, or should excel a boy in any thing he cared
to try.

It really did look as if Bab would beat when the
match for the prize came off; and the children got
more and more excited as the six who were to try
for it took turns at the bull's-eye. Thorny was
umpire, and kept account of each shot, for the arrow
which went nearest the middle would win.  Each
had three shots; and very soon the lookers-on saw
that Ben and Bab were the best marksmen, and one
of them would surely get the silver arrow.

Sam, who was too lazy to practise, soon gave up
the contest, saying, as Thorny did, "It wouldn't be
fair for such a big fellow to try with the little chaps,"
which made a laugh, as his want of skill was painfully
evident.  But Mose went at it gallantly; and, if his
eye had been as true as his arms were strong, the
"little chaps" would have trembled. But his shots
were none of them as near as Billy's; and he retired
after the third failure, declaring that it was impossible
to shoot against the wind, though scarcely a breath
was stirring.

Sally Folsom was bound to beat Bab, and twanged
away in great style; all in vain, however, as with tall
Maria Newcomb, the third girl who attempted the trial.
Being a little near-sighted, she had borrowed her
sister's eye-glasses, and thereby lessened her chance
of success; for the pinch on her nose distracted her
attention, and not one of her arrows went beyond
the second ring to her great disappointment. Billy
did very well, but got nervous when his last shot
came, and just missed the bull's-eye by being in a
hurry.

Bab and Ben each had one turn more; and, as
they were about even, that last arrow would decidr
the victory.  Both had sent a shot into the bull's-eye,
but neither was exactly in the middle; so there was
room to do better, even, and the children crowded
round, crying eagerly, "Now, Ben!" "Now, Bab!"
"Hit her up, Ben!" "Beat him, Bab!"  while
Thorny looked as anxious as if the fate of the country
depended on the success of his man.  Bab's turn
came first; and, as Miss Celia examined her bow to
see that all was right, the little girl said, With her
eyes on her rival's excited face, --

"I want to beat, but Ben will feel so bad, I 'most
hope I sha'n't."

"Losing a prize sometimes makes one happier than
gaining it. You have proved that you could do better
than most of them; so, if you do not beat, you may
still feet proud," answered Miss Celia, giving back the
bow with a smile that said more than her words.

It seemed to give Bab a new idea, for in a minute
all sorts of recollections, wishes, and plans rushed
through her lively little mind, and she followed a
sudden generous impulse as blindly as she often
did a wilful one.

"I guess he'll beat," she said, softly, with a quick
sparkle of the eyes, as she stepped to her place and
fired without taking her usual careful aim.

Her shot struck almost as near the centre on the
right as her last one had hit on the left; and there
was a shout of delight from the girls as Thorny
announced it before he hurried back to Ben, whispering
anxiously, --

"Steady, old Man, steady; you must beat that, or
we shall never hear the last of it."

Ben did not say, "She won't get ahead of me," as
he had said at the first; he set his teeth, threw off
his hat, and, knitting his brows with a resolute
expression, prepared to take steady aim, though his
heart beat fast and his thumb trembled as he pressed
it on the bowstring.

"I hope you'll beat, I truly do," said Bab, at his
elbow; and, as if the breath that framed the generous
wish helped it on its way, the arrow flew straight
to the bull's-eye, hitting, apparently, the very spot
where Bab's best shot had left a hole.

"A tie! a tie!" cried the girls, as a general rush
took place toward the target.

"No, Ben's is nearest.  Ben's beat! Hooray
shouted the boys, throwing up their hats.
There was only a hair's-breadth difference, and
Bab could honestly have disputed the decision; but
she did not, though for an instant she could not
help wishing that the cry had been "Bab's beat!
Hurrah! " it sounded so pleasant.  Then she saw
Ben's beaming face, Thorny's intense relief, and
caught the look Miss Celia sent her over the heads
of the boys, and decided, with a sudden warm glow
all over her little face, that losing a prize did
sometimes make one happier than winning it. Up went
her best hat, and she burst out in a shrill, "Rah,
rah, rah!" that sounded very funny coming all alone
after the general clamor had subsided.

"Good for you, Bab! you are an honor to the
club. and I'm proud of you", said Prince Thorny,
with a hearty handshake; for, as his man had won,
he could afford to praise the rival who had put him
on his mettle, though she was a girl.

Bab was much uplifted by the royal commendation,
but a few minutes later felt pleased as well as proud
when Ben, having received the prize, came to her, as
she stood behind a tree sucking her blistered thumb,
while Betty braided up her dishevelled locks.

"I think it would be fairer to call it a tie, Bab, for
it really was, and I want you to wear this.  I wanted
the fun of beating, but I don't care a bit for this girl's
thing and I'd rather see it on you."

As he spoke, Ben offered the rosette of green
ribbon which held the silver arrow, and Bab's eyes
brightened as they fell upon the pretty ornament,
for to her "the girl's thing" was almost as good as
the victory.

"Oh no; you must wear it to show who won.
Miss Celia wouldn't like it.  I don't mind not getting
it; I did better than all the rest, and I guess I
shouldn't like to beat you," answered Bab, unconsciously
putting into childish words the sweet generosity which
makes so many sisters glad to see their
brothers carry off the prizes of life, while they are
content to know that they have earned them and can
do without the praise.

But if Bab was generous, Ben was just; and
though he could not explain the feeling, would not
consent to take all the glory without giving his little
friend a share.

"You must wear it; I shall feel real mean if you
don't. You worked harder than I did, and it was
only luck my getting this.  Do, Bab, to please me,"
he persisted, awkwardly trying to fasten the ornament
in the middle of Bab's' white apron.

"Then I will. Now do you forgive me for losing
Sancho?" asked Bab, with a wistful look which
made Ben say, heartily, --

"I did that when he came home."

"And you don't think I'm horrid?"

"Not a bit of it; you are first-rate, and I'll stand
by you like a man, for you are 'most as good as a
boy!" cried Ben, anxious to deal handsomely with his
feminine rival, whose skill had raised her immensely
in his opinion.

Feeling that he could not improve that last compliment,
Bab was fully satisfied, and let him leave the
prize upon her breast, conscious that she had some
claim to it.

"That is where it should be, and Ben is a true
knight, winning the prize that he may give it to his
lady, while he is content with the victory," said Miss
Celia, laughingly, to Teacher, as the children ran off
to join in the riotous games which soon made the
orchard ring.

"He learned that at the circus 'tunnyments,' as
he calls them. He is a nice boy, and I am much
interested in him; for he has the two things that do
most toward making a man, patience and courage,"
answered Teacher, also as she watched the
young knight play and the honored lady
tearing about in a game of tag.

"Bab is a nice child, too," said Miss Celia; "she
is as quick as a flash to catch an idea and carry it
out, though very often the ideas are wild ones. She
could have won just now, I fancy, if she had tried,
but took the notion into her head that it was nobler
to let Ben win, and so atone for the trouble she gave
him in losing the dog. I saw a very sweet look on
her face just now, and am sure that Ben will never
know why he beat."

"She does such things at school sometimes, and I
can't bear to spoil her little atonements, though they
are not always needed or very wise," answered
Teacher. "Not long ago I found that she had been
giving her lunch day after day to a poor child who
seldom had any, and when I asked her why, she said,
with tears, 'I used to laugh at Abby, because she had
only crusty, dry bread, and so she wouldn't bring
any. I ought to give her mine and be hungry, it was
so mean to make fun of her poorness."

"Did you stop the sacrifice?"

"No; I let Bab 'go halves,' and added an extra
bit to my own lunch, so I could make my contribution
likewise."

"Come and tell me about Abby.  I want to make
friends with our poor people, for soon I shall have a
right to help them;" and, putting her arm in Teacher's,
Miss Celia led her away for a quiet chat in the porch,
making her guest's visit a happy holiday by confiding
several plans and asking advice in the friendliest way.

CHAPTER XXI: CUPID'S LAST APPEARANCE

A picnic supper on the grass followed the games,
and then, as twilight began to fall, the young
people were marshalled to the coach-house,
now transformed into a rustic theatre.  One big door
was open, and seats, arranged lengthwise, faced the
red table-cloths which formed the curtain.  A row of
lamps made very good foot-lights, and an invisible
band performed a Wagner-like overture on combs,
tin trumpets, drums, and pipes, with an accompaniment
of suppressed laughter.

Many of the children had never seen any thing like
it, and sat staring about them in mute admiration and
expectancy; but the older ones criticised freely, and
indulged in wild speculations as to the meaning of
various convulsions of nature going on behind the
curtain.

While Teacher was dressing the actresses for the
tragedy, Miss Celia and Thorny, who were old hands
at this sort of amusement, gave a "Potato" pantomime
as a side show.

Across an empty stall a green cloth was fastened,
so high that the heads of the operators were not seen.
A little curtain flew up, disclosing the front of a
Chinese pagoda painted on pasteboard, with a door
and window which opened quite naturally. This stood
on one side, several green trees with paper lanterns
hanging from the boughs were on the other side, and
the words "Tea Garden," printed over the top, showed
the nature of this charming spot.

Few of the children had ever seen the immortal
Punch and Judy, so this was a most agreeable novelty,
and before they could make out what it meant, a
voice began to sing, so distinctly that every word was
heard, --

"In China there lived a little man,
His name was Chingery Wangery Chan."

