Fan's silken string
Date: 2025-11-16T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Siblings -- Juvenile fiction; Fathers and sons -- Juvenile fiction; Poverty -- Juvenile fiction; Youth -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Sick children -- Juvenile fiction; Romance fiction

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Title: Fan's silken string

Author: Annette Lyster

Release date: November 16, 2025 [eBook #77248]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1879

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77248

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAN'S SILKEN STRING ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Frontispiece.
"WILL YOU GIVE ME A DAY'S WORK, SIR?"

FAN'S SILKEN STRING

BY

ANNETTE LYSTER

—————————————
PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE COMMITTEE
OF GENERAL LITERATURE AND EDUCATION APPOINTED BY THE
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE.
—————————————

LONDON:

SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE

NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE. W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET. E.C.
BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. BEN FAIRFAX'S WALKING TOUR

II. HOW BEN CARRIED OFF HIS SISTER

III. WANDERINGS

IV. PEARL

V. HOW BEN'S SIN FOUND HIM OUT

VI. "ARE YOU THERE, BEN?"

VII. HOW FAN SPUN A SECOND SILKEN THREAD

FAN'S SILKEN STRING

CHAPTER I.

BEN FAIRFAX'S WALKING TOUR.

MANY years ago, on one of the loveliest of summer days—a day which seemed made on purpose to enable farmers to save their hay—there was a great haymaking going on in a large field belonging to a farm in one of the midland counties of England. It was so long ago that haymaking machines, if indeed they existed at all, were not common; and so that prettiest of country sights, a haymaking in the old style, was still to be seen.

A long irregular line of men and maidens, each armed with a fork or rake, passed slowly across the sunny field, gathering the hay into ridges, which looked not unlike the waves of the sea after a high wind, when they come in on the shore in long undulating swells, one after another. Then, the other side of the field being reached, the line turned and passed back again, this time leaving the ridges broken up into little haycocks. Ah, how pretty it was! The lumbering, rattling, awkward machine will never look half so pretty; and as I am not a farmer, bound to remember the reasons for preferring the machine (reasons which I know are many and good), I may perhaps be allowed to breathe a sigh for the beautiful past; for the fair sights and sweet scents, the human interest, which made the beauty of many a haymaking which I can remember; aye, and to pity those younger than myself, whose only notion of haymaking will be connected with a great, hideous, fussy, oily-smelling,—"useful" machine.

Well, to return to the hayfield in question.

It had been rather a wet summer so far. And although this was a glorious day, it did not look very settled, and the weather-wise, as represented by two aged men who had just walked down the lane to encourage the farmer by promising him more bad weather, were not very cheerful. And so the farmer, Mr. Heath, a stout, elderly man who was leaning over the gate watching his haymakers, was naturally anxious to get as many hands to work as he possibly could, and so save his hay before the rain came on again. Very likely, if good farmer Heath is still alive and still farming, he has a machine or two at work on such occasions, and considers it a great improvement.

He was just about to open the gate and go in to encourage his men and maidens to work hard, and perhaps to aid them in their task, when a voice behind him said—

"Will you give me a day's work, sir?"

The voice was rough and sharp, but the accent was not that of the part of the country to which farmer Heath belonged. And so when he turned to look at the speaker, he half expected to see a gentleman, who had made the inquiry in fun. However, what he did see was a ragged, stoutly built lad, with a tangle of curly fair hair, peeping out through the slits in a tattered straw hat, and a pair of very roguish-looking blue eyes, shining impertinently out of a good-looking, dirty face. The lad wore a faded blue shirt, and a pair of trousers so much too long for him that he had rolled them up half-way to his knee, and secured them with a highly ornamental piece of knotted rope. A leather belt kept his garments together, and on his arm he carried a coat which looked as if he must have robbed some unprotected scarecrow. He also carried a pair of strong, heavy shoes, comparatively new, and his well-formed feet were naked and dusty. But farmer Heath knew that this lad did not belong to that part of the country, and his appearance rather excited his suspicions, though he could not have said exactly why. He stared hard at the stranger, who awaited his leisure with great composure.

"A day's work, did you say?" asked farmer Heath, slowly.

"Yes, sir. I'm strong and active, and my work has been about horses, so I should know something about hay, too. And if you give me work, I think you'll be pleased with me."

"You don't think small beer o' yerself, young man."

"No more will you, sir, when you've giv' me a try and seen me at work," remarked the youth, with great coolness.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Ben Fairfax, sir."

"And where do you come from? Have you a good character from your last place?"

Ben Fairfax grinned broadly, showing a splendid set of white teeth. He had laid down the heavy shoes, in order to carry on this conversation more at his ease, but now he stooped and lifted them, saying as he did so—

"I've always heard tell that the folks hereabout were slow in their ways, but I couldn't have believed they was quite as slow as this here! Thirty acres of hay down—the sun shining splendid, and a nice breeze blowing—not hands enough to get it saved before night and the weather not to be depended on—and you stopping to ask questions of a stout fellow like me, as only asks for a day's work! No, sir, I've no character, good or bad. I never was in service at all. My father's a shoemaker, and he made these shoes. I don't belong to these parts."

"You're a free-spoken lad," said the farmer, severely.

"They mostly are, where I come from. I'm taking a walking tour for the good of my health, and I'd be glad of a job just now; I don't deny it. But I suppose I should have to get the Queen and Prince Albert to write a line for me, before 'you'd' believe that I wouldn't run off with a hay-fork in one pocket, and a rake in t'other."

Jokes were not plenty at the Lee farm, and this seemed to farmer Heath a most excellent joke. He burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"You are a cheeky young monkey," he said; "and if I did right by you, I'd give you a hiding; but all the same, what you say about the weather is no more than the truth, and if you'll call it three-quarters of a day, you may go into the hayfield, if you like."

"All right, sir; I'm your man. I suppose my great-coat and Wellingtons will be safe, if I leave them here?"

"Your great-coat and Wellingtons," said the farmer, opening his eyes.

"That's what 'I' calls 'em. You can give 'em any name you like—'twon't alter 'em," replied the imperturbable Ben, as he rolled the thick shoes up in the ragged jacket, and put them in a corner near the gate.

He then followed his new employer, who was still grinning and chuckling over that joke about the line from the Queen. He led the way to where the haymakers were at work, and having provided Ben with a hay-fork, he desired him to "get to work, and let us see what you are made of."

Ben soon proved himself a strong, handy fellow. His sharp, saucy way of speaking amused the farmer. And as the fine weather lasted for several days (in spite of the cheerful prophets), he was allowed to remain among the labourers during the day. What became of him at night nobody inquired, but he had made himself very comfortable. He had contrived to creep into the stable loft through a window, to which he climbed by means of a great pear tree which was trained against the wall. And in this loft he slept, and also smoked his short, well-blackened pipe, regardless of the terrible risk he ran of setting fire to the hay.

By this time you will have decided that Ben Fairfax was not an exemplary member of society by any means; and truly, I fear, you are quite right. Yet there were excuses for poor Ben; and moreover, he was not "all" bad, as you will presently acknowledge.

He was the son of a shoemaker in a small village in Kent, not very far from London. He had learned a little shoemaking from his father, and a great deal of other things, not quite so innocent. He was a sharp, clever lad, and, for reasons of his own, his father was not desirous of his presence at home, as he grew older and more observant. So he got him a place as stable boy in the employment of Mr. B—, who had a great training stable not far from F— (the village where the Fairfaxes lived). It was not a place which any careful father would have chosen for his boy, but Ben's father was very far from being careful. The wages were good, and the boy could get home often; and if he did learn to swear and gamble and drink, ay, and to be dishonest and untruthful, it must be confessed that he could have learned it all quite as well at home.

At these stables, horses for racing and hunting were trained and kept for sale, and Ben, being fearless and active, was often selected by his master to ride such as required a light weight—a task in which the boy naturally delighted, and took great pride. In fact, he was in a fair way to get on in the world, when, unfortunately (or fortunately), he lost his place through a piece of most reckless carelessness. He and a younger lad, being entrusted with two valuable horses to exercise on the heath, finding themselves out of sight, had a race for their private diversion, and Ben's horse, a beautiful creature, worth many hundred pounds, got a bad fall, and was so much injured that he had to be destroyed. It then came out that Ben was in the habit of getting up races whenever an opportunity occurred, and he was at once dismissed in disgrace.

When he went home, his father beat him severely, and that not for having done wrong, but for being found out. Ben ran away from home the next morning, and swore that he would never return, nor see his father again. But there was a silken thread, one end of which was held by a very weak pair of small hands in that deserted home, while the other end was made fast somehow in his own wild heart; and this thread had drawn him home many a time already, and might do so again, let him wander as he would.

He had gone to London, where he spent what remained to him of his wages in amusing himself; and then, having by degrees parted with all his good clothes, he suddenly determined to leave off his foolish courses, and try his luck in the country. I would not be quite sure that the silken cord had nothing to do with this resolution.

It was pleasant weather, and there was no hardship for Ben in sleeping in the open air. He had a few shillings, and eked them out by what he called "picking up a meal" here and there, not always in the most scrupulously honest manner. However, he enjoyed his "walking tour" very much, and it ended in his falling in with farmer Heath.

While the haymaking lasted, Ben worked at that. And before it was over, the farmer had taken a fancy to the lad, who was so bright and quick, and gave him many a hearty laugh. "London Ben," as they called him, was, indeed, a general favourite, and the farmer promoted his stable lad to a better place, and set Ben to take care of the horses. This suited Ben admirably, and old Dobbin, and Jack, and the rest of the stud, soon looked so glossy and sleek, that their master hardly knew them again.

Ben thought he ought to be very happy now, and he almost made up his mind to remain at the Lee farm "for good," and to forget the delights of a wandering, idle life, which he had not led long enough to find hard and full of privation at times. Moreover, he felt a little grateful for the kindness of his master and mistress, and meant to behave well, and to serve them faithfully.

These were good resolutions, but, alas! as the fruit ripened in the garden behind the stables, the temptation was too great for poor Ben. Many a night did he desert his lair in the fragrant hay, and visit that garden, gathering his hat and pockets full of strawberries, gooseberries, or cherries. Mrs. Heath, poor woman, was "terrible put about," to use her own phrase, at these nightly raids upon her fruit, but Ben managed so cleverly that he never was suspected. Indeed, he was supposed to sleep at a village a mile or so distant, as he had not been able to get a bed nearer to the farm, and there was no room for him in the house.

Every evening when work was over, he took care to be seen setting off down the lane, and across a couple of fields, by a path which led through a strip of plantation, and then across other fields, to the village in question. But he never went beyond the plantation, except when he needed a new store of tobacco; on other evenings he remained in the little wood, watching the birds and beasts which lived there—an old and favourite amusement of his. Then, as soon as he thought he could do so unperceived, he crept back, and climbed up into the hayloft. As it was now his duty to get down the hay for the horses out of this loft, no one else ever came there, so the piles of gooseberry skins in one corner did not betray him.

Mrs. Heath tied up the big dog, Tearem, in the garden. But Ben had made friends with Tearem; and whoever he might tear, he never tore Ben, but fawned on him lovingly. No doubt he would have been found out in time, and probably been thrashed as well as dismissed by the indignant farmer, but, as it happened, he left to please himself, though not exactly pleased to do so at the moment.

It was all because of that tiresome little silken string, which kept tugging at his heart occasionally. He refused to think of it for a time, and laughed and joked with the other lads about the place, but it really troubled him for all that, and at last it gave one such terrible pull, that he gave up and made up his mind that he must go home, and "see what end of little Fan."

It was partly his mistress's doing, though nothing could be further from her intention. One day in August she asked her husband to leave Ben with her, to help in the churning, which she said was too much for her and her pretty daughter Alice; and Molly, their one servant, was gone home for a holiday.

So Ben remained with his mistress, and learned how to churn, and did churn manfully; and the butter having "come," he helped to dash in a little water, to make it "go together," as Mrs. Heath called it. And then the butter was taken out of the churn, and Ben stood by, highly interested in the whole process, and saw it thumped, and washed, and thumped again, to free it from drops of buttermilk; after which it was salted, and made into golden bars, each weighing one pound, and packed into a basket with green leaves and damp snowy cloths, ready to be carried off to market the next day. And while this was being done, the following conversation took place.

"Well, Ben Fairfax, you 'are' a handy lad! I must say that for you. You must have been well used to help your mother. You're not like most lads—all thumbs and no fingers."

"Never helped my mother in my life, ma'am. It's native genius—that's where 'tis, as my old master said when I took to riding so easy."

"Your old master!" said Mrs. Heath, surprised, for she fancied she had been told that he had never been in service before.

Ben perceived his slip, and said carelessly—

"I called him so, but it was only an odd job I ever got from him."

"You have a mother, haven't you, Ben?"

"A sort o' mother; and not a nice sort neither," said Ben, with a shake of his curly pate. "Do you see this dint in my nob, ma'am? That's her handiwork. She did that with a saucepan lid when I was only a small chap."

"Laws, child! She might ha' killed you, strikin' you on the head like that."

"And if the coroner wouldn't object, ma'am, 'she' wouldn't; nor my father either."

"What is your father's business, Ben?"

"He's a shoemaker, ma'am. He made these shoes on my feet." Ben often said this, but he did not add, as he might have done, that the shoes had not been intended for him, but that he had helped himself to them as he left the house the morning he ran away. "And he trains dogs and ferrets, and sells rats, and—"

"Rats!" screamed Mrs. Heath. "And for mussy's sake, Ben Fairfax, who wants to buy such vermin as rats?"

"Gents buys 'em for dogs to kill, ma'am. They get up matches, with bets, so much on each dog, to see which will kill most rats in the time named. And then they buy the rats, so much a dozen."

Ben had a very strong suspicion that his father had other means of "turning an honest penny," to use Mr. Fairfax's favourite expression, but he said nothing about that. Mrs. Heath, you see, being a woman of small experience, might not have thought the penny an honest one.

"And do you mean to say that any one can make a livelihood out of the like of that?" inquired Mrs. Heath.

"Father does—along with shoemaking in a small way. A very good livelihood too. They always seem to get along pretty comfortable, as far as eating and drinking goes."

"But, Ben," said Alice Heath, looking up from her tub of butter, "if you had a comfortable home and plenty of food, why did you come tramping through the country for work? And so shabby as you were, too, till mother gave you Ned's old clothes."

"I didn't live at home; couldn't stand the way they licked me."

"I dare say you deserved it," said Alice, laughing.

"Maybe I did, sometimes, but I didn't like it any the better for that. So I—ran away at last."

"And are there no more in family, Ben? Have you any brothers and sisters?"

"One brother, a baby, and the ugliest thing you ever saw in your life, ma'am; and such a one to squall. And one sister, little Fan."

"How old is she?"

"Well, she must be eight or nine, but she's very small for that. She can't be so old, surely; and yet—yes, she must be. Poor little Fan!"

"Is she pretty, Ben?" asked Alice.

"Well—no, miss; I don't think you'd say so. But—she's better nor that. She's the lovingest, tenderest-hearted little thing—"

He broke off abruptly and remained silent for some time. At last he said half angrily—

"Why did you make me talk of Fan? I didn't want to talk of her."

"Well, but what harm, lad?"

"If harm comes of it, 'twasn't of my seeking, any how. There's the master now with Dobbin and Jack, mud up to their blessed noses! Where on earth have they been? I'd better go and see after them, ma'am, if you don't want me any more."

And he ran out of the cool, dark dairy in a great hurry. But the thought of little Fan, his only sister, the only being in the world who loved him, or whom he loved, was not thus to be got rid of. Once fairly roused, it refused to be left behind in the dark dairy. By hard work, rough play, smoking many pipes, and sleeping sound after his midnight diversions in the fruit garden, Ben had almost succeeded in stifling the thought of Fan until now. Not quite, however; and now this talk about her had given his memory a jog, and oh, how that string began to pull at his heart!

Little Fan, gentle, timid, good little Fan, left to bear all unaided the blows and bad words of an unkind mother, and the neglect of a worthless father; to carry the ugly baby until she was ready to drop, and then punished when it squalled, which it did frequently; left to have her food seasoned with unkind words and scoffs at her frightened face and want of strength; left, in fact, to battle with her wretched life without the occasional visits of her only friend and protector, "our Ben," as she fondly called him—visits which had long been the one happiness of her life. He could not get Fan out of his head.

He resisted long. For nearly a week, he fought against his longing, and he called innocent Mrs. Heath every bad name he could think of, and I can assure you they were not few; he raged at himself for his folly; he thought of the oath he had taken never to go back; he asked himself what good he expected to do to Fan or anyone else. But it was all in vain. Fan's pale little face, looking even sadder and more forlorn than when he last saw it, was ever before him. He seemed to see it change, and become full of the brightness of joy, and he heard her voice saying,—

"Why, it's our Ben," as he had often heard it in reality.

Finally, one night he jumped up from his comfortable bed in the hay with a shout. "I must go, I suppose. Bother the woman! Why must she go and talk of Fan? It's not a bit of real good to her; and yet I must go and see after her, and let her know I'm all right. She do love me so, poor little Fan! And she must think 'twas hard of me to go away and never look after her, when I know I'm the only comfort she has in the world."

He pulled on his clothes, not very handsome ones, unless by comparison with those he had been wearing when he first came to the farm. Having dressed himself and made up all his possessions in a bundle, he climbed down by the pear tree, and looked about to ascertain what hour of the night, or rather morning, it was. His mind being now made up to go home, he determined to be off without giving notice to any one, partly for the fun of the thing, but partly also for the following reasons. He had been paid his week's wages the day before, seven shillings; and of these he owed two to another lad about the place, whom he had been teaching to play at pitch and toss for halfpence. And he also owed a few shillings to the woman of the little shop in the village, for tobacco. Moreover, Tom Digges, his comrade, not having been present when the master paid the wages, Ben had offered to take his for him, and to give them to him the next day, which he doubtless would have done, as he had several times done it already, but for this sudden determination to go away. Tom's wages were higher than his, because Tom went home for his meals, and Ben lived at the farm.

Seven shillings was very little to begin the world on, and so Mr. Ben marched off with poor Tom's ten shillings also, without, I am sorry to say, the least compunction. Also, as he crept along the line of farm buildings, which ended in a large drying green, he saw something dangling on a clothes' line; and on drawing nearer, he perceived that it was a blue cotton frock, belonging to Mrs. Heath's little grandchild, Etty Spence, who was staying at the farm to recover from whooping cough. The frock had either been overlooked the night before, or (which was more likely) was believed to be quite safe in so honest a neighbourhood. It was just the right size for Fan; for though she was much older than Etty, she was so very small for her age; and it was so pretty and neatly made. Fan had never had such a frock in her life, and how kind she would think him for bringing her one; and oh, how Mrs. Heath would squall and search about for it when she missed it. So, with a chuckle, Ben twitched the frock down from the line, and it was quickly stowed away in his bundle, which contained some shirts, socks, etc., all presents from kind, unsuspicious Mrs. Heath.

Being now fairly off, Ben's spirits rose with every step he took, and he ran lightly down the lane and past the gate where he first met farmer Heath, without giving himself time to think; and having now reached the high road, quite out of hearing even if any one at the farm was awake, he began to whistle a tune—very sweetly, too, for he had a quick ear for music.

Now Ben Fairfax was a clever lad, as I daresay you have discovered by this time; and yet, setting aside all ideas of right and wrong, what a stupid thing he was doing! Here, for the first time in his life, he had an opportunity of gaining really good and respectable friends (for I cannot say that his first patrons had been either the one or the other), and, by his bright ways and quick intelligence, he had made them all like him. Had he gone to farmer Heath and told him that he must go home and see after his little sister, the farmer might have grumbled a little (farmers generally do grumble), but he would certainly have let him go, and promised to take him back when he returned.

