Next day Ben ran off to his work with Quackenbos’s "Elementary History
of the United States" in his pocket, and the Squire’s cows had ample
time to breakfast on way-side grass before they were put into their
pasture. Even then the pleasant lesson was not ended, for Ben had an
errand to town; and all the way he read busily, tumbling over the hard
words, and leaving bits which he did not understand to be explained at
night by Bab.

At "The First Settlements" he had to stop, for the schoolhouse was
reached, and the book must be returned. The maple-tree closet was easily
found, and a little surprise hidden under the flat stone; for Ben paid
two sticks of red and white candy for the privilege of taking books from
the new library.

When recess came, great was the rejoicing of the children over their
unexpected treat, for Mrs. Moss had few pennies to spare for sweets,
and, somehow, this candy tasted particularly nice, bought out of
grateful Ben’s solitary dime. The little girls shared their goodies with
their favorite mates, but said nothing about the new arrangement,
fearing it would be spoilt if generally known. They told their mother,
however, and she gave them leave to lend their books and encourage Ben
to love learning all they could. She also proposed that they should drop
patch-work, and help her make some blue shirts for Ben. Mrs. Barton had
given her the materials, and she thought it would be an excellent lesson
in needle-work as well as a useful gift to Ben, – who, boy-like, never
troubled himself as to what he should wear when his one suit of clothes
gave out.

Wednesday afternoon was the sewing time; so the two little B’s worked
busily at a pair of shirt-sleeves, sitting on their bench in the
doorway, while the rusty needles creaked in and out, and the childish
voices sang school-songs, with frequent stoppages for lively chatter.

For a week, Ben worked away bravely, and never shirked nor complained,
although Pat put many a hard or disagreeable job upon him, and chores
grew more and more distasteful. His only comfort was the knowledge that
Mrs. Moss and the Squire were satisfied with him; his only pleasure the
lessons he learned while driving the cows, and recited in the evening
when the three children met under the lilacs to "play school."

He had no thought of studying when he began, and hardly knew that he was
doing it as he pored over the different books he took from the library.
But the little girls tried him with all they Possessed, and he was
mortified to find how ignorant he was. He never owned it in words, but
gladly accepted all the bits of knowledge they offered from their small
store; getting Betty to hear him spell "just for fun;" agreeing to draw
Bab all the bears and tigers she wanted if she would show him how to do
sums on the flags, and often beguiled his lonely labors by trying to
chant the multiplication table as they did. When Tuesday night came
round, the Squire paid him a dollar, said he was "a likely boy," and
might stay another week if he chose. Ben thanked him and thought he
would; but the next morning, after he had put up the bars, he remained
sitting on the top rail to consider his prospects, for he felt
uncommonly reluctant to go back to the society of rough Pat. Like most
boys, he hated work, unless it was of a sort which just suited him; then
he could toil like a beaver and never tire. His wandering life had given
him no habits of steady industry; and, while he was an unusually capable
lad of his age, he dearly loved to "loaf" about and have a good deal of
variety and excitement in his life.

Now he saw nothing before him but days of patient and very uninteresting
labor. He was heartily sick of weeding; even riding Duke before the
cultivator had lost its charms, and a great pile of wood lay in the
Squire’s yard which he knew he would be set to piling up in the shed.
Strawberry-picking would soon follow the asparagus cultivation; then
haying; and and so on all the long bright summer, without any fun,
unless his father came for him.

On the other hand, he was not obliged to stay a minute longer unless he
liked. With a comfortable suit of clothes, a dollar in his pocket, and a
row of dinner-baskets hanging in the school-house entry to supply him
with provisions if he didn’t mind stealing them, what was easier than to
run away again? Tramping has its charms in fair weather, and Ben had
lived like a gypsy under canvas for years; so he feared nothing, and
began to look down the leafy road with a restless, wistful expression,
as the temptation grew stronger and stronger every minute.

Sancho seemed to share the longing, for he kept running off a little way
and stopping to frisk and bark; then rushed back to sit watching his
master with those intelligent eyes of his, which seemed to say, "Come
on, Ben, let us scamper down this pleasant road and never stop till we
are tired." Swallows darted by, white clouds fled before the balmy west
wind, a squirrel ran along the wall, and all things seemed to echo the
boy’s desire to leave toil behind and roam away as care-free as they.
One thing restrained him, the thought of his seeming ingratitude to good
Mrs. Moss, and the disappointment of the little girls at the loss of
their two new play-fellows. While he paused to think of this, something
happened which kept him from doing what he would have been sure to
regret afterward.