Here the hero "took the stage" with great dignity,
clad in a loose yellow jacket over a blue skirt, which
concealed the hand that made his body.  A pointed
hat adorned his head, and on removing this to bow
he disclosed a bald pate with a black queue in the
middle, and a Chinese face nicely painted on the
potato, the lower part of which was hollowed out to
fit Thorny's first finger, while his thumb and second
finger were in the sleeves of the yellow jacket, making
a lively pair of arms.  While he saluted, the song
went n, --

"His legs were short, his feet were small,
And this little man could not walk at all."

Which assertion was proved to be false by the agility
with which the "little man " danced a jig in time
to the rollicking chorus, --

"Chingery changery ri co day,
Ekel tekel happy man;
Uron odesko canty oh, oh,
Gallopy wallopy China go."

At the close of the dance and chorus, Chan retired
into the tea garden, and drank so many cups of the
national beverage, with such comic gestures, that the
spectators were almost sorry when the opening of
the opposite window drew all eyes in that direction.
At the lattice appeared a lovely being; for this potato
had been pared, and on the white surface were painted
pretty pink checks, red lips, black eyes, and oblique
brows; through the tuft of dark silk on the head
were stuck several glittering pins, and a pink jacket
shrouded the plump figure of this capital little Chinese
lady. After peeping coyly out, so that all could
see and admire, she fell to counting the money from
a purse, so large her small hands could hardly hold it
on the window seat.  While she did this, the song
went on to explain, --

"Miss Ki Hi was short and squat,
She had money and he had not
So off to her he resolved to go,
And play her a tune on his little banjo."

During the chorus to this verse Chan was seen tuning
his instrument in the garden, and at the end
sallied gallantly forth to sing the following tender
strain, --

"Whang fun li,
Tang hua ki,
Hong Kong do ra me!
Ah sin lo,
Pan to fo,
Tsing up chin leute!"

Carried away by his passion, Chan dropped his
banjo, fell upon his knees, and, clasping his hands,
bowed his forehead in the dust before his idol. But,
alas! --

"Miss Ki Hi heard his notes of love,
And held her wash-bowl up above
It fell upon the little man,
And this was the end of Chingery Chan,"

Indeed it was; for, as the doll's basin of real water
was cast forth by the cruel charmer, poor Chan expired
in such strong convulsions that his head rolled
down among the audience. Miss Ki Hi peeped to
see what had become of her victim, and the shutter
decapitated her likewise, to the great delight of the
children, who passed around the heads, pronouncing
a "Potato" pantomime "first-rate fun."

Then they settled themselves for the show, having
been assured by Manager Thorny that they were about
to behold the most elegant and varied combination
ever produced on any stage.  And when one reads
the following very inadequate description of the
somewhat mixed entertainment, it is impossible to deny
that the promise made was nobly kept.

After some delay and several crashes behind the
curtain, which mightily amused the audience, the
performance began with the well-known tragedy of
"Bluebeard;" for Bab had set her heart upon it,
and the young folks had acted it so often in their
plays that it was very easy to get up, with a few
extra touches to scenery and costumes.  Thorny was
superb as the tyrant with a beard of bright blue worsted,
a slouched hat and long feather, fur cloak, red
hose, rubber boots, and a real sword which clanked
tragically as he walked.  He spoke in such a deep
voice, knit his corked eye-brows, and glared so
frightfully, that it was no wonder poor Fatima quaked
before him as he gave into her keeping an immense
bunch of keys with one particularly big, bright one,
among them.

Bab was fine to see, with Miss Celia's blue dress
sweeping behind her, a white plume in her flowing
hair, and a real necklace with a pearl locket about her
neck.  She did her part capitally, especially the shriek
she gave when she looked into the fatal closet, the
energy with which she scrubbed the tell-tale key,
and her distracted tone when she callcd out: "Sister
Anne, O, sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?"
while her enraged husband was roaring: "Will you
come down, madam, or shall I come and fetch
you?"

Betty made a captivating Anne, -- all in white muslin,
and a hat full of such lovely pink roses that she
could not help putting up one hand to feel them as
she stood on the steps looking out at the little window
for the approaching brothers who made such a din
that it sounded like a dozen horsemen instead if two.

Ben and Billy were got up regardless of expense in
the way of arms; for their belts were perfect arsenals,
and their wooden swoids were big enough to strike
terror into any soul, though they struck no sparks out
of Bluebeard's blade in the awful combat which preceded
the villain's downfall and death.

The boys enjoyed this part intensely, and cries of
"Go it, Ben!" " Hit him again, Billy!" "Two against
one isn't fair!" "Thorny's a match for 'em." " Now
he's down, hurray!" cheered on the combatants, till,
after a terrific struggle, the tyrant fell, and with
convulsive twitchings of the scarlet legs, slowly expired
while the ladies sociably fainted in each other's arms,
and the brothers waved their swords and shook hands
over the corpse of their enemy.

This piece was rapturously applauded, and all the
performers had to appear and bow their thanks, led
by the defunct Bluebeard, who mildly warned the
excited audience that if they "didn't look out the seats
would break down, and then there'd be a nice mess."

Calmed by this fear they composed themselves, and
waited with ardor for the next play, which promised to
be a lively one, judging from the shrieks of laughter
which came from behind the cuitain.

"Sanch 's going to be in it, I know; for I heard
Ben say, 'Hold him still; he won't bite,'" whispered
Sam, longing to "jounce up and down, so great was
his satisfaction at the prospect, for the dog was
considered the star of the company.

"I hope Bab will do something else, she is so funny.
Wasn't her dress elegant?" said Sally Folsum, burning
to wear a long wilk gown and a feathei in her hair.

"I like Betty best, she's so cunning, and she peeked
out of the window just as if she really saw somebody
coming," answered Liddy Peckham, privately resolving
to tease mother for some pink roses before another
Sunday came.

Up went the curtain at last, and a voice announced
"A Tragedy in Three Tableaux." "There's Betty!"
was the general exclamation, as the audience recognized
a familiar face under the little red hood worn by
the child who stood receiving a basket from Teacher,
who made a nice mother with her finger up, as if
telling the small messenger not to loiter by the way.

"I know what that is!" cried Sally; "it's 'Mabel
on Midsummer Day.' The piece Miss Celia spoke;
don't you know?"

"There isn't any sick baby, and Mabel had a 'kerchief
pinned about her head.' I say it's Red Riding
Hood," answered Liddy, who had begun to learn
Mary Howitt's pretty poem for her next piece, and
knew all about it.

The question was settled by the appearance of the
wolf in the second scene, and such a wolf! On few
amateur stages do we find so natural an actor for that
part, or so good a costume, for Sanch was irresistibly
droll in the gray wolf-skin which usually lay beside
Miss Celia's bed, now fitted over his back and fastened
neatly down underneath, with his own face
peeping out at one end, and the handsome tail bobing
gayly at the other.  What a comfort that tail was
to Sancho, none but a bereaved bow-wow could ever
tell.  It reconciled him to his distasteful part at once,
it made rehearsals a joy, and even before the public
he could not resist turning to catch a glimpse of the
noble appendage, while his own brief member wagged
with the proud consciousness that though the tail did
not match the head, it was long enough to be seen of
all men and dogs.

That was a pretty picture, for the little maid came
walking in with the basket on her arm, and such an
innocent face inside the bright hood that it was quite
natural the gray wolf should trot up to her with
deceitful friendliness, that she should pat and talk
to him confidingly about the butter for grandma, and
then that they should walk away together, he politely
carrying her basket, she with her hand on his head,
little dreaming what evil plans were taking shape
inside.

The children encored that, but there was no time
to repeat it, so they listened to more stifled merriment
behind the red table-cloths, and wondered
whether the next scene would be the wolf popping his
head out ofthe window as Red Riding Hood knocks,
or the tragic end of that sweet child.

It was neither, for a nice bed had been made, and
in it reposed the false grandmother, with a ruffled
nightcap on, a white gown, and spectacles.  Betty
lay beside the wolf, staring at him as if just about to
say, "Why, grandma, what great teeth you've got!"
for Sancho's mouth was half open and a red tongue
hung out, as he panted with the exertion of keeping
still. This tableau was so very good, and yet so
funny, that the children clapped and shouted frantically;
this excited the dog, who gave a bounce and
would have leaped off the bed to bark at the rioters,
if Betty had not caught him by the legs, and Thorny
dropped the curtain just at the moment when the
wicked wolf was apparently in the act of devouring
the poor little girl, with most effuctive growls.

They had to come out then, and did so, both much
dishevelled by the late tussle, for Sancho's cap was all
over one eye, and Betty's hood was anywhere but on
her head. She made her courtesy prettily, however;
her fellow-actor bowed with as much dignity as a short
night-gown permitted, and they retired to their well-
earned repose.

Then Thorny, looking much excited, appeared to
make the following request: "As one of the actors in
the next piece is new to the business, the company
must all keep as still as mice, and not stir till I give
the word. It's perfectly splendid! so don't you spoil
it by making a row."

"What do you suppose it is?" asked every one, and
listened with all their might to get a hint, if possible.
But what they heard only whetted their curiosity and
mystified them more and more.  Bab's voice cried in
a loud whisper, "Isn't Ben beautiful?" Then there
was a thumping noise, and Miss Celia said, in an
anxious tone, "Oh, do be careful," while Ben laughed
out as if he was too happy to care who heard him,
and Thorny bawled "Whoa!" in a way which would
have attracted attention if Lita's head had not
popped out of her box, more than once, to survey
the invaders of her abode, with a much astonished
expression.