But instead of this he went off, leaving the proofs of his evil doings to be seen by all at the farm, and carrying off things to which he had no right, so that, instead of friendly feelings, every one would be filled with anger and disgust. But, clever as he was, Ben never thought of this; never reflected that good friends are not always to be picked up; nor remembered that he might chance to meet some of these people again, when their good word might be of consequence, and their bad word fatal to him.

In fact, the idea of meeting any of them again never entered his head; here were they in Derbyshire, while he was going to London, on his way to his old home, and he was too young to know how small the world is after all, and how certain we are to meet again with people we have known. So he departed gaily—it would undoubtedly sound better if I could describe him as depressed by a sense of wrong doing, but truth compels me to state that he felt very jolly, something like a young horse which has slipped its head out of the halter and gone off for a frisk. Life at the Lee farm was certainly dull and monotonous—the old employment was far pleasanter, and perhaps Mr. — would have forgiven him by this time, and would take him back. Now that the plunge was made, Ben wondered how he had borne the quiet life so long.

"What would Sam Hadley" (the other party in the fatal race), "say, if he knew that I'd gone in for a respectable life without a bit of fun from week's end to week's end? He 'd never believe it, that's one thing."

And Ben laughed aloud at the notion of Sam's face if asked to believe this tale; thereby startling a most respectable elderly blackbird who was half asleep in the hedge by the road's side, so that he fled with a long wild cry, and startled Ben in his turn.

It seems, does it not, as if the silken string had pulled Ben out of safety and into danger this time. Yet, was it really so? Was Ben really safe at the Lee farm, deceiving his kind employers, stealing their fruit, and teaching their ploughboy to play pitch and toss all Sunday? The answer must depend upon our idea as to what Ben wanted to be saved from.

Before even the early hour at which Mrs. Heath's cheery call roused her household to their daily tasks, Ben Fairfax was several miles on his way to London. He had a long tramp before him, for he did not wish to diminish his small store by paying railway fares, preferring to keep it to begin the world upon.

Mrs. Heath called her family at her usual time—half-past five, and at half-past six they were all seated at breakfast in the clean and cosy kitchen. All, that is, except "London Ben;" where was he? He had not come, as he generally did, to tie up the wicked old cow for Alice to milk her, nor had he run in to aid red-armed Molly to draw water for the day's washing, nor had he carried off little Etty to see Dobbin and Jack munch their oats. All these things Ben was wont to do, for he was thoroughly good-natured and pleasant in his ways. But to-day he had done none of them.

And after breakfast a search was set on foot, and in process of time all Ben's delinquencies came to light. It was first discovered that he had been in the habit of sleeping in the hayloft, and the strong smell of tobacco betrayed the fact that he had also been in the habit of smoking there. Secondly, the gooseberry skins and strawberry stalks flung into a corner accounted for the nightly robbery of the garden.

Thirdly, poor Tom's lamentations made every one aware that Ben had gone off with his week's wages, and also with "Two shillin' wich he owed I, he did!" But when Tom, in his indignation, made known how the said two shillings had been lost and won, farmer Heath registered a solemn vow to "trounce Ben Fairfax well" if he ever had the opportunity, for introducing a taste for gambling among his farm boys.

Finally, the blue calico frock was missed, and the impression on Mrs. Heath's mind was that Ben had taken it. But, to do her justice, she grieved more over the ingratitude and dishonesty of the lad she had liked so much, than over the loss of the blue frock, or even over the fruit.

"He'll come to a bad end, will Ben Fairfax," she said, to her pretty daughter Alice. "He's none of your dull fellows, to be content wi' such small pickins' as he's made here. He's too clever by half, poor boy! And you mark my words, Alice Heath, he'll come to the gallows yet, or get sent to Botany Bay at the very least."

By this speech you may judge how far behind the times Mrs. Heath was; for it is many a long day since thieves were sent to Botany Bay, and as to hanging, we all know that it is really very difficult to get hanged nowadays, even for murder. And poor Ben with all his faults, was not likely to murder any one, for he was not a cruel boy. He was kind to those who were weaker than himself, and animals were safe with him, even from teasing. Tearem quite missed him, and stupid old Dobbin kicked at the lad who succeeded him in his stable duties, while as for the wicked brindled cow, she became (Mrs. Heath declared) "that rampagious that no one but a fairy could milk her at all," so she had to be sold at the next fair.

CHAPTER II.

HOW BEN CARRIED OFF HIS SISTER.

BEN FAIRFAX did not hurry himself on his journey. The weather was fine, the nights warm, and the country beautiful; and to this beauty poor reckless Ben was by no means insensible. He was a keenly observant lad, too, and would stand absorbed for half an hour, watching a flock of rooks following the plough, and swooping down into the freshly turned furrow, cawing with such an intelligent sound that it was easy to fancy that they were speaking.

To many people that long march would have been extremely dull, and their only thought to get over it as quickly as possible; it was the old story of "Eyes and no eyes," in fact. Nothing escaped Ben's bright, observant eyes, no sound eluded his quick ear, and nothing he saw or heard was forgotten. He knew all about the rooks, for instance—knew that they never fail to post sentinels who watch while the flock feeds, knew that they hold meetings occasionally, apparently to talk over their affairs. He had even witnessed a trial by jury among them, followed by instant execution of the well-watched and terrified criminal, who was fallen upon and pecked to pieces in half a minute, without the least mercy, and with a horrible noise.

Ben had a great respect for the rooks, but they were not the only birds he knew something of. He could tell at a glance what kind of bird had built a new-found nest—how many eggs the little hen would probably lay, and how long she would sit there, patiently warming her children into life, and looking at him when he peeped at her, with bright, half-defiant, half-frightened eyes. Many a young thrush or blackbird had he put back into the nest when the ugly awkward creature had tumbled out, to the great distress of its affectionate parents.

Nor was he without four-footed friends. In that strip of plantation of which I have spoken, he had made acquaintance with divers funny, fluffy little rabbits, and had spent many a pleasant evening hour watching them washing their faces, and whisking their fat persons round in that sudden and slightly unaccountable fashion to which rabbits are addicted. Hares, too—he had watched them at their weird, graceful play—half a dozen together, scampering, turning, sitting bolt upright in the most gravely quizzical fashion, or jumping over each other, like boys playing leap-frog, until, in an unlucky moment, something betrayed his presence—a misfortune which the least movement occasioned—when back went all the long, soft ears, and away sped the hares in every direction, almost too swiftly for his eyes to trace their flight.

It was in that plantation, too, that he met with an adventure which pleased him very much—more than any one not gifted with a love of nature can well imagine. One evening he had been standing very quietly and silently for a considerable time just behind a gap in the hedge which bounded the plantation. He was listening to the evening song of the thrush, and watching a few rabbits frisking about, when the rabbits suddenly fled to their holes with great precipitation; nor did they sit down just inside the mouth of their dwellings, and look-out cunningly as was their usual practice, but disappeared utterly.

Ben stood still, wondering what the little things had seen, heard, or suspected, when behold! In the gap, walking softly and looking very tired, appeared no less a person than Mr. Reynard, the fox himself. I do not know what this elderly gentleman had been about. It was not the hunting season, but perhaps Tearem and a few friends had been having a little hunt for their own diversion, or perhaps food was hard to get, or perhaps he had been to visit a friend at a distance. But at all events, there he was, footsore, spent, and weary, and thinking only of getting home as fast as he could; though I don't mean to say that he could not have delayed a moment to pick up a fat rabbit, though his drooping brush showed that he was very tired.

Ben held his breath to have a good look; never had he met a fox face to face before. The weary creature raised his head and saw him. Too much startled to run, he simply stood and stared as hard as Ben stared at him. This lasted while you might have counted ten; then Reynard, without removing his gaze, quietly, silently, hardly stirring the daisies on which he set down his feet, glided through the gap, and—was gone; and Ben never got a sight of him again.

To one capable of deriving pleasure from such things as these, it was delightful to linger on this journey, during which he could indulge his taste to the uttermost. Yet still Ben kept going on; sometimes, indeed, feeling the greatest reluctance to face his old acquaintances again, but always, willing or unwilling, going to "see after little Fan."

So he reached London at last, quite sorry that his journey was so nearly over. From London he went by rail to F—, his native village.

Leaving the railway station, which was a little way out of the village, Ben walked briskly along the well-known road, which soon was merged in the small and mean-looking street of the village. Just outside the village, he saw some one coming towards him, and recognized his comrade, Sam Hadley, the companion with whom he had ridden that unlucky race.

"Well," thought Ben, "I fancied the railway folk looked at me queerly, but Sam can't look down upon me for getting dismissed, for he's not a bit better himself—not that he looks as if he 'd been dismissed, somehow. Hulloh, Sam!" he continued aloud, "here you are; how goes the world with you, Sam? Has Mr. — taken you on again? Somehow you look as if he had."

"Yes, he has," Sam replied, curtly. He did not seem delighted to see his old friend by any means. "And where have you been, Ben?"

"Oh, I've been taking a walking tour for the good of my health," said Ben, carelessly. "Well, I wonder at Mr. —. When he wouldn't take me back, I wonder he took you; for, no offence to you, Sam, I'm a better groom than you."

"But you see, I belong to respectable people," said Sam, primly.

"You be civil, young fellow, or maybe you'll find that I have not forgotten how to give you a licking. I wonder would the master take me back?"

"Well, I don't know, Ben. You see, your horse was killed, and mine was none the worse after a day or two; and the other fellows told him 'twas you led me into it. And now there's this about your father."

Sam spoke in a much milder voice since that remark about the "licking," and seemed to choose his words carefully.

"What about my father?" asked Ben.

"Why, bless me, Ben! Han't you heard on it? Your father's in trouble, Ben. They've suspected this long time that he was mixed up with the poachers on Lord —'s place, but some weeks ago he was ketched. 'Twas in the middle of the night, he and Simon Pettitt and Long Joe, the man that we knew up at the stables, was ketched with a kivered cart full of game, going up to London; and they're all in jail, committed for trial. And what's more, Ben," continued Sam, looking round nervously, and drawing a little nearer to his companion, "I believe the police are on the look-out for you, thinking as you may know summat of it."

"Well, they're wrong then. I never knew anything about such doings."

This was true enough; for though Ben had long felt convinced that his father had some means of making money of which he said nothing, care had been taken that he should know nothing positively. Fairfax had often hinted that some day he would admit his son to a valuable secret, but that he was too idle, and too fond of talking as yet, to be depended on.

"Tell that to the marines, Ben," remarked Sam, jocosely. "A sharp chap like you not know what his own father was up to!"

"Well, I didn't, I tell you. But if they nabbed him in the act, with the cart and all, what do they want of me?"

"Why, you see, your father swears he knew nothing of what was in the cart, and was only taking a walk in consequence of having had words with his missus—and as he surely had words, and more than words, with her that night, poor woman—and Simon and Joe won't split on him; you see, they want more evidence badly."

"They'll get none from me, anyhow. Let them ask Mrs. Fairfax; if there's any mischief going, she's sure to have a hand in it."

"Why, Ben! Surely you know—Laws, Ben, here's a policeman. You'd best be getting on."

And Sam hurried away, not anxious to be seen in conversation with poor Ben, under the circumstances.

Ben jumped over the hedge at the side of the road, ran along the field he had thus entered, and made his way to the cottage where his father lived by various short cuts best known to himself. As he ran, he thought to himself that it would never do for him to be taken by the police, for many reasons. First, how account for his long absence, without running the risk of being brought to book for his dishonesty at the Lee farm? And secondly, if Mrs. Fairfax also was in jail (as he fancied Sam had been about to tell him), what would become of poor little Fan?

At last he stood in the street, close to his father's house. The shutters were closed, but the door was a little open; and, in spite of many fears that a policeman might lurk inside, Ben ran quickly past the door of the next house, not caring to ask news even of good-natured Mrs. Simmonds, and entered the kitchen of his old home.

There was no one there, no fire on the hearth, and the room was partially darkened. Ben stood, and looked round, and listened. The furniture was all in its place, but it was dusty and unused; the ugly baby's cradle lay upset in a corner. There was an inner room which looked to the back of the house; the door was shut, but Ben presently fancied that he heard some one crying softly in the room. He opened the door and looked in. There were the beds, just as usual, but at first he thought there was no one there. Then he heard that feeble moan again, and surely the voice was little Fan's.

"Fan!" he cried, softly. "Little Fan—are you here?"

Something in one of the beds moved, and then a white, white face appeared, with great, big, scared-looking eyes, and short hair sticking out straight from the poor head, which "wobbled from side to side," as Ben afterwards described it, as if it were much too heavy for the feeble neck. But when the eyes lighted upon him, such a flash of gladness brightened them; such a relieved, comforted smile parted the pale lips, that the face was transformed even before the ghost of Fan's voice murmured, hoarsely—

"Why, it's our Ben! And so I'm safe."

Ben went over to her. Her poor, thin arms—Fan had never been what you could call fat, but now a skeleton was what she most resembled—were soon clasped round his neck, and her cold lips pressed to his. And he felt, somehow, so big and strong and rough, in contrast with her feebleness, that he was almost ashamed of himself.

"You've been ill, Fan darling, and I not here to nurse you."

"Oh, so ill, Ben dear! We've all been ill, and—oh, Ben, go away—I oughtn't for to touch you. The doctor says it's 'fectious, and I've had it very bad. Oh, go away, Ben! And when I'm well (if I ever get well), come and see me in the workhouse."

"In the workhouse! You shan't go to the workhouse, Fan. I'm sure you don't want to go?"

"Want to go! Why, Ben, I'm near dead with fretting! But they said I must go, for that I'd starve here by myself. But when I thought they'd take me to the house, and keep me locked up, so as I'd never see you again, Ben, I thought I'd die on the spot. And I didn't want to die before I'd said good-bye to you, Ben. But now I've seen you—and you'll know where I am—and oh, Ben! Do go away, dear!"

"Not a step, Fan. Fever or no fever, I don't leave you. But where's all the others, Fan?"

"Why, don't you know? Poor father's took away to prison, and mother—Oh, Ben, I thought you'd have heard that! She's dead. She died of this fever, and the baby, too—poor little Tommy!"

Ben was shocked—too much shocked even to think that the baby, at least, was a good riddance.

"Dead!" he repeated. "Why, Fan, how could I know it? It's an awful thing—and I've been away in the country, miles and miles away. I only came back this very day, to see after you."

"To see after me," the child said with a happy smile. "You're always so good to me, Ben. And maybe, if you really won't go away, maybe they won't take me to the poorhouse. You'll see after me till I die or get better. The doctor says I'm over the fever, but that very like I may die of the weakness. But now that you are here, I don't think I shall."

"To be sure you won't, child. I'll take care of you, and no one shall take you from me. Who was going to take you, dear?"

"The police. You know they took father, and Simon Pettitt, and Joe Harris, and they came next day for mother, but she was ill, and then it turned into the fever (for at first, Ben, it was only a thump father gave her), and they said, after she died, that they'd take me to the poorhouse as soon as I could be moved."

"And who has taken care of you, Fan?"

"Mrs. Simmonds. She's so kind to me! She comes in constant, though Jack Simmonds had the fever, and little Billy's in it still. Every one's been having it. Mrs. Simmonds never forgets me. She's like the righteous, Ben, 'you' know—'I was sick, and ye visited me.'"

Suddenly the eager voice broke out with a cry—

"Oh, Ben Oh, Ben!"

"What's the matter, Fan dear?"

"It's just the weakness. Oh, dear! I think, Ben—I'm going—this time. I ain't afraid. 'He' died—and I've seen you again—Ben, dear."

And Fan closed her eyes and fainted dead away. Whereon Ben, big, stout-hearted fellow as he was, lost his presence of mind so completely that he raised a roar of mingled grief and fright, which soon brought a very untidy but kind-looking young woman running in through the empty kitchen with all speed.

"'Sakes, Fan!" exclaimed the new comer, "How could you, that's weaker than any new born baby, rise such a—Laws! It's Ben come back. And she's fainted with joy! Don't be scared, Ben; she's been like this more than once, and I'll bring her to in a moment. It was just too much for her, seeing you. Your name is never off her tongue."

Mrs. Simmonds soon made good her words, and Fan opened her eyes again, and smiled feebly when she saw her brother.

"There, now she'll be all right again. And I've made a cup of tea and a bit of toast for her, and now I'll run back to my own place for it, and feed her. And don't you let her talk much, Ben, for indeed she's too weak for it, and I can answer all your questions while she has her tea."

And away she ran.

"I shouldn't have let you talk, you see," said Ben, "but I'm in such a maze, Fan, that I don't know what I'm doing, nor where I am. Here's Mrs. Simmonds again. Well now, Mrs. Simmonds, you're something like a neighbour; and if ever I get the chance, I'll remember this cup of tea to you."

"'He' will, anyhow," Fan murmured, half to herself. "Even if 'twas only a cup of cold water, instead of lovely tea. 'He' don't forget anything."

"Ain't she a queer child?" said Mrs. Simmonds confidentially, to Ben.

"No, I ain't a queer child," said Fan, half fretfully. "There's nothing queer about it. And I'm glad He never forgets," they heard her mutter sleepily, "for most likely I shall never be able to do anything for her."

"Who is it she's talking of?" said the woman in a whisper.

"Blest if I know," Ben answered carelessly. This was not strictly true, for it was not the first time he had heard Fan talk thus.

"The little creature! She's dropping off into a doze. So much the better, poor lamb! I'll draw the blanket over her—there. She's stronger to-day than I've seen her yet, but I'm afraid it will go hard with her when they take her away."

"But they need not take her now, Mrs. Simmonds. Look here, ma'am; you've been so kind to her that I'm sure you'd take a little trouble for her sake. I'll tell you fair and true how the matter stands. I could care for Fan right well, for I'm as good a shoemaker as father, and a good hand about horses too; and I'd work hard and keep her better and make her happier than she ever was in her life, if I could only see my way out of this hobble. They would never take her to the house if they knew all this, but there, you see, I can't stay and tell them so. It seems they think I could give evidence against father—and besides, I've reasons of my own for not wanting to have words with them."

"And what do you think I could do, Ben?"

"If you'd tell them that you'll keep Fan, and just take her home with you until I can venture back here. I'll work hard, ma'am, and pay you for her keep."

"Are you sure she's sound asleep, Ben? Ah yes, she is, poor little thing! But watch that she does not wake up and hear us, for she only dozes for a minute or so, mostly. And I've kept the truth from hers because she's such a soft, tender, little thing, that I'm afraid it would really harm her to know. I don't know that it is to the workhouse they'll take her, Ben, though I've told her so. You see, they know that she can prove that those two men have been in the habit of coming here and bringing game with them, and packing it here. They say she's seen it often, but if she did, not a word did she ever say about it; unless, mayhap, she told you," she added inquiringly.

"She never did. I didn't know anything, whatever I may have suspected. Fan's a strange child! Little as she owes to father or Mrs. Fairfax in the way of kindness, she 'd obey them as strict as strict. If they said 'Don't tell,' tell she never would."

"I'm afraid they'll never believe that you didn't know about it, Ben. And they are to come for Fan to-night."

"To-night! Well, what am I to do?" cried poor Ben, distractedly.

"I'm sure I don't know. They left her in my care, because the poor thing fainted when they tried to move her, but they said they'd bring a stretcher to-night when it is dark, and take her away. They want to keep her under their own eyes, until she's given evidence against her father. It is a hard-like thing, too; to make an innocent child like that help to hang her own father; ain't it, now?"

