Title: Under the Lilacs
Author:  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 being rather 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'll 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-house, 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 girls 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, smiling, 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 young 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, pining 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, an