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 anymore!”
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’ll 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,” cried 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 forevermore.
“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.”
Mrs. Moss woke Ben with a kiss next morning, for her heart yearned over the fatherless lad as if he had been her own, and she
had no other way of showing her sympathy. Ben had forgotten his troubles in sleep; but the memory of them returned as soon
as he opened his eyes, heavy with the tears they had shed. He did not cry anymore, but felt strange and lonely till he called
Sancho and told him all about it, for he was shy even with kind Mrs. Moss, and glad when she went away.
Sancho seemed to understand that his master was in trouble, and listened to the sad little story with gurgles of interest,
whines of condolence, and intelligent barks whenever the word “Daddy” was uttered. He was only a brute, but his dumb affection
comforted the boy more than any words; for Sanch had known and loved “father” almost as long and well as his son, and that
seemed to draw them closely together, now they were left alone.
“We must put on mourning, old feller. It’s the proper thing, and there’s nobody else to do it now,” said Ben, as he dressed,
remembering how all the company wore bits of crepe somewhere about them at ‘Melia’s funeral.
It was a real sacrifice of boyish vanity to take the blue ribbon with its silver anchors off the new hat, and replace it with
the dingy black band from the old one; but Ben was quite sincere in doing this, though doubtless his theatrical
life made him think of the effect more than other lads would have done. He could find nothing in his limited wardrobe with
which to decorate Sanch except a black cambric pocket. It was already half torn out of his trousers with the weight of nails,
pebbles, and other light trifles; so he gave it a final wrench and tied it into the dog’s collar, saying to himself, as he
put away his treasures, with a sigh—
“One pocket is enough; I sha’n’t want anything but a han ‘k’ chi’f today.”
Fortunately, that article of dress was clean, for he had but one; and, with this somewhat ostentatiously drooping from the
solitary pocket, the serious hat upon his head, the new shoes creaking mournfully, and Sanch gravely following, much impressed
with his black bow, the chief mourner descended, feeling that he had done his best to show respect to the dead.
Mrs. Moss’s eyes filled as she saw the rusty band, and guessed why it was there; but she found it difficult to repress a smile
when she beheld the cambric symbol of woe on the dog’s neck. Not a word was said to disturb the boy’s comfort in these poor
attempts, however; and he went out to do his chores, conscious that he was an object of interest to his friends, especially
so to Bab and Betty, who, having been told of Ben’s loss, now regarded him with a sort of pitying awe very grateful to his
feelings.
“I want you to drive me to church by and by. It is going to be pretty warm, and Thorny is hardly strong enough to venture
yet,” said Miss Celia, when Ben ran over after breakfast to see if she had anything for him to do; for he considered her his
mistress now, though he was not to take possession of his new quarters till the morrow.
“Yes, ’m, I’d like to, if I look well enough,” answered
Ben, pleased to be asked, but impressed with the idea that people had to be very fine on such occasions.
“You will do very well when I have given you a touch. God doesn’t mind our clothes, Ben, and the poor are as welcome as the
rich to him. You have not been much, have you?” asked Miss Celia, anxious to help the boy, and not quite sure how to begin.
“No, ‘m; our folks didn’t hardly ever go, and father was so tired he used to rest Sundays, or go off in the woods with me.”
A little quaver came into Ben’s voice as he spoke, and a sudden motion made his hat brim hide his eyes, for the thought of
the happy times that would never come anymore was almost too much for him.
“That was a pleasant way to rest. I often do so, and we will go to the grove this afternoon and try it. But I love to go to
church in the morning; it seems to start me right for the week; and if one has a sorrow that is the place where one can always
find comfort. Will you come and try it, Ben, dear?”
“I’d do anything to please you,” muttered Ben, without looking up; for, though he felt her kindness to the bottom of his heart,
he did wish that no one would talk about father for a little while; it was so hard to keep from crying, and he hated to be
a baby.
Miss Celia seemed to understand, for the next thing she said, in a very cheerful tone, was, “See what a pretty sight that
is. When I was a little girl I used to think spiders spun cloth for the fairies, and spread it on the grass to bleach.”
Ben stopped digging a hole in the ground with his toe, and looked up, to see a lovely cobweb like a wheel, circle within circle,
spun across a corner of the arch over the gate.
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