"Sounds kind of circusy, don't it?" said Sam to
Billy, who had come out to receive the compliments
of the company and enjoy the tableau at a safe
distance.

"You just wait till you see what's coming.  It beats
any circus I ever saw," answered Billy, rubbing his
hands with the air of a man who had seen many instead
of but one.

"Ready! Be quick and get out of the way when
she goes off!" whispered Ben, but they heard him and
prepared for pistols, rockets or combustibles of some
sort, as ships were impossible under the circumstances,
and no other "She" occurred to them.

A unanimous "O-o-o-o !" was heard when the curtain
rose, but a stern "Hush!" from Thorny kept
them mutely staring with all their eyes at the grand
spectacle of the evening.  There stood Lita with a
wide flat saddle on her back, a white head-stall and
reins, blue rosettes in her ears, and the look of a
much-bewildered beast in her bright eyes.  But who the
gauzy, spangled, winged creature was, with a gilt
crown on its head, a little bow in its hand, and one white
slipper in the air, while the other seemed merely to
touch the saddle, no one could tell for a minute, so
strange and splendid did the apparition appear.  No
wonder Ben was not recognized in this brilliant
disguise, which was more natural to him than Billy's blue
flannel or Thorny's respectable garments.  He had so
begged to be allowed to show himself "just once," as
he used to be in the days when "father" tossed him
up on the bare-backed old General, for hundreds to
see and admire, that Miss Celia had consented, much
against her will, and hastily arranged some bits of
spangled tarlatan over the white cotton suit which was to
simulate the regulation tights.  Her old dancing slippers
fitted, and gold paper did the rest, while Ben,
sure of his power over Lita, promised not to break
his bones, and lived for days on the thought of the
moment when he could show the boys that he had not
boasted vainly of past splendors.

Before the delighted children could get their breath,
Lita gave signs of her dislike to the foot-lights, and,
gathering up the reins that lay on her neck, Ben gave
the old cry, "Houp-la!" and let her go, as he had
often done before, straight out of the coach-house for
a gallop round the orchard.

"Just turn about and you can see perfectly well,
but stay where you are till he comes back," commanded
Thorny, as signs of commotion appeared in
the excited audience.

Round went the twenty children as if turned by
one crank, and sitting there they looked out into the
moonlight where the shining figure flashed to and fro,
now so near they could see the smiling face under
the crown, now so far away that it glittered like a
fire-fly among the dusky green. Lita enjoyed that
race as heartily as she had done several others of late,
and caracoled about as if anxious to make up for her
lack of skill by speed and obedience.  How much
Ben liked it there is no need to tell, yet it was a
proof of the good which three months of a quiet, useful
life had done him, that even as he pranced gayly
under the boughs thick with the red and yellow apples
almost ready to be gathered, he found this riding in
the fresh air with only his mates for an audience
pleasanter than the crowded tent, the tired horses,
profane men, and painted women, friendly as some of
them had been to him.

After the first burst was over, he felt rather glad, on
the whole, that he was going back to plain clothes,
helpful school, and kindly people, who cared more to
have him a good boy than the most famous Cupid that
ever stood on one leg with a fast horse under him.

"You may make as much noise as you like, now;
Lita's had her run and will be as quiet as a lamb after
it. Pull up, Ben, and come in; sister says you'll get
cold," shouted Thorny, as the rider came cantering
round after a leap over the lodge gate and back
again.

So Ben pulled up, and the admiring boys and girls
were allowed to gather about him, loud in their
praises as they examined the pretty mare and the
mythological character who lay easily on her back.

He looked very little like the god of love now; for
he had lost one slipper and splashed his white legs
with dew and dust, the crown had slipped down upon
his neck, and the paper wings hung in an apple-tree
where he had left them as he went by.  No trouble
in recognizing Ben, now; but somehow he didn't
want to be seen, and, instead of staying to be praised,
he soon slipped away, making Lita his excuse to
vanish behind the curtain while the rest went into the
house to have a finishing-off game of blindman's-buff
in the big kitchen.

"Well, Ben, are you satisfied?" asked Miss Celia,
as she stayed a moment to unpin the remains of his
gauzy scarf and tunic.

"Yes, 'm, thank you, it was tip-top."

"But you look rather sober.  Are you tired, or is
it because vou don't want to take these trappings off
and be plain Ben again?" she said, looking down
into his face as he lifted it for her to free him from
his gilded collar.

"I want to take 'em off; for somehow I don't feel
respectable," and he kicked away the crown he had
helped to make so carefully, adding with a glance
that said more than his words: "I'd rather be 'plain
Ben' than any one else, for you like to have me."

"Indeed I do; and I'm so glad to hear you say
that, because I was afraid you'd long to be off to the
old ways, and all I've tred to do would be undone.
Would you like to go back, Ben?" and Miss Celia
held his chin an instant, to watch the brown face that
looked so honestly back at her.

"No, I wouldn't -- unless -- he was there and
wanted me."

The chin quivered just a bit, but the black eyes
were as bright as ever, and the boy's voice so earnest,
she knew he spoke the truth, and laid her white hand
softly on his head, as she answered in the tone he
loved so much, because no one else had ever used it
to him, --

"Father is not there; but I know he wants you,
dear, and I am sure he would rather see you in a
home like this than in the place you came from.  Now
go and dress; but, tell me first, has it been a happy
birthday?"

"Oh, Miss Celia! I didn't know they could be so
beautiful, and this is the beautifulest part of it;
I don't know how to thank you, but I'm going to try --" and,
finding words wouldn't come fast enough, Ben just
put his two arms round her, quite speechless with
gratitude; then, as if ashamed of his little outburst,
he knelt down in a great hurry to untie his one shoe.

But Miss Celia liked his answer better than the
finest speech ever made her, and went away through
the moonlight, saying to herself, --

"If I can bring one lost lamb into the fold, I shall
be the fitter for a shepherd's wife, by-and-by."

CHAPTER XXII: A BOY'S BARGAIN

It was some days before the children were tired
of talking over Ben's birthday party; for it was
a great event in their small world; but, gradually,
newer pleasures came to occupy their minds,
and they began to plan the nutting frolics which
always followed the early frosts.  While waiting for
Jack to open the chestnut burrs, they varied the
monotony of school life by a lively scrimmage long
known as "the wood-pile fight."

The girls liked to play in the half-empty shed, and
the boys, merely for the fun of teasing, declared that
they should not, so blocked up the doorway as fast as
the girls cleared it. Seeing that the squabble was a
merry one,and the exercise better for all than lounging
in the sun or reading in school during recess, Teacher
did not interfere, and the barrier rose and fell almost
as regularly as the tide.

It would be difficult to say which side worked the
harder; for the boys went before school began to
build up the barricade, and the girls stayed after
lessons were over to pull down the last one made in
afternoon recess. They had their play-time first;
and, while the boys waited inside, they heard the
shouts of the girls, the banging of the wood, and the
final crash, as the well-packed pile went down. Then,
as the lassies came in, rosy, breathless, and triumphant,
the lads rushed out to man the breach, and labor gallantly
till all was as tight as hard blows could make it.

So the battle raged, and bruised knuckles, splinters
in fingers, torn clothes, and rubbed shoes, were the
only wounds received, while a great deal of fun was
had out of the maltreated logs, and a lasting peace
secured between two of the boys.

When the party was safely over, Sam began to fall
into his old way of tormenting Ben by calling names,
as it cost no exertion to invent trying speeches, and
slyly utter them when most likely to annoy.  Ben
bore it as well as he could; but fortune favored him
at last, as it usually does the patient, and he was  ble
to make his own terms with his tormentor.

When the girls demolished the wood-pile, they performed
a jubilee chorus on combs, and tin kettles,
played like tambourines; the boys celebrated their
victories with shrill whistles, and a drum accompaniment
with fists on the shed walls.  Billy brought his
drum, and this was such an addition that Sam hunted
up an old one of his little brother's, in order that he
might join the drum corps.  He had no sticks, however,
and, casting about in his mind for a good
substitute for the genuine thing, bethought him of
bulrushes.

"Those will do first-rate, and there are lots in the
ma'sh, if I can only get 'em," he said to himself, and
turned off from the road on his way home to get a
supply.

Now, this marsh was a treacherous spot, and the
tragic story was told of a cow who got in there and
sank till nothing was visible but a pair of horns above
the mud, which suffocated the unwary beast.  For this
reason it was called "Cowslip Marsh," the wags said,
though it was generally believed to be so named for
the yellow flowers which grew there in great profusion
in the spring.

Sam had seen Ben hop nimbly from one tuft of
grass to another when he went to gather cowslips for
Betty, and the stout boy thought he could do the
same.  Two or three heavy jumps landed him, not
among the bulrushes, as he had hoped, but in a pool
of muddy water, where he sank up to his middle with
alarming rapidity.  Much scared, he tried to wade out,
but could only flounder to a tussock of grass, and
cling there, while he endeavored to kick his legs free.
He got them out, but struggled in vain to coil them
up or to hoist his heavy body upon the very small
island in this sea of mud. Down they splashed
again; and Sam gave a dismal groan as he thought
of the leeches and water-snakes which might be lying
in wait below. Visions of the lost cow also flashed
across his agitated mind, and he gave a despairing
shout very like a distracted "Moo!"

