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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t lie on that cold stone, Ben; come here and let me try to comfort you,” she said, stooping to wipe away the great drops that kept rolling down the brown cheek half hidden in her dress.

But Ben put his arm over his face, and sobbed out with a fresh burst of grief: 

“You can’t; you didn’t know him!  Oh, daddy! daddy!—­if I’d only seen you jest once more!”

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