Ben was about to explain to Mrs. Simmonds that to the best of his belief, poaching is not a capital offence, but he had only time to say, "It won't be so bad—" when a scream from poor Fan made them turn to look at her.

There she was, sitting up in the bed, holding out her poor, thin arms to Ben, and crying wildly—

"Oh, take me away, Ben! Hide me! Don't let the police get me. Oh, I didn't think people could be so cruel! I didn't know 'twas wrong to catch birds and hares. And to think that they'd get me to tell about it, and then hang father for doing it. And I did see them, Ben. I couldn't say I didn't. And oh, poor father! What would become of him if they hanged him?"

In spite of the poor child's terror and agony, Ben laughed aloud at this question. It seemed to him very easy to imagine what would become of his father in that case.

"They won't hang him, Fan, never you fear. It's not a hanging matter."

"It is, though," said Mrs. Simmonds, emphatically. "My husband's mother's grandfather was hung for poaching. There now, that's as true as that you're standing there. Many a time I've heard her tell the story, as her father told it to her, and he could remember being taken to the jail to bid him good-bye."

This terrible piece of family history somewhat alarmed even Ben; and as to Fan, she looked quite wild, and cried out again—

"Oh, what will become of poor father if they hang him?"

"Why, child, if they hang him, he'll be dead; and that's all about it."

"And afterwards?" cried Fan, wringing her hands like one distracted. "Oh, Ben, where would he go? Poor father, you know he is not—Oh, Ben, you were always good to me. Help me to put on my clothes, and take me away and hide me; for if they make me tell about father, I don't think I could live any more. Dear, dear, good Bennie, do hide me from them."

"I declare, hang or no hang, Fan's about right," said Mrs. Simmonds. "If you two were safe out of the way, Ben, they would, maybe, never be able to prove anything against your father. And my advice to you is to wrap her up well and carry her off as soon as it gets a little darker, but don't wait too long, or the police may come before you're off. And I'm not to know a word of it, mind you! My man would be very angry with me. I'll be struck all of a heap when I miss Fan, and I know nothing of her since I gave her some tea, and saw her fall asleep after taking it. I'll go home and begin my mangling; it's little I'll hear of your doings with the old mangle screeching and groaning in my ears, even if you rise a howl like the one that brought me in."

"Right you are, Mrs. Simmonds. Only I don't know where to take her. To London, I suppose. No one could track us there."

"Only mind the railway people don't remark you."

"I won't get in here; I'll carry her to —" (another station, a little further from London). "But with the child to carry about, I really don't know where to go. It won't be easy to find a lodging."

"I can help you in that," Mrs. Simmonds replied. "I'll give you the address of an old woman who lived over in the part of the country I come from myself. And when I was a girl looking for a situation, I used to stay with her. She's honest, but she's very cross. And don't you say anything about the fever, or she'll be afraid to take you in."

"All right. You get me the address. I'll never forget your kindness, Mrs. Simmonds, you see if I do."

Mrs. Simmonds ran off to her own cottage, and soon returned with a somewhat dirty scrap of paper in her hand.

"Here it is, Ben; and if you take my advice, you'd call yourself by some other name for a time. Take care of the little one—and now I'm off, and know no more about you."

She vanished again, and was soon heard next door, turning her heavy old mangle with tremendous energy.

Poor Fan had scarcely heard all this talk, which was well for her peace of mind, as the duplicity would have shocked her greatly. Terror and weakness, however, had rendered her quite passive.

Ben dressed her as well as he could, and made up a bundle of clothes for her, as much as he thought he could carry. Then he waited nervously until it was tolerably dark, when he wrapped her closely in a big brown shawl which had belonged to the poor dead woman, lifted her in his arms, and carried her into the outer room. Here he set her down on a chair while he peeped out, and looked up and down the street. No policeman, nor, indeed, any other person, was to be seen, so he took Fan up again and set off at a trot.

The shock of the fresh air was too much for poor Fan, who at once fainted away, but Ben did not find this out until he was nearly a mile out of the village. Having seen her in that state before, he was not so much frightened, and soon managed to get some water and bathe her hands and face, having laid her down on the grass by the road's side.

He then took her up and went on again. His first object was to reach a small railway station, where he was not known. It was a fine night, and he was strong, and Fan very light, so in due time they reached the station, and took their places in a third-class carriage of the next train for London.

HE TOOK FAN UP AGAIN AND SET OFF AT A TROT.

Ben was very tired before he found the street and the house to which Mrs. Simmonds had directed him, but he did find them at last. The old woman had one single attic unoccupied, which Ben engaged for a week; and very glad was he to lay his burthen down on the bed. Fan did not seem the worse for her journey; and having been fed with some bread and milk, she fell fast asleep.

Then he went downstairs and had a little conversation with his landlady—a very cross-looking old lady she was, too. He informed her that his sister had been "like that" for many months—a kind of decline, the doctors called it; and he didn't think she 'd trouble him long. Poor Ben! It was a pity that he should try to make himself appear worse than he was, for really he was bad enough. But it was not true that Fan was a burden of which he longed to be rid. On the contrary, her death would have nearly broken his heart. Besides this tale concerning Fan, he, having a fine turn for fiction, gave her a flowing account of his reasons for coming to London, in which there was not one word of truth from beginning to end.

Ben was very anxious to find work by which he might provide for himself and Fan. His small store of money was running out faster than was pleasant, and something must be done to get more. He could not depend on what he might "pick up," now that Fan was dependent on him, even if he had not felt very sure that she would not altogether like his method of "picking up" things. He made up his mind to remain where he was until she was stronger, doing odd jobs (his landlady put him in the way of several), and then, if nothing better had turned up, he would set forth on another "walking tour," never doubting that in the country he would always find employment.

CHAPTER III.

WANDERINGS.

BEN'S plans for remaining in London were all brought to nothing by half a dozen words from a policeman. And the best of the thing was, that the policeman knew nothing of Ben and was by no means thinking of him when he spoke. He was looking idly down into the area window of a house he was passing, just as Ben came by on his way home after a good day's work, unloading a waggon at a shop door. Something the man saw in the kitchen he was peeping into, made him raise his head and exclaim aloud, looking apparently at Ben, "I'm blessed if that ain't—"

What, Ben did not want to hear, for, feeling certain that the next words would be "Ben Fairfax, the poacher's son," he took to his heels and ran.

The policeman looked after him with a curious grin.

"That fellow thought I knew him!" said he.

Ben did not venture to go home for some hours, and he made up his mind that, if possible, Fan and he must get away soon. He was very late, of course, when he returned to his lodgings, and there a very unpleasant surprise awaited him. When his usual hour for coming home passed, old Mrs. Harris, with more good nature than her appearance promised, went upstairs to see the sick child; and having asked Fan if she wanted anything, and Fan having said "no thank you, ma'am," she remarked—

"You're not hungry, eh? Some is, and some ain't. I've know 'd them as was in a decline that you couldn't keep them in food. They 'd eat all day, and all night too, if they could get it. And then I've known others as was like you, child—didn't care if they never saw bit nor sup at all. It's queer the differences there is in decline."

"But I'm not in a decline, ma'am," said innocent Fan. "I had a fever that lots of people had where we lived, and mother and baby died of it. But I'm getting on nicely now, thank you, ma'am."

Whereupon the old woman flew into such a passion that she very nearly frightened Fan into a fit. She used very strong language, and threatened to "throw her out into the street that moment!"

Fan clasped her hands and said her prayers half aloud, in the extremity of her terror. But Mrs. Harris did not touch her, and presently went downstairs, grumbling and muttering. But she kept a bright look-out for unlucky Ben. And he, running in, hungry, tired, and frightened, was surprised and disgusted by a salute from a pail of dirty soap suds, thrown over him by his hitherto obliging landlady.

"Hulloh, missus what's this for?" cried he.

"You young rogue! Coming here telling me a pack of lies. Decline, indeed! 'I'll' decline you. Nice decline she has!"

The old woman hissed out her words in a kind of half whisper, half cry; she did not care to call the attention of her other lodgers to the dispute, lest they should take fright, and leave her house.

"If it wasn't that I pity that poor child upstairs, I'd have given you a tidy warming, young man," she went on. "I'd have got them to help me as would teach you to tell lies—" (Ben might have assured her that this was quite unnecessary, but the impudence was washed out of him for the moment)—"bringing the like of that into my house. But I won't hurt you, for she has no one else to look to—only out you go. This moment, now. Go upstairs and fetch the child and march out, or I'll raise the house on you—I will! And just wait till I catch Nancy Simmonds—sending you here."

Ben was tired, hungry and somewhat frightened, not by any means as good a match for his enemy as he would generally have been. He tried to deprecate her wrath, but she wouldn't be deprecated. He tried to bully her, but she had the best of him at that game. Lastly, he tried to coax her into letting him stay in the house until morning, but she would not hear of it.

"But, ma'am, I really don't know where to take poor Fan. So late at night, too!"

"Just take her to wherever you brought her from, and don't go spreading fever where people have enough to bear without it. But wherever you go, get out of my house this moment, or I declare I'll call a policeman and tell him the trick you've played me."

This threat decided the matter; Ben flew upstairs in haste. The old woman, whose bark was worse than her bite, cooled down a little when she found that she had routed the enemy; and she even listened for his step on the stairs, meaning to allow him to remain until morning. But she never heard him go, and when at last she went up to have a further parley with him, she found the room empty. In the hurry of departure Ben had forgotten to pay his rent.

Ben, flying upstairs with the soapy water dripping from his garments, rushed into the miserable attic where he had left his sister, and found the poor child in a terrible state, between terror of the old woman and fright at his long absence. She had contrived to dress herself, though still weak, and had her poor little hat ready in her hand as she lay trembling and quaking on the bed.

"Oh, is that you, Bennie, darling? Oh, Ben, what kept you? I've been so frightened, dear. The woman called me such dreadful wicked names, and said she 'd put me out of the house. I dressed myself for fear she would really do it. But you're all wet, Ben. I feel water on your jacket. Is it raining?"

"No, dear, no; but that old beast threw a lot of dirty water over me. How did she find out that it was fever you had, Fan?"

"Why, I told her. She thought I was in a decline."

"Well, you are a little donkey," Ben said, half laughing. "I ought to have warned you to hold your tongue. Never mind, though; we must be off out of this. But we must have gone soon at all events, for I met a policeman to-day that seemed to know me—that's what kept me so late. I would much rather have you in the country, too. See now, I'll wrap the big shawl round you, and carry you as safe as anything."

"And where are we going, Ben?"

"Blessed if I know," answered Ben. "But she won't even let us stay until morning! I say, Fan, is there any bread left? For I'm awful hungry."

Fan gave him a piece of bread, and he quickly devoured it, while she fumbled about in the dark, getting their few possessions together.

"There's some milk in the tin cup, Ben. I left some for you."

"Thank you, little one. And the cup's a handy one; I'll put it in the bundle."

"But it belongs to the old woman, Ben, dear," objected Fan.

"Oh, she gave it to me for a keepsake," Ben answered, with a laugh.

"Then she was not so very angry? I'm glad of that."

"She was angry enough. Now, are you ready? Are you well covered up? You carry the bundle, and I'll carry you: that's the way we'll divide the work between us."

Fan's soft little laugh at this joke, and her arms clinging round his neck, made the big, rough boy feel inclined to cry, he did not in the least know why.

"Now, hold your tongue and don't let her hear us, or perhaps she'll send another pail of water after us. I'll carry my shoes till we are out of the house."

So down he crept, silently, and they were soon in the street.

"Nicely sold Mrs. Harris will feel when she goes up to drive us out," chuckled Ben, as he pulled on his shoes, having set Fan down for that purpose.

"Look, Ben, I can walk quite well now."

"Well done, Fan. You're a long sight better than when I saw you first. Why, you couldn't keep your head from wobbling about that evening; and here you're walking like a grenadier."

But Fan would have made a poor grenadier, I am afraid; and very soon Ben took her up again. Tired and anxious, he soon began to feel very weary. Fan was considerably heavier than when he had carried her off from F—. Besides, he had no object in view, and was beginning to wonder what he had better do. In order to think this over more at his ease, he looked out for a deep doorway, and into this shelter they both crept, and made themselves as comfortable as they could. Fan was warm and snug, wrapped in the woolly shawl, but Ben's damp clothes made him very chilly, and in spite of the piece of bread, he was still hungry. Perhaps these unpleasant sensations recalled the warmth and plenty of good Mrs. Heath's house, for he sighed and said—

"If I could only go back to the Lee farm, what a good thing it would be."

"That's where you were working, and where you saw the birds and rabbits? Oh, Bennie dear, let's go there. I'm sure I could walk most of the way now; and it must be such a nice place."

"I couldn't go there, Fan; more's the pity."

"Why not? They were good to you, weren't they?"

"They were," said Ben, slowly. "But I made a mistake or two the night I came away. I can't go back, so say no more about it. I was a fool for my pains."

Ben's will was law to his little sister, so she asked no questions.

"But, Ben," she said after a time, "isn't there other places out in the country besides F— and the Lee farm? If we went quite a different way, the police would maybe never find us at all. I think it would be a real good thing if we went away into quite a strange, new place."

"I think so, too. But the question is, how to you get there; for as to your walking, my dear, you wouldn't do many miles in the day just yet. Once we were in the country, we might get on, because we needn't hurry. We could rest when we liked."

"Can't we go in the railway, Ben?"

"Well, yes; but, you see, it costs a lot of money. Let me think a bit, Fan."

Fan was silent, and amused herself by looking up into the tiny patch of blue-black sky over her head, and at the one bright little star which seemed to be winking at her.

Presently Ben said—

"I have it, Fan! I know how we'll manage. I was helping all day to unload a big waggon that came in with pears, and apples, and nuts, from the country, to a shop not very far away from this; and the man told me he meant to set off for home again to-night. And he came from the direction we had better take; he seemed a good-natured fellow, and I daresay he 'd give us a lift out into the country. Should you be afraid to be left alone while I look for him? He's brother to the man that owns the shop, so he's sure to be there to the last moment."

"No," said Fan, "I shan't be alone, you know. He'll mind me, for He's my Shepherd and I'm His lamb, you know. Miss Alice taught us all that. Why, Ben, He didn't let the poor cross old woman hurt to-day! I was 'so' frightened for a moment, but then I remembered Him, and I knew 'twas all right."

"Ah, well; no one will meddle with you if you keep far back—no one could see you, in fact. You're a queer child, Fan! See now; I'll tuck the shawl round you—so; and lay your head on the bundle, like that. There; get a nap if you can. I shan't be very long away."

Fan lay quite quiet. Once a policeman passed by, but he did not see her; and she laughed gleefully when he was out of hearing. Many a child in a pretty, comfortable nursery, tucked up snugly in a warm bed, did not feel as peaceful and secure that night as did little Fan, lying on a doorstep, all alone. Yet not alone! Because Fan knew and loved One, about whom many children never think, because they cannot see Him.

But Fan, poor ignorant child that she was in many ways, having never been allowed to attend school regularly, had been happy in one thing: her parents were rather glad to have her out of their way on Sunday mornings, and she had, therefore, gone to Sunday school regularly enough. Her teacher, the "Miss Alice" of whom she sometimes spoke, had a wonderful gift for telling great truths in simple language: her Bible stories were always listened to with earnest attention; and the verses she taught the children in connection with the stories were not easily forgotten. Thus Fan knew many verses perfectly, though she could scarcely read, and could not write at all. Fortunately for her, her small size caused her to be reckoned younger than she really was, and so she had been left in her dear Miss Alice's class longer than she would otherwise have been.

Many a box on the ear had the child got at home, for talking of things learned from Miss Alice, or for singing a hymn to quiet the baby: and Mrs. Fairfax often declared that Fan was "only half-witted." A few weeks before her illness, Miss Alice had given her a present which she valued highly—a small New Testament. This precious book, which she could hardly read, unless when, as she said herself, "she happened on one of Miss Alice's verses," was in the pocket of her frock, safe and tidy, wrapped up in a piece of paper. It was the only thing in the world that Fan called her own.

Ben, returning after some time, found his small sister fast asleep, and, stooping over her, touched her gently on the cheek and said—

"Wake up, Fan; I've found the man, and he will give us a lift. A great waggon with two horses! You'll travel like a queen—and he'll take us fifty miles into the country if we like to go so far."

"Fifty miles!" cried Fan, with sleepy admiration. "Why, shan't we be at the end of the land before that?"

"Yes; and then we'll swim a bit," said Ben, laughing. "Rouse up, child! You're just like a young bird in the nest, always nodding its head, and going off asleep the moment it leaves off being fed. Now, mind, Fan, not a word of the fever to this man; for he 'd turn us out as fast as ever Mrs. Harris did."

"Would he, Ben? But why?"

"Why? For fear he 'd take it, of course. So, mind now—not a word. And don't forget this either, Fan. We'll call ourselves some other name—Robson will do; it's better not to say Fairfax, because of father."

Fan was silent, considering within herself whether this double deception were right or not, but surely Ben must know better than she could. She meant to ask him, but before she had quite shaped her question to her liking, they had met the great waggon, and Ben was putting her in. There was a glorious heap of clean straw in the waggon, and it was so comfortable under the awning, and in spite of the jolting, Fan was soon fast asleep.

Before she woke again, the sun had risen and they were out of London, to her great delight. London was so black, so noisy, and so ugly! The big good-natured driver laughed kindly to see her so happy, and lifted the awning in front that she might look about at her ease.

"Oh, Ben dear! It is so 'lovely' green, and pretty, and sweet. And the bigness of it, after that little room, you know. And oh! I see a flower, a yellow flower, over there. Don't you see it, Ben—and 'would' you get it for me? Since I had—since I was sick, I have not seen a flower. It won't be stealing, will it? For you see it is inside the hedge."

At this Ben and John Ellicott, the driver, laughed until their eyes were full of tears. Ellicott stopped the waggon, and gathered the flower (a big dandelion). He brought it to Fan, as she sat peeping out of the waggon, and brought her also a blue flower, and a straggling spray of late flowering woodbine.

"That's a dandelion, that is," said he, evidently fancying that she had never seen one before. "Main good for a pain in the side, my old mother du say—they're plenty down tu Devonshire, though yew seem to prize her so. And that's the 'devil in a bush,' child, but though her has a ugly name, her 's a pretty flower, and in colour somewhat like your own eyes. And smell to this, little 'un; there's sweetness tu ye."

"Oh, thank you, sir! It does seem so long since I saw flowers. Miss Alice used to give me a rose sometimes, but—"

Suddenly a bird—a linnet, I think it was—began to sing clear and sweet in the hedge close by. Fan turned quite pale—listened in a kind of dumb ecstasy, and when the song ceased, she burst into tears. And she was still so weak, poor child, that having begun to cry, she could by no means leave off, and Ben had to lay her down again in her cozy bed, and let her cry herself to sleep.

The next time she awoke, the waggon was standing still, while the horses ate a feed of oats out of their nosebags; and Ben was at her side with a plate of bread and butter, and a huge mug of milk—such milk as Fan had never tasted before, so rich and yellow was it.

"Here's the stuff for you, Fan! Here's what would soon put a little flesh on your poor little bones, and set you growing. Milk, Fan—here, drink some."

"Milk! And such milk! Well, I never saw milk like that, Ben. Don't you think there's eggs in it?"

"You never got any but skim milk, you see, but I told the people here that you were poorly, and they gave me this fresh from the cow. Taste it now—you won't be able to leave off once you begin, it's so good."

"Have you had plenty, Ben?"

"Oh, I've had my breakfast—bacon and eggs."

Thus assured that she might safely drink the milk, Fan tasted it, stared into the mug, and tasted again. It was very nice, but to the last, she kept a look-out for egg-shells!