Few people passed along the lane, and the sun was
setting, so the prospect of a night in the marsh nerved
Sam to make a frantic plunge toward the bulrush
island, which was nearer than the mainland, and
looked firmer than any tussock round him.  But he
failed to reach this haven of rest, and was forced to stop
at an old stump which stuck up, looking very like the
moss-grown horns of the "dear departed." Roosting
here, Sarn began to shout for aid in every key possible
to the human voice.  Such hoots and howls, whistles
and roars, never woke the echoes of the lonely marsh
before, or scared the portly frog who resided there in
calm seclusion.

He hardly expected any reply but the astonished
Caw!" of the crow, who sat upon a fence watching
him with gloomy interest; and when a cheerful
"Hullo, there!" sounded from the lane, he was so
grateful that tears of joy rolled down his fat cheeks.

"Come on! I'm in the ma'sh.  Lend a hand and
get me out! bawled Sam, anxiously waiting for his
deliverer to appear, for he could only see a hat bobbing
along behind the hazel-bushes that fringed the lane.

Steps crashed through the bushes, and then over
the wall came an active figure, at the sight of which
Sam was almost ready to dive out of sight, for, of all
possible boys, who should it be but Ben, the last person
in the world whom he would like to have see
him in his present pitiful plight.

"Is it you, Sam? Well, you are in a nice fix!"
and Ben's eyes began to twinkle with mischievous
merriment, as well they might, for Sam certainly was
a spectacle to convulse the soberest person. Perched
unsteadily on the gnarled stump, with his muddy legs
drawn up, his dismal face splashed with mud, and the
whole lower half of his body as black as if he had
been dipped in an inkstand, he presented such a
comically doleful object that Ben danced about,
laughing like a naughty will-o'-the-wisp who, having
led a traveller astray then fell to jeering at him.

"Stop that, or I'll knock your head off!" roared
Sam, in a rage.

"Come on and do it; I give you leave," answered
Ben, sparring away derisively as the other tottered on
his perch, and was forced to hold tight lest he should
tumble off.

"Don't laugh, there 's a good chap, but fish me out
somehow, or I shall get my death sitting here all wet
and cold," whined Sam, changing his tune, and feeling
bitterly that Ben had the upper hand now.

Ben felt it also; and, though a very good-natured
boy, could not resist the temptation to enjoy this
advantage for a moment at least.

"I won't laugh if I can help it; only you do look
so like a fat, speckled frog, I may not be able to hold
in. I'll pull you out pretty soon; but first I'm going
to talk to you, Sam," said Ben, sobering down as he
took a seat on the little point of land nearest the
stranded Samuel.

"Hurry up, then; I'm as stiff as a board now, and
it's no fun sitting here on this knotty old thing,"
growled Sam, with a discontented squirm.

"Dare say not, but 'it is good for you,' as you say
when you rap me over the head.  Look here, I've
got you in a tight place, and I don't mean to help
you a bit till you promise to let me alone.  Now
then!" and Ben's face grew stern with his remembered
wrongs as he grimly eyed his discomfited foe.

"I'll promise fast enough if you won't tell anyone
about this," answered Sam, surveying himself and his
surroundings with great disgust.

"I shall do as I like about that."

"Then I won't promise a thing! I'm not going
to have the whole school laughing at me," protested
Sam, who hated to be ridiculed even more than Ben
did.

"Very well; good-night!" and Ben walked off
with his hands in his pockets as coolly as if the bog
was Sam's favorite retreat.

"Hold on, don't be in such a hurry!" shouted Sam,
seeing little hope of rescue if he let this chance go.

"All right! " and back came Ben, ready for further
negotiations.

"I'll promise not to plague you, if you'll promise
not to tell on me.  Is that what you want?"

"Now I come to think of it, there is one thing
more. I like to make a good bargain when I begin,"
said Ben, with a shrewd air. " You must promise to
keep Mose quiet, too. He follows your lead, and if
you tell him to stop it he will.  If I was big enough,
I'd make you hold your tongues.  I ain't, so we'll
try this way."

"Yes, Yes, I'll see to Mose.  Now, bring on a rail,
there's a good fellow.  I've got a horrid cramp in
my legs," began Sam, thinking he had bought help
dearly, yet admiring Ben's cleverness in making the
most of his chance.

Ben brought the rail, but, just as he was about to
lay it from the main-land to the nearest tussock, he
stopped, saying, with the naughty twinkle in his black
eyes again, "One more little thing must be settled
first, and then I'll get you ashore. promise you
won't plague the girls either, 'specially Bab and
Betty.  You pull their hair, and they don't like it."

"Don't neither!  Wouldn't touch that Bab for a
dollar; she scratches and bites like a mad cat," was
Sam's sulky reply.

"Glad of it; she can take care of herself.  Betty
can't; and if you touch one of her pig-tails I'll up
and tell right out how I found you snivelling in the
ma'sh like a great baby.  So now!" and Ben emphasized
his threat with a blow of the suspended rail
which splashed the water over poor Sam, quenching
his last spark of resistance.

"Stop! I will! -- I will!"

"True as you live and breathe!" demanded Ben,
sternly binding him by the most solemn oath he
knew.

"True as I live and breathe," echoed Sam, dolefully
relinquishing his favorite pastime of pulling
Betty's braids and asking if she was at home.

"I'll come over there and crook fingers on the
bargain," said Ben, settling the rail and running over
it to the tuft, then bridging another pool and crossing
again till he came to the stump.

"I never thought of that way," said Sam, watching
him with much inward chagrin at his own failure.

"I should think you'd written 'Look before you
leap,' in your copy-book often enough to get the idea
into your stupid head. Come, crook," commanded
Ben, leaning forward with extended little finger.
Sam obediently performed the ceremony, and then
Ben sat astride one of the horns of the stump while
the muddy Crusoe went slowly across the rail from
point to point till he landed safely on the shore,
when he turned about and asked with an ungrateful
jeer, --

"Now what's going to become of you, old Look-
before-you-leap ? "

"Mud turtles can only sit on a stump and bawl till
they are taken off, but frogs have legs worth something,
and are not afraid of a little water," answered
Ben, hopping away in an opposite direction, since
the pools between him and Sam were too wide for
even his lively legs.

Sam waddled off to the brook in the lane to
rinse the mud from his nether man before facing his
mother, and was just wringing himself out when Ben
came up, breathless but good natured, for he felt that
he had made an excellent bargain for himself and
friends.

"Better wash your face; it's as speckled as a
tiger-lily.  Here's my handkerchief if yours is wet,"
he said, pulling out a dingy article which had
evidently already done service as a towel.

"Don't want it," muttered Sam, gruffly, as he
poured the water out of his muddy shoes.

"I was taught to say ' Thanky' when folks got me
out of scrapes.  But you never had much bringing
up, though you do 'live in a house with a gambrel
roof,'" retorted Ben, sarcastically quoting Sam's
frequent boast; then he walked off, much disgusted
with the ingratitude of man.

Sam forgot his manners, but he remembered his
promise, and kept it so well that all the school
wondered.  No one could guess the secret of Ben's power
over him, though it was evident that he had gained
it in some sudden way, for at the least sign of Sam's
former tricks Ben would crook his little finger and
wag it warningly, or call out "Bulrushes!" and Sam
subsided with reluctant submission, to the great
amazement of his mates.  When asked what it meant,
Sa, turned sulky; but Ben had much fun out of it,
assuring the other boys that those were the signs
and password of a secret society to which he and
Sam belonged, and promised to tell them all about it
if Sam would give him leave, which, of course, he
would not.

This mystery, and the vain endeavors to find it
out caused a lull in the war of the wood-pile, and
before any new game was invented something happened
which gave the children plenty to talk about for a
time.

A week after the secret alliance was formed, Ben
ran in one evening with a letter for Miss Celia. He
found her enjoying the cheery blaze of the pine-cones
the little girls had picked up for her, and Bab and
Betty sat in the small chairs rocking luxuriously as
they took turns to throw on the pretty fuel.  Miss
Celia turned quickly to receive the expected letter,
glanced at the writing, post-mark and stamp, with
an air of delighted surprise, then clasped it close
in both hands, saying, as she hurried out of the
room, --

"He has come! he has come! Now you may tell
them, Thorny."

"Tell its what? asked Bab, pricking up her cars
at once.

"Oh, it's only that George has come, and I suppose
we shall go and get married right away," answered
Thorny, rubbing his hands as if he enjoyed
the prospect.

"Are you going to be married?  asked Betty, so soberly
that the boys shouted, and Thorny, with difficulty
composed himself sufficiently to explain.

"No, child, not just yet; but sister is, and I must
go and see that all is done up ship-shape, and bring
you home some wedding-cake. Ben will take care
of you while I'm gone."

"When shall you go?" asked Bab, beginning to long
for her share of cake.

"To-morrow, I guess.  Celia has been packed and
ready for a week.  We agreed to meet George in New
York, and be married as soon as he got his best clothes
unpacked.  We are men of our word, and off we go.
Won't it be fun?"

"But when will you come back again?" questioned
Betty, looking anxious.

