Bab began by gravely quoting Miss Celia, and ended with an irrepressible burst of admiration which contrasted drolly with her first remark.
Betty added anxiously, "We can't let Ben go, any way. I know he wouldn't want to, and Miss Celia would feel bad. Please don't ask him."
"He can do as he likes, I suppose. He hasn't got any folks of his own, has he?"
"No, his father died in California, and Ben felt so bad he cried, and we were real sorry, and gave him a piece of Ma, 'cause he was so lonesome," answered Betty, in her tender little voice, with a pleading look which made the man stroke her smooth cheek and say, quite softly:
"Bless your heart for that! I wont take him away, child, or do a thing to trouble anybody that's been good to him."
"He's coming now. I hear Sanch barking at the squirrels!" cried Bab, standing up to get a good look down the road.
The man turned quickly, and Betty saw that he breathed fast as he watched the spot where the low sunshine lay warmly on the red maple at the corner. Into this glow came unconscious Ben, whistling "Rory O'Moore," loud and clear, as he trudged along with a heavy bag of nuts over his shoulder and the light full on his contented face. Sancho trotted before and saw the stranger first, for the sun in Ben's eyes dazzled him. Since his sad loss Sancho cherished a strong dislike to tramps, and now he paused to growl and show his teeth, evidently intending to warn this one off the premises.
"He wont hurt you——" began Bab, encouragingly; but before she could add a chiding word to the dog, Sanch gave an excited howl, and flew at the man's throat as if about to throttle him.
Betty screamed, and Bab was about to go to the rescue when both perceived that the dog was licking the stranger's face in an ecstasy of joy, and heard the man say as he hugged the curly beast:
"Good old Sanch! I knew he wouldn't forget master, and he doesn't."