While she was eating her breakfast, her little tongue wagged freely. The boys about F— would have told you that Ben Fairfax was "a roughish customer," but he could never have been rough to Fan, for though a timid child, she had no dread of him, but prattled away happily.

"And while I was going asleep, Ben, that time you left me, I kept wondering and wondering why the stars wink and tremble so. But I think I see why, now. It's blowing up there, very like, and there's no glasses over the stars, as there is over the gas lamps. One gas lamp we passed had a broken glass, and it was winking and shaking very much like the stars. It's a wonderful thing the stars don't get blown out! They would, I suppose, only God watches them. He knows them all and calls them by their names, and knows where they ought to be."

Ben laughed incredulously.

"That's a likely notion, Fan. Why, there's hundreds and hundreds of stars, and some of them no bigger than a pin's head; and as to names, and counting them over, no one could do that, child."

This was Ben's objection, you see, to a revealed truth; and I don't know that it was more silly than a good many other objections that I have heard.

"He can do it, for the Bible says so. 'He knoweth the number of the stars, and calleth them all by their names.' That's a verse in the Bible, Ben. Miss Alice taught us that. Oh, Ben, that little bird—Miss Alice has a little pet bird, and one day it sang, when I was at the rectory with a message—and it sang just like that; and I wonder, shall I ever see Miss Alice again? Wasn't it good of God to make birds and flowers for us?"

"We'll see prettier flowers than those by-and-by," said Ben, pointing to the blue scabious and the dandelion; the woodbine had fallen to pieces, unfortunately.

"But these are pretty too. I'm sure I could walk now, Ben. I have not felt so strong since I was ill."

"But you are very snug here, in the waggon. Why do you want to leave it?"

"It is very nice, but I want to ask you—Bennie darling, you won't be vexed with me? Don't you think it's very near telling a lie not telling the man that it was the fever had?"

"Lie or no lie, it must not be told. He 'd just bundle us out neck and crop. Mrs. Harris would never have let us in only I told her it was decline that ailed you, and you went and let out the truth, you little donkey. There, don't fret, dear; it did not really matter much, because, as I told you before, I met a policeman that seemed to know me, and so we must have left London soon. Why, what are you crying for, child?"

Poor Fan! She was indeed crying bitterly. Never, in all her short and somewhat sad life, had her tender heart been so sore as now. Her father and mother told lies, and did many other things that were not right, but Ben had been so little at home that he had not been tempted to say or do anything in her presence which would have betrayed to her his true character. Loving him as she did, and always finding him kind and affectionate, the poor child had believed him to be nearly as good as Miss Alice herself, and this was, therefore, a terrible blow to her.

"Stop crying, Fan! Don't fret, dear," said Ben, kissing her.

"Oh, Ben dear! Don't you know you must not tell lies? Oh, whatever shall I do, my own darling good Bennie? I'm so sorry for you."

"Don't be a little fool," he answered, kissing her again. "'You' shan't need to tell any; I'll say all that's wanted, and you need only hold your tongue."

"But—but it hurts me that you should do it, Ben. Wait a moment, and I'll tell you why."

She thought for a moment, knitting her brows with the effort to remember something.

"It is a hard verse, and I forget part; it's about the New Jerusalem—that's heaven, you know. Now listen."

She did not remember the words very correctly, and Ben listened with a half smile, as she stumbled through them; but the last verse she knew very well, and it came out clear and distinct, making him start slightly.

"'Neither whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie.' So you see, Ben dear, we must not tell lies, or the gates of pearl will be shut, and never let us in at all."

What Ben might have said, I do not know, for at that moment John Ellicott lifted the awning close to where Fan sat, and said, gruffly—

"I'm going to start now so give back those cups and plates."

Out jumped Ben, returned the articles in question, paid for the breakfast, and helped to put the horses to. Very soon they were jogging along the road again, but the pleasure of the drive was over for poor Fan.

For about four miles they went at a steady pace, Ellicott keeping by his horses' heads, and saying never a word. But at last they came to a cross-road. Here he stopped the waggon, and addressed Ben, who was sitting in front with Fan on his knee.

"Now, yu young fellow," he said, quietly, "get ye out o' thot. I was alongside of ye this morning longer than ye thought for, and I know that it was fever the child had, and that you're hiding from the police. P'raps I did ought to give yu up to the police, for it's my belief you're a bad sort, but I can't do it, 'cause of the innocent child there. You see yon road? I'm going straight on, and you take that road, and don't cross my path no more, or I'll make you wish you had kept out of it, with your tricks and your lies. There's your bundle: good-bye, child, and I wish yu a better caretaker nor he."

"There couldn't be a better," Fan exclaimed, with tearful emphasis. "He's so good to me, sir, you don't know."

Not a word did poor Ben say. His face was crimson, and he could not look his accuser in the face, as he jumped out of the waggon, and set off along the road pointed out to him, with Fan trotting tearfully at his heels.

At last, he slackened his pace, remembering her weakness, and Fan stole up to his side.

"Oh, Ben! Wasn't he angry?" she ventured to say. "I was so frightened. Were you frightened, Ben?"

"Frightened! Not I. Hard words break no bones. Never mind, Fan; we'll do well enough now. We're a good way out of London. Only you see for yourself, now, that it won't do to tell everything to every one."

Fan said nothing, but her heart was very heavy. She was soon tired, too, poor child; and then Ben took her on his back, and carried her a few miles, but that soon wearied him. Then they came to a little village, where they bought bread and milk and a lodging for the night. In the morning, Ben went all over the place seeking for work, but it was a very small place, and no one wanted a strange lad: there was no haymaking at that time of the year, and the harvest work was very light, as it was a grazing district. So the forlorn pair journeyed on, in hopes of reaching some place where they might find work.

Now, although Ben put a bold face on the matter, he was beginning to get frightened, for the few shillings he possessed were melting rapidly; and though Fan was certainly gaining strength every day, she could not walk very far yet, and a few days of insufficient food would probably kill her. The nights, too, were getting cold, so that it was no longer a good joke to sleep under a hay-rick, or in a dry ditch, and these were the only beds they could now afford.

Ben often thought of the peace and plenty of the Lee farm. Oh, if he could only have taken Fan there, and gone back to his work under good farmer Heath, how glad he would have been to do it! But the doors of that friendly shelter were shut against him, and that by his own act. Ay, and what was that story which Fan told him the other day about other doors which would be closed, and never let him pass through at all? "Whatsoever maketh a lie."

"That's me, for sure," thought Ben; "I do dearly love taking folk in. It's such fun to spin away your story, and to see 'em swallowing it whole. It takes a sharp fellow to do it, though. Now, Sam Hadley never gets people to believe him. But if that city really means heaven, it might be very awkward for me. Fan," he said, aloud, "I want to hear that story about the city with the pearl gates and the golden streets again. While we're resting here, you might give us a spell of it."

Poor Fan! That verse, and others of like meaning, had never been out of her head since that conversation in the waggon. That her Ben—kind, strong, good Ben—should be in danger of being shut out of that lovely city! With a sigh she fumbled in her pocket, and brought out the parcel which contained her little book.

"I can't say the whole of it right, Ben, nor I can't read it well, I'm afraid. Miss Alice gave me this, and she marked the verses we'd learned. It's near the end, I know—ah, here it is! I'll read it all."

And she began stumbling through it. Ben held out his hand for the book.

"Give that here, little un. I can read faster than you do."

Ben could read quite well enough to make the meaning of the words plain. Fan pointed to the verse, and he began at once. The child listened with delight.

"Oh, how pretty!" she said. "Ben, it must be very nice to be able to read like that."

"I'll teach you, when we get settled somewhere—if we ever do. It's very easy, once you know the letters. But I'm thinking that if no one that tells lies goes into that city, there won't be many people to live in it."

"Oh yes, there will, Ben. There's a great many good people in the world."

"Well, but what's to become of the rest?" said Ben, in a defiantly careless tone. "For more than half the people I know tell lies like-like winking."

Fan looked up at him with her whole heart in her loving, sorrowful eyes.

"Oh, Bennie!" she said. "Don't you know there's another place?"

Ben jumped up, and walked a few paces away. He stood there for some time, and then called out, "Come along, Fan! We'd best be getting on a bit."

Fan went after him, and they walked in silence for a little way.

"I wish I could get work," Ben said at last. "It will come to starving soon, Fan, if I don't."

"I ask God every night and every morning, Ben, to send us a friend and work for you."

"Much good that has done," growled Ben.

"Ah! But you wait a bit, and see. I'm sure He'll mind me when it's the right time."

After this, whenever they stopped to rest, Fan would coax her brother to give her a reading lesson, and to "read a bit" for her. Ben never refused the request, but he made no remark upon what he read after that first day. One evening she asked him a question, wishing to get him to talk, and he said—

"It's all very fine, no doubt, but I changed my last shilling this morning, and I don't see the help you talk of coming yet. If what I read is any pleasure to you, I'm glad you get it, Fan. But half-a-crown would be more in my line."

Still, he read for her. And the silken cord was strong, pulling him in the right direction.

CHAPTER IV.

PEARL.

THE last shilling changed, and yet no work to be had! That was, indeed, a very serious matter, which made even Fan look grave. And the nights were very chill now; it rained often and the wind howled. A shilling does not last long when two hungry young things are eating it up; and all too soon this shilling was gone, and nothing left but a crust of bread. They shared the crust next morning and wandered on.

After some time they came to a place where some men were repairing the road. A cart, with the horse standing by it munching some hay, was tilted up under the hedge. The men were at a little distance and a turn in the road concealed them, although their voices sounded quite near. In the cart was a half-open basket, containing a great piece of home-made bread and some cheese. Ben saw it; he looked quickly round—there was no one to see. Quick as lightning the food was in his hand, and hidden in his bundle.

"Come along, child," he said, roughly, to Fan, who had stopped short in horror; "do you want me to be caught? Come away quickly; here's enough to keep us from starving to-day, anyhow."

Fan ran up to him, threw her arms round him, and with agony in the eyes she raised to the blue sky over her head, she whispered—

"Oh, do forgive! Do forgive him!" Then catching Ben's hand, she hurried on. "Put it back. No one sees us, except God—and He saw you take it. Put it back—quick, quick."

"You don't mind starving, then?"

"Put it back," she repeated. "God will take care of us—only don't do this."

Ben pitched the bread and cheese back into the basket, and let the child pull him on. They passed the men safely; no one had observed them.

In dead silence they went on for some time. Then Ben, who had been stalking on in front, looked back over his shoulder and said gruffly—"I've done the like of that often before now, Fan."

Poor Fan, who was trotting rather than walking to keep pace with his long strides, looked up at him with such love in her eyes that it was all he could do not to burst into tears.

"You didn't know then that it was a sin," she said. "You'll never do the like again; I know that."

"I did know," Ben replied.

"But you didn't think of it," she persisted. "I know you won't do it any more."

"Then we may as well lay down and die; that's about it," he said.

"'Indeed,' no, Bennie darling; we'll beg. There's no sin in begging, you know. Look, there's such a pretty cottage, with nice flowers all up the walk. You rest a bit, Ben, while I run up to that house and beg."

"A big strong chap like me to be driven to begging," cried Ben, desperately. He would not have felt half so disgraced by taking the bread and cheese. "No, no, Fan; you rest, and I'll go. There might be a wicked dog about, and I'd rather go myself."

"But, Ben, you 'won't' do that, will you?"

"I won't, there, I promise you."

Glad to rest her weary limbs, the child sank down on a stone by the wayside. Ben went up to the cottage, and, after some hesitation, knocked at the door. It was promptly opened by a tall old woman of a very severe and wrathful expression of countenance, who said crossly—

"And, pray, what do you want?"

"I thought, perhaps, ma'am, you could give me work," Ben answered, meekly.

"Well, I can't, then. I can do all my own work yet, thank Heaven. Is it only to ask idle questions that you called me away from my dinner?"

Ben did not stop to point out that to ask for work could hardly with justice be termed an idle question; there was such a good smell issuing from the door, as if the dinner he had interrupted were very appetising, that it made the poor fellow hungrier than ever, and he said hurriedly—

"Then maybe, ma'am, you'd give me something—a little food? I've a sister—"

"Ill in bed, and no food to give her!" interrupted the old woman. "Are you sure you haven't a mother dead, and no money to bury her, and a father with a broken leg? Get you gone, you great idle vagabone. Break stones on the road, and earn your bread! A big lad like you to beg! Be off now, or I'll set the dogs at you. Here, Fury! Here, Snap!"

But poor Ben was gone. In all his wanderings he had never been so rudely treated, and he flew down the narrow flower-bordered path almost as if the dogs in question were at his heels.

"Come away, Fan, dear. She's got dogs, and she says she'll set them on us; and I haven't so much as a stick to keep them off."

So they wandered on again, and the old woman went back again to her plentiful dinner. I trust it is not wrong to hope that it disagreed with her!

Park palings bordered one side of the road now, and fine trees shaded the two forlorn creatures. Fan was faint and sleepy from hunger; her feet dragged along in the white dust, and her eyes were closing, but she tried to smile whenever Ben looked at her.

"Fan," he said, at last, "is this the way God takes care of you?"

"I don't understand it at all," the child answered, with a little sob. "But He was very tired once, and sat down beside a well; and asked a woman who came there with a pitcher to give Him a drink of water."

"Why didn't He take the water when the well was so handy? I'd have stooped down and had some without the woman's help."

"I don't know why He didn't. Oh, Ben, I am 'so' sleepy; let us get into the wood here and rest."

"Yes, you shall rest, and I will go on a bit, and see if I can find some one that will listen to me, at least. Here's a gate; I'll lift you over—there. Come along a bit of this path that you may not be seen from the road."

A nice smooth path through the wood (they had left the park palings behind them) presently brought them to what looked like a toy cottage, of which the door stood open. It was roughly built, but neatly finished inside, and fitted up with a tiny fireplace, a table, and some chairs, a cupboard in one corner with glass doors, showing plates and cups ranged in rows; and in the other corner a tall press. Both cupboard and press were locked. They had ventured in, seeing no one about, but Ben thought it would not do to remain there.

"Come, Fan, and I'll make you a snug hiding-place behind this house; that will be a good shelter for you, and—Why, bless the child! She's fast asleep already."

The poor little weary thing! She had slipped down all in a heap on the rough floor, and was, indeed, fast asleep. Ben had not the heart to disturb her.

"Even if they come in, they can't harm the child," he muttered. "I'll just let her be."

He wrapped her up in the brown shawl, and taking off his jacket, rolled it up to make a pillow for the little weary head. Then he went away, leaving the door open, as Fan might awake, and not be able to open it. He ran back to the high road, and hastened on, to try once more to find work, or help of some kind.

Now this place—wood, park, cottage, and all—belonged to Mr. Harewood, a very rich man, and a great man in those parts. A little further on, Ben would come to a grand gate, with a lodge and a lodge-keeper. And if he could coax said lodge-keeper to let him in, he would presently reach a venerable, many gabled house with numerous windows shining in the sun, bright flowers all about, sweet scents filling the air, peacocks strutting to and fro, dogs lying before the door, in fact, every token of wealth and comfort; more than comfort, for there was an air of happiness about the whole place.

Mr. Harewood was a kind master, and a most affectionate husband and father. He was very fond of his five fine boys, but he was more than fond of his gentle, loving daughter, Pearl. A name which exactly suited her, for she was white and pure, and fair to look upon, and very precious to those who had the good fortune to know her. She was her father's chief treasure, the joy of his life; and there was nothing that jolly, loud-voiced, hard-riding, hospitable Squire Harewood would not have done to please his daughter.

Fortunately for Pearl, her mother was a wise woman, and so she was not spoiled. It certainly did seem as if so sweet a child could hardly be spoiled by any amount of indulgence, but still, as no one is perfect, it was well for Pearl that she had a mother as well as a father.

Pearl was now the only child at home. The youngest of her five brothers, hitherto her companion and playfellow, had gone to school at last, and Pearl had felt the loss very much. Many were the plans devised by her father for her amusement, lest his darling should fret, which, to do her justice, Pearl tried hard not to do.

Nevertheless, as summer drew on, the child missed her brother very much. And Mr. Harewood looked about anxiously for some new interest, something in which Frank had never borne part, to occupy her mind. So it happened one day, when they were riding home together from a visit to a great farm some way off, Pearl said to her father—

"Did you see Nelly Patterson making the bread, papa? It looked such delightful work; and Nelly is not much older than I am. Oh, papa, it would be so nice to make bread, and pies, and things, and have a little oven, all my own. Turner—" (the housekeeper) "only thinks me in her way if I go to her to learn, but I'm sure I could cook and bake, and it would be such fun."

"Funny stuff your bread would be," remarked Mr. Harewood, and said no more. But he had got the idea he wanted, and was privately rejoicing over it.

Next day he told Pearl not to go into the beech drive until he gave her leave. And when she looked surprised, he told her that he thought the fairies were at work there, and it was better not to disturb them. And not another word would he say, though Pearl coaxed him all the evening.

Then Mrs. Harewood went to the nearest town on a shopping expedition. And a cart went next day to bring home her purchases; and she would neither take Pearl with her, nor tell her what she went to buy. So Pearl was on tip-toe with curiosity, for she much suspected that some delightful surprise was preparing for her. She and her pleasant young governess, Miss Ayrton, had many talks about it, but Miss Ayrton was not in the secret, whatever it was.

However, one bright day (it was the very day on which I first introduced you to Ben, in the lane leading to the Lee farm), Mr. Harewood walked into the school-room just at the hour when lesson books were being put away. With him came Mrs. Harewood, ready dressed for walking.

"Pearl," said Mr. Harewood, "can you spare time to come and see what the fairies have been about in the beech drive?"

"Oh, you darling papa! You are the nicest fairy I ever heard of. What is it, papa? Do tell me. I cannot wait until I get there."

"I'm sorry for that, my dear. For the queen fairy, when I saw her just now, standing in the door of—"

"Tom!" cried Mrs. Harewood, warningly.

"Well, never mind where she stood,—she told me the whole affair, every stick and—"

"Tom, dear!" cried his wife again. "You know you wanted to keep it secret."

"I shan't say another word except just this, everything would vanish away in half a second, if I told you what it is before you get there. So come along, Pearlie! Miss Ayrton, you come too."

Pearl seized her hat, and set off at a pace which soon obliged her mother to cry for mercy. The day was hot, and no one over twelve years old would have thought of running. So they walked—only Pearl had to dance along, just to ease her impatience. Behold, when they had paced along two-thirds of the drive, they came upon a little cottage, quite new to Pearl. It was very small, but it contained two tiny rooms; the larger fitted up with a kitchen range of minute proportions, tables, chairs, a cupboard stored with household utensils, and a press to hold stores—and very well stored was this press, too, by Mrs. Harewood's care.

Pearl's delight in her new possession was very great, and all through that summer she had taken the greatest pleasure in it. Gathering dry sticks to kindle her fire, compounding wonderful cakes and pies and baking them in the little oven, boiling potatoes, giving a tea-party to a few select friends, entertaining Frank at a dinner-party during the holidays; all these were entrancing amusements, and Miss Ayrton was by no means too old or too wise to enjoy them too.

Need I tell you that it was into this little toy house that poor weary Fan had found her way? Pearl generally locked the door, but having been in a hurry the evening before, she had forgotten even to shut it.

Lessons were over for the day, and Pearl was on the way to her cottage, carrying a basket of supplies. Miss Ayrton had a letter to write, but was to follow soon; and Pearl meant to have the fire lighted, the kettle boiling, and a cake in the oven before she came.

