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 difficulty, 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.
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 liberty to 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 lifeWhen I was a little child.
"Sweet are the flowers of lifeThat I spent with my father at home;Sweet are the flowers of lifeWhen children played about the house.
"Sweet are the flowers of lifeWhen the lamps are lighted at night;Sweet are the flowers of lifeWhen the flowers of summer bloomed.
"Sweet are the flowers of lifeDead with the snows of winter;Sweet are the flowers of lifeWhen 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 passingO'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'll 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 with 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.
"Thank you, ma'am, that's a tip-top book, 'specially the pictures. But I can't bear to see these poor fellows;" and Ben brooded over the fine etching of the dead and dying horses on a battle-field, one past all further pain, the other helpless, but lifting his head from his dead master to neigh a farewell to the comrades who go galloping away in a cloud of dust.
"They ought to stop for him, some of 'em," muttered Ben, hastily turning back to the cheerful picture of the three happy horses in the field, standing knee-deep among the grass as they prepare to drink at the wide stream.
"Ain't that black one a beauty? Seems as if I could see his mane blow in the wind, and hear him whinny to that small feller trotting down to see if he can't get over and be sociable. How I'd like to take a rousin' run round that meadow on the whole lot of 'em!" and Ben swayed about in his chair as if he was already doing it in imagination.
"You may take a turn round my field on Lita any day. She would like it, and Thorny's saddle will be here next week," said Miss Celia, pleased to see that the boy appreciated the fine pictures, and felt such hearty sympathy with the noble animals whom she dearly loved herself.
"Needn't wait for that. I'd rather ride bareback. Oh, I say, is this the book you told about, where the horses talked?" asked Ben, suddenly recollecting the speech he had puzzled over ever since he heard it.
"No; I brought the book, but in the hurry of my tea-party forgot to unpack it. I'll hunt it up to-night. Remind me, Thorny."
"There, now, I've forgotten something, too! Squire sent you a letter; and I'm having such a jolly time, I never thought of it."
Ben rummaged out the note with remorseful haste, protesting that he was in no hurry for Mr. Gulliver, and very glad to save him for another day. Leaving the young folks busy with their games, Miss Celia sat in the porch to read her letters, for there were two; and as she read her face grew so sober, then so sad, that if any one had been looking he would have wondered what bad news had chased away the sunshine so suddenly. No one did look; no one saw how pitifully her eyes rested on Ben's happy face when the letters were put away, and no one minded the new gentleness in her manner as she came back, to the table. But Ben thought there never was so sweet a lady as the one who leaned over him to show him how the dissected map went together and never smiled at his mistakes.
So kind, so very kind was she to them all, that when, after an hour of merry play, she took her brother in to bed, the three who remained fell to praising her enthusiastically as they put things to rights before taking leave.
"She's like the good fairies in the books, and has all sorts of nice, pretty things in her house," said Betty, enjoying a last hug of the fascinating doll whose lids would shut so that it was a pleasure to Sing, "Bye, sweet baby, bye," with no staring eyes to Spoil the illusion.
"What heaps she knows! More than Teacher, I do believe; and she doesn't mind how many questions we ask. I like folks that will tell me things," added Bab, whose inquisitive mind was always hungry.
"I like that boy first-rate, and I guess he likes me, though I didn't know where Nantucket ought to go. He wants me to teach him to ride when he's on his pins again, and Miss Celia says I may. She knows how to make folks feel good, don't she?" and Ben gratefully surveyed the Arab chief, now his own, though the best of all the collection.
"Won't we have splendid times? She Says we may come over every night and play with her and Thorny."
"And she's goin', to have the seats in the porch lift up, so we can put our things in there all day and have 'em handy."
"And I'm going to be her boy, and stay here all the time. I guess the letter I brought was a recommend from the Squire."
"Yes, Ben; and if I had not already made up my mind to keep you before, I certainly would now, my boy."
Something in Miss Celia's voice, as she said the last two words with her hand on Ben's shoulder, made him look up quickly and turn red with pleasure, wondering what the Squire had written about him.
"Mother must have some of the party; so you shall take her these, Bab, and Betty may carry Baby home for the night. She is so nicely asleep, it is a pity to wake her. Good by till to-morrow, little neighbors," continued Miss Celia, and dismissed the girls with a kiss.
"Is Ben coming, too?" asked Bab, as Betty trotted off in a silent rapture with the big darling bobbing over her shoulder.
"Not yet; I've several things to settle with my new man. Tell mother he will come by-and-by."
Off rushed Bab with the plateful of goodies; and, drawing Ben down beside her on the wide step, Miss Celia took out the letters, with a shadow creeping over her face as softly as the twilight was stealing over the world, while the dew fell, and every thing grew still and dim.
