“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; never, never any more!”

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.”