three o'clock Joe got up, and after partaking of a substantial meal, wended his way to the neighbourhood of Copperas Hill. After turning several sharp corners, he found himself in a small court containing about half a dozen houses. Before one of the doors he paused for a moment, then raised his stick, and gave a sharp rat-tat-tat. The door was instantly opened by a woman who had evidently reached her threescore years and ten. Yet she appeared hale and strong for her age, and though poorly, was yet tidily attired.
"Well, ye are a stranger," was her greeting. "I'm verra glad to see 'e, though."
"An' I'm glad to see you, Betty."
"Well, come tha in. What's i' tha wind?"
"Nowt much, Betty; but what thar is consarns you as much as me."
"Well, out wi' it, Joe," said Betty, as soon as Joe had seated himself. "No trouble, I 'ope?"
"No, not that I knows on; but could 'e make room 'ere for a couple o' lodgers – little 'uns, mind you – children, on'y 'bout so high?" holding out his hand.
"Well, what an idear, to be sure! What are ye a-dreamin' on?"
"Your old man," said Joe solemnly, "was my mate for mony a year, an' a good man he wur; an' if from that fur-off country he can see what's doin' 'ere, he'd be mightily pleased for 'e to do, Betty, what I'm a-axin' o' yer."
"But I dunno that I quite understand," said Betty; "explain your meanin' a bit more."
And Joe, in a solemn voice, told the story of little Nell and her brother Benny. "It mebbe, Betty," he said, "they're the Lord's little 'uns. I'm none o' the Lord's mysel'. I've tried to find 'im; but He winna be found o' me. I'm none o' the elect. I've settled that for more'n twenty year now. But if these bairns are the Lord's, we mustna turn 'em away."
"All bairns are the Lord's," said Betty; but Joe only shook his head, and sat gazing into the fire.
Before he left, however, it was settled that a bed should be made for the children in the corner under the stairs, which would be near the fire also. For this they were to pay a penny per night.
"We mustna make paupers o' them, you know, Betty," was Joe's remark.
It was also agreed that she should do what washing and mending the children's clothes needed, for which they were to pay also, if they could afford it. "If not," said Joe, "I'll make it square wi' you, Betty."
Punctually at six o'clock the children put in an appearance at Joe's hut. They had had but poor luck during the day, and Benny did not feel nearly so courageous as he had felt two days before. The prospect of sleeping night after night underneath a boat was not so inviting as he had imagined it would be; besides, there was the fear that their hiding-place might be discovered, and that even this poor shelter might be taken away from them at any time.
He did not confide his fears to Nelly; he felt that it would be cruel to do so; and she – whatever she may have felt – never uttered a single word of complaint. She knew that "her Benny" had enough to bear, and she would not add to his burden.
Benny had been very much puzzled at Joe Wrag's manner in the morning, and had wondered much during the day "what he 'ad been a-turnin' over in his noddle." He was desperately afraid that Joe would try to persuade him and Nelly to return to their home, or even insist upon their doing so; and rather than do that, he felt that he would lose Joe's friendship and warm fireside into the bargain.
Joe was looking very abstractedly into the grate when they came up to the fence, and for a moment they watched his rugged face with the firelight playing upon it. But Benny, who could read his father's face pretty cleverly, declared to himself that "he could make nowt out o' Joe's."
As usual, Joe made room for Benny in his little hut; but to-night he took little Nelly very tenderly on his knee, and stroked her long flaxen hair with his hard rough hand, muttering to himself the while, "Purty little hangel; I reckon she's one o' the Lord's elect."
Benny wondered for a long time when Joe was going to say something that he could understand; but somehow to-night he did not like to disturb him by asking questions. Nelly, on the contrary, was far away again from the cold and dingy streets, and the ceaseless roar of the busy town, and was wandering in imagination through sunny meadows where the turf was soft and the grass was green. She fancied she heard the music of purling streams, and the songs of happy birds in the leafy trees that waved their branches over her. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowers that she had heard of, but never seen, and weariness and cold she felt no more.
The voice of Joe banished the beautiful vision from the glowing grate, and the child wondered if ever it would become a reality – if ever she would dwell amid such scenes in a life that had no ending.
"I've some'at to say to 'e, my dears," was Joe's first exclamation; and the children looked up into his face, and wondered what was coming next. "I've found a hum for 'e, and a reet good 'un, an' ye'r to go to-night."
"Oh, scissors!" shouted Benny; and he ran into the street, and had turned two somersaults ere he knew what he was doing; then stood on his head for at least five seconds by way of cooling off, and what other performances he might have gone through I cannot say, had not Joe called him into the hut.
Little Nelly said nothing; she only nestled closer to her benefactor, and Joe felt great scalding tears dropping upon his hand, and knew that her heart was too full for her to speak. Then he told them all about their new home, and what would be expected of them, and how he hoped they would be good and kind to the old woman, and always be honest and truthful, and then when they died they might go to the good place.
"Does folks go somewheres when they die?" said Benny, with a look of astonishment.
"Ay, Ben, that they do."
"Oh, beeswax and turpentine!" he ejaculated, "that are a go!"
But Nelly's face grew luminous, and her eyes fairly sparkled, as she faintly grasped the idea that perhaps her dreams might come true after all.
They had no difficulty in finding their way to Tempest Court, or in discovering the house of Betty Barker. The old woman gave them a rough though kindly welcome, and Benny was soon at his ease. Their bed in the warm corner under the stairs was, to use Benny's phrase, "simply sumshus;" and next morning when they appeared before Joe, it was with faces glowing with gladness and delight.
CHAPTER V.
"Oh, Death! what does thou mean?"
To sleep! perchance to dream; – ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
We must now go back to the morning when Benny and his sister left their home, and pay one more visit to "Addler's Hall." Dick Bates got up in the morning with a splitting headache, and, if the truth must be told, with an aching heart. His sleep had been disturbed by horrid dreams, the recollection of which haunted him still, and made him feel anything but comfortable. He had dreamt that he had been working near the docks, and in going close to the edge of one of them he saw his two children rise to the surface of the water clasped in each other's arms; and while he looked at them, they opened their glassy eyes and cast upon him one lingering, reproachful glance, then sank to the bottom again. Twice during the night had this dream been repeated, and when he awoke in the morning it was with a vague fear of impending evil. Dick Bates, like many other hardened and cruel men,
