"It's this way," he said-"Bet nor me, we don't know the rights of it; but we've a mind to be made man and wife to-night, ef you're willing, parson."

The curate opened his eyes, and was about to speak; but Bet interrupted him.

"Will says the truth," she exclaimed—"we want to be tied up with some of the words out of your book, parson; so that no one can untie us, and so as we'll be true mates to one another for ever and ever. For Will and me we loves one another, and I could-yes, I could be good ef I was Will's true wife. But there are them—there are them as wants to part us, and to ruin me, and to ruin him; and they'll do it, ef you don't wed us tonight, parson."

"And we don't want to cheat by it," continued Will; "for we know that Government must have its fees; and the license is ordered, and you shall have it to-morrow, parson, and here's thirty shillings to pay for it. It ain't no case of cheating-only the lass here she's skeered like, and it's right as she should have her way. Wed us to-night, ef you can, parson," continued Will, and he laid a sovereign and a half-sovereign on the little study table.

"Kneel down, Will," said Bet. "He'll say the good words over us—I know he will, and we don't want to cheat. It's only as we mustn't be parted. Kneel down, Will."

"She knelt herself, and held out her hand to Will, who dropped at her side. Nothing could be more impressive than the little scene, nor the brief expectant silence which followed.

"God bless you, my children," said the curate—"God abundantly bless you"—and he laid one hand for an instant on Bet's head, and the other on Will's—"but"—here he paused, and seemed to swallow something, and the next words came out with difficulty: "I can't do what you wish. I would gladly if it were possible; but it is not. If I were to say the marriage service over you tonight, I should be breaking the laws of the Church and the laws of England. I won't ask you what your need is, but I am quite certain it is sore. I would give five pounds this moment to be able to pronounce you two man and wife before you leave this room. But it is impossible; the matter is not in my hands. Trust in God, and wait until Thursday."

Bet rose to her feet without a word. All the color had left her cheeks, and the sparkle her eyes; and the hand with which she tried to rearrange her mother's shawl about her shoulders trembled violently.

"Good-bye, parson," she said; and she did not lift her eyes as she turned away.

"Good-bye, sir," said Will sorrowfully, as he followed her into the street.

"Parson blessed us, darling," said Will, putting his arm round Bet's waist. "Kiss me, Bet. Thursday ain't long to wait."



CHAPTER XVII.

Bet went home, and all Wednesday she stayed indoors, taking little or no notice of her brothers, and never alluding to the subject of the wedding which was to take place the next morning. The boys, finding her intensely unsociable, devoted themselves to their own occupations, which were, after a fashion, absorbing enough. They discovered how to climb on to the roof of this very tall house, and the spice of danger which accompanied such a proceeding rendered it quite delightful to them. From the roof of Mother Bunch's house they could slide or crawl on to other roofs; and Bet knew very little of the amount of liberty they enjoyed on these dirty but airy pinnacles.

She heard their laughter as they scampered in and out of the attic to- day without paying much attention to it. She felt stupid and heavy, and the excitement she had undergone on the previous evening had in its recoil reduced her to a state of almost inertia.

The slow hours dragged themselves along, and Bet's wedding-day, the day when parson could make her and Will one—when, the license being there, and the necessary formalities gone through, they might really stand up in God's house and have the sacred knot tied between them forever—had arrived.

It was a dull, foggy morning, with a drizzling mist. No matter; it was their wedding-day, thought Will, and no one could be more cheerful than he as he donned his becoming sailor suit and brushed his curly hair, and made himself look as spruce and neat as any jack-tar in the land. Rain and mist were nothing to this son of the briny ocean, the sunshine was in his heart, and he could scarcely believe in the wonderful good fortune which was to give him the brightest, the dearest, the handsomest girl in the town.

"Wish me luck, Mrs. Jobling," he said, as he rushed downstairs and encountered his sour-faced landlady in the tiny entrance hall—"I'm to be wed this morning to Bet Granger, the finest and the best lass in Liverpool. You needn't keep the bedroom for me, Mrs. Jobling; for Bet and me, we are going to Birkenhead for our honeymoon, and on Monday I'm off on another cruise. By the way"—here Will suddenly remembered the pretty sealskin purse; he thrust his hand into his trousers pocket—"is this yourn?" he said, holding the dainty treasure out for his landlady to see.

"No, no," she said, backing a step or two; "I'd have no call to a pretty thinglike that—why, it is fine! Looks as if it belonged to a lady. However did you come by it, Will?"

"That's more than I can tell you, ma'am. It lay on the floor in my room two nights back, and I picked it up. Well, if it ain't yourn, and I can't find no owner, it'ull do as a wedding-present for Bet." He slipped the purse again into his pocket and made off.

