The next day, when Billy chanced to be alone, George approached him, and after making some casual remarks about the books he had borrowed, &c., he said, "Did you ever see Jenny Lincoln in Chicopee?"
"Oh, yes," answered Billy, brightening up, for Jenny had always been and still was a great favorite with him; "Oh, yes, I know Jenny very well. I worked for her father some years ago, and became greatly interested in her."
"Indeed? Then you must know Henry Lincoln?"
"Yes, I know him," said Billy; while George continued, "And think but little of him of course?"
On this subject Billy was noncommittal. He had no cause for liking Henry, but would not say so to a comparative stranger, and at last he succeeded in changing the conversation. George was about moving away, when observing a little old-fashioned looking book lying upon one of the boxes, he took it up and turning to the fly-leaf read the name of "Frank Howard."
"Frank Howard! Frank Howard!" he repeated; "where have I heard that name? Who is he, Bender?"
"He was a little English boy I once, loved very much; but he is dead now," answered Billy; and George, with a suddenly awakened curiosity, said, "Tell me about him and his family, will you?"
Without dreaming that George had ever seen them, Billy told the story of Frank's sickness and death,—of the noble conduct of his little sister, who, when there was no other alternative, went cheerfully to the poor-house, winning by her gentle ways the love of those unused to love, and taming the wild mood of a maniac until she was harmless as a child. As he proceeded with his story, George became each moment more and more interested, and when at last there was a pause, he asked, "And is Mary in the poor-house now?"
"I have not mentioned her name, and pray how came you to know it?" said Billy in some surprise.
In a few words George related the particulars of his acquaintance with the Howards, and then again asked where both Mary and Ella were.