“You were very good to the little feller,” was all the man said when she ended her somewhat confused tale, in which she had jumbled the old coach and Miss Celia, dinner-pails and nutting, Sancho and circuses.

“Course we were!  He’s a nice boy and we are fond of him, and he likes us,” said Bab, heartily.

“’Specially me,” put in Betty, quite at ease now, for the black eyes had softened wonderfully, and the brown face was smiling all over.

“Don’t wonder a mite.  You are the nicest pair of little girls I’ve seen this long time,” and the man put a hand on either side of them, as if he wanted to hug the chubby children.  But he didn’t do it; he merely rubbed his hands and stood there asking questions till the two chatter-boxes had told him everything there was to tell, in the most confiding manner, for he very soon ceased to seem like a stranger, and looked so familiar that Bab, growing inquisitive in her turn, suddenly said: 

“Haven’t you ever been here before?  It seems as if I’d seen you.”

“Never in my life.  Guess you’ve seen somebody that looks like me,” and the black eyes twinkled for a minute as they looked into the puzzled little faces before him.  Then he said, soberly: 

“I’m looking round for a likely boy; don’t you think this Ben would suit me?  I want just such a lively sort of chap.”

“Are you a circus man?” asked Bab, quickly.

“Well, no, not now.  I’m in better business.”

“I’m glad of it—­we don’t approve of ’em; but I do think they’re splendid!”

Bab began by gravely quoting Miss Celia, and ended with an irrepressible burst of admiration which contrasted drolly with her first remark.

Betty added anxiously, “We can’t let Ben go, any way.  I know he wouldn’t want to, and Miss Celia would feel bad.  Please don’t ask him.”

“He can do as he likes, I suppose.  He hasn’t got any folks of his own, has he?”

“No, his father died in California, and Ben felt so bad he cried, and we were real sorry, and gave him a piece of Ma, ’cause he was so lonesome,” answered Betty, in her tender little voice, with a pleading look which made the man stroke her smooth cheek and say, quite softly: 

“Bless your heart for that!  I wont take him away, child, or do a thing to trouble anybody that’s been good to him.”

“He’s coming now.  I hear Sanch barking at the squirrels!” cried Bab, standing up to get a good look down the road.

The man turned quickly, and Betty saw that he breathed fast as he watched the spot where the low sunshine lay warmly on the red maple at the corner.  Into this glow came unconscious Ben, whistling “Rory O’Moore,” loud and clear, as he trudged along with a heavy bag of nuts over his shoulder and the light full on his contented face.  Sancho trotted before and saw the stranger first, for the sun in Ben’s eyes dazzled him.  Since his sad loss Sancho cherished a strong dislike to tramps, and now he paused to growl and show his teeth, evidently intending to warn this one off the premises.