Hester Wright had gone early to Paradise Row to fetch Bet, for she was to be her sole bridesmaid—in fact, the only friend who was to see her give herself to Will. Will had no best man. But what of that? His heart did feel light this morning, and the gay notes which he sang as he hurried along the streets had an undertone of thanksgiving running through them. He was glad the day had really arrived, and thought to himself how relieved his poor girl would be, and how he could laugh at the unreasonable fear which she had shown two nights ago. He had certainly never guessed that Bet was nervous; but she had shown the most unreasonable, the queerest terror when last they had met. Well, it was all right now, and he could prove to her how vain were her alarms.

The doors of the church were not yet opened when the little wedding party of three met. Bet's face was still pale, and her eyes had a tired, almost hunted expression. She came close to Will and took his hand, utterly regardless of the significant looks of the passers-by. The words and glances of the multitude were nothing to her at that moment. She was holding her true love's hand; and the minutes were flying, flying, and the danger that she dreaded must be even now on their heels.

"What ail's you, Bet?" whispered Will, tenderly. "I'm here, and the hour ha' come. In a minute or two now nought can sever us."

Bet did not speak. She clasped both her hands over Will's, and looked anxiously over her shoulder to right and left.

"Don't worry her," whispered Hester Wright. "She has a dread on her, and there's no argufying it away. After you are wed it will pass. Don't worry her with questions."

Will sighed, and a cold little cloud seemed to come between him and the sun of happiness in which he had been basking all the morning.

Just then there was a bustle and a little commotion. It was only the verger unlocking the church doors. A small crowd of people who scent out even the humblest wedding had already collected-mostly ragged people, shoeless and stockingless boys and girls, women who sold watercress, one or two loafers from the wharves. Will, Bet and Hester were just about to go into the church, when into the midst of this motley group a man neatly dressed in plain clothes stepped briskly. He came straight up to Scarlett.

"Is your name William Scarlett?" he said, "and do you live at Mrs. Jobling's, No. 10 Quay Street?"

"Yes," said Will, in surprise. "I'm a sailor, and my name's Will Scarlet. I have a bedroom at Mrs. Jobling's."

"Yes, just so," replied the man. "Oh, come now, young woman—I've a word to say to this party by himself. Just you let go your hand, young woman, if you please."

Bet seemed neither to hear nor to heed. Her disengaged arm was now flung over Will's shoulder, and the hand which clasped his felt, in its intense grip, as strong and firm as iron.

"I knew that it 'ud come," she whispered between her set lips.

Will looked down at her, and something in her terrible agitation infected him strangely. He felt hot and annoyed and angry-almost angry with Bet, for losing her presence of mind, very angry with the stranger for intercepting him thus with ridiculous, senseless questions.

"Parson's inside," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the church; "and her and me is waiting to be wed. Ef you have anything to say to me, mate, I'll hear it later on, after we is wed.—All the same I don't know you, nor what your business can be," he added.

"My business is plain enough, young man. You're wanted, and you must come with me. I've a warrant here to arrest you on the charge of stealing two five-pound notes—same being passed through the Bank of England yesterday, with your name and address on the back. You'd better come off quietly, for there's no help for it, and the less you say the better, for whatever you does say I warn you will be used against you. Come, young woman,—hands off! You'd better let parson know that his services won't be wanting today."

Bet's head was now lying on Will's breast; her wide-open eyes were fixed on his face. He stooped down and kissed her. He was very white himself, and felt rather dazed, but his anger was gone.

"I can't make it out, sweetheart," he whispered. "It's an ugly mistake, and to happen on our wedding morn. All the same it's nothing in life but a mistake, my dear; and I don't see, if there's a scrap of justice in England, how I can but be back with you by nightfall, darling. You and Hester had better search up Dent, for he's the man to clear me, and I heerd you say as he hadn't sailed in the 'Good Queen Anne.' Now I must go with this feller; but I'll come back to you and Hester soon, for in course I can tell how I got the notes. Here I am—at your service, sir."

Will himself placed Bet's hand in Hester's. She had not said a word nor sought to detain him; but when he turned the corner something seemed all of a sudden to stop in her heart; and the strong girl fainted in Hester's arms.



CHAPTER XVIII.

In this land of justice there is nothing more incomprehensible than the extraordinary weight and power of merely circumstantial evidence. Never was there a more honest young fellow than Will Scarlett. From his babyhood he had lived by the golden rule which does to others as we would be done by; he had never given false measure, nor false words, nor had he been guilty of false deeds; in the true sense of the word, he was a Christian,—very bright, and gay, and jolly, and a prime favorite both with his captain and mates whenever he sailed abroad.

