“Excuse me, Square,” said Ben, whose keen eyes lost not a single change in the expression of Frederic’s face. “I’m such a blunderin’ critter! That little blind gal told me your fust wife was Marian, and I or’to known better than harrer your feelings with the name.”
“Never mind,” returned Frederic, faintly, “but tell me of your sister—and now I think of it, you said once you were from down east, which I supposed referred to one of the New England states, Vermont perhaps?”
“Did use to live in Massachusetts,” replied Ben. “But can’t a feller move?”
Frederic admitted that he could, and Ben continued, “I or’to told you, I s’pose, that Marian ain’t my own flesh and blood—she’s adopted, that’s all. But I love her jest the same. Her name is Marian Grey,” and Ben looked earnestly at Frederic, thinking to himself, “Won’t he take the hint when he knows, or had or’to know that her mother was a Grey.”
But hints were lost on Frederic. He had no suspicion of the truth, and Ben proceeded, “All her kin is dead, and as mother hadn’t no daughter she took this orphan, and I’m workin’ hard to give her a good schoolin’. She can play the pianner like fury, and talks the French grammar most as well as I do the English!”
This brought a smile to Frederic’s face, and he did not for a moment think of doubting Ben’s word.
“You seem very proud of your sister,” he said, at last, “and as I owe you something for caring for me and telegraphing to my friends, let me show my gratitude by giving you something for this Marian Grey. What shall it be? Is she fond of jewelry? Most young girls are.”
Ben stuck his hands in his trousers pocket and seemed to be thinking; then, removing his hands he replied, “Mabby you’ll think it sassy, but there is somethin’ that would please us both. I told her about you when I came from Kentucky, and she cried like a baby over that blind gal. Then, when you was sick, she felt worried agin, beg your pardon, Square, but I told her you was han’some. Jest give us your picter, if it ain’t bigger than my thumb, and would it be asking too much for you when you git home to send me the blind gal’s. She’s an angel, and I should feel so good to have her face in my pocket. You can direct to Ben Butterworth—but law, you won’t, I know you won’t.”
“Why not?” asked Frederic, laughing at the novel request. “Mine you shall surely have, and Alice’s also, if she consents. Come with me now, for we are opposite a daguerrean gallery.”
The result of this was that in a short time Ben held in his hand a correct likeness of Frederic, which was of priceless value to him, because he knew how highly it would be prized by her for whom alone he had requested it.