"Don't know.  Sister wants to come soon, but I'd
rather have our honeymoon somewhere else, -- Niagara,
Newfoundland, West Point, or the Rocky Mountains,"
said Thorny, mentioning a few of the places he
most desired to see.

"Do you like him?" asked Ben, very naturally wondering
if the new master would approve of the young man-of-all-work.

"Don't I? George is regularly jolly; though now
he's a minister, perhaps he'll stiffen up and turn sober.
Won't it be a shame if he does?" and Thorny looked
alarmed at the thought of losing his congenial friend.

"Tell about him; Miss Celia said you might", put
in Bab, whuse experience of "jolly" ministers had
been small.

"Oh, there isn't much about it.  We met in Switzerland
going up Mount St. Bernard in a storm, and -- "

"Where the good dogs live?" inquired Betty, hoping
they would come into the story.

"Yes; we spent the night up there, and George
gave us his room; the house was so full, and he
wouldn't let me go down a steep place where I wanted
to, and Celia thought he'd saved my life, and was very
good to him. Then we kept meeting, and the first thing
I knew she went and was engaged to him.  I didn't
care, only she would come home so he might go on
studying hard and get through quick.  That was a year
ago, and last winter we were in New York at uncle's;
and then, in the spring, I was sick, and we came here,
and that's all."

"Shall you live here always when you come back?
asked Bab, as Thorny paused for breath.

"Celia wants to.  I shall go to college, so I don't
mind.  George is going to help the old minister here
and see how he likes it.  I'm to study with him, and
if he is as pleasant as he used to be we shall have
capital times, -- see if we don't."

"I wonder if he will want me round," said Ben,
feeling no desire to be a tramp again.

"I do, so you needn't fret about that, my hearty,"
answered Thorny, with a resounding slap on the
shoulder which reassured Ben more than any promises.

"I'd like to see a live wedding, then we could play
it with our dolls. I've got a nice piece of mosquito
netting for a veil, and Belinda's white dress is clean.
Do you s'pose Miss Celia will ask us to hers?" said
Betty to Bab, as the boys began to discuss St. Bernard
dogs with Spirit.

"I wish I could, dears," answered a voice behind
them; and there was Miss Celia, looking so happy that
the little girls wondered what the letter could have said
to give her such bright eyes and smiling lips." I shall
not be gone long, or be a bit changed when I come
back, to live among you years I hope, for I am fond
of the old place now, and mean it shall be home," she
added, caressing the yellow heads as if they were dear
to her.

"Oh, goody!" cried Bab, while Betty whispered
with both arms round Miss Celia, --

"I don't think we could bear to have anybody else
come here to live."

"It is very pleasant to hear you say that, and I mean
to make others feel so, if I can.  I have been trying a
little this summer, but when I come back I shall go to
work in earnest to be a good minister's wife, and you
must help me."

"We will," promised both children, ready for any
thing except preaching in the high pulpit.

Then Miss Celia turned to Ben, saying, in the
respectful way that always made him feel at least
twenty-five, --

"We shall be off to-moriow, and I leave you in
charge.  Go on just as if we were here, and be sure
nothing will be changed as far as you are concerned
when we come back."

Ben's face beamed at that; but the only way he
could express his relief was by making such a blaze
in honor of the occasion that he nearly roasted the
company.

Next morning, the brother and sister slipped quietly
away, and the children hurried to school, eager to tell
the great news that "Miss Celia and Thorny had gone
to be married, and were coming back to live here for
ever and ever."


CHAPTER XXIII: SOMEBODY COMES

Bab and Betty had been playing in the avenue
all the afternoon several weeks later, but as the
shadows began to lengthen both agreed to sit
upon the gate and rest while waiting for Ben, who had
gone nutting with a party of boys.  When they played
house Bab was always the father, and went hunting or
fishing with great energy and success, bringing home
all sorts of game, from elephants and crocodiles to
humming-birds and minnows.  Betty was the mother, and
a most notable little housewife, always mixing up
imaginary delicacies with sand and dirt in old pans
and broken china, which she baked in an oven of her
own construction.

Both had worked hard that day, and were glad to
retire to their favorite lounging-place, where Bab was
happy trying to walk across the wide top bar without
falling off, and Betty enjoyed slow, luxurious swings
while her sister was recovering from her tumbles.  On
this occasion, having indulged their respective tastes,
they paused for a brief interval of conversation, sitting
side by side on the gate like a pair of plump gray
chickens gone to roost.

"Don't you hope Ben will get his bag full?  We
shall have such fun eating nuts evenings observed
Bab, wrapping her arms in her apron, for it was October
now, and the air was growing keen.

"Yes, and Ma says we may boil some in our little
kettles.  Ben promised we should have half," answered
Betty, still intent on her cookery.

"I shall save some of mine for Thorny."

"I shall keep lots of mine for Miss Celia."

"Doesn't it seem more than two weeks since she
went away?"

"I wonder what she'll bring us."

Before Bab could conjecture, the sound of a step
and a familiar whistle made both look expectantly
toward the turn in the road, all ready to cry out in
one voice, "How many have you got?" Neither
spoke a word, however, for the figure which presently
appeared was not Ben, but a stranger, -- a man
who stopped whistling, and came slowly on dusting
his shoes in the way-side grass, and brushing the
sleeves of his shabby velveteen coat as if anxious to
freshen himself up a bit.

"It's a tramp, let's run away," whispered Betty,
after a hasty look.

"I ain't afraid," and Bab was about to assume her
boldest look when a sneeze spoilt it, and made her
clutch the gate to hold on.

At that unexpected sound the man looked up,
showing a thin, dark face, with a pair of sharp, black
eyes, which surveyed the little girls so steadily that
Betty quaked, and Bab began to wish she had at
least jumped down inside the gate.

"How are you?" said the man with a goodnatured
nod and smile, as if to re-assure the round-eyed
children staring at him.

"Pretty well, thank you, sir," responded Bab,
politely nodding back at him.

"Folks at home? " asked the ,an, looking over
their heads toward the house.

"Only Ma; all the rest have gone to be married."

"That sounds lively.  At the other place all the
folks had gone to a funeral," and the man laughed as
he glanced at the big house on the hill.

"Whh, do you know the Squire?" exclaimed Bab,
much surprised and re-assured.

"Come on purpose to see him. Just strolling
round till he gets back," with an impatient sort of
sigh.

"Betty thought you was a tramp, but I wasn't
afraid. I like tramps ever since Ben came,"
explained Bab, with her usual candor.

"Who 's Ben!" and the man came nearer so
quickly that Betty nearly fell backward.  "Don't
you be scared, Sissy. I like little girls, so you set
easy and tell me about Ben," he added, in a persuasive
tone, as he leaned on the gate so near that both
could see what a friendly face he had in spite of its
eager, anxious look.

"Ben is Miss Celia's boy.  We found him most
starved in the coach-house, and he's been here ever
since," answered Bab, comprehensively.

"Tell me about it. I like tramps, too," and
the man looked as if he did very much, as Bab told
the little story in a few childish words that were
better than a much more elegant account.

"You were very good to the little feller," was all
the man said when she ended her somewhat confused
tale, in which she had jumbled the old coach
and Miss Celia, dinner-pails and nutting, Sancho and
circuses.

"'Course we were!  He's a nice boy and we are
fond of him, and he likes us," said Bab, heartily.

" 'Specially me," put in Betty, quite at ease now,
for the black eyes had softened wonderfully, and the
brown face was smiling all over.

"Don't wonder a mite. You are the nicest pair
of little girls I've seen this long time," and the man
put a hand on either side of them, as if he wanted to
hug the chubby children.  But he didn't do it; he
merely smiled and stood there asking questions till
the two chatterboxes had told him every thing there
was to tell in the most confiding manner, for he very
soon ceased to seem like a stranger, and looked so
familiar that Bab, growing inquisitive in her turn,
suddenly said, --

"Haven't you ever been here before? It seems as
if I'd seen you."

"Never in my life.  Guess you've seen somebody
that looks like me," and the black eyes twinkled for
a minute as they looked into the puzzled little faces
before him, then he said, soberly, --

"I'm looking round for a likely boy; don't you
think this Ben would suite me?  I want just such a
lively sort of chap."

"Are you a circus man?" asked Bab, quickly.

"Well, no, not now. I'm in better business."

"I'm glad of it -- we don't approve of 'em; but I
do think they're splendid!"

Bab began by gravely quoting Miss Celia, and ended
with an irrepressible burst of admiration which
contrasted drolly with her first remark.

Betty added, anxiously: "We can't let Ben go any
way.  I know he wouldn't want to, and Miss Celia
would feel bad.  Please don't ask him."

"He can do as he likes, I suppose.  He hasn't got
any folks of his own, has he?"

"No, his father died in California, and Ben felt so
bad he cried, and we were real sorry, and gave him a
piece of Ma, 'cause he was so lonesome," answered
Betty, in her tender little voice, with a pleading look
which made the man stroke her smooth check and
say, quite softly, --

"Bless your heart for that! I won't take him
away, child, or do a thing to trouble anybody that's
been good to him."

"He 's coming now.  I hear Sanch barking at the
squirrels!" cried Bab, standing up to get a good
look down the road.