Nevertheless, this young man who bore so excellent a character was brought up before the magistrates on the morning of his wedding-day, charged with having stolen two Bank of England notes. As Will was being hurried to the police station, he felt quite certain that five minutes' conversation would set the whole matter straight; and he even wondered if Mr. Phillips could be got to return to the church later in the day to marry him to Bet. Bet's white, despairing face haunted him; and he tried to shut it away from his thoughts, and to dwell on the delightful anticipation of soon setting all her fears to rest.

But when Will appeared before the magistrates, matters did not go quite so easily as he had imagined. In the first place, he was not allowed to tell his own story; and in the next, the sealskin purse which was found on his person was in the most remarkable way brought to bear witness against him. For a young lady and her father appeared in the witness-box who both identified the purse as hers; and this young lady with the beautiful brown eyes looked very sorrowfully at Will, but also said with great clearness that it was in that purse certainly that the recovered notes had been placed by her, and it was most undoubtedly out of that purse that twenty-six pounds in notes and gold had been stolen.

Will's anxious face cleared a little when Higgins appeared; but to his amazement Higgins seemed to be altogether on the other side—spoke of Will's eagerness and of Bet's trepidation, and how they both seemed in a great hurry and anxious to be rid of the notes at any price, and how loth Will was to write his name and address on the back. In short, everything seemed to go quite against him: and the one longing the poor fellow had was for Dent to be found—for, of course, Dent could and would clear him.

Finally he was remanded for a week, until some tidings could be got of Dent; he spent that night in jail, with all hope of a speedy wedding-day vanishing into the dim distance. Whatever happened, he had lost his berth in the good ship which was to sail from the Mersey on the following Monday;—whatever happened, too, was not his character more or less stained from this contamination with the prison?

When Bet recovered from her faint, she went straight home, but Hester hastened to the police-court, to learn Will's fate. He saw her as he stood in the prisoner's dock; and all that eyes could convey of sympathy, and belief, and longing to help, she gave him. When the magistrates uttered their judgment, and it was decided Will should spend the next week in the lock-up, Hester did push near enough to him to say—

"I'll take care of that lass of yours, cousin; and she and me, we won't leave a stone unturned to find the man what 'as wronged you."

Then Hester hastened off to Paradise Row, where she had first a long interview with Mother Bunch, and then found her way upstairs to Bet's room. Bet was seated on the side of her bed; her hair looked rough and untidy; her poor dress was no longer orderly; there was a flush of defiance on her cheeks, and a hard gleam in her eyes.

"Well, ha' they done for him?" she said. "I never believed much in goodness, and this day—well, this day's work ha' finished me. Don't talk to me of justice, nor mercy neither. What ha? they done with Will, Hetty? He's the only honest lad I ever came across,—and there—he's took up for thieving! Oh, don't ever talk to me about there being real goodness in the world."

"You talk silly," said Hester. "It's badness has ruined Will Scarlett. The bad heart of a real wicked man has spoiled the honest lad. Don't talk about what you know nought on, Bet, but think how we can serve him. He's locked up for a week, so that Dent may be found and brought to confess. You and me has a power to do in a week, and we have no time to talk silly words, what have neither sense nor meaning in 'em."

Bet's face changed while Hester was speaking. The defiant, almost repellant, look left it: it did not regain any of that strange softness which transfigured it when in Will's presence; but it was no longer hopeless; the idea of work to be done had driven away the cruel demon of despair.

"Oh, Hetty," said Bet, running up to Hester, and dragging her down to sit beside her on the pallet bed. "I'm glad as there's summut to be done. Mother allus said I was a hard 'un, and that the Almighty hadn't no love for such as me. And I did feel hard arter Will were took away—for I never had no real happiness, Hester, until arter Will and I promised to wed each other—and I thought it must be true about the Almighty hating such as me when He took Will from me at the very church door. But I don't mind anything now, Hetty, if there's ought as I can serve the lad with. I'm despert—I'm despert, as far as I think of myself, but there's nought—nought—as I wouldn't do to serve Will. I'd break a promise—I'd break a promise made to the dying,—me, who never broke my word!—ef it would serve the lad I loves. There, Hetty—no one can go further than that,—no one can speak more solemn and meaningful."

