Rose smiled and bloomed and beamed on all, but most of all on Mr. Fabian, who was at that time a very handsome and fascinating man of no more than thirty, and to do her justice, she brought her young pupils well on in elementary education.

No more was seen or heard of the tramp and his boy, who had come to seek work at the foundries.  They seemed to have been forgotten even by the little girl whose sympathies had been touched by their appearance on the train with their own party.

But early in February a catastrophe occurred which brought them back most painfully to, her memory.  There was an explosion in the foundry, by which the man was instantly killed.

“Uncle Clarence,” asked Cora of that person, “where is the boy belonging to the poor man that was killed?  You know they came in the cars with us to North End Station.  Oh! and they were so poor!  Oh, and the boy had a bit of old crape on his old hat!  Oh, and I know he had no mother!  But I don’t know whether the man was his father or his uncle.  But, oh, Uncle Clarence, dear, where is the boy?”

“I don’t know anything about the boy, little one, but I will inquire and tell you.  I think the little chap has two more friends left, dear.  You are one.  I am the other.”

“Oh, Uncle Clarence, you are a dear ducky-ducky-darling!  And when I am a grown-up woman, I will marry you.”

“Oh! well, all right, if you remain in the same mind, and—­”

“I will never, never change my mind.  I love you better than I do anybody in the world, except Sylvan and grandma, and Miss Flowers and Tip!”

Clarence kept his word with the child about making inquiries as to the fate of the boy in whom she was interested.

The boy was motherless, and, by the death of his father, had been left utterly destitute.  He had found a home with Scythia Woods, an eccentric woman, who lived in a hut on the mountain side, half way between North End and Rockhold, and he supported himself in a poor way by running errands and doing little jobs about the works.

Little Cora Haught listened to this account of the poor, friendless, self-reliant lad with the deepest sympathy.

“Uncle Clarence,” she pleaded, “you are so rich.  Why don’t you give that poor boy clothes, and shoes, and hats, and all he ought to have?”

“My good little girl, nothing would give me more delight, but that fellow would see Rockharrt & Sons swallowed up by an earthquake before he would take a cent from them that he had not earned.”

“Oh, I like that—­that is grand!  But why don’t you take him on and give him good pay?”

“But, my dear, he is a boy, and cannot do regular heavy work.  He is quite uneducated, and cannot do any other except what he does.”

Two months later, one lovely spring day, she saw him again for the first time since their meeting on the train six months previous.  He came to Rockhold one Saturday afternoon to bring a letter from the manager to the head of the firm.  He came to the back door which opened from the porch.  He sent in his letter by the servant who came at his knock, and he said he was to wait for an answer.  Cora, in the back parlor, saw him, recognized him, and ran out to speak to him.