The man turned quickly, and Betty saw that he
breathed fast as he watched the spot where the low
sunshine lay warmly on the red maple at the corner.
Into this glow came unconscious Ben, whistling "Rory
O'Moore," loud and Clear, as he trudged along with a
heavy bag of nuts over his shoulder and the light full
on his contented face.  Sancho trotted before and
saw the stranger first, for the sun in Ben's eyes
dazzled him.  Since his sad loss Sancho cherished
a strong dislike to tramps, and now he paused to
growl and show his teeth, evidently intending to warn
this one off the premises.

"He won't hurt you -- " began Bab, encouragingly;
but before she could add a chiding word to
the dog, Sanch gave an excited howl, and flew at the
man's throat as if about to throttle him.

Betty screamed, and Bab was about to go to the
rescue when both perceived that the dog was licking
the stranger's face in an ecstasy of joy, and heard the
man say as he hugged the curly beast, --

"Good old Sanch!" I knew he wouldn't forget
master, and he doesn't"

"What's the matter?" called Ben, coming up
briskly, with a strong grip of his stout stick.
There was no need of any answer, for, as he came
into the shadow, he saw the man, and stood looking
at him as if he were a ghost.

"It's father, Benny; don't you know me?" asked the
man, with an odd sort of choke in his voice, as he thrust
the dog away, and held out both hands to the boy.
Down dropped the nuts, and crying, "Oh, Daddy,
Daddy!" Ben cast himself into the arms of the shabby
velveteen coat, while poor Sanch tore round them in
distracted circles, barking wildly, as if that was the
only way in which he could vent his rapture.

What happened next Bab and Betty never stopped
to see, but, dropping from their roost, they went
flying home like startled Chicken Littles with the
astounding news that "Ben's father has come alive,
and Sancho knew him right away!"

Mrs. Moss had just got her cleaning done up, and
was resting a minute before setting the table, but she
flew out of her old rocking-chair when the excited
children told the wonderful tale, exclaiming as they
ended, --

"Where is he?  Go bring him here.  I declare it
fairly takes my breath away!"

Before Bab could obey, or her mother compose
herself, Sancho bounced in and spun round like an
insane top, trying to stand on his head, walk upright,
waltz and bark all at once, for the good old fellow
had so lost his head that he forgot the loss of his tail.

"They are coming! they are coming! See, Ma,
what a nice man he is," said Bab, hopping about on
one foot as she watched the slowly approaching pair.

"My patience, don't they look alike! I should
know he was Ben's Pa anywhere!" said Mrs. Moss,
running to the door in a hurry.

They certainly did resemble one another, and it was
almost comical to see the same curve in the legs, the
same wide-awake style of wearing the hat, the same
sparkle of the eye, good-natured smile and agile
motion of every limb.  Old Ben carried the bag in
one hand while young Ben held the other fast, looking
a little shame-faced at his own emotion now, for
there were marks of tears on his cheeks, but too glad
to repress the delight he felt that he had really found
Daddy this side heaven.

Mrs. Moss unconsciously made a pretty little picture
of herself as she stood at the door with her honest
face shining and both hands ont, saying in a hearty
tone, which was a welcome in itself,

"I'm real glad to see you safe and well, Mr.
Brown!  Come right in and make yourself to home.
I guess there isn't a happier boy living than Ben is
to-night."

"And I know there isn't a gratefuler man living
than I am for your kindness to my poor forsaken little
feller," answered Mr. Brown, dropping both his burdens
to give the comely woman's hands a hard shake.

"Now don't say a word about it, but sit down and
rest, and we'll have tea in less'n no time.  Ben must
be tired and hungry, though he's so happy I don't
believe he knows it," laughed Mrs. Moss, bustling
away to hide the tears in her eyes, anxious to make
things sociable and easy all round.

With this end in view she set forth her best china,
and covered the table with food enough for a dozen,
thanking her stars that it was baking day, and
every thing had turned out well. Ben and his father sat
talking by the window till they were bidden to "draw
up and help themselves" with such hospitable warmth
that every thing had an extra relish to the hungry
pair.

Ben paused occasionally to stroke the rusty coat-
sleeve with bread-and-buttery fingers to convince
himself that "Daddy" had really come, and his father
disposed of various inconvenient emotions by eating as
if food was unknown in California.  Mrs. Moss beamed
on every one from behind the big tea-pot like a mild
full moon, while Bab and Betty kept interrupting one
another in their eagerness to tell something new about
Ben and how Sanch lost his tail.

"Now you let Mr. Brown talk a little; we all want
to hear how he 'came alive,' as you call it," said Mrs.
Moss, as they drew round the fire in the "settin'-room,"
leaving the tea-things to take care of themselves.

It was not a long story, but a very interesting one
to this circle of listeners; all about the wild life on the
plains trading for mustangs, the terrible kick from a
vicious horse that nearly killed Ben, sen., the long
months of unconsciousness in the California hospital,
the slow recovery, the journey back, Mr. Smithers's
tale of the boy's disappearance, and then the anxious
trip to find out from Squire Allen where he now was.

"I asked the hospital folks to write and tell you as
soon as I knew whether I was on my head or my
heels, and they promised; but they didn't; so I came
off the minute I could, and worked my way back,
expecting to find you at the old place. I was afraid
you'd have worn out your welcome here and gone
off again, for you are as fond of travelling as your
father."

"I wanted to sometimes, but the folks here were
so dreadful good to me I couldn't," confessed Ben,
secretly surprised to find that the prospect of going off
with Daddy even cost him a pang of regret, for the
boy had taken root in the friendly soil, and was no
longer a wandering thistle-down, tossed about by
every wind that blew.

"I know what I owe 'em, and you and I will work
out that debt before we die, or our name isn't B.B.,"
said Mr. Brown, with an emphatic slap on his knee,
which Ben imitated half unconsciously as he exclaimed
heartily, --

"That's so!" adding, more quietly, "What are
you going to do now? Go back to Smithers and the
old business?"

"Not likely, after the way he treated you, Sonny.
I've had it Out with him, and he won't want to see
me again in a hurry," answered Mr. Brown, with a
sudden kindling of the eye that reminded Bab of Ben's
face when he shook her after losing Sancho.

"There's more circuses than his in the world; but
I'll have to limber out ever so much before I'm good
for much in that line," said the boy, stretching his
stout arms and legs with a curious mixture of satisfaction
and regret.

"You've been living in clover and got fat, you
rascal," and his father gave him a poke here and there,
as Mr. Squeers did the plump Wackford, when displaying
him as a specimen of the fine diet at Do-the-boys Hall.
"Don't believe I could put you up now
if I tried, for I haven't got my strength back yet, and
we are both out of practice. It's just as well, for I've
about made up my mind to quit the business and
settle down somewhere for a spell, if I can get any
thing to do," continued the rider, folding his arms and
gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

"I shouldn't wonder a mite if you could right here,
for Mr. Towne has a great boarding-stable over
yonder, and he's always wanting men." Said Mrs.
Moss, eagerly, for she dreaded to have Ben go, and
no one could forbid it if his father chose to take
him away.

"That sounds likely.  Thanky, ma'am.  I'll look
up the concern and try my chance.  Would you call
it too great a come-down to have father an 'ostler
after being first rider in the 'Great Golden Menagerie,
Circus, and Colossem,' hey, Ben? " asked Mr. Brown,
quoting the well-remembered show-bill with a laugh.

"No, I shouldn't; it's real jolly up there when
the big barn is full and eighty horses have to be
taken care of. I love to go and see 'em. Mr. Towne
asked me to come and be stable-boy when I rode the
kicking gray the rest were afraid of. I hankered
to go, but Miss Celia had just got my new books, and
I knew she'd feel bad if I gave up going to school.
Now I'm glad I didn't, for I get on first rate and
like it."

"You done right, boy, and I'm pleased with you.
Don't you ever be ungrateful to them that befriended
you, if you want to prosper.  I'll tackle the stable
business a Monday and see what's to be done.  Now
I ought to be walking, but I'll be round in the morning
ma'am, if you can spare Ben for a spell to-morrow.
We'd like to have a good Sunday tramp and talk;
wouldn't we, Sonny?" and Mr. Brown rose to go with
his hand on Ben's shoulder, as if loth to leave him
even for the night.

Mrs. Moss saw the longing in his face, and forgetting
that he was an utter stranger, spoke right out of
her hospitable heart.

"It's a long piece to the tavern, and my little back
bedroom is always ready.  It won't make a mite of
trouble if you don't mind a plain place, and you are
heartily welcome."

Mr. Brown looked pleased, but hesitated to accept
any further favor from the good soul who had already
done so much for him and his.  Ben gave him no
time to speak, however, for running to a door he
flung it open and beckoned, saying, eagerly, --

"Do stay, father; it will be so nice to have you.
This is a tip-top room; I slept here the night I came,
and that bed was just splendid after bare ground for a
fortnight."

"I'll stop, and as I'm pretty well done up, I guess
we may as well turn in now," answered the new guest;
then, as if the memory of that homeless little lad so
kindly cherished made his heart overflow in spite of
him, Mr. Brown paused at the door to say hastily,
with a hand on Bab and Betty's heads, as if his
promise was a very earnest one, --

"I don't forget, ma'am, these children shall never
want a friend while Ben Brown's alive; " then he shut
the door so quickly that the other Ben's prompt
"Hear, hear!" was cut short in the middle.

"I s'pose he means that we shall have a piece of
Ben's father, because we gave Ben a piece of our
mother," said Betty, softly.