"Poor Bet!" said Hester. "Your heart's wrung, my dear—your words are wild, but their meaning's true enough. Will 'ull get a good wife in you, Bet, and you'll forget an evil day like this by-and-bye. But now," she added, "we has got to plan and to contrive, and the main thing is to find that villain Dent. I were at the police-court all day, and I heard every word, and it seemed to me them men could twist anything, and turn black into white, and t'other way, just as it pleased them. And they did say things agin' Will as most took my own breath from me; and all the time the lad stood there, with his face as honest as the sky, only a bit puzzled like. But it seemed to me, and that's what I come to you for, Bet, that the only chance for our poor Will is to find that villain Dent, and get the truth out of him some way. You said, Bet, that Dent hadn't sailed in Will's ship—oh, it's plain to be seen as he give the lad the money just to get him into this trouble. And Will, he's like a baby, for thinking innocent of all the world. Well, well, I mustn't dwell on it, for my own heart burns; but ef you know where Dent is hiding, Bet, you might get news of him, and bring me word as quick as may be."

"I don't know where he hides," said Bet, "but all the same I might get news of him. I think I know a way," she added, her face growing white again and hard,—"you go home, Hetty; it ain't for you to help me again in this matter,—you know my mind, and how I wouldn't stop at nought when I'm torn as I am to-night. But it ain't for you to help me in this. You go home, Hetty dear; and ef I have news I'll look you up later on." "Then I'll take the lads with me," said Hester. "You can't do nought with them when you're all upset as you are now; and they'll be good with me, and I'll give them summut to eat. Why Bet, my dear, you needn't take it in that way; for if I didn't do a good turn to the poor little chaps for their sake and your own, wouldn't I do it for Will, as is my own cousin, and who I love better than anybody else in the world? Don't you take on now, dear—don't you," for Bet had flung her head down on her hands, and was giving way to the most terrible, heartbreaking sobs.

"Oh, the poor lads!" she said—"the poor, poor, little lads—and my promise tomother! But there-Will comes afore all. Take 'em home, Hetty, and give 'em the best you can for to-night. No, no, boys—don't come for to kiss me—I ain't a good sister to you no more."

The captain and the general paid no particular attention to Bet's manner. They were sorry she was in trouble, but the delight of going off with Hester soon made this dismal remembrance fade from their baby minds. The little party went away, and Bet was left alone in her attic.

Her bridal night!—but what a night! Will lying lonely and forsaken in his prison cell, and she—she, Bet Granger, the poor, but also the honest and upright, about to be unfaithful to the most solemn vow she had ever taken in her life Never mind; love must still be lord of all, and Will must be saved at any price.

She wrapped her shawl about her stately head, smoothed back the fuzzy red-gold locks, and went out into the desolate winter night. She left Paradise Row quickly behind her, and in a very short time was once more in Sparrow Street She stopped at the familiar door, and ran quickly up the stairs. Her heart almost choked her as she stood for a moment outside the door of the room where her mother had died. There was no sound; she turned the handle and went in. The room was empty, and looked untidy, dirty, desolate. A little fire, however, lingered in the grate, and a paraffin lamp smoked and smelt horribly on the dirty deal table. Bet tucked up her dress, and in a few moments transformed the room. The fire was built up, and burned brightly; the lamp was trimmed, the ashes were swept out of the grate, and the chairs were dusted and put tidy. She found a dirty cloth which ought to have been white, shook it and smoothed it out, and covered the deal table with it. She laid a couple of horn knives and forks, a couple of cracked plates, and a glass or two on the table. There was no food, however, in the cupboard, and she had no money in her pocket to buy any. She sat down now by the glowing fire, and waited. She had tossed off her shawl, and the firelight fell on her pale, proud face; her lips were very firmly set, and her resolute eyes looked into the fire. Inwardly she was faint and sick, for she had not tasted food that day; but she was unconscious of absolute hunger, all the energy within both soul and body being fixed on one idea.

A step was heard on the stairs—a shambling step. Bet knew it. She stood up, and when her father entered the room, confronted him with eyes that almost blazed.

"Here I am," she said. "I have come back—you can have your way. You didn't starve me out, but you took my heart and crushed it—you crushed it under your foot. You're a bad man; there's only one worse than you, and that's Isaac Dent. I have come back, and I'll stay ef you'll take me on my own terms. Not unless—mind you that—not unless."

Granger was a little the worse for drink. He was not really tipsy, but he had taken enough slightly to confuse his brain; and the altered aspect of the room and the sudden apparition of his daughter almost paralyzed him.

"Well, I never!" he exclaimed, and he sank down, an abject-looking figure, on the nearest chair.

"Do you hear me, father?" said Bet. She came up close and stood over him. "I ha' come back, Ef you give me my terms, I'll stay. I'll stay, and I don't mind owning that I've been conquered. I'll do for you, and tend you, and keep the place tidy for you, same as I did when mother was alive, and what money I earns you shall share. I'll be as true a daughter to you, father, as ef—as ef you was good. You want some one to cosset you up, don't you father? You give me my way, and I'll do it. Cosy will be no name for you, father, and snug no word for this yer room."

