“It is a long piece to the tavern, and my little back bed-room is always ready.  It wont make a mite of trouble if you don’t mind a plain place, and you are heartily welcome.”

Mr. Brown looked pleased, but hesitated to accept any further favor from the good soul who had already done so much for him and his.  Ben gave him no time to speak, however, for running to a door he flung it open and beckoned, saying, eagerly: 

“Do stay, father; it will be so nice to have you.  This is a tip-top room; I slept here the night I came, and that bed was just splendid after bare ground for a fortnight.”

“I’ll stop, and as I’m pretty well done up, I guess we may as well turn in now,” answered the new guest; then, as if the memory of that homeless little lad so kindly cherished made his heart overflow in spite of him, Mr. Brown paused at the door to say hastily, with his hands on Bab and Betty’s heads, as if his promise was a very earnest one: 

“I don’t forget, ma’am, and these children shall never want a friend while Ben Brown’s alive;” then he shut the door so quickly that the other Ben’s prompt “Hear, hear!” was cut short in the middle.

“I s’pose he means that we shall have a piece of Ben’s father, because we gave Ben a piece of our mother,” said Betty, softly.

“Of course he does, and it’s all fair,” answered Bab, decidedly.  “Isn’t he a nice man, Ma?”

“Go to bed, children,” was all the answer she got; but when they were gone, Mrs. Moss, as she washed up her dishes, more than once glanced at a certain nail where a man’s hat had not hung for five years, and thought with a sigh what a natural, protecting air that slouched felt had.

If one wedding were not quite enough for a child’s story, we might here hint what no one dreamed of then, that before the year came round again Ben had found a mother, Bab and Betty a father, and Mr. Brown’s hat was quite at home behind the kitchen door.  But, on the whole, it is best not to say a word about it.

CHAPTER XXIV.

The great gate is opened.

The Browns were up and out so early next morning that Bab and Betty were sure they had run away in the night.  But on looking for them, they were discovered in the coach-house criticising Lita, both with their hands in their pockets, both chewing straws, and looking as much alike as a big elephant and a small one.

“That’s as pretty a little span as I’ve seen for a long time,” said the elder Ben, as the children came trotting down the path hand in hand, with the four blue bows at the ends of their braids bobbing briskly up and down.

“The nigh one is my favorite, but the off one is the best goer, though she’s dreadfully hard bitted,” answered Ben the younger, with such a comical assumption of a jockey’s important air that his father laughed as he said in an undertone: