“I should be ungrateful indeed if I could forget him.  He was the only person in the school who was kind to me.  Is the good old man still living?”

“No; he rests at last.  I am glad to say I was able to make his last days on earth the happiest days of his life.”

“I wonder,” Sydney confessed, “how you met with him.”

“There was nothing at all romantic in my first discovery of him.  I was reading the police reports in a newspaper.  The poor wretch was brought before a magistrate, charged with breaking a window.  His one last chance of escaping starvation in the streets was to get sent to prison.  The magistrate questioned him, and brought to light a really heart-breaking account of misfortune, imbittered by neglect on the part of people in authority who were bound to help him.  He was remanded, so that inquiries might be made.  I attended the court on the day when he appeared there again, and heard his statement confirmed.  I paid his fine, and contrived to put him in a way of earning a little money.  He was very grateful, and came now and then to thank me.  In that way I heard how his troubles had begun.  He had asked for a small advance on the wretched wages that he received.  Can you guess how the schoolmistress answered him?”

“I know but too well how she answered him,” Sydney said; “I was turned out of the house, too.”

“And I heard of it,” the Captain replied, “from the woman herself.  Everything that could distress me she was ready to mention.  She told me of your mother’s second marriage, of her miserable death, of the poor boy, your brother, missing, and never heard of since.  But when I asked where you had gone she had nothing more to say.  She knew nothing, and cared nothing, about you.  If I had not become acquainted with Mr. Randal Linley, I might never have heard of you again.  We will say no more of that, and no more of anything that has happened in the past time.  From to-day, my dear, we begin a new life, and (please God) a happier life.  Have you any plans of your own for the future?”

“Perhaps, if I could find help,” Sydney said resignedly, “I might emigrate.  Pride wouldn’t stand in my way; no honest employment would be beneath my notice.  Besides, if I went to America, I might meet with my brother.”

“My dear child, after the time that has passed, there is no imaginable chance of your meeting with your brother—­and you wouldn’t know each other again if you did meet.  Give up that vain hope and stay here with me.  Be useful and be happy in your own country.”

“Useful?” Sydney repeated sadly.  “Your own kind heart, Captain Bennydeck, is deceiving you.  To be useful means, I suppose, to help others.  Who will accept help from me?”

“I will, for one,” the Captain answered.

“You!”

“Yes.  You can be of the greatest use to me—­you shall hear how.”

He told her of the founding of his Home and of the good it had done.  “You are the very person,” he resumed, “to be the good sister-friend that I want for my poor girls:  you can say for them what they cannot always say to me for themselves.”