By the time the others were ready, he had worked off his superfluous
spirits, and trotted behind the party like a well-behaved dog accustomed
to go out walking with ladies. At the cross-roads they separated, the
little girls running on to school, while Mrs. Moss and Ben went up to
the Squire's big house on the hill.

"Don't you be scared, child. I'LL make it all right about your running
away; and if the Squire gives you a job, just thank him for it, and do
your best to be steady and industrious; then you'll get on, I haven't a
doubt," she whispered, ringing the Ben at a side-door, on which the word
"Morris" shone in bright letters.

"Come in!" called a gruff voice; and, feeling very much as if he were
going to have a tooth out, Ben meekly followed the good woman, who put
on her pleasantest smile, anxious to make the best possible impression.

A white-headed old gentleman sat reading a paper, and peered over his
glasses at the new-comers with a pair of sharp eyes, saying in a testy
tone, which would have rather daunted any one who did not know what a
kind heart he had under his capacious waistcoat, --

"Good-morning, ma'am. What's the matter now? Young tramp been stealing
your chickens?"

"Oh, dear no, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Moss, as if shocked at the idea.
Then, in a few words, she told Ben's story, unconsciously making his
wrongs and destitution so pathetic by her looks and tones, that the
Squire could not help being interested, and even Ben pitied himself as
if he were somebody else.