"Of course he does, and it's all fair," answered
Bab, decidedly.  "Isn't he a nice man, Ma?

"Go to bed, children," was all the answer she got;
but when they were gone, Mrs. Moss, as she washed
up her dishes, more than once glanced at a certain
nail where a man's hat had not hung for five years,
and thought with a sigh what a natural, protecting air
that slouched felt had.

If one wedding were not quite enough for a child's
story, we might here hint what no one dreamed of
then, that before the year came round again Ben
had found a mother, Bab and Betty a father, and Mr.
Brown's hat was quite at home behind the kitchen
door.  But, on the whole, it is best not to say a word
about it.

CHAPTER XXIV: THE GREAT GATE IS OPENED

The Browns were up and out so early next
morning that Bab and BeLty were sure they
had run away in the night.  But on looking
for them, they were discovered in the coach-house
criticising Lita, both with their hands in their pockets,
both chewing straws, and looking as much alike as a
big elephant and a small one.

"That's as pretty a little span as I've seen for a
long time," said the elder Ben, as the children came
trotting down the path hand in hand, with the four
blue bows at the ends of their braids bobbing briskly
up and down.

"The nigh one is my favorite, but the off one is
the best goer, though she's dreadfully hard bitted,"
answered Ben the younger, with such a comical assumption
of a jockey's important air that his father
laughed as he said in an undertone, --

"Come, boy, we must drop the old slang since
we've given up the old business.  These good folks
are making a gentleman of you, and I won't be the
one to spoil their work. Hold on, my dears, and I'll
show you how they say good-moining in California,"
he added, beckoning to the litlle girls, who now came
up rosy and smiling.

"Breakfast is ready, sir," said Betty, looking much
relieved to find them.

"We thought you'd run away from us," explained
Bab, as both put out their hands to shake those
extended to them.

"That would be a mean trick.  But I'm going to
run away with you," and Mr. Brown whisked a little
girl to either shoulder before they knew what had
happened, while Ben, remembering the day, with
difficulty restrained himself from turning a series
of triumphant somersaults before them all the way
to the door, where Mrs. Moss stood waiting for
them.

After breakfast Ben disappeared for a short time,
and returned in his Sunday suit, looking so neat and
fresh that his father surveyed him with surprise and
pride as he came in full of boyish satisfaction in his
trim array.

"Here's a smart young chap! Did you take all
that trouble just to go to walk with old Daddy?"
asked Mr. Brown, stroking the smooth head, for they
were alone just then, Mrs. Moss and the children
being up stairs preparing for church.

"I thought may be you'd like to go to meeting
first," answered Ben, looking up at him with such a
happy face that it was hard to refuse any thing.
I'm too shabby, Sonny, else I'd go in a minute
to please you."

"Miss Celia said God didn't mind poor clothes, and
she took me when I looked worse than you do.  I
always go in the morning; she likes to have me," said
Ben, turning his hat about as if not quite sure what
he ought to do.

"Do you want to go?" asked his father in a tone
of surprise.

"I want to please her, if you don't mind.  We
could have our tramp this afternoon."

"I haven't been to meeting since mother died, and
it don't seem to come easy, though I know I ought
to, seeing I'm alive and here," and Mr. Brown looked
soberly out at the lovely autumn world as if glad to
be in it after his late danger and pain.

"Miss Celia said church was a good place to take
our troubles, and to be thankful in.  I went when I
thought you were dead, and now I'd love to go when
I've got my Daddy safe again,"

No one saw him, so Ben could not resist giving his
father a sudden hug, which was warmly returned as
the man said earnestly, --

"I'll go, and thank the Lord hearty for giving me
back my boy better'n I left him!"

For a minute nothing was heard but the loud tick
of the old clock and a mournful whine front Sancho,
shut up in the shed lest he should go to church without
an invitation.

Then, as steps were heard on the stairs, Mr. Brown
caught up his hat, saying hastily, --

"I ain't fit to go with them, you tell 'm, and I'll
slip into a back seat after folks are in.  I know the
way." And, before Ben could reply, he was gone.
Nothing was seen of him along the way, but he saw
the little party, and rejoiced again over his boy,
changed in so many ways for the better; for Ben
was the one thing which had kept his heart soft
through all the trials and temptations of a rough life.

"I promised Mary I'd do my best for the poor
baby she had to leave, and I tried; but I guess a
better friend than I am has been raised up for him
when he needed her most.  It won't hurt me to follow
him in this road," thought Mr. Brown, as he came
out into the highway from his stroll "across-lots,"
feeling that it would be good for him to stay in this
quiet place, for his own as well as his son's sake.

The Bell had done ringing when he reached the
green, but a single boy sat on the steps and rail to
meet him, saying, with a reproachful look, --

"I wasn't going to let you be alone, and have folks
think I was ashamed of my father. Come, Daddy,
we'll sit together."

So Ben led his father straght to the Squire's pew,
and sat beside him with a face so full of innocent pride
and joy, that people would have suspected the truth
if he had not already told many of them.  Mr. Brown,
painfully conscious of his shabby coat, was rather
"taken aback," as he expressed it; but the Squire's
shake of the hand, and Mrs. Allen's gracious nod
enabled him to face the eyes of the interested
congregation, the younger portion of which stared steadily
at him all sermon time, in spite of paternal frowns
and maternal tweakings in the rear.

But the crowning glory of the day came after
church, when the Squire said to Ben, and Sam heard
him, --

"I've got a letter for you from Miss Celia. Come
home with me, and bring your father. I want to talk
to him."

The boy proudly escorted his parent to the old
carry-all, and, tucking hiniself in behind with Mrs.
Allen, had the satisfaction of seeing the slouched felt
hat side by side with the Squire's Sunday beaver in
front, as they drove off at such an unusually smart
pace, it was evident that Duke knew there was a
critical eye upon him.  The interest taken in the father
was owing to the son at first; but, by the time the
story was told, old Ben had won friends for himself
not only because of the misfortunes which he had
evidently borne in a manly way, but because of his
delight in the boy's improvement, and the desire he
felt to turn his hand to any honest work, that he might
keep Ben happy and contented in this good home.

"I'll give you a line to Towne.  Smithers spoke
well of you, and your own ability will be the best
recommendation," said the Squire, as he parted from
them at his door, having given Ben the letter.

Miss Celia had been gone a fortnight, and every
one was longing to have her back. The first week
brought Ben a newspaper, with a crinkly line drawn
round the marriages to attract attention to that spot,
and one was marked by a black frame with a large
hand pointing at it from the margin.  Thorny sent
that; but the next week came a parcel for Mrs. Moss,
and in it was discovered a box of wedding cake for
every member of the family, including Sancho, who
ate his at one gulp, and chewed up the lace paper
which covered it.  This was the third week; and, as
if there could not be happiness enough crowded into
it for Ben, the letter he read on his way home told
him that his dear mistress was coming back on the
following Saturday.  One passage particularly pleased
him, --

"I want the great gate opened, so that the new
master may go in that way.  Will you see that it is
done, and all made neat afterward?  Randa will give
you the key, and you may have out all your flags if
you like, for the old place cannot look too gay for
this home-coming."

Sunday though it was, Ben could not help waving
the letter over his head as he ran in to tell Mrs. Moss
the glad news, and begin at once to plan the welcome
they would give Miss Celia, for he never called her
any thing else.

During their afternoon stroll in the mellow sunshine,
Ben continued to talk of her, never tired of
telling about his happy summer under her roof.  And
Mr. Brown was never weary of hearing, for every hour
showed him more plainly what a lovely miracle her
gentle words had wrought, and every hour increased
his gratitude, his desire to return the kindness in
some humble way.  He had his wish, and did his
part handsomely when he least expected to have a
chance.

On Monday he saw Mr. Towne, and, thanks to the
Squire's good word, was engaged for a month on
trial, making himself so useful that it was soon evident
he was the right man in the right place.  He lived on
the hill, but managed to get down to the little brown
house in the evening for a word with Ben, who just
now was as full of business as if the President and
his Cabinet were coming.

Every thing was put in apple-pie order in and
about the old house; the great gate, with much creaking
of rusty hinges and some clearing away of rubbish,
was set wide open, and the first creature who entered
it was Sancho, solemnly dragging the dead mullein
which long ago had grown above the keyhole. October
frosts seemed to have spared some of the
brightest leaves for this especial occasion; and on
Saturday the arched gate-way was hung with gay
wreaths, red and yellow sprays strewed the flags, and
the porch was a blaze of color with the red woodbine,
that was in its glory when the honeysuckle was leafless.

Fortunately it was a half-holiday, so the children
could trim and chatter to their heart's content, and
the little girls ran about sticking funny decorations
where no one would ever think of looking for them.
Ben was absorbed in his flags, which were sprinkled
all down the avenue with a lavish display, suggesting
several Fourth of Julys rolled into one.  Mr. Brown
had come to lend a hand, and did so most energetically,
for the break-neck things he did with his son
during the decoration fever would have terrified Mrs.
Moss out of her wits, if she had not been in the house
giving last touches to every room, while Randa and
Katy set forth a sumptuous tea.