Horses had always been his best friends, and one came trotting up to
help him now; though he did not know how much he owed it till long
after. Just in the act of swinging himself over the bars to take a
shortcut across the fields, the sound of approaching hoofs,
unaccompanied by the roll of wheels, caught his ear; and, pausing, he
watched eagerly to see who was coming at such a pace.

At the turn of road, however, the quick trot stopped, and in a moment a
lady on a bay mare came pacing slowly into sight, – a young and pretty
lady, all in dark blue, with a bunch of dandelions like yellow stars in
her button-hole, and a silver-handled whip hanging from the pommel of
her saddle, evidently more for ornament than use. The handsome mare
limped a little, and shook her head as if something plagued her; while
her mistress leaned down to see what was the matter, saying, as if she
expected an answer of some sort, –

"Now, Chevalita, if you have got a stone in your foot, I shall have to
get off and take it out. Why don’t you look where you step, and save me
all this trouble?"

"I’ll look for you, ma’am; I’d like to!" said an eager voice so
unexpectedly, that both horse and rider started as a boy came down the
bank with a jump.

"I wish you would. You need not be afraid; Lita is as gentle as a
lamb," answered the young lady, smiling, as if amused by the boy’s
earnestness.

"She’s a beauty, any way," muttered Ben, lifting one foot after another
till he found the stone, and with some trouble got it out.

"That was nicely done, and I’m much obliged. Can you tell me if that
cross-road leads to the Elms?" asked the lady, as she went slowly on
with Ben beside her.

"No, ma’am; I’m new in these parts, and I only know where Squire Morris
and Mrs. Moss live."

"I want to see both of them, so suppose you show me the way. I was here
long ago, and thought I should remember how to find the old house with
the elm avenue and the big gate, but I don’t."

"I know it; they call that place the Laylocks now, ’cause there’s a
hedge of ’em all down the path and front wall. It’s a real pretty place;
Bab and Betty play there, and so do I."

Ben could not restrain a chuckle at the recollection of his first
appearance there, and, as if his merriment or his words interested her,
the lady said pleasantly,

"Tell me all about it. Are Bab and Betty your sisters?" Quite
forgetting his intended tramp, Ben plunged into a copious history of
himself and new-made friends, led on by a kind look, an inquiring word,
and sympathetic smile, till he had told every thing. At the school-house
corner he stopped and said, spreading his arms like a sign-post, –

"That’s the way to the Laylocks, and this is the way to the Squire’s."

"As I’m in a hurry to see the old house, I’ll go this way first, if you
will be kind enough to give my love to Mrs. Morris, and tell the Squire
Miss Celia is coming to dine with him. I won’t say good-by, because I
shall see you again."

With a nod and a smile, the young lady cantered away, and Ben hurried up
the hill to deliver his message, feeling as if something pleasant was
going to happen; so it would be wise to defer running away, for the
present at least.

At one o’clock Miss Celia arrived, and Ben had the delight of helping
Pat stable pretty Chevalita; then, his own dinner hastily eaten, he fell
to work at the detested wood-pile with sudden energy; for as he worked
he could steal peeps into the dining-room, and see the curly brown head
between the two gay ones, as the three sat round the table. He could not
help hearing a word now and then, as the windows were open, and these
bits of conversation filled him with curiosity for the names "Thorny,"
"Celia," and "George" were often repeated, and an occasional merry laugh
from the young lady sounded like music in that usually quiet place.

When dinner was over, Ben’s industrious fit left him, and he leisurely
trundled his barrow to and fro till the guest departed. There was no
chance for him to help now, since Pat, anxious to get whatever trifle
might be offered for his services, was quite devoted in his attentions
to the mare and her mistress, till she was mounted and off. But Miss
Celia did not forget her little guide, and, spying a wistful face behind
the wood-pile, paused at the gate and beckoned with that winning smile
of hers. If ten Pats had stood scowling in the way, Ben would have
defied them all; and, vaulting over the fence, he ran up with a shining
face, hoping she wanted some last favor of him. Leaning down, Miss Celia
slipped a new quarter into his hand, saying,

"Lita wants me to give you this for taking the stone out of her foot."

"Thank y’, ma’am; I liked to do it, for I hate to see ’em limp,
‘specially such a pretty one as she is," answered Ben, stroking the
glossy neck with a loving touch.