"Now, how careless of me to leave the door open! Papa desired me always to lock it, for fear any one might get in. And I declare, here is a little girl asleep on the floor. How very wrong of her, but she looks so tired. Still I shall just wake her up and tell her to go away, for I know papa would be vexed if I let her stay."

It was not easy to rouse poor Fan. And when she was awake, she looked so feeble and frightened, and stared with such wondering blue eyes at the dainty little lady before her, that Pearl quite forgot to bid her go away.

"Little girl," she said, "you look dreadful! So white and thin. What is the matter with you?"

"I—I'm hungry. And tired, and—frightened, miss," faltered Fan.

"Don't be frightened, though. You are quite safe here, indeed. And if you are hungry you shall have some bread. Is it not well that I brought some, for fear the cake would go wrong? And some milk. I can run home for some more for ourselves. Eat this, you poor little dear—wait, though, until I give you a cup and plate."

Fan's look when she took the bread, Pearl Harewood never forgot. It made the tenderly nurtured child feel perfectly faint and sick for a moment. To her astonishment, however, the child did not eat quite half the bread, and only drank a very little milk.

"I wish you would eat more, little girl," said Pearl. "You don't feel ill, do you?"

"No, miss; I feel quite well now. But may I keep this for Ben? He's worse than me, because he is big and strong, and wants more food than I do."

"Who is Ben?"

"My brother, miss. He is gone on to see if anybody will help us, or give him work. He will come back for me very soon; he only left me because I could not keep awake any longer. I thought I was going to die."

"You poor little thing! Where do you live?"

"We've been going about, miss, Ben trying to get work. He is very strong, and willing, and clever, and so good to me, miss. But no one seems to want work done for them; an old woman in a pretty cottage out that way," pointing in the direction she fancied she had come from, "was even angry, and said she 'd set dogs upon us."

"Granny Thirlston, I am sure. I wish she would not be so cross," said Pearl. "Eat all that bread, little girl, and I will get some more for your brother. Now I must make my cake and light my fire, or Miss Ayrton will be here before I have anything ready for her. Sit on that chair by the window, and eat every bit of the bread."

A command most easy and pleasant to obey! Fan did not leave a crumb, and was in the very act of swallowing the last drop of the delicious milk, when Miss Ayrton made her appearance.

"Why, Pearl!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Whom have you here?"

Pearl laughed; such a pleasant, merry laugh, that poor frightened Fan, who had risen, and was performing a series of nervous curtseys with her cup in one hand and her hat in the other, smiled too, and looked less alarmed.

"It is a little girl whom I found here asleep. She wandered in, poor little thing! And fell asleep, she was so tired and hungry. If you had only seen her! She looks quite different now. Her brother will come for her in a short time; he went to try and get work."

Fan, though still very thin, had quite lost the look of recent severe illness, having got sunburned during her wanderings; and her hair had grown long enough to present a respectable appearance again. She was not a pretty child, but she was a very gentle, pleasant-looking little creature, with very frank, honest blue eyes. Moreover, thanks to poor despoiled Etty Spence's blue frock, she was tolerably clean and tidy, save for her very battered hat and shoes. Miss Ayrton, therefore, was not alarmed to see her so near her precious charge, though she said—

"I almost think your papa would not like your having her here, Pearl, but yet you could not turn her out until her brother comes. You must have left the door open. That was careless, dear. Is your brother quite a big boy, little one? For there was a lad at the hall door when I came out, and I think he was asking for work."

"Yes, ma'am; Ben's fourteen, and very strong and big."

"Mrs. Harewood was speaking to him. He said he had left his sister at a cottage not far off, but I never thought of this cottage."

"We thought some one lived here, ma'am, and was out at work; and then I was so very tired that I think I fell asleep before Ben could tell what to do."

A few questions drew from Fan an account of their adventures. She told how her mother and baby brother had died. "But it was a long time ago," she said, and honestly thought so, too; for the time since that had happened seemed longer than all the rest of her ten years. Her father, she said, was "in trouble." And Ben took her away because, if not she must have gone to the workhouse. Fan had no intention to deceive her hearers, or to conceal anything, but neither did she wish to say a word that could give them a bad idea of Ben. And so she merely answered Miss Ayrton's questions; and had she been an accomplished deceiver, instead of a very innocent child, she could not have managed matters better!

"Father was in trouble" meant a great deal in Fan's diction, but conveyed very little to Miss Ayrton and Pearl, who were so interested that they let the fire go out, and forgot the half-made cake.

"Think of the poor things wandering here and there, and not able to get work!" said Pearl. "Were you not very frightened, little girl?"

"No, ma'am," Fan answered very quietly. "Why should I? 'He' is as near us in the country as in the street; indeed, I think it feels as if He was nearer. And He takes care of us. Only this morning I thought perhaps He had forgotten; and now you see He sent us help. He brought us here."

"Who did, child?" said Miss Ayrton.

"The Lord Jesus, ma'am. He promised, you know. It's in the Bible, 'Ask, and ye shall receive;' and about the fowls of the air, you know, 'Are ye not much better than the sparrows?' And I asked every night and morning. And, oh ma'am, 'could' you please tell me this—When He was weary and sat by the well, and asked the woman for a drink, why didn't He just stoop down and take the water? Ben said that to-day, and I did not know."

Miss Ayrton looked hard at the child. Was she talking in this way to make an impression, or was it natural? Poor Fan! She looked very innocent, it seemed hard to suspect her of such deceit, and Miss Ayrton answered the question.

"Water is very scarce in that country, and the wells are very deep. Probably no water could be got from that well without a rope and a pitcher which you could let down. You know the woman said to Him 'the well is deep.'"

"So she did, ma'am; I'd forgotten that."

"Here comes some one, Miss Ayrton," said Pearl. "I suppose this is Ben."

"Yes, miss, this is our Ben. Come here, Ben," Fan cried, as the lad stopped short at the door, somewhat abashed. "This young lady found me here asleep, and she gave me milk and bread, Ben, and promised me more for you. Oh, Ben," she whispered, running up to him, "you see we were not forgotten."

"Come in, Ben," said Pearl, kindly.

"Thank you, miss. But I see we've no right to be here at all. I did not think it was a summer-house, like, miss, or I would not have made so free. I thought 'twas a real cottage, and then Fan fell asleep before I could look round. Come, Fan, I've got plenty of dinner for both of us."

"I think you were up at the house when I came out," said Miss Ayrton. "Was it there they gave you some dinner?"

"Yes, miss, and the lady bid me come again to-morrow, and she would give me some weeding to do. So I must look-out for some place for us to sleep in. Come, Fan. The lady was very kind."

"That is my mother," said Pearl; "and bring Fan with you when you come to-morrow, please, for I want to see her again. If you like to rest here and eat your dinner, you may, for Miss Ayrton and I must go home for our luncheon to-day. I can run down in the evening and lock the doors."

"Oh no, miss, thank you! I couldn't give you the trouble. It's such a fine day, too, that it's no hardship to be out. Now, Fan. Good morning, miss, and thank you kindly."

Fan made her very best curtsey, and a queer little performance it was. Then she ran after Ben down the path, her face radiant with smiles.

"Oh, Miss Ayrton, is not this like a story in a book?" exclaimed Pearl. "And is not Fan a nice child? And is not that a kind boy? Did you remark how kindly he looked at her when he spoke? And she seemed so pleased to see him again. Oh, they must not wander about any more—they must stay here, and Ben can work in the garden, and—"

She remained silent for a moment or two, and then burst out, with a cry of delight—

"Oh, I have thought of a plan, such a lovely, delightful plan; and I must run at once and get papa to say yes to it."

"But you must come home first, and have something to eat, Pearl. It won't do to go without luncheon, even for a nice little girl and a lovely plan."

"Don't laugh at me," cried Pearl gaily; "for I assure you this is the best plan I ever made in my life."

No sooner had Pearl eaten a very hasty meal, than she inquired where her father was likely to be found, and set forth in search of him, full of her new plan, and longing to get his consent to it. And truly that must have been a very wild plan to which Mr. Harewood would have refused consent, if Pearl had set her heart upon it.

CHAPTER V.

HOW BEN'S SIN FOUND HIM OUT.

THIS adventure caused a great change for the better in the fortunes of Fan and Ben Robson, as they were called, Ben having still kept to that adopted name. This deception was the only thing which troubled Fan now, and even she sometimes forgot it, she was so happy. Pearl Harewood had, as she usually did, persuaded her father to consent to her plan, which was, to establish the pair in her Fairy Cottage, and there to visit Fan, and teach her all the arts of cooking baking, cleaning, etc., which she had herself acquired during that merry summer.

Ben was at first given work in the garden, but as he said he was more accustomed to stable work, he was soon put under the orders of the head groom, and quickly showed that he might be made a very valuable servant. He was most anxious to establish a good character; the danger of his idle, dishonest habits, had been made plain to him of late, and his readings with Fan had also made a deep impression on him. He was quite determined to "turn over a new leaf," and this was the easier, because he was very happy.

Pearl and Miss Ayrton took a great interest in him, and having discovered his taste for natural history, they lent him books on that subject and encouraged him to study it. Pearl had an uncle, who was a great naturalist, and she had very often helped him to arrange his treasures, and heard him discuss them, so that she could appreciate Ben's really accurate and intelligent habits of observation. This uncle, Mr. Francis Sydney, came to Harewood after a time, and paid a long visit, during which he took quite a fancy to Ben, and gave him a good deal of instruction.

What a happy time it was! Ben had never been so happy in his life; and as to Fan, her bliss was all but perfect. "Miss Pearl" taught her to read, to write, to sew, to knit and to sing; also to make bread (which Fan soon did a great deal better than her teacher, whose bread was a very uncertain matter), and finally to wash and iron. These lessons in ironing resulted in some terribly scorched garments—in fact, poor Etty Spence's blue frock came to an untimely end on one occasion. But then, as Pearl remarked, "everything must have a beginning." It was the end of the frock, but the beginning of success, for they never met with so serious a misfortune again.

As soon as Ben was settled in his new place, he wrote to kindhearted Mrs. Simmonds, begging her to let him know what she heard of his father. The answer came in due time. Fairfax had got off for want of sufficient evidence against him, and had returned to his old cottage; only, however, to sicken and die of the fever which still lingered in the place. So there was no danger of his appearing to claim his children, and Ben felt that a fair prospect lay before him.

"But, Ben, may we not tell people now that our name is Fairfax, not Robson?" said Fan. "I do feel so vexed when Miss Pearl says that name. I hate to think that we are telling a lie."

"It's not a lie, exactly," said Ben. "One name's as good as another, and I've a right to call myself what I like."

"Yet it is 'not' true, Ben. And 'now' it's of no use, that poor father is dead."

"But how could we go and tell every one that we gave a false name at first? And besides, I have another reason," added Ben, nodding his head, "so say no more about it, Fan."

Then after a minute's silence, he said—

"Guess what I found out yesterday about that cross old woman, Mrs. Thirlston,—she who lives at the pretty cottage where we asked for help, do you remember? Well, you know she threatened to set dogs at us, and called as if she had dogs there ready; and Tom Johnson tells me she has never a dog at all, and always calls like that when any one asks her for anything! It's well for her that I've made up my mind to go in for no more nonsense, or she might find that her dogs wouldn't protect her apple trees, some of these moonlight nights."

"Oh, but you wouldn't, Ben! She does look cross; and the other day she stopped me, when I was going to the shop, and asked me my name, and how old I was, and she stared at me so hard all the time. Indeed, she frightened me so that I very nearly forgot, and said Fairfax, but just in time I remembered. And she said, 'Have you a stutter, child? Or are you a fool?'"

Something in this story tickled Ben's fancy very much. He roared laughing, and made Fan repeat it several times, each time enjoying it as much as the first. Fan was quite surprised.

"Well," said he, at last, "I must be off, for my dinner hour is up. 'Twas well you remembered in time, Fan; and mind you're careful, for the name of Fairfax would do us no good here. And if we are only careful, we are made up for life here."

"Be sure your sin will find you out" was a text which Ben had never met with. It is a very true saying, and one often misunderstood. It is your sin that finds you. No arbitrary punishment for it, but the very sin itself. So surely as you will burn your hand if you put it into the fire; so surely as you will suffer agony if you swallow poison; so surely will your sin prove its own punishment—so surely, sooner or later, will it "find you out." And this, though it does not look like a blessing, will prove a blessing if we will take it humbly and use it well.

Months passed away. Winter came and went, spring brightened the land, summer brought warmth and beauty; and still Ben and his little sister lived in their toy cottage, and were very happy. Fan grew tall and rosy, and looked very different from the stray, forlorn child, who had dropped asleep on the floor of Pearl's Fairy Cottage.

The brother and sister attended church regularly; and one hot Sunday they were coming out of church among the rest, when a girl exclaimed, suddenly stopping before Ben and staring at him—

"Ben Fairfax! Why, how came 'you' here?"

Ben turned crimson, and then pale. His usual quickness deserted him, and he stood silent. Fan looked from one face to another but could not make out what was going on. "Fairfax!" cried the person to whom the girl seemed to belong. "Why, child, that's Ben Robson; he is one of the under-grooms at Harewood."

"Robson! I don't care what he may call himself, Esther, nor where he may work. That's Ben Fairfax, who was with us last summer, and ran away after robbing the garden, and stole Tom Digges's wages, and Etty's blue frock, besides owing money in the village. And father says 'twas just a providence that he didn't burn the place over our heads, sleeping in the hayloft without leave, and smoking his pipe in it! And, if you don't believe me, just look at him."

Poor Ben! He was a spectacle at that moment, it must be confessed. He looked ready to sink into the ground with shame, and so plainly had lost his wits for the moment, that Fan, controlling her great desire to cry, caught him by the hand and led him to the gate.

Once away from the girl who had thus recognized him, Ben came to himself and hurried away, Fan running along at his side with a scared look.

"What is it, Ben?" she said.

"It's ruin! That's what it is," he answered bitterly. And he muttered words under his breath, which filled the child with horror though she only half heard them.

"Oh, Ben dear! Don't do like that."

"Why not? What's the use of trying to go right, when a thing like this turns up and ruins you. Hold your tongue, child, and let me alone. I give up."

The girl who had recognized Ben Fairfax was no other than pretty Alice Heath, who was come to pay a visit to her married sister, Mrs. Spence, mother of little Etty, whose blue frock Ben had stolen, and Fan had worn, and Pearl had burned! Several people had stopped to listen to what was going on, for, in her agitation, Alice had raised her voice not a little. Among these was a groom from Harewood, and old Mrs. Thirlston, in her well-preserved black silk, looking as cross as usual. She could hardly have looked crosser. Mr. Spence was there, too. He was a very respectable man, and kept a grocer's shop in the village, and he was not a little annoyed at what had happened, as he knew that Ben was rather a favourite with the ladies at Harewood.

"What's the meaning of this about young Robson, Mr. Spence?" said the groom.

"Some fancy of my wife's sister, but I dare say she's mistaken. Say no more, Alice—you'll only make mischief, and you can't be so very sure."

"But I am sure! I never was surer of anything in my life. That's Ben Fairfax, and he's a real bad boy, and behaved most ungrateful to father and mother, as was very good to him, and stole Etty's blue frock the night he ran away."

"Well, do you know," said Mrs. Spence, disregarding her husband's expressive looks, "when the two first came here, the girl had on a frock that was very like the one I made for Etty when she was going to grandma's. Do you remember I said so to you, Dick?"

"I don't remember anything about it," replied Dick.

Here the old woman of the severe countenance put her hand on Alice Heath's shoulder and asked in her grating voice, making the girl start—"Did you say his name is Fairfax?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ha! Then I was right. Well, if he is a Fairfax—and he is—he couldn't be honest if he tried. Here's a pretty kettle of fish."

She looked so savage that poor Alice shrank back, saying nervously—"It is not my fault, ma'am."

"Who said it was? And if I did say so, I should have told nothing but the truth. Blabbing a thing out before every one, like a feather-gated fool as you are."

"That's just what I say too, Mrs. Thirlston, ma'am," said Spence. "Where was the use of injuring the lad? And very likely vexing Miss Harewood, for 'tis well-known she makes quite a pet of this girl, and the lad has been very correct in his conduct since he came here."

"Correct in his conduct!" the old woman repeated, eyeing Mr. Spence with strong disfavour. "My good patience! What fools men are!"

And she stalked away, leaving Spence rather crushed.

But the groom very properly told Mr. Harewood all that had passed, next morning.

And Mr. Harewood went to Spence's shop and heard Alice Heath's story for himself. He was a hot-tempered man; and when he was convinced that he had allowed Pearl to make a favourite of "such a young ruffian as this Ben," he was extremely angry; all the more angry because he felt that he ought to have made more searching inquiries before he allowed his daughter to befriend him. Home he went in gathering wrath, and rushed into the dining-room, where the ladies sat at luncheon.

"Why, Tom! I had given you up, my dear. What is the matter?" said Mrs. Harewood.

"Matter, my dear! Matter enough, I assure you. Here's a pretty discovery I've made. That young rascal, Ben Robson—his name is not Robson, by the way—he's a regular young scamp, a thief and a liar, and—and everything else that's bad. A pair of young impostors."

"Oh, Papa, there must be some mistake. Fan is such a good little thing. Now, is she not, Miss Ayrton? And Ben is so steady and clever. Uncle Frank says—"

"Clever, my dear? Not a doubt of that. Too clever by half. But I'll tell you all about it, and then you'll see that they must be sent about their business."

"Oh, Papa!"

"Pearl, my dear, do not speak just now. Let us hear the story, Tom. The boy may be able to explain matters, you know. I am sure you won't do anything in a hurry."

Which was exactly what Mr. Harewood, left to himself, would have done. However, he told the story at length, and even quiet Mrs. Harewood shook her head over it. Pearl's pretty brown eyes grew so round with horror and dismay that there really seemed to be some danger that she might never be able to close them again.

Miss Ayrton said quietly—

"Is it not possible that the girl may know nothing of all this? I should be sorry to have to think badly of Fan. She seems to me so particularly innocent and conscientious."

"All acting, believe me," said the Squire testily.

"Well, but, Tom dear, you know you won't condemn either of them unheard, nor punish the girl if she is really innocent. Don't look so grievous, Pearlie; Papa never did an unjust thing in his life. Send for Ben, and for the girl too, and let us hear what they have to say."

Messengers were sent off, and Mr. Harewood cooled down sufficiently to eat some luncheon.

While he was thus engaged, a servant came to tell him that "old Mrs. Thirlston wanted to speak to him."

Mr. Harewood groaned.

"She's in the study, I suppose. All right; I will go to her. Come with me, Anna. I cannot face granny Thirlston alone: she makes me feel as if I had eaten a sour apple!"

"Mamma," whispered Pearl, "may I come too, that I may hear what Ben says? I will be very quiet."

"You may come, then. But remember, my dear, you are not to interfere. Will you come too, Miss Ayrton?"

So they all three went to the study. As they entered, Mr. Harewood was saying—

"It is no trouble, Mrs. Thirlston. I am always—glad to be of use."

He could not say "glad to see you," as he had intended. Indeed, any one who was glad to see Mrs. Thirlston must have had a peculiar taste.

"Indeed, sir, it is but seldom, I may say, that I trouble you. I never was one for pushing myself forward. I know my place, and I know my claims, but I never push them. I came just to ask you a question, and I'm sure you'll excuse it. Do you know anything about that lad Robson, that you have taken into the stables?"

"Why, surely, Mrs. Thirlston, he has not robbed you? Why do you ask?"

"Because, sir, I was told yesterday as how his name is not Robson, but—Fairfax." She dropped her voice a little as she said the last word. "And the girl's face has puzzled me from the first. She has a likeness, sir,—there's no denying it."