All was going well, and the train would be due in
an hour, when luckless Bab nearly turned the rejoicing
into mourning, the feast into ashes.  She heard
her mother say to Randa, "There ought to be a fire
in every room, it looks so cheerful, and the air is
chilly spite of the sunshine;" and, never waiting to
hear the reply that some of the long-unused chimneys
were not safe till cleaned, off went Bab with an apron
full of old shingles, and made a roaring blaze in the
front room fire-place, which was of all others the
one to be let alone, as the flue was out of order.

Charmed with the brilliant light and the crackle of
the tindery fuel, Miss Bab refilled her apron, and fed
the fire till the chimney began to rumble ominously,
sparks to fly out at the top, and soot and swallows'
nests to come tumbling down upon the hearth.  Then,
scared at what she had done, the little mischief-maker
hastily buried her fire, swept up the rubbish, and ran
off, thinking no one would discover her prank if she
never told.

Everybody was very busy, and the big chimney
blazed and rumbled unnoticed till the cloud of smoke
caught Ben's eye as he festooned his last effort in the
flag line, part of an old sheet with the words "Father
has come!" in red cambric letters half a foot long
sewed upon it.

"Hullo ! I do believe they've got up a bonfire.
without asking my leave.  Miss Celia never would
let us, because the sheds and roofs are so old and
dry; I must see about it.  Catch me, Daddy, I'm
coming down! " cried Ben, dropping out of the elm
with no more thought of where he might light than a
squirrel swinging from bough to bough.

His father caught him, and followed in haste as his
nimble-footed son raced up the avenue, to stop in the
gate-way, frightened at the prospect before him, for
falling sparks had already kindled the roof here and
there, and the chimney smoked and roared like a
small volcano, while Katy's wails and Randa's cries
for water came from within.

"Up there with wet blankets, while I get out the
hose!" cried Mr. Brown, as he saw at a glance what
the danger was.

Ben vanished; and, before his father got the garden
hose rigged, he was on the roof with a dripping
blanket over the worst spot. Mrs. Moss had her wits
about her in a minute, and ran to put in the fireboard,
and stop the draught.  Then, stationing Randa
to watch that the falling cinders did no harm inside,
she hurried off to help Mr. Brown, who might not know
where things were.  But he had roughed it so long,
that he was the man for emergencies, and seemed to
lay his hand on whatever was needed, by a sort of
instinct. Finding that the hose was too short to
reach the upper part of the roof, he was on the roof
in a jiffy with two pails of water, and quenched the
most dangerous spots before much harm was done.

This he kept up till the chimney burned itself out,
while Ben dodged about among the gables with a
watering pot, lest some stray sparks should be over-
looked, and break out afresh.

While they worked there, Betty ran to and fro with
a dipper of water, trying to help; and Sancho barked
violently, as if he objected to this sort of illumination.
But where was Bab, who revelled in flurries?  No
one missed her till the fire was out, and the tired,
sooty people met to talk over the danger just escaped.

"Poor Miss Celia wouldn't have had a roof over
her head, if it hadn't been for you, Mr. Brown," said
Mrs. Moss, sinking into a kitchen chair, pale with the
excitement.

"It would have burnt lively, but I guess it's all
right now. Keep an eye on the roof, Ben, and I'll
step up garret and see if all's safe there.  Didn't you
know that chininey was foul, ma'am?" asked the
man, as he wiped the perspiration off his grimy face.

"Randa said it was, and I 'in surprised she made a
fire there," began Mrs. Moss, looking at the maid,
who just then came in with a pan full of soot.

"Bless you, ma'am, I never thought of such a
thing, nor Katy neither.  That naughty Bab must
have done it, and so don't dar'st to show herself,"
answered the irate Randa, whose nice room was in
a mess.

"Where is the child?" asked her mother; and a
hunt was immediately instituted by Betty and Sancho,
while the elders cleared up.

Anxious Betty searched high and low, called and
cried, but all in vain; and was about to sit down in
despair, when Sancho made a bolt into his new
kennel and brought out a shoe with a foot in it while
a doleful squeal came from the straw within.

"Oh, Bab, how could you do it?  Ma was frighened
dreadfully," said Betty, gently tugging at the
striped leg, as Sancho poked his head in for another
shoe.

"Is it all burnt up?" demanded a smothered voice
from the recesses of the kennel.

"Only pieces of the roof.  Ben and his father put
it out, and I helped," answered Betty, cheering up a
little as she recalled her noble exertions.

"What do they do to folks who set houses afire?
asked the voice again.

"I don't know; but you needn't be afraid, their
isn't much harm done, I guess, and Miss Celia will
forgive you, she's so good."

"Thorny won't; he calls me a 'botheration,' and I
guess I am," mourned the unseen culprit, with sincere
contrition.

"I'll ask him; he is always good to me.  They
will be here pretty soon, so you'd better come out
and be made tidy," suggested the comforter.

"I never can come out, for every one will hate
me," sobbed Bab among the straw, as she pulled in
her foot, as if retiring for ever from an outraged
world.

"Ma won't, she's too busy cleaning up; so it's a
good time to come.  Let's run home, wash our hands,
and be all nice when they see us. I'll love you, no
matter what anybody else does," said Betty, consoling
the poor little sinner, and proposing the sort of
repentance most likely to find favor in the eyes of the
agitated elders.

"P'raps I'd better go home, for Sanch will want
his bed," and Bab gladly availed herself of that excuse
to back out of her refuge, a very crumpled, dusty
young lady, with a dejected face and much straw
sticking in her hair.

Betty led her sadly away, for she still protested
that she never should dare to meet the offended
public again; but in fifteen minutes both appeared
in fine order and good spirits, and naughty Bab
escaped a lecture for the time being, as the train
would soon be due.

At the first sound of the car whistle every one
turned good-natured as if by magic, and flew to the
gate smiling as if all mishaps were forgiven and
forgotten. Mrs. Moss, however, slipped quietly away,
and was the first to greet Mrs. Celia as the carriage
stopped at the entrance of the avenue, so that the
luggage might go in by way of the lodge.

"We will walk up and you shall tell us the news as
we go, for I see you have some," said the young lady,
in her friendly manner, when Mrs. Moss had given
her welcome and paid her respects to the gentleman
who shook hands in a way that convinced her he was
indeed what Thorny called him, "regularly jolly,"
though he was a minister.

That being exactly what she came for, the good
woman told her tidings as rapidly as possible, and the
new-comers were so glad to hear of Ben's happiness
they made very light of Bab's bonfire, though it had
nearly burnt their house down.

"We won't say a word about it, for every one must
be happy to-day," said Mr. George, so kindly that
Mrs. Moss felt a load taken off her heart at once.

"Bab was always teasing me for fireworks, but I
guess she has had enough for the present," laughed
Thorny, who was gallantly escorting Bab's mother up
the avenue.

"Every one is so kind! Teacher was out with the
children to cheer us as we passed, and here you all
are making things pretty for me," said Mrs. Celia,
smiling with tears in her eyes, as they drew near the
great gate, which certainly did present an animated
if not an imposing appearance.

Randa and Katy stood on one side, all in their
best, bobbing delighted courtesies; Mr. Brown, half
hidden behind the gate on the other side, was keeping
Sancho erect, so that he might present arms promptly
when the bride appeared.  As flowers were scarce,
on either post stood a rosy little girl clapping her
hands, while out from the thicket of red and yellow
boughs, which made a grand bouquet in the lantern
frame, came Ben's head and shoulders, as he waved
his grandest flag with its gold paper "Welcome
Home!" on a blue ground.

"Isn't it beautiful!" cried Mrs. Celia, throwing
kisses to the children, shaking hands with her maids,
and glancing brightly at the stranger who was keeping
Sanch quiet.

"Most people adorn their gate-posts with stone
balls, vases, or griffins; your living images are a
great improvement, love, especially the happy boy
in the middle," said Mr. George, eying Ben with
interest, as he nearly tumbled overboard, top-heavy
with his banner.

"You must finish what I have only begun," answered
Celia, adding gayly as Sancho broke loose and came
to offer both his paw and his congratulations. "Sanch,
introduce your master, that I may thank him for coming
back in time to save my old house."

"If I'd saved a dozen it wouldn't have half paid
for all you've done for my boy, ma'am," answered
Mr. Brown, bursting out from behind the gate quite
red with gratitude and pleasure.

"I loved to do it, so please remember that this
is still his home till you make one for him.  Thank
God, he is no longer fatherless!" and her sweet face
said even more than her words as the white hand
cordially shook the brown one with a burn across the
back.

"Come on, sister.  I see the tea-table all ready, and
I'm awfully hungry," interrupted Thorny, who had
not a ray of sentiment about him, though very glad
Ben had got his father back again.

"Come over, by-and-by, little friends, and let me
thank you for your pretty welcome, -- it certainly is
a warm one;" and Mrs. Celia glanced merrily from
the three bright faces above her to the old chimney,
which still smoked sullenly.

"Oh, don't!" cried Bab, hiding her face.

"She didn't mean to," added Betty, pleadingly.

"Three cheers for the bride!" roared Ben, dipping
his flag, as leaning on her husband's arm his dear
mistress passed under the gay arch, along the
leaf-strewn walk, over the threshold of the house which
was to be her happy home for many years.

The closed gate where the lonely little wanderer
once lay was always to stand open now, and the path
where children played before was free to all comers,
for a hospitable welcome henceforth awaited rich and
poor, young and old, sad and gay, Under the Lilacs.





End Project Gutenberg Etext of Under the Lilacs, by Louisa May Alcott