t have some of the 'party,' so you shall take her these,
Bab, and Betty may carry baby home for the night. She is so nicely
asleep, it is a pity to wake her. Good-bye till to-morrow, little
neighbors," continued Miss Celia, and dismissed the girls with a kiss.

"Isn't Ben coming, too?" asked Bab, as Betty trotted off in a silent
rapture with the big darling bobbing over her shoulder.

"Not yet; I've several things to settle with my new man. Tell mother he
will come by and by."

Off rushed Bab with the plateful of goodies; and, drawing Ben down
beside her on the wide step, Miss Celia took out the letters, with a
shadow creeping over her face as softly as the twilight was stealing
over the world, while the dew fell and everything grew still and dim.

"Ben, dear, I've something to tell you," she began, slowly, and the boy
waited with a happy face, for no one had called him so since 'Melia
died.

"The Squire has heard about your father, and this is the letter Mr.
Smithers sends."

"Hooray! where is he, please?" cried Ben, wishing she would hurry up,
for Miss Celia did not even offer him the letter, but sat looking down
at Sancho on the lower step, as if she wanted him to come and help her.

"He went after the mustangs, and sent some home, but could not come
himself."

"Went further on? I s'pose. Yes, he said he might go as far as
California, and if he did he'd send for me. I'd like to go there; it's
a real splendid place, they say."

"He has gone further away than that, to a lovelier country than
California, I hope." And Miss Celia's eyes turned to the deep sky,
where early stars were shining.

"Didn't he send for me? Where's he gone? When's he coming back?" asked
Ben, quickly, for there was a quiver in her voice, the meaning of which
he felt before he understood.

Miss Celia put her arms about him, and answered very tenderly:

"Ben, dear, if I were to tell you that he was never coming back, could
you bear it?"

"I guess I could--but you don't mean it? Oh, ma'am, he isn't dead?"
cried Ben, with a cry that made her heart ache, and Sancho leap up with
a bark.

"My poor little boy, I _wish_ I could say no."

There was no need of any more words, no need of tears or kind arms
round him. He knew he was an orphan now, and turned instinctively to
the old friend who loved him best. Throwing himself down beside his
dog, Ben clung about the curly neck, sobbing bitterly:

"Oh, Sanch, he's never coming back again; n