"Whew!" Mr. Harewood uttered a low whistle. "How stupid of me! The name never struck me. You are right, though; the girl is like your poor daughter."

"No daughter of mine, sir."

"Nay, Mrs. Thirlston, you can't help yourself. Fanny was your daughter, poor soul! and a good girl, too, though a silly one, in that one act. Poor Fanny! The lad has a look of her, too. I never could remember who it was that they reminded me of. Here they come! I had sent for them, for I heard the story from the girl at Spence's this morning."

Before I go any further, I must tell you that, in his agony of shame and anger, Ben had told his sister the whole story of his misdoings at the Lee farm. He had wanted to make his escape before Alice Heath had time to publish the story any further, for he felt as if he could not bear to meet the altered looks of those who had so kindly befriended him, and whose good opinion he had begun to value highly.

But Fan had some hope that Mr. Harewood would be merciful, and with difficulty she coaxed him to remain quietly where he was.

I do not know that he would have yielded but for a plan which came into his head, by which he hoped to save her from another period of wandering and privation. On the Monday morning he went to his work as usual, and found that the story was already known in the stables; and the contempt and avoidance of his companions roused his temper, bringing back the old reckless, defiant mood once more.

The brother and sister entered the room together. Ben looked flushed, sulky, and defiant; Fan, anxious and frightened, her eyes going from one face to the other as she made her little bob of a curtsey, a ceremony which reminded Ben of his manners, and made him pull off his cap with an attempt at a bow. He looked with interest at old Mrs. Thirlston, who sat bolt upright and stared at him.

"Do you know why I have sent for you?" said Mr. Harewood, seating himself in a great easy chair and clearing his voice.

Ben nodded, but Fan answered softly—

"Please, sir, I think we do."

"Bold as brass," ejaculated Mrs. Thirlston.

"What is your name, boy?" said Mr. Harewood, very desirous to make him speak for himself.

Ben cast a defiant glance at Mrs. Thirlston, and answered promptly—

"Benjamin Thirlston Fairfax, sir. My poor mother named me for her father, which was steward here years ago."

"Then why did you call yourself Robson when I engaged you?"

"I called myself Robson ever since I left where we lived until last year; and I gave that name here, because I did not think Fairfax would be forgotten, and it wouldn't have done us any good."

"It would have done you no harm. It was very foolish of you to give a false name. Why did you leave F—?"

"Because," said Ben, in the same reckless way, "my father was in trouble. It was the old story over again. He was took for poaching, just as happened here before he was married; and Fan must have given evidence against him because she 'd seen game in the house (though she didn't know it was any harm). She 'd been ill, and it would have been her death, for she had a kind of feeling against it, though father never was good to her. I came home just at that time, and I stole her away and took her to London."

"And where had you been, sir, during that first absence from F—?"

Ben laughed—such a reckless, unmirthful laugh, that Fan burst into tears at the sound.

"You know all about it, sir. I was at farmer Heath's, and I left him to see after Fan; and I stole the child's frock; and I smoked in the hayloft; and I robbed the garden; and I took Tom Digges's ten shillin', and I did everything as ought not to be done. I don't deny nothing, sir; it's all true. But I've not wronged you, nor any here. You'll not believe me, though, so I'll say no more, only this—Fan is as innocent as the babe unborn; as innocent as Miss Pearl yonder, and it's the more credit to her, for she's never seen much good example, and it's not easy to be good when you're reared as we was. But Fan went to Sunday school, and always took to good ways—and she's 'your' grandchild, Mrs. Thirlston! She's your only daughter's child, and she never had but the two of us, and died when Fan was a baby. My father married again, and got one more fit for him. But you look at Fan and you'll see for yourself whose child she is—for she's the image of my mother, and you can't deny it."

"Oh, Ben!" exclaimed the girl, who had listened to this speech as if spell-bound. "Was poor Mother not my mother really?"

"Not she. Your mother was Fanny Thirlston, the daughter of that old woman yonder, that made believe to set the dogs on us when we first came here."

"I'm so glad," Fan said to herself. "I'm sure my own mother loved me."

"What has become of your father?" asked Mr. Harewood.

"He's dead, sir. He got off for want of evidence against him, and then he took ill and died. There's the letter I got, telling me of it," and he laid on the table a dirty scrap of newspaper, containing the account of the trial of the poachers, and Fairfax's acquittal, which Mrs. Simmonds had sent him in the letter, which he also produced.

"These papers certainly confirm your story," remarked Mr. Harewood, who, kindhearted man, by this time only wanted an excuse for forgiving Ben, and giving him another trial.

"It don't need no confirming, sir. I ain't asking anything for myself, and it's not likely any one would tell such a story of himself and his father if it wasn't true; nor 'then,' if he could help himself. I know you'll never trust me, and I don't deserve it. But if Mrs. Thirlston will give poor Fan house-room, and keep her till I come for her, I'd go away at once—and I'd 'never' trouble any one here any more—I swear it," with a meaning look at the old woman.

"He means, he 'd never come back!" cried Fan, springing to Ben's side, and holding fast by his arm. "I won't be left, Ben! Where you go, I'll go. You wouldn't have the heart. Ben—you couldn't do it! I'd break my heart. I wouldn't stay without you."

"There must be some good in the fellow," said Mr. Harewood to his wife, in rather a husky voice.

Ben was ready to cry, but he looked at Mrs. Thirlston inquiringly, and she nodded her head, to intimate that she would befriend Fan. And in the strength of his very love for the child, he determined to answer her in such a way as should make her content to let him go. It was a hard thing to do, but he remembered the weary, hungry, sickly little creature, who had toiled so patiently after him in his wanderings, and whatever might become of himself, he would secure comfort and plenty for little Fan. So he shook her hands off roughly, and said—

"I can't be bothered with ye, Fan; that's the plain truth of it. I can do well for myself, if I haven't you to keep too."

Fan looked up in his face—her eyes had a wild, unbelieving terror in them that went to his heart, but he hardened his face, and frowned. Without a word, the child fell at his feet as if he had killed her. Miss Ayrton and Pearl ran to raise her, but Ben had lifted her in his arms.

"God bless you, my poor little darling! 'Twas hard to do—but you'll be better off without a rascal like me."

He put his sister into Miss Ayrton's arms as he spoke. For some minutes all was confusion; it was difficult to bring Fan to life again, and when she had become conscious, and there was time to look about, Ben was nowhere to be seen. He was searched for in every direction, for Mr. Harewood was fully determined to give him another trial. But this poor Ben could not guess, and he was gone, however he contrived it.

Fan sat on the ground, and shivered from head to foot, as she listened to the cries of the searchers. She did not seem to hear what was said to her, but looked so utterly miserable that at last Pearl, guessing what was the worst part of the grief, sat down beside her and said—

"Listen, Fan dear. You know Ben only said that to make you let him go. And he took you in his arms, and said, 'God bless my little darling, you'll be better without me;' and he kissed you 'so.' Fan, he loves you dearly."

Fan laid her weary head down on the young lady's dainty muslin, and cried "till her heart was light," as the song says; or if not light, much lighter, at all events.

"He will surely come back to me, since I know he loves me," she said. "And oh! Miss Pearl dear, I do love him so."

Then Mrs. Thirlston arose from her seat, and made the following proclamation, in her least gracious manner:

"Well, sir and madam, if this child—and she's old enough to know better—can leave off behaving like a baby and spoiling Miss Harewood's beautiful blue muslin, which she ought to be ashamed for ever of making so free, I have just a word to say to her."

Poor Fan stood up, and tried to smile in a meek and conciliating manner, but she only succeeded in making a queer little face, and it was, perhaps, well for her that Mrs. Thirlston was looking at Mr. Harewood, not at her.

"It seems, sir, that this child 'is' my grandchild; there's no hope that it's a lie?"

"No 'fear' of that," Mrs. Harewood answered. "I think it is certainly true."

"Well, if she is, I suppose I must give her a chance of turning out decent. I haven't a mite of hope that she will. I gave her mother every advantage, and brought her up strict; and you know how that ended! But as the boy is gone—I'll have nought to do with he—and as I've been thinking lately of having a girl to do odd jobs—for I'm not so young as I was, and the rheumatiz is powerful bad sometimes—I'll take the girl home with me, and see if she'll go on steady. I don't expect it, but I'll keep her humble, and I'll give her a chance."

"Be kind to the child, Mrs. Thirlston," said the Squire, looking pityingly at Fan.

"Oh, certainly, sir. I never rose my hand to her mother, and I won't to her."

"Papa," whispered Pearl, "don't let her go—keep Fan here. Dear Papa, do! She'll be so wretched."

Fan heard the whisper, and to Pearl's great surprise, she said earnestly—

"You are very good to me, Miss Pearl, but I'll go with her. You see, if I don't, Ben won't know where to find me when he comes back. And I'll be always watching for him."

So Pearl let her go, promising to come often to see her. And Fairy Cottage was deserted, for it was long before Pearl cared to play there again.

And as to Fan, she would walk all the way round through Comerton, rather than pass the closed door of her dear little home.

CHAPTER VI.

"ARE YOU THERE, BEN?"

IT was an easy matter for Ben, knowing the grounds as he did (thanks to his love of watching the birds and beasts), to conceal himself from his pursuers. He had jumped out through the open window, and though he presently became aware that search was being made for him, and heard his name called loudly, he did not choose to be found. He had no idea that Mr. Harewood had relented, and the voices which called him did not sound friendly, or he fancied so.

When the search was given up, he stole back to the cottage, to secure his clothes and a few shillings that he had saved. Very sad he felt as he glanced round the small room where he and Fan had been so happy, and which, between them, they kept in such beautiful order.

But the softness passed away, and he told himself that now he was free—free to go to London and do the best he could for himself. There, he was sure of picking up odd jobs, and even of making friends who would have no right to look down upon him. He had met with many such acquaintances during the few weeks he had remained in London, and, in his present reckless mood, the remembrance of that time seemed pleasant to him.

For Fan's sake he had resisted temptation, had worked hard and tried to win a good character, but it was of no use. Do what he would, his own and his father's sins would be remembered against him; and so, as nothing better remained to him, he might as well give up, and have a little fun if he could get it. London was the place for such as he, and Ben set his face towards London, and tramped away sturdily until it was quite dark.

He was then entering a small town, so he looked out for a small inn, or rather public-house, and having had some supper, went to bed in a room which contained several beds, all of them engaged for that night. Before he slept, he had quite made up his mind.

Yes—he would go to London. There was no use in trying to be honest and good: he had tried, and was beginning to like it, and here was the end of it. He would buy a wheelbarrow and a load of fruit, and begin life as a costermonger—forget Fan, make friends, and lead a jolly life. He had money enough to travel by rail the rest of the way, and to set himself up in trade afterwards, and he would follow his new calling until something better turned up.

But Ben—poor Fan's own dear Bennie—was not left to himself to go to ruin, as in London he would but too surely have gone! He met with what he considered a great misfortune that night. He was robbed during his sleep (probably by one of the other lodgers) of all his money, and a good many articles of clothing. He made a great outcry, and the landlord, a big, truculent-looking fellow, either believed, or pretended to believe, that he had never had any money, and was only making this fuss to deceive him; and showing him a big stick, he promised him a sound drubbing if he did not at once depart.

"Taking away the character of my honest house—coming here without a copper, and sleeping in a bed fit for a lord—eating and drinking of the best, and then saying you are robbed! Just turn out, you young gallows bird."

"I shall go straight to the police," cried the angry Ben.

"If you do, I'll give you in charge for your expenses. But you won't, my boy. You're the kind of lad that isn't fond of the police, though I dare say the police is fond of you sometimes. Well—you go to 'em—the station is round the corner there."

Ben did not go to the police, however. When his wrath subsided, he thought better of that determination. So his money was gone; and now if he went to London, he would reach it penniless, and must even beg his bread along the road. Any way of life was better than that.

Two days later, as he was entering another town, Ben fell in with a travelling circus. The tent was pitched on a green place by the road's side, and as he lingered to have a look at it, he heard some men, who were lounging about, say that one of the grooms had just met with an accident, and been carried to the hospital in the town. Ben conjectured, shrewdly enough, that the circus was so small that the loss of one groom was likely to be a serious inconvenience to the company, so he boldly entered the tent, and spoke to the first person he met—a magnificent youth in tight flesh-coloured garments and spangles, with a gold fillet tied round a shock head of red hair. The morning performance was but just over, and this gay young gentleman had not yet changed his attire, as the "Celebrated Boneless Boy."

"If you please," said Ben, "does not your master want a groom?"

"Why do you ask?" inquired the boneless one, with a grin. "You look too respectable a card for our shop."

No compliment ever gave Ben such unqualified pleasure as this remark, which the "Boneless Boy" intended as a disparaging one.

"I'm down on my luck all the same," Ben remarked; "and I'm well used to horses."

"Oh, jolly!" cried the bespangled youth.

And to Ben's great admiration, he forthwith proceeded to tie his legs round his neck, and hop on his hands round his new acquaintance, by way of expressing his feelings.

"Oh, jolly! If no one turned up, I'd have to turn groom myself, for I'm the youngest apprentice. And oh, my eye, don't the 'White Horse of the Boundless Prairies,' watch his opportunity to give you a bite, and don't the 'Wild Irish Girl' kick like a good one? And when a fellow has two performances in the day, as 'Boneless Boy,' that's enough for him, without grooming the horses between times! Come along, and I'll take you to our governor."

Ben followed him into a wooden stable behind the tent, where they found several people more or less bespangled, standing about, while a stout, middle-aged man, with a good-natured face, was listening to the surviving groom, who was assuring him that "without 'elp he never could 'ope to send the 'orses into the hairear looking as his 'art could wish to see them."

"Jack, my poor boy," said Mr. Algernon Percy Wilbraham (which was the name of the proprietor of the circus, if the bills were to be believed), "you must just dress as fast as you can, and help Jem, until I get some one in Bob's place—stupid lad to let the mare break his leg when he ought to have been up to her ways by this time. But who's this, Jack?"

"Your new groom, I hope, sir," replied Jack with a grin. "He says he's handy about horses, and wants a job."

The bargain was soon made, for Mr. Algernon Percy Wilbraham wanted a groom very much, and Ben was in no condition to haggle for wages. And in ten minutes, he was hard at work rubbing down the "White Horse of the Boundless Prairies," a patient and Roman-nosed steed, and even assisting in making the animal deserve it's name by carefully whitening over a couple of dark patches on his sides.

Mr. Algernon Percy Wilbraham soon perceived that he had hired a clever groom, and the "Boneless Boy" became quite attached to his new friend.

From town to town they wandered, and the life was one which Ben would have thought very pleasant, once upon a time. The circus people were not bad folk in their way; they were tolerably honest, and drinking was out of the question, as it would have rendered them unfit for their business. Gambling was in fashion among them, but not to any great extent. Ben became rather a favourite with his master, as he proved to have quite a genius for teaching horses and dogs new tricks, and every one was pleasant to him.

Altogether, he thought he ought to be happy, but, as a matter of fact, he was very much the reverse. Once the life would have suited him, but he was changed now. Mind and heart had been awakened, and he could not lull them to sleep again. He missed his pleasant studies; there was no time for reading now, and no books to read. Church-going was impossible, as they were generally travelling on Sunday, and, to his own surprise, Ben missed the quiet Sunday and the hours spent in church.

And then the thought of little Fan! The little white face as he saw it last; the pitiful cry "you couldn't have the heart to leave me;" the look she gave him when he shook her hand off so roughly! He could not rest for thinking of little Fan. Suppose the old woman beat her? She looked as if she could. Suppose the child pined away and died for want of kindness? Suppose, too, that Fan could see him now, and know what a godless, thankless life he was leading; how the oaths and light jests of his companions, though they had annoyed him when he was fresh from his happy, quiet home with her, were so familiar now that he found himself using them frequently; what would she feel if she knew all this? Ah, little Fan, watching and weeping for your wilful brother, you little knew how the silken thread of love was drawing him, slowly, but surely back to you once more.

Fan was miserably unhappy in her grandmother's trim and pretty cottage at first. Mrs. Thirlston, in her laudable desire to "keep her humble," seldom allowed a day to pass without telling her that her mother had been a thankless fool, and her father a worthless rogue; that she was in a fair way to take after her mother, while Ben had already taken after his father, and gone to the bad. Fan seldom answered, but she lost heart, and instead of trying to please her grandmother, she just did what she was desired to do, and kept away from her as much as she could, which vexed the old woman and made her crosser than before.

At first the child was really frightened, remembering how her stepmother used to knock her about, but she soon found out that Mrs. Thirlston used no weapon but her tongue. But as time went on, it became more difficult to bear with the said tongue. It would be hard to say how the old woman expected the child to grow fond of her, but she did expect it, and was angry and disappointed because she did not do so. Much talk about ingratitude was now added to her constant scoldings, but Fan was getting hardened to it all, and did not care. It was bad for the child in every way, and Pearl, who came constantly to see her, did not find her little favourite improved, though she could not have said what was wrong.

Time passed very slowly for Fan, but somehow the winter wore away at last, and summer was nearly over too, when the following conversation passed between Fan and Miss Pearl, who had come to pay her a visit.

"Fan, do you know that uncle Frank is here again?"

Fan sighed. Mr. Sydney had been very kind to Ben.

"Is he, miss? I didn't know it."

"And I was telling him about Ben, and he is so sorry. And he has made such a lovely plan, and he says I may tell you. You know, don't you? that he is very clever and learned, and that he writes books about birds, and beasts, and things."

"Yes, Miss Pearl; you lent Ben a book of his when we were living—"

"In the cottage," she meant to say, but her voice died away.

"Speak up, Frances," said Mrs. Thirlston, severely (she always called her grandchild Frances); "don't be muttering under your breath when Miss Harewood is so good as to speak to you."

"I understand her quite well, thank you," answered Pearl, quietly. "Well, Fan, uncle Frank is going to South America on one of his exploring, collecting journeys, and he wants some one to go with him as a servant, and to help. And he says Ben would be a treasure to him because he likes that kind of thing, you know. And papa says that a few years with uncle Frank, away from all temptation, and where no one would know that he had ever—been foolish, would be so very good for Ben. Uncle Frank will take him, if we can only find him in time. Has he never written?"

"No, never. He will not write. I think he'll come—he will want to see how I am without any one knowing it. He'll come at night. I look-out and call him every night before I go to bed."

"Indeed you do, as I can testify; for most wearing it is," remarked Mrs. Thirlston. "To say nothing of the chance of your letting in some tramp that will murder us all, and rob the house. But under my roof that young vagabone don't set 'his' foot. Mind that, Frances."

"I would not bring him in," said Fan, "you need not fear, ma'am."

"Uncle Frank and Papa mean to put advertisements in the papers, in hopes that Ben may see one of them; and they mean to try if the police can find him. Uncle Frank bid me tell you that he likes Ben, and will be a friend to him if—if—"

"If what, Miss Pearl?"

"If 'only' he has done nothing bad since he left us. But the only thing they have found out yet, is that he went towards London, and they say that if he went there, they would be very much afraid for him."

"Why, Miss Pearl!"

"It seems there are a great many very wicked people in London, who would be glad to get Ben and teach him bad things."

"Well, he wouldn't require teaching," remarked Mrs. Thirlston. "His father's own son; that's what he is."

"Do you think he would go to London?" asked Pearl, pretending not to hear this speech.

"Miss Pearl, I don't know 'where' he 'd go, but I don't think he would go wrong—and I'm sure he'll come back. Oh, if we could only find him in time! This would make him so happy."