Here Bet knelt down, and laid her shapely hand on Granger's arm; her eyes looked into his, and her lips, so hard and firm a minute ago, absolutely smiled.

"You're none so young as you were," she continued; "you're getting on in years, and your step's a bit shaky, and your hairs are turning white. You wants your comforts, father—course you do. Why, this room—it was shameful when I come in, and look at it now!—it's a bit spry, ain't it now?"

"For sure, yes; it is spry," said Granger, glancing round him in a nervous, anxious manner.

His daughter's strange demeanor and unusual gentleness by no means reassured him.

"What are you arter, Bet?" he said, as gruffly as he could manage to speak. "You don't bring honeyed words like them 'ere into this house for nothing. Tell out what you wants, and don't talk flummery."

"I wants you and Dent to take the shame off Will Scarlett," said Bet. "There's no flummery there—that's my meaning, spoke out plain. You two ha' put shame on Will, and cast him into prison, and I want you to take him out again, and lift the shameful lie off him. That's all—it ain't much, and it 'ull be the better for your souls—ef you have any souls—that you should do it."

Granger burst into a loud laugh.

"You have the cheek!" he said. "And for you to wed him, I suppose, the werry minute as he gets his liberty! No, no, Bet—none of that. I ain't much—for sure I ain't much; but a gel brought up in Sparrer Street shan't wed with no thief. There—I'm going out. I know nought about Will Scarlett. Neither Dent nor me could open his prison doors for him. You talk rubbish, Bet, and I'm 'shamed to hear you. I'm going out—you can set by the fire as long as you pleases, or you can go back to Paradise Row."

Granger turned to the door. But Bet was before him. She turned the key in the lock and put it in her pocket.

"No, no, father; you don't go out until you hear my terms," she said.



CHAPTER XIX.

All her softness had deserted her. She looked like what she was—a wild, untamed creature brought to bay.

"You ha' got to hear my terms, father," she said. "I'll be a good daughter to you, but I want Will out of prison. You don't suppose as I don't know what you and Isaac Dent ha' done to my Will. You was mad as I should be happy with Will, and Isaac Dent was mad 'cause I shouldn't mate with he; and Isaac Dent stole the five-pound notes and the purse, and other money besides, and he knew as the number of the notes was took, and he was frightened, and so he give the notes to Will, and pretended as he wanted to buy his berth in the 'Good Queen Anne.' But Dent didn't sail in that ship, father, and Dent's in Liverpool now—I know he is, for you axed me to meet him here some time back, and Mother Bunch seed you and a sailor lad in the Star and Garter this week, and she heerd you plotting and planning, and she knew—she guessed as there wor mischief brewing. There's a case agin' you and Dent, father, and you'd better come to my terms, or it 'ull fare worse with you. No harm'll come to you; but Dent—he must be found, and Will must be set free. There—you've got to do that; do you hear me?"

Granger crouched near the door. He neither liked Bet's manner nor her words. She knew a great deal more than he had the least idea of. Mother Bunch having overheard him and Dent as they laid their plans together in the Star and Garter was an awkward circumstance. The whole thing looked ugly. He wished he were out of it. More particularly as he had never received any of Dent's promised gold.

It behoved him, howe'er, to be careful,—on no account must he betray himself or his fears to this astute daughter.

"You needn't speak so loud, Bet—I ain't deaf. It's a queer world,— it's a nice state, so to speak, of society when a gel takes to bullying of her own father. You're quite mistook ef you suppose Dent is in Liverpool. A life on the ocean wave, with its storms and its fogs and its dangers, is poor Dent's life at present. But I don't say," continued Granger, lowering his voice, and trying to speak in a seductive manner, "I don't say as I couldn't get word with him. I won't say how, and I won't say when; and I won't say, either, but what he's as innocent as a babe; but word with him I might be able to get ef,—now, what's the matter, Bet?"

"Nothing, father—nothing much—only set you down by the fire and make yourself cosy. There—you're all trembling; you're not as strong as you ought for to be—you wants your comforts. You'd like a cup of tea now, wouldn't you? And no one can make tea like Bet—now, can they?"

"That's true enough, my gel—you can be a comfort ef you have a mind. No mistake on that point. Well, as I said, I might get word of Dent,—only hark you, Bet, you'll stay at home—there'll be no larks back to Paradise Row, and no bringing Mother Bunch to the front? You'll stay here, and be a comfort to your father?"

