Poor Sancho could only whine and lick away the tears that wet the
half-hidden face, questioning the new friend meantime with eyes so full
of dumb love and sympathy and sorrow that they seemed almost human.
Wiping away her own tears, Miss Celia stooped to pat the white head,
and to stroke the black one lying so near it that the dog's breast was
the boy's pillow. Presently the sobbing ceased, and Ben whispered,
without looking up:

"Tell me all about it; I'll be good."

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

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

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