"You may be very thankful you can't lay hands on him, Frances. Mr. Sydney doesn't know him as I do, or he 'd never run such a risk. That boy 'd cut his throat and rob him as soon as look at him; and you may tell Mr. Sydney as I say it, that's his grandmother to my sorrow."

"Grandma!" said Fan, suddenly. "Say what you like to me, for I don't care about it, but don't say things like that of Ben. He never hurt any one in his life—and you know nothing about him. Are you going, Miss Pearl? May I go a little bit of the way with you?"

They went off together, leaving Mrs. Thirlston quite speechless with wrath. But Pearl felt quite vexed, and as they walked along she said gently—

"Fan, do you think you ought to speak like that to Mrs. Thirlston? She's very old, you know, and she is your grandmother."

"Miss Pearl, I know I ought not. But indeed she does drive me so, with her tongue, that I'm getting quite wicked. I never knew before how bad I could be; poor mother used to beat me sometimes, but then she 'd let me alone sometimes too, and I think I would rather be beaten than hear grandma going on at me all day."

"I wish you could leave her, Fan. I am sure it is not good for you."

"No, miss—I am getting quite stupid like, but I can't leave till Ben comes. I know he'll come, some time or other."

The advertisements were printed, but Ben did not see them; and the police searched for Ben both in London and in the towns which lay between Comerton and London, but they did not find him. And time was flying, the month fixed by Mr. Sydney for his departure came, and poor Fan was almost in despair.

Grandma was ill too, suffering cruelly from rheumatism, which did not improve her temper, but quite the reverse. And I am sorry to say that her bitter tongue had so disgusted Fan that at first she was not very sorry for the old woman's sufferings.

At last Mr. Sydney came to Harewood again, to say good-bye. He had not filled up the place meant for Ben, as he had not been able to find any one who seemed likely to suit him, but he hoped to get a servant in America.

Now, it happened that just at this time Ben and the circus arrived at the little town where he had been robbed of his money. And, being so near Fan, the longing to know whether she were well cared for and contented, or pining and unhappy, became so strong that he could resist no longer. If he found her well and happy, he would not speak to her, nor do anything to unsettle her, but he must see for himself that it was so. For if not, she would be better off with him, uncomfortable as the wandering life would be to so shy and timid a creature.

So one evening, having thoroughly finished his work, Ben went in search of the "Boneless Boy," whom he found in the deserted arena, in a more than commonly boneless condition, as he was practising a new attitude of marvellous ugliness.

"Jack," said Ben, after contemplating him for a minute, "if you 'could' come straight, I'd find it easier to speak to you. This minute, I don't know where your head is."

Jack's limbs relaxed, and he tumbled down straight enough, and flat enough too, on the ground.

"Wot's up, matey?" said he.

Ben explained that he wanted to go and see his sister who lived some miles off. And he promised that if Jack would undertake his morning work for him, he would return before the morning performance was over.

The good-natured lad promised willingly.

"But you never told me that you have a sister, Ben," said he.

"She's only a child," Ben answered. "Where's the manager, Jack? I must get his leave."

Mr. Algernon Percy Wilbraham, whose intimate friends, for some unknown reason, were wont to address him as Jerry Slaggs, gave his consent willingly, and Ben set off on his long walk without further delay.

THERE THE CHILD STOOD, LISTENING.

By the time he reached the pretty cottage on the edge of the park, it was very late, and as dark as a summer night ever is. It was so late that he felt sure that Fan was in bed and asleep, but he thought he would go up to the house and have a look at it before he sought out a sheltered corner wherein to pass the night.

To his surprise, there were lights in every room in the cottage, and he could see people moving about, though he could not distinguish one from another, as the blinds and curtains were partially drawn. After a few moments, however, all the lights save one were extinguished.

And then the hall door was softly opened, and some one came out and stood on the little gravelled sweep. It was Fan, taking that "last look," which her grandmother found so wearing! She did it almost without hope now; yet she could not have gone to bed without doing it. She was very late to-night, in consequence of her grandmother's increased illness, which had obliged her to have a woman from the village in to help.

There the child stood, listening. And presently she called aloud—

"Are you there, Ben? Oh, if you are, answer me."

Ben, utterly amazed—for how should he know that this was a nightly ceremony, and that Fan had not discovered that he was near?—moved a step forward. And in another moment, Fan had her arms round his neck.

"Oh, my darling! Oh, Ben, is it really you? Safe and well? Oh, Ben, I was thinking you must be dead, or you'd have come to me."

"It's me, no doubt, Fan, dear; though how you heard or saw me passes my wits. Why, child, you've grown so tall! Come in and get a light, that I may see you."

"No, no; don't go into the house, Ben. Wait one moment. Oh, my heart is jumping about so that there's a buzz in my head. Let me sit down on the doorstep for a minute, Ben dear, I've so much to tell you."

"Well, but come in; there's a great dew, and you'll get damp. Come in, and we can have a talk."

"No; grandma is always saying that I'm not to bring you into the house, and one wouldn't like to do it now, just because she's in bed and couldn't prevent it. I'll go and ask her, and if she says no, I'll go up with you to the House. They want you there, Ben."

She entered the house, and ran upstairs. Ben could hear the conversation as he stood in the doorway, for the house was very small.

"Grandma, Ben has come back at last," began Fan excitedly.

"Has he? I don't believe you, you minx."

"He has, indeed. May I bring him into the kitchen, and talk to him?"

"Frances Fairfax! How often have I told you that that young vagabone don't cross my threshold? 'Bring him in,' she says as cool as possible; bring him in to rob and murder me in my bed. Now, Frances, here's my last word. Go you down, tell Ben to go about his business, and shut the door in his face, and bolt and lock it and look to the windows, or turn out this minute and go with him, and go your own way, for I'll have nothing more to do with you."

"Very well, grandma; I'll go."

"You'll go, and leave me to be cared for by that hussy, Sally Tibbs? And this is your gratitude, when I took you in and fed and clothed you, and done my best to teach you to be humble and keep you from ruin? You'll go!"

"Yes, grandma. You've never been kind to me; you never said a kind word to me since you brought me here; and if you fed me, I worked for you, and you must have had a servant if I hadn't been here. And I never would have stayed, only I knew Ben would come here to look for me. So now he has come, I'll go with him."

"I was a fool to expect any better of your mother's daughter. Go, then. But don't be sneaking back when he leaves you again, as he will. You may go to the workhouse then, for all I care."

"And I'd rather go there," said Fan, as she ran downstairs with her hat and cloak in her hand. "Oh, Ben, did you hear her? Ain't she cross? That's the way she goes on all day long, and all night too, when she can't sleep."

Ben made no answer. He could not have put his feeling into words, but he was surprised, and—not exactly disappointed, but something like it, to hear Fan answer the old woman so doggedly. But Fan was her old loving self again in a moment, and he forgot his half-formed thoughts very soon.

"Now I'm ready. Sally Tibbs will see to grandma. Now, Ben, come to the House, and as we go, I'll tell you why they want you."

"But look here, Fan. I have no comfortable place to take you to. Suppose that old cat won't have you back?"

"I couldn't go back to her. Miss Pearl will manage for me—I know she will. Oh, Ben dear, living with grandma would make me wicked; you don't know what she is. Why, Sally is the fourth woman we've had since she got worse; and Sally will only stay till her week is up."

"But, Fan—I don't want to go up to the House. I—I'm ashamed."

"But only wait until I tell you why they want you."

She stopped, and looking up in his face, anxiously trying to read his history there by the dim starlight, she said less joyously—

"Only first—tell me, Ben dear, where you've been, and what work you are at."

This Ben did, and again the child tripped on beside him with a heart as light as her dancing feet.

"How good he is!" she said. "And I was doubting him. I ought never to doubt him again. Poor grandma! I'm a little sorry for her."

"Why, child?"

"Because I'm so happy. Here's the gate, Ben dear. Do you remember the day you helped me over it, and we crept into the cottage, and I went off asleep? I have never passed it since you went, but it's our shortest way, so we'll climb over the gate. And now I'll tell you about Mr. Sydney, and what he wants of you."

The party at Harewood House were sitting together talking; and Pearl was still up, because uncle Frank was going away so soon. The solemn-looking butler came in with a deprecating air, and said—

"Sir, that little girl of Mrs. Thirlston's, Fanny Fairfax, is at the door and she would take no refusal, but I must tell Miss Harewood that she want to speak to her."

"Oh, dear!" cried Pearl. "I am sure she has found Ben."

"Or Mrs. Thirlston has turned her out," said the Squire.

"More likely the poor old woman is worse," said Mrs. Harewood.

"I am sure it is Ben," Pearl repeated, as she ran out of the room. And one glance at Fan's radiant face assured her that she had guessed rightly.

"Oh, Fan, you've got him!" she cried.

"Yes, Miss Pearl," Fan replied, speaking without any stops in the joy of her heart, "and he's all right; he's been at honest work and kept one place ever since he left me and he's in it still only he's behind that big tree because he won't face the master until he knows you'll befriend him."

"Of course I will. Ben, come here at once!" Pearl cried.

And if the butler did not have a fit when he saw Miss Harewood, with tears of joy in her sweet brown eyes, lead the two Fairfaxes into the drawing-room, I think he will never have one, for it was a trial to him.

"Mamma, I was right. Uncle Frank, Ben's come back, and here he is. And he's all right. Oh, Mamma, are you not glad?"

Ben looked very sheepish, but the two gentlemen spoke so kindly to him that he plucked up courage, and explained the nature of his present employment, giving his master's name, and saying that he thought he would give him a good character. Then Mr. Sydney asked him if Fan had told him of the place offered him, and if he wished to accept it.

"Oh, sir, it would be the making of me! It would be the very thing of all others that I'd like. But I must go back to my master, sir, until he can get a groom, for it would not be fair to take him short like this."

"Quite right, Ben. I'll drive over to — to-morrow, and you can come with me. We'll see what he says."

"Thank you, sir. I know he'll speak well for me, for I've served him honest. And I hope," Ben went on, getting fiery red, "that you and—and every one—knows that I feel more than I can say. I'm sure I don't know why you should be so kind, sir—unless it's for Fan's sake."

"Fan is a good girl," said Mr. Harewood. "But I should try to befriend you for your mother's sake, Ben. She was a great favourite with 'my' mother, and I have always been very sorry for her. Is Fan to go home to-night?"

"Fan was turned out, sir, because she wouldn't shut the door in my face."

"Ah, well; some people never learn by experience. Fan must stay here then, and when we see how your affairs are settled, we will arrange for her. Anna, you had better tell Mrs. Turner to see after them both for to-night."

So the housekeeper was sent for, and the brother and sister remained at the house that night. Fan was wonderfully happy; she thought it odd that she was not perfectly happy, but she could not get her poor, lonely, cross, old grandmother out of her head. Since the old woman's illness had become serious, Fan had felt more kindly towards her until that evening, when her abuse of Ben hardened her heart. And she knew that Sally Tibbs would not fill her place well.

Next day, Mr. Sydney took Ben with him, and went off early to see Mr. Algernon Percy Wilbraham, who gave Ben an excellent character, and was very sorry to lose him, though he at once declared that he "wouldn't stand in the lad's light." Mr. Sydney offered to pay a man to take Ben's place for a time, as he wished to carry him off at once. This made everything square, Mr. Wilbraham remarked, and Ben's bundle was soon made ready for departure.

The morning performance was going on, and the "Boneless Boy" was summoned from the arena to bid his friend good-bye, a farewell which cost the soft-hearted youth many tears. And he returned to his performance with a countenance curiously spotted and streaked, in consequence of his tears having partially washed away the paint with which he was adorned. The audience rather liked it, however, as a decided novelty.

Fan's good-bye was a much sadder affair. With all her unselfish love, she could not but feel very desolate when parting with Ben for a long time—perhaps for years. Still she tried very hard to be cheerful, and even to smile as she kissed him for the last time, so that he might not have a melancholy recollection of her.

CHAPTER VII.

HOW FAN SPUN A SECOND SILKEN THREAD.

SO Ben sailed away to foreign lands, and Fan was left at Harewood House, under the protection of Mrs. Harewood, who promised that she should be well cared for during her brother's absence. Mrs. Harewood was well pleased to have Fan under her charge, though she had thought it rather a risk taking Ben abroad in the position of sole attendant on Mr. Sydney.

Miss Ayrton, in the kindest manner, offered to teach the child, giving her regular daily lessons. But Fan had no particular love of learning, and asked her if it was not enough for her to learn to read and write well.

"Well, Fan, what you say is not unreasonable," said Miss Ayrton.

"Of course I'd like to read quite well, ma'am, and to be able to write to Ben."

"Yes; and for most girls in your rank of life, that and a little arithmetic would be quite enough."

"Thank you, miss," cried lazy Fan joyfully. "But not for you, Fan."

"Not for me, Miss Ayrton! Please tell me why?"

"Because, when your brother, who has a natural love of study, I think, has been for three or four years travelling about alone with such a man as Mr. Sydney, you will find, Fan, that he will come home very different from the ignorant lad who left you. Merely hearing Mr. Sydney talk about the various places they visit, and the beasts and plants which they meet with, will teach him a great deal. But besides that, I know that Mr. Sydney thinks him clever, and means to teach him many things, so as to fit him for something better than a mere groom when he comes home."

"Ben will like that," said Fan.

"Yes, but when Ben comes home and finds his sister just where he left her—fit only for a servant—he will not like 'that,' I fear. He may be just as fond of you, but he will have to seek other companions."

"Miss Ayrton, I will learn whatever you will teach me," cried Fan hurriedly.

And she set to work diligently, making fair progress; for, though far from clever, she was not deficient. Mrs. Thompson, the housekeeper, gave her lessons too, and was very kind to her, in return for which Fan thought no task too troublesome, and saved the old lady a good deal of trotting about the house, by being a very handy messenger.

Thus time passed very pleasantly, and Fan was surprised to find that she could be so happy, parted from Ben. But then she had Miss Pearl, which made a great difference. The Fairy Cottage was revisited now, and many a merry game of play took place there. Once, Fan went up to the cottage beyond the park to call on her grandmother, prompted by an uneasy feeling that she had not done quite as she ought when living there. The door was opened by a stranger.

Sally Tibbs had found the place unbearable after Fan's departure, and another woman had taken her place. A very disagreeable-looking woman too, who looked at Fan with unfriendly eyes and asked what she wanted.

"I'm Mrs. Thirlston's grandchild, please, and I want to know how she is, and if she will see me."

"I'll ask her," was the reply.

And the woman shut the door leaving Fan outside. She went upstairs, and Fan heard her grandmother's voice, raised in anger she thought. And then the woman came down again and said—

"You may go about your business, Frances Fairfax, there's no use in coming fawning and pretending here, she'll never see your face again, and you'll never be a penny the better of her."

"I don't want anything from her," Fan said indignantly, as she turned and walked off in great wrath.

This occurred when Ben had been gone for about a fortnight, and Fan thought no more of her grandmother for a long time.

But one day in January—a cold and frosty day—Sally Tibbs came to Harewood House and asked if the mistress could see her. Mrs. Harewood came to her in the hall at once.

"Well, Mrs. Tibbs, I hope there is nothing the matter with you?" said the lady, who doctored her neighbours occasionally with great success.

"No, ma'am, but I'm as much obliged as if there was," said Sally in an apologetic tone. "It is only that I've took on myself to tell you summat, ma'am, as I think ought for to be known."

"And what is that, Sally?"

"It consarns that cantankerous old Mrs. Thirlston, ma'am. You see, when I left her, soon after Fanny Fairfax went—and r'ally ma'am, flesh and blood couldn't stand her tongue—Jane Jeffars, that's a widow like myself, she got the place. And the remark in Comerton was, if you'll excuse me, that if Sally Tibbs had to leave, how long would Jane Jeffars, as is known to have a temper, stay there? But stay she has, ma'am, ever since! and comes to Spence's (where I'm working) in Mrs. Thirlston's handsome cloth cloak—and brags, she do, how the old lady gives her presents and begs her not to leave her. I says to her, says I, 'Jane, how do you make it out to stand her tongue?' And she makes answer, 'I has her meek enough, Sally; she don't give me much tongue.'"

"She must be very much changed then," remarked Mrs. Harewood.

"My own idear, ma'am, if you'll believe it. And I thought, too, that Jane would not have said that but for a glass she 'd had, and she seemed vexed with herself, too. And I wondered could she be bullying the old woman, and making a prey of her like. And at last I made up my mind to go up to the cottage as if to pay a visit in a friendly way. And Jane Jeffars, ma'am, she wouldn't let me inside the door! And don't say as 'I' said it, but she wasn't sober, not to say quite. And by what I saw through the windows, the house is in a shockin' state of dirt."

"Oh, the poor old woman! She was always so neat and particular," said Mrs. Harewood. "I am very much obliged to you, Sally. Mrs. Thirlston, you know, was old Mrs. Harewood's maid for years, and her husband was a servant here, too, so that Mr. Harewood would be terribly vexed if she were neglected. I will see her myself this afternoon. I was so vexed with her about Fan that I have not been there lately."

"I thought you aught to be told, ma'am," remarked Sally, as with many curtseys she withdrew.

Mrs. Harewood ordered the pony carriage to be ready immediately after luncheon, and drove to the cottage. Mrs. Jeffars opened the door, and, seeing who it was, she turned very red, and asked, in a constrained tone, "What she was pleased to want?"

"I have come to see Mrs. Thirlston," replied Mrs. Harewood.

"I don't know that she can see you, ma'am. She's powerful bad, and I'm making a great cleaning, too, and the place is all in a mess."

"I think Mrs. Thirlston will be glad to see me; you need not go up to ask her. Open the door wider, please. Yes, indeed, the place is in a mess, as you say, but I do not see much token of a cleaning, Mrs. Jeffars," remarked Mrs. Harewood, as she quietly put the woman aside and walked upstairs and into the little bedroom.

The stairs were extremely dirty, and at the top lay on the floor a large tray in a very sloppy condition, filled with unwashed cups and plates, mingled with scraps of bread. The once snug bedroom was in the most untidy state, the bed linen soiled and crumpled, and the bed all in confusion, while the poor old woman, with wide-open eyes and frightened face, was watching the door eagerly.

"Oh, Mrs. Harewood! Oh, I'm so thankful you came in. I was so afraid, madam, that she 'd send you away, as she did Frances and Sally Tibbs. Oh, madam, look at the state I'm in! Me that was always so particular! Me that kept myself as neat and nice as any lady in the land! I don't mind her half starving me half so much as the dirt and mess."

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Harewood. "Yes, indeed, it must be a trial to you. Sally told me that she feared you were not well treated, and so I came to see for myself."

"Indeed, madam, it was very good of you! If you'd be so kind as to turn that drunken hussy out, madam, and get Sally or any decent body to come to me. I shall soon be gone if I don't get proper food."

"But Mrs. Thirlston, Sally left you because she could not stand the way you scolded her."

"If she 'd even come for a few days until I get my senses about me! Ah, madam, it's an 'awsome' thing for an old woman like me to be left to hired folk. Now, if Frances was here—but there, I suppose she wouldn't come to me."

"Well, you see, Fan is very happy with us. She learns her lessons regularly with Miss Ayrton, and housekeeping from Mrs. Turner, and she's a great favourite with all of us. Everybody is kind to her. Why should she leave it all to come back to you?"

Mrs. Harewood was a woman who thought that a little plain speaking sometimes did good, and I think she was quite right. But her kind heart pricked her a little when she saw the pinched old face look so downcast.

"No, madam, I couldn't expect it," Mrs. Thirlston said, with unexpected humility. "I have a bad tongue, and it makes every one turn against me. I used not to care, but somehow lately I feel different about it. I was not good to Frances, I know."