"Yes, father, I said I would,—oh, I can make you real cosy, there's no doubt on that point."

"And you'll bring the lads back, and not play no fool about them no more? They're my lads, and you has treated me shameful in the matter. But you'll bring 'em back, to be under the shelter of their honest father's roof? You understand—I'll do nought about finding Dent unless you comes back here—you and them boys." Bet's face was convulsed for a moment.

"They shall come back," she said, then—"that's the 'greement: me and them living here as of old, and Will let out of his prison."

"And there'll be no talk of your marrying yourself to the thief? I'll do nought ef you give me that feller as a son-in-law. I'd rather a sight leave him in prison—why, Bet, how white you air—I wouldn't be doing my dooty as a father ef I seed you a flinging of your 'andsome self away on a thief feller."

Granger was right when he said Bet's face had grown white. Her long fast, all the anguish and agitation she had undergone, and now this terrible last clause in the agreement she was making with her father, proved too much for her. She did not faint, as she had done in the morning; but she was absolutely incapable of replying. Her lips opened, it is true, but no articulate sound came from them.

"I'm a bit weak," she managed to gasp at last; "I han't eaten nought to-day."

Granger fetched her a little water, and then volunteered to go out to bring in bread and tea. He was still considerably puzzled and annoyed at Bet's knowledge of his doings; but he was glad to have the girl and the boys once more in his power, and had great faith in Dent's diplomacy.

Dent would soon settle things, and Bet should be his wife as quickly as the license could be purchased.



CHAPTER XX.

The police were searching everywhere for a sailor called Dent. They set detectives to work, and had little doubt that long before the week had expired for which Will had been remanded they would find their man, and establish the truth, or otherwise, of Will's story.

When it commenced it seemed quite an easy search; but the days flew quickly, and neither about the docks, nor loafing round the quays, could anyone least bearing Isaac Dent's description be found. His name was not on any ship's log, and the police came to the conclusion that Liverpool really did not contain him. They advertised—they even offered rewards for the slightest information; but no clue could they obtain. On the seventh day of Will's captivity they gave the matter up as a bad job, and said that the sailor Dent was not in the city.

They were mistaken. Dent had never left his native shores. He was not particular as to his quarters—he was clever at disguising himself; and as there are in Liverpool courts and slums into which no policeman cares to venture, it was not very difficult for Dent to elude these worthies.

Granger, however, had found him out, and Granger and he had many colloquies, but not in a place where Mother Bunch could overhear.

"I ain't afeard," said Dent. "They can do nought to me, nor to you neither, mate. I'd like to go to the police court—and I will, too. But it won't be to clear Will—by no means, but quite the contrairy. Only I don't choose the police to be dragging of me forward. I'll go when I has made terms with Bet, and not afore."

Then the men whispered together again, and laid their plans, which were quite as deep, and quite as wicked, as the most unprincipled could desire.

Bet lived once more in Sparrow Street, earning thereby Mother Bunch's contempt, and a queer, puzzled look from Hester Wright, who would not forsake her, but who certainly failed to understand either her or her motive. She brought the boys home; and now her father's room in Sparrow Street was kept fairly neat, and the lads resumed the life which had been broken off at their mother's death. They shrank from their father, who, absorbed in other things, did not trouble them much just then; and they looked with great wonder and perplexity at Bet. She was not the Bet of old; she took scarcely any notice of them; she never smiled when they came near her; she said nothing at all now about their being good boys, and never by any chance did she allude to their mother's name before them.

She spent her whole time watching and listening,—starting and changing color at the merest sound, looking eagerly at her father whenever he came into the house, avoiding Hester Wright, eating next to nothing, wearing away her sleeping hours in long, exhausting fits of weeping. Will's week in prison was nearly over, and Bet in the time had changed—changed so much that it almost seemed as if years had gone over her head. Her cheeks were thin, all the color had left her face, and her eyes looked now too bright and large for beauty.

On the day previous to Will's again appearing before the magistrates the poor girl's restlessness became almost unbearable. Granger still gave her to understand that Dent was not in Liverpool. He would find him—yes, he said, he was certain to find him; but Bet did not know that he had done so, and her terrors were proportionately great. She could not sit still for a moment—but paced up and down, up and down the small room where her mother had died, like a caged animal.

The captain and the general were off on expeditions of their own; hours passed, but no one came near the unhappy girl.

At last, when her impatience had almost burst bounds, Granger arrived.

"I ha' done it, Bet," he said. "It rests with you now—Dent is found."

"Thank God!" she exclaimed, involuntarily. She fell on her knees before her father and clasped his hands. "Feel how my heart beats," she said—"I were nearly going mad. Father, there'll never be a better daughter to you than me in all Christendom, from this time out. You ha' found Isaac Dent, and he'll be in the witness-box to save Will to-morrow. Thank God Almighty! There's hope yet in the world."

"I ha' found Dent," continued Granger, rubbing his rough sleeves across his mouth in a furtive manner. "I told him about Will, and he's willing to go to the police-court to-morrow—that is, ef you're agreeable."

"I agreeable, father?" Bet laughed excitedly. "You know my mind on that; and so does Dent. Why, I could almost find it in my heart to call him a good feller, ef he saves my lad."

"Ay, Bet—that's just it." Granger shuffled again, and would not meet his daughter's eye. "He wants you to call him a good feller; he wants you to be werry particular kind to him, seeing as he won't stir hand nor foot to save Will Scarlett until you takes yer oath as you'd wed with him. Ay, that's it, Bet—you ha' got to face it; by no other means can you set that lad of yourn free. You ha' got to face it, and Dent must have his answer to-night."

Bet did not speak at all for about a minute.

"I feared as this might come," she said at last In a queer voice. "I did hope as God Almighty might have spared me. But it weren't to be. It's miles worse nor giving up my life."

She had been kneeling by her father; now she started to her feet, and wrapped the plaid shawl about her head and shoulders.

"I'm going to Hester," she said. "I'll give you your answer when I comes back."



CHAPTER XXI.

Bet walked quickly through the streets. She pushed back her hair under her plaid shawl: her eyes looked bright, and her step was once more firm and erect.

"There are all kinds of love," she kept muttering to herself—"all kinds-there's the love that gives, and the love that gets. Seems to me that mine must be the love that gives."

A queer little smile came over her face as this thought entered her brain. She walked still more quickly, and clenched her strong hand, while resolution and the noble determination of self-sacrifice gave her a false strength. Bet was not ignorant of certain verses of the Bible. She had never read the Bible, for her mother's form of religion had rendered the idea of looking into its pages distasteful to her; but words from it had been quoted many times in her poor home, and one of its verses now floated into her memory: "Greater love hath no man than this—that a man lay down his life for his friend." The words brought with them a healing sense of comfort. She really did not know from where they were taken, but she found herself repeating them, and she knew that if she really agreed to marry Dent, she would give up far more than her life for Will. No questionings as to the right or the wrong of this action came to perplex her—she never for an instant supposed it possible that Will could prefer prison with the thought of her waiting for him at the end, to liberty with her lost to him forever. No, no; sailors, of all men, must be free—free as the wind or the air. Will must once more go where he pleased, and taste the briny ocean in salt spray on his lips. Confinement would kill a roving spirit like his. He would be sorry to have lost her—Bet; but by-and-bye he would find another lass to comfort him.

Just at present Bet had a sense of exaltation that caused her scarcely to feel any pain. The worst had now come and was over—her heart beat calmly; she had nothing further to dread; and she ran quickly up the stairs to Hester's room, and looked in with almost a bright face.

"I ha' come," she said, drawing her breath fast,—"Dent is found, Hetty, and Will will be free to-morrow night."

"Oh, how glad I am!" said Hester. She had been making up her fire and tidying the room before going to rest. She went straight up to Bet, now, and put one arm round her neck, and raised herself a little to kiss the taller girl.

"You'll be happy, yet, Bet," she said; "and God knows I'm glad of it." Bet did not respond to Hester's kiss. She held herself very erect, and looked down calmly into the singer's eager, enthusiastic face.

"It's a good thing Dent is found," she repeated. "I came to you Hetty, to ask you ef you'd help me to write a letter to Will. You're more of a scholard than I am, and I thought maybe atween us I might make my mind known to the lad."

"For sure, Bet, I'll help you to write," said Hester. "But ef Dent is found, and witnesses for Will, you'll see him in a few hours, honey; and it don't seem worth while to put into writing what can be told with the lips."

"I'll see Will to-morrow," repeated Bet, "for I'll be in the police- court; but, all the same, it's my mind to put a few words in writing, so that the lad may know clear what my meaning is. You'll help me, won't you, Hetty, seeing as you're more of a scholard than me?"

"To be sure I will," said Hester. And going to a drawer, she took out a penny bottle of ink, an old pen, and a sheet or two of very thin, poor writing paper.

"Shall I write or will you?" she said, looking up at the girl, who stood still and upright in the middle of the room.

"Set down, Bet, dear, and take the pen in your own fingers—ef the letter's for Will, he'd like to have the writing yours. Set down, and I'll help you to spell out the words."

"No," said Bet; "I ain't a scholard, and my hand shakes. I'll say what's in my heart, and you'll write it for me, Hetty, dear."