"The Squire says you know a good deal about horses, so I suppose you
understand the Houyhnhnm language? I’m learning it, and it is very
nice," laughed Miss Celia, as Chevalita gave a little whinny and
snuffled her nose into Ben’s pocket.

"No, miss, I never went to school."

"That is not taught there. I’ll bring you a book all about it when I
come back. Mr. Gulliver went to the horse-country and heard the dear
things speak their own tongue."

"My father has been on the prairies, where there’s lots of wild ones,
but he didn’t hear ’em speak. I know what they want without talkin’,"
answered Ben, suspecting a joke, but not exactly seeing what it was.

"I don’t doubt it, but I won’t forget the book. Good-by, my lad, we
shall soon meet again," and away went Miss Celia as if she were in a
hurry to get back.

"If she only had a red habit and a streamin’ white feather, she’d look
as fine as ‘Melia used to. She is ‘most as kind and rides ‘most as well.
Wonder where she’s goin’ to. Hope she will come soon," thought Ben,
watching till the last flutter of the blue habit vanished round the
corner; and then he went back to his work with his head full of the
promised book, pausing now and then to chink the two silver halves and
the new quarter together in his pocket, wondering what be should buy
with this vast sum.

Bab and Betty meantime had had a most exciting day; for when they went
home at noon they found the pretty lady there, and she had talked to
them like an old friend, given them a ride on the little horse, and
kissed them both good-by when they went back to school. In the afternoon
the lady was gone, the old house all open, and their mother sweeping,
airing, in great spirits. So they had a splendid frolic tumbling on
feather-beds, beating bits of carpet, opening closets, and racing from
garret to cellar like a pair of distracted kittens.

Here Ben found them, and was at once overwhelmed with a burst of news
which excited him as much as it did them. Miss Celia owned the house,
was coming to liver there, and things were to be made ready as soon as
possible. All thought the prospect a charming one: Mrs. Moss, because
life had been dull for her during the year she had taken charge of the
old house; the little girls had heard rumors of various pets who were
coming; and Ben, learning that a boy and a donkey were among them,
resolved that nothing but the arrival of his father should tear him from
this now deeply interesting spot.

"I’m in such a hurry to see the peacocks and hear them scream. She said
they did, and that we’d laugh when old Jack brayed," cried Bab, hopping
about on one foot to work off her impatience.

"Is a faytun a kind of a bird? I heard her say she could keep it in the
coach-house," asked Betty, inquiringly.

"It’s a little carriage," and Ben rolled in the grass, much tickled at
poor Betty’s ignorance.

"Of course it is. I looked it out in the dic., and you mustn’t call it
a payton, though it is spelt with a p," added Bab, who liked to lay down
the law on all occasions, and did not mention that she had looked vainly
among the Vs till a school-mate set her right.

"You can’t tell me much about carriages. But what I want to know is
where Lita will stay?" said Ben.

"Oh, she’s to be up at the Squire’s till things are fixed, and you are
to bring her down. Squire came and told Ma all about it, and said you
were a boy to be trusted, for he had tried you."

Ben made no answer, but secretly thanked his stars that he had not
proved himself untrustworthy by running away, and so missing all this
fun.

"Won’t it be fine to have the house open all the time? We can run over
and see the pictures and books whenever we like. I know we can, Miss
Celia is so kind," began Betty, who cared for these things more than for
screaming peacocks and comical donkeys.

"Not unless you are invited," answered their mother, locking the front
door behind her. "You’d better begin to pick up your duds right away,
for she won’t want them cluttering round her front yard. If you are not
too tired, Ben, you might rake round a little while I shut the blinds. I
want things to look nice and tidy."

Two little groans went up from two afflicted little girls as they looked
about them at the shady bower, the dear porch, and the winding walks
where they loved to run "till their hair whistled in the wind," as the
fairy-books say.

"Whatever shall we do! Our attic is so hot and the shed so small, and
the yard always full of hens or clothes. We shall have to pack all our
things away, and never play any more," said Bab, tragically.

"May be Ben could build us a little house in the orchard," proposed
Betty, who firmly believed that Ben could do any thing.

"He won’t have any time. Boys don’t care for baby-houses," returned
Bab, collecting her homeless goods and chattels with a dismal face.

"We sha’n’t want these much when all the new things come; see if we do,"
said cheerful little Betty, who always found out a silver lining to
every cloud.