Mrs. Harewood went downstairs, and said to Jane Jeffars in a quiet, decided way which completely awed that unpleasant personage—

"Mrs. Thirlston wishes you to leave the house at once. I will settle with you when you are ready to go; and please remember that I shall look into your box."

Then she went to the door and called her groom.

"Thomas, drive to the village and find Sally Tibbs if you can, and ask her to come back with you. Say that I am here, and that I want to speak to her. I think you will find her at Spence's; she was working there. If she cannot come, perhaps your wife would, for to-night?"

"She will surely, ma'am," said Thomas, driving off.

Mrs. Harewood found a chair, and having dusted it, sat down to await Jane's departure.

That good woman thought it very hard that she should not only lose her place, but be forced by Mrs. Harewood's watchfulness to abandon nearly all her "little pickin's" as she called them, and fill her box merely with her own limited wardrobe. The comfortable cloth cloak she particularly liked, but she did not dare to carry it off. She was paid her week's wages and departed grumbling in a subdued voice. It would not do to abuse Mrs. Harewood openly.

On her way to the village she passed Sally, coming in triumph to replace her. And if wishes could have caused an accident to the pony carriage, Sally would scarcely have reached the cottage in safety. She did get there safely, however, and promised to stay "as long as she could."

Mrs. Harewood went up to tell the old woman what she had done, and to bid her good-bye. She found her in a very subdued state of mind.

"Tell Frances, madam, that I can't ask her to come back to me, but that I'm in a very poor way indeed. And thank you, madam, for coming to see after me; it was greater kindness than I deserve."

On her way home Mrs. Harewood met her husband, and told him where she had been, and all about the old woman. I am sorry to say that the squire laughed heartily, and declared that "hunger was the only way to tame anything; and that he did not despair now of curing old Tearaway!"—a very vicious old farm horse, which was the terror of the ploughman.

In the evening Mrs. Harewood sent for Fan to her dressing-room, and said to her—

"Fan, I heard this morning from Sally Tibbs that your grandmother was still very ill, and that Jane Jeffars was not treating her well. So I went there to-day, to see if this were true; and I found the poor old woman in a most miserable state. Jane drinks, it seems, and she had the house in 'such' a condition—you would not know it; and your poor grandmother half-starved, lying in such an untidy, soiled bed, so very uncomfortable, for you know how nice she always kept things. I got Sally to go back to her for a time, but the truth is that no one will stay with her for money, though she is well off and pays well. As she gets more helpless, she will be always falling into bad hands, and being neglected and cheated. It is very sad to think of it."

"'Indeed,' ma'am, I don't wonder people won't stay."

"No," said Mrs. Harewood. "There is but one thing that could make any one stay with her and care for her kindly; and that is—love."

"No one could love grandma," said Fan, quickly.

"She is not very loveable, indeed; and yet, you know, she is one of those whom our Saviour loved well enough to die for. We think ourselves much better than she is, but I think we must seem worse to Him than she does to us, yet He loves us. But when I said that this was a duty which could only be done for love, I did not mean for love of her, but for the love of God."

Fan looked earnestly at her mistress, but said nothing.

"That is the only right motive, Fan. You love Ben dearly, and would do or bear anything for him. But do you love God enough to do a hard, unpleasant duty for His sake, giving up a happy home to do it? I do not bid you go, Fan. I will say nothing more to you, or to any one, about it. But I think it is your duty. You are the only relation that poor lonely suffering old woman has; and, child as you are, you could make her comfortable, and perhaps win her love. I think Sally would stay if you were there. Mrs. Thirlston bid me tell you that she cannot expect you to go, but that she is in a very poor way."

"Oh, ma'am, how could I do it?"

"Indeed, it is a hard thing, Fan. I am very sorry myself—and you must not decide in a hurry. Only think over what I have said, and try to decide rightly."

Fan crept away, feeling very miserable. At first it seemed to her that she "could" not do this thing. Yet as she lay awake that night, thinking it over, she knew that she ought to do it; and Fan was a very conscientious little body. How much God had done for her, she thought; and now, could she refuse to do this for the love of Him!

Next morning, as the servants were leaving the room after prayers, Fan went up to Mrs. Harewood and said—

"If you please, ma'am, I will go to grandma."

"And you will yet be very glad, my child, that you have decided to do your duty rather than please yourself," said Mrs. Harewood, very kindly.

But Pearl made great lamentation when she understood what was going on. Still she felt that it was right, and did not try to dissuade Fan.

"Now, I have only a word or two to say to you," Mrs. Harewood said, when the child was ready to go. "Don't be content with doing your duty in a hard, cold way. Try to pity your grandmother, and be gentle with her, and cheerful. Think of what I said to you last night, and remember, at any time you can come back to us; we shall always have a place for you until Ben comes home."

"Thank you, ma'am. I really will try, ma'am. I know that I never was pleasant with her, when I was there before."

"I shall come often to see you, Fan," said Pearl, "and so will Miss Ayrton, and we will bring you books."

"Yes, and Miss Ayrton has promised me to give me a lesson when she can manage it, so that I may be getting on a little. Good-bye, Miss Pearl."

And Fan screwed up her face, to keep herself from crying, in a manner so comical that it was well that Pearl was rather tearfully inclined too, or she must have laughed. On the road, Fan had her cry out in comfort, and had succeeded in drying her poor eyes when she arrived at the cottage.

In the kitchen she found Sally, making vigorous search for the kitchen utensils which used to hang round, so bright and lovely to behold, and which had all been put to uses that they were not intended for, and thrust into corners without being cleaned.

"Oh, Sally! What a mess the place is in!"

"Well, now, if you'll believe 'me,' it's clean and nice to what it was when I came yesterday. Why, the very floor was an inch thick with black dirt, I do assure you. Pails and pails of water I've used on them boards, but it will take several washings to bring 'em to a colour again."

"Who are you talking to, Sally Tibbs?" screamed a well-known harsh voice from upstairs.

"Hark to that! Ah, there's life left in the old lady yet," remarked Sally, as Fan ran upstairs.

"It's me, Grandma. I've come to nurse you if you'll let me."

"Come to stay? To stay for good?" said Mrs. Thirlston sharply.

"Yes, Grandma. I'll try to please you; 'indeed' I will."

"Well, you are a good little thing," said the old woman. "I declare I wish—"

But what she wished, she did not say.

Sally Tibbs consented to remain at the cottage, now that Fan was there, to "come between her and the old woman's tongue." That tongue wagged pretty freely still; and many a time Fan thought that she must give up and go back to Miss Pearl.

But Miss Pearl proved herself a real friend, and though always kind and full of sympathy, she was always ready to strengthen Fan to do right, rather than to give up in despair.

And one Sunday morning, the rector preached a sermon on a very short text, "Endure hardness," and Fan thought he must have made that sermon on purpose for her; at all events, it helped her greatly. She made up her mind not even to think of giving up, but to settle it with herself that here was her proper place, and that she would stick to it.

And to her great surprise, Mrs. Thirlston gradually began to scold less; nay, she even praised her once or twice. She began to like to hear the child read, too, and listened to the Bible with great attention, taking also a keen interest in the stories with which Pearl kept them supplied. How very glad Fan was that she could now read fluently, for it passed many an otherwise trying hour.

"I really think, Miss Pearl, that Granny is getting to like me," she said one day.

If she had only known the truth, the poor old woman could not bear her to be out of her sight, and thought there never had been such a child before. But if you spend eighty years of your life in making yourself unpleasant, you will not find it easy to make yourself pleasant for the years that remain, however much you may wish it. And constant pain and failing powers are hard to bear, too; a fact which the young and strong are apt to forget.

All this time, Mr. Sydney wrote constantly to his sister, always giving good accounts of Ben, who generally sent a letter for Fan in the same cover. For a long time Mrs. Thirlston would not mention Ben, nor ask any questions about his letters, though she was dying with curiosity sometimes when she saw Fan laughing over them; for Ben told her of all his strange adventures, and told them so well that Fan thought his letters as good as any story book.

But one day, when matters had gone on in this way for a very long time, Mrs. Thirlston saw Fan crying over a letter which had just been sent up from the house. She fidgeted about in her chair for some time, and at last said, snappishly—

"What are you crying for, Fan?" For it was Fan and Granny now, in these better days.

"Because I'm 'so' happy, Granny."

"It's the act of a fool to cry because you're happy. All the same, Fan—" (very crossly), "if you'd enjoy reading me what pleases you so much, you may do it."

She was longing to hear the letter, though her pride would not let her say so.

"It—it's from Ben!" said Fan, opening her eyes very wide.

"Well? 'Twon't bite me, I suppose. Read it, child, if you like."

Fan accordingly read a good deal of the letter, which made mention of an illness which Mr. Sydney had just recovered from, and gave an account of various strange things that they had seen; more particularly of the flowers he had met with, which seemed to strike him more than anything else. But there was nothing at all affecting in what she read, and the keen old woman drew her own conclusion.

"Thank you, child. It's a queer country, yon, with flowers that hang in the air, flourishing their roots in your face like that. But which was it, the purple one or the yellow, that you cried over?"

"I did not read the bit that made me cry, Granny, but I will, if you—will be kind about it."

"Let's hear it," said Granny, shortly.

And Fan read—

"I have been saving my money (for Mr. Sydney pays me some monthly, though not all my wages, as it would not be safe to carry much money about with us, and besides, I do not want much, so he just gives me enough to buy tobacco and such like) and I have been a long time now without spending a penny, and I am sending my savings to you. Mr. Sydney is to manage it for me, and Mr. Harewood will pay you the money. And you must do this for me, Fan, if you can. Get Mrs. Heath's address from Mrs. Spence, and send her two pounds eight shillings from me, for Tom Digges, to pay him the ten shillings I stole from him, and the two I owed him. That is fourfold, you know, like that small man in the Bible, who climbed into a tree to see the Lord pass by, and I would write his name only I forget how it is spelt, and I am too tired to get my Bible to look. Also send her twelve shillings to pay the three I owed at the shop, and you write her a nice letter and ask her to do this for you, and say how sorry and ashamed I am of my conduct to her and to farmer Heath, so bad and ungrateful that I do not like even to write to her to ask forgiveness, but if you ask her, I think she will forgive me, for she is so kind and soft-hearted.

"Then, if you think Mrs. Spence would not take it ill, you buy a frock for Etty, a real handsome one, blue, of course, and very nice, and say something to Mrs. Spence for me. And pay old Mrs. Harris, that we lodged with in London, one pound, because I went off that night without paying our rent. And send Mrs. Simmonds one pound, just to show that we remember how good she was to us that time, and put any you have left in the poor-box, to be given away, for indeed, I wronged many that I never can find out and pay. Dear Fan, I am so sorry when I think about it, but Mr. Sydney says that when one really repents, one is surely forgiven, but still I think I ought to make amends when I have the power to do it. And it is a good punishment to me to think how I might be sending you this money to buy some nice present for yourself, as I should like to do, and will, when I have saved more."

Fan ceased reading, and looked nervously at her grandmother. But, to her surprise, the old lady looked both pleased and softened.

"You may make your mind easy about Ben," she said. "I'm no great judge, 'tis true, but I think that's the right kind of repentance. That boy will do well yet, though he 'is' a Fairfax."

"Oh, Granny, thank you!" cried Fan, melting into tears again.

"For nothing, as the gallipot said," quoth the old lady tartly. "What are you crying for, Fan? You'll never be anything but a soft little fool."

But it was in vain that she tried to be as cross as usual; her heart was touched, and Fan knew it.

Later in the day the pony carriage from Harewood drove up to the little gate, and Mrs. Harewood was seen coming up the walk. Fan rushed to the door and opened it with a beaming countenance.

"Well, Fan, I see you have had your letter. I desired Thomas to bring it up early, as it was some time since we had heard. How do you do, Mrs. Thirlston? I'm glad to see you looking so much better."

"Thank you, madam. I'm no great things to boast of, indeed, but you're always welcome, madam, and I'm proud to see you."

The good woman was never known to confess herself better, or in any but a very poor case.

Mrs. Harewood sat down, and Fan stood behind her grandmother's chair, smiling broadly, she was so happy; for she knew somehow that Mrs. Harewood was pleased about Ben, and meant to say so. And to hear Ben praised—could life afford a greater joy than that?

"Fan, you look so happy, that it is quite pleasant to see you. Yes, child, I know why. But you don't know yet what cause you have for being pleased; for I am sure Ben does not tell you what his master tells me. Mrs. Thirlston, will you allow me to read to Fan a bit of my brother's letter, or must I take her home with me to hear it? For it is about Ben, you know."

"Certingly, you can read what you like, madam," said Mrs. Thirlston primly.

"Oh, ma'am, Granny let me read her Ben's own letter, and she was pleased. Now you know you were, Granny, so there's no use in denying it."

"I don't deny it, Frances. I 'will' say I like the boy's letter, and I begin to hope he won't come to the gallows after all."

"That was about the money, I suppose? Mr. Harewood will give it to you, Fan, any day you can come to the house, and I will help you to arrange everything as Ben directs. But now I must read you this, you will not wonder that 'I' think more of it than of his sending the money.

"'MY DEAR SISTER,

"'I suppose you are wondering where I am, and what I am doing, that I have been so long without writing. That I am alive and well is mainly owing to that very Ben Fairfax whom you were hardly willing to let me bring with me. I have been very ill, a sharp attack of fever, and we were in an out of the way Indian village, with none but Indians near. Before I became delirious, I told Ben what to give me and how to manage, and he nursed me day and night, with a tenderness and devotion that could not be surpassed. I could not have got through it, I think, but for his care. Poor Ben! He is as thin as a threadpaper, between watching and anxiety, but he is quite well, and is a treasure to me in every way. He is a clever lad, too, and learns all that I can teach him, but botany is his favourite study, and he says that some day, when he has laid by a little money, he will set up as a florist and seedsman, and have Fan to keep house for him.'

"Then he goes on to tell me about the money, and that Ben has denied himself every little luxury to save it. Well, Fan! What do you say to this?"

"She'll cry pints, madam. That's Fan's way of being happy."

"Oh, Granny, I can't help it! Oh, my dear Ben—But I always knew he 'd come right."

Fan went to Harewood the next day to get Ben's money, which she disposed of according to his wish. Mrs. Harewood took that opportunity to ask her if she still felt so miserable at her grandmother's.

"Oh no, ma'am! I don't mean that I was not happier here, where every one was so good to me, but poor Granny couldn't do without me, and she really is kind, though one wouldn't know it from her manner."

"You are not sorry, then, that you went to her?"

"No, indeed, ma'am. You were quite right when you said I never should be sorry. Besides, I know now that when I was with her before, it was partly my own fault that I was so unhappy. I never tried to like her, though she did so much for me—but just was silent and sulky. She's quite different to me now."

"I see a great change in her, too; I think she is much softened, and she is certainly very fond of you."

"I think so, ma'am. She speaks sharp and gruff, but I think it is only habit, like."

This was quite true. Mrs. Thirlston had become very fond of her grandchild, and very dependent upon her; but to save her life, she could not have spoken pleasantly and kindly. Yet kind words are as cheap as sharp ones; and what a pity it seems that any one should acquire a habit of speaking crossly! A little self-control when young would quite prevent it; but once get the habit, and it will stick to you through life.

So Fan went home to her poor old Granny, and nursed her tenderly through the last two years of her life. The poor old woman became quite helpless, and Fan's life was very laborious, but she was happy in spite of all drawbacks. Ben sent her many a present which brightened her home in various ways, but chiefly because they told her that the brother she loved so dearly had not forgotten her.

Once, a sailor, whose mother lived in Comerford, brought her a little cage with a most beautiful bird in it which Ben had caught and tamed for her, and had sent home by this man. The bird had a blue head, and a green back, and a flame-coloured breast—no one in those parts had ever seen the like, and it was greatly admired. It had big eyes (big for so small a bird, I mean) and a very gentle look, and it soon became a great darling with Fan.

The sailor told her that it liked no food so well as flies; and any one would have laughed to see the struggle between Fan's love for Dick, and her soft-hearted dislike to catch the poor flies. But at last she bethought herself of a compromise, which worked very well. When the sunny window of the kitchen was full of flies, she would close the door and windows and let Dick come out of his cage, when Dick caught plenty of flies for himself, and looked so beautiful, fluttering up the panes of glass in the sun, or darting into the middle of the room after a retreating fly, that even pity for the victims could not keep Fan from watching the proceeding closely.

At last Mrs. Thirlston grew very weak, and it became plain that her days were numbered. The kind rector came to see her often, and Mrs. Harewood also; she was quite aware that she was dying, and often spoke of it.

One day she sent for the rector, and sent Fan away while he was with her. Sally Tibbs was called to the room after a time, and soon afterwards the rector went away, and Fan ran upstairs to see if Granny were very tired. She found the old woman lying very quiet, with a folded paper in her poor stiffened hand.

"Look here, Fan. This here paper is my last will and testament, my dear. And now I'm going to tell you what I've ordered to be done with my money. When you first came back to me after Ben went to 'Merica, I made my last will and testament—leastways, I meant it for such, but I've lived to change my mind. I've been a saving woman, Fan, and your grandfather he were a saving man. I've got nigh upon a thousand pounds to leave behind me, Fan."

"A thousand pounds, Granny!" exclaimed Fan, who found it hard to imagine the existence of such a sum.

"Just so, Fan—don't interrupt me again, unless you've got something to say. It's the act of a fool to be exclaiming, and repeating of one's words like a parrot. Well, that will I speak of left all this to you, on conditions that you never gave nor lent a penny to Ben."

"Then I shall never have it, Granny!" cried Fan, indignantly. "I would rather starve."

"I know that, child. And I've changed my mind, as I mentioned before, if you would only attend, instead of prating like that. I've made another will this blessed day; Mr. Manvers wrote it for me, and he and Sally Tibbs witnessed it."

"And you've given it all to Ben!" exclaimed Fan, joyously. "Oh, I'm so glad, Granny. Ben will always take care of me."

"Fan, you'll never have an ounce of sense, no more than that painted Dick you make so much of! No, I have 'not' left it all to Ben. I've done the best thing for the two of ye, and the rector says to me before he left, 'you've made a most prudent and discreet will, Mrs. Thirlston, and now I hope you'll put the matter off your mind,' and so I will when I've told you about it. I've left five hundred pounds to you, Fan, to be your own, and not to be touched by any one else. And I've left all the rest to Ben, to be spent for him in buying the goodwill of a nursery-garden, and all things connected with that trade, and setting him up in life—for he said in one letter, you know, that such was his wishes. And you may tell Ben, child, that I would be glad if I could have seen him—and I wish him well with all my heart."

"Granny, you are very kind—I do feel quite happy for Ben, for I know how happy this will make him. Dear Granny, I hope it won't be for a long time yet," Fan whispered, as she stooped to kiss the withered cheek.

"It will be soon now, Fan. But as long as you live, Fan, you'll be glad to mind how you nursed the poor, cross old Gran—and softened her heart too, so that the light of God's love could get into it. God bless you, Fan—you've been a dear good child to me."

In a few days after this, Mrs. Thirlston died quite suddenly, passing away in her sleep; and Fan, who had once both feared and disliked her, mourned for her most sincerely. Fan went back to Harewood, to await Ben's return, and she worked very hard with Miss Ayrton, that he might not find her a dunce.

At last Ben came home, and a fine tall man he had become, and with such a character from Mr. Sydney, too. He soon bought a flourishing business in the line he had chosen, and he and Fan live together, very prosperously and happily. I hope that Fan will live to spin many another silken thread of love yet; and that those who read her history may remember that love is the best, if not the only, way of influencing others for good.

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Table of Contents

- FAN'S SILKEN STRING

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE