"But, yet, she had one friend, Mister Ralph."
"And, who was that?"
"Ben Benson—as carried her up to that ere identical door-step, and laid her down like the babes in the woods—a knowing in his heart all the time, that Mrs. Harrington would take her in the minute she sot her eyes on her purty face."
"You know who she was, then?"
"I ought to," answered Ben, "for she was my own sister's child."
"Your sister's child!"
"You wouldn't a belaved it; for the mother of that gal was like a water lily, fresh from the pond, when I run away from hum and went to sea."
"Well," said Ralph, breathless.
"The old man died a little while after I ran off, and so the poor little thing was left alone, to fight her way through the world. She had more larning than ever could be driv into my brain, and went into a rich man's family to larn his children their letters. There was a young feller in that house, as was likewise given to larning, a sickly, pale chap, just a going into consumption. This chap loved the orphan gal, and as her hard-hearted brother had deserted the helm, he stepped in and took the craft amost without a summons."
"They got married somewhere down in York, and in less 'en three months arter, the poor, young feller died—neither on 'em had plucked up courage enough to tell the proud, old father, and the young man was took off so suddenly at last, that he hadn't no chance."