"Ben, dear, I've something to tell you," she began, slowly; and the boy waited with a happy face, for no one had called him so since 'Melia died.
"The Squire has heard about your father, and this is the letter Mr. Smithers sends."
"Hooray! where is he, please?" cried Ben, wishing she would hurry up; for Miss Celia did not even offer him the letter, but sat looking down at Sancho on the lower step, as if she wanted him to come and help her. "He went after the mustangs, and sent some home, but could not come himself."
"Went further on, I s'pose. Yes, he said he might go as far as California, and if he did he'd send for me. I'd like to go there; it's a real splendid place, they say."
"He has gone further away than that, to a lovelier country than California, I hope." And Miss Celia's eyes turned to the deep sky, where early stars were shining.
"Didn't he send for me? Where's he gone? When 's he coming back?" asked Ben, quickly; for there was a quiver in her voice, the meaning of which he felt before he understood.
Miss Celia put her arms about him, and answered very tenderly,—"Ben, dear, if I were to tell you that he was never coming back, could you bear it?"
"I guess I could,—but you don't mean it? Oh, ma'am, he isn't dead?" cried Ben, with a cry that made her heart ache, and Sancho leap up with a bark.
"My poor little boy, I wish I could say no."
There was no need of any more words, no need of tears or kind arms around him. He knew he was an orphan now, and turned instinctively to the old friend who loved him best. Throwing himself down beside his dog, Ben clung about the curly neck, sobbing bitterly,—
"Oh, Sanch, he's never coming back again; never, never any more!"
Poor Sancho could only whine and lick away the tears that wet the half-hidden face, questioning the new friend meantime with eyes so full of dumb love and sympathy and sorrow that they seemed almost human. Wiping away her own tears, Miss Celia stooped to pat the white head, and to stroke the black one lying so near it that the dog's breast was the boy's pillow. Presently the sobbing ceased, and Ben whispered, without looking up,—
"Tell me all about it; I'll be good."
Then, as kindly as she could, Miss Celia read the brief letter which told the hard news bluntly; for Mr. Smithers was obliged to confess that he had known the truth months before, and never told the boy, lest he should be unfitted for the work they gave him. Of Ben Brown the elder's death there was little to tell, except that he was killed in some wild place at the West, and a stranger wrote the fact to the only person whose name was found in Ben's pocket-book. Mr. Smithers offered to take the boy back and "do well by him," averring that the father wished his son to remain where he left him, and follow the profession to which he was trained.
"Will you go, Ben?" asked Miss Celia, hoping to distract his mind from his grief by speaking of other things.
"No, no; I'd rather tramp and starve. He's awful hard to me and Sanch; and he'd be worse, now father's gone. Don't send me back! Let me stay here; folks are good to me; there's nowhere else to go." And the head Ben had lifted up with a desperate sort of look, went down again on Sancho's breast as if there were no other refuge left.
"You shall stay here, and no one shall take you away against your will. I called you 'my boy' in play, now you shall be my boy in earnest; this shall be your home, and Thorny your brother. We are orphans, too; and we will stand by one another till a stronger friend comes to help us," said Miss Celia, with such a mixture of resolution and tenderness in her voice, that Ben felt comforted at once, and thanked her by laying his cheek against the pretty slipper that rested on the step beside him, as if he had no words in which to swear loyalty to the gentle mistress whom he meant henceforth to serve with grateful fidelity.
Sancho felt that he must follow suit; and gravely put his paw upon her knee, with a low whine, as if he said, "Count me in, and let me help to pay my master's debt if I can."
Miss Celia shook the offered paw cordially, and the good creature crouched at her feet like a small lion, bound to guard her and her house for evermore.
"Don't lie on that cold stone, Ben; come here and let me try to comfort you," she said, stooping to wipe away the great drops that kept rolling down the brown cheek half hidden in her dress. But Ben put his arm over his face, and sobbed out with a fresh burst of grief,—
"You can't, you didn't know him! Oh, daddy! daddy! if I'd only seen you jest once more!"
No one could grant that wish; but Miss Celia did comfort him, for presently the sound of music floated out from the parlor,—music so soft, so sweet, that involuntarily the boy stopped his crying to listen; then quieter tears dropped slowly, seeming to soothe his pain as they fell, while the sense of loneliness passed away, and it grew possible to wait till it was time to go to father in that far-off country lovelier than golden California.
How long she played Miss Celia never minded; but, when she stole out to see if Ben had gone, she found that other friends, even kinder than herself, had taken the boy into their gentle keeping. The wind had sung a lullaby among the rustling lilacs, the moon's mild face looked through the leafy arch to kiss the heavy eyelids, and faithful Sancho still kept guard beside his little master, who, with his head pillowed on his arm, lay fast asleep, dreaming, happily, that Daddy had come home again.