She moved over now to the fireplace, and leaned one elbow on the tiny mantel-shelf; her face was quiet, but Hester could not help remarking the absence of hope in her eyes.

"Are you sure that Dent will appear in the witness box?" she asked. "Seems to me as if he'd scarce dare to; for he'll have to say how he come by the notes. You know, Bet, and so do I, that he's the real thief; and ef he appears to clear Will, seems to me he must confess his own share. Are you sure as he'll do it, Bet?"

"He told father so," replied Bet. "He's deep, and he'll find a way. He said as he'd do it for a price—it were a heavy one—he wouldn't do it for nought else; he named his price, and he promised that for that he'd clear Will."

"I don't see how he's to do it," repeated Hester, looking more and more dissatisfied. "Dent ain't the man to pop himself into the jail. And a price? You and Granger han't got any money. It's deceived you are, I fear me, Bet."

"No," said Bet—" the price is me—there ain't no deceit, and his meaning's quite plain. When Dent saves Will, he's to have me. I'm to wed him—them's the terms—there ain't no use argufying, Hester; but it's all plain—Dent will clear Will, and keep out of prison hisself, for he's as clever as he's bad. And I'm to be his wife. Now you write the letter."

"That I won't," said Hester, flinging down her pen. "Ef you think I'm going to break Will's heart, and yourn, too, you're fine and mistook. Dent is playing the fool on you, Bet Granger; and you're no true lass to give up Will on any terms."

Hester spoke with great vehemence and passion. She was horrified at what she considered sacrilege. She could not understand Bet. Rising from her seat, she pushed her writing materials away, and stooped over the hearth.

"There," she said, as she poked the little fire—"I'm glad as you has spoke out your mind. You hate Dent, and you'll marry him; and you'll give Will his liberty, but you'll break his heart. No, no—I won't write that letter."

"I'll do the best that I can myself," replied Bet. She was not the least angry or excited. She sat down by Hester's table, and taking up the pen dipped it in the ink, and with difficulty began to put her words on paper. Her head was bent low, and her hand labored; but she did not pause, nor glance again at Hester. Minutes passed into half-hours: one—two—three of these went by before Bet, with a burning flush on one cheek, and the other deadly white, finished her letter.

"There," she said. "You don't understand me, Hetty, but I ha' made it all clear to Will. Here's the letter. Seal it up for nought but him to see. When he's free to-morrow, give it to him, Hetty, and don't think harder than you can help of poor Bet Granger."

She laid the letter on the mantel-piece by Hester's side, wrapped her shawl again about her head, and went out.



CHAPTER XXIL.

"You ha' got the promise of the girl?" said Dent.

"Yes, yes—that's sure and certain."

"All right; then I'll go to the police-court. Now look you here, Granger—you don't s'pose as I'm really going to give that chap his liberty?"

"You won't wed Bet else," replied Granger.

"So you say. Well, set down, man. We has half-an-hour afore us, and I've got to think one or two things out. Are you quite aware, or must I make it plainer to yer, the only way in which I could let Will out?"

"It don't seem over clear, for sartin," replied Granger. "But you're a clever chap, Dent, and I trusts yer. You'll let the lad out, and you'll wed my gel, and you'll give me my share of the siller. Come, now—that's plain enough, ain't it?"

"This is plain," said Dent, knocking the ashes out of his pipe- the two men were loafing together near one of the quays—"this is plain, and this only—that when Will comes out of prison I goes in. I can't prove Will Scarlett innocent without proving myself t'other thing. Is it likely now—you tell me as it's likely—ef I'll lend myself to that sort of plan?"

"Only you said it," replied Granger. "And for sartin my gel won't wed you else."

"And," continued Dent, "when I'm locked up, it won't look too nice for you. There are a few things as 'ull come out about that money as I stole. Ef I'm took up, Liverpool 'ull be a sight too hot for you, Granger. You take my word on that point."

Granger's bloated and red face turned pale. He did not speak at all for a moment. Then he said, slowly: "You has a plan in your head, Isaac Dent; and the sooner you outs with it the better it'll be for you and for me."

"Yes," said Dent, smiling. "You're about right there, mate. I has a plan, and this is it—I mean to go to the police-court to-day—I means to witness there; but not for Will Scarlett, but agin' him. He'll swear as I give him the notes; I'll swear tother way. His case looks black now—I'll make it of a double-dyed darkness. I'll do for him. That'll be none so difficult."

"But what about Bet?" said Granger. "I don't care about Scarlett. It's nought to me how long he stays in prison. But how'll you get Bet to wed you, ef you treats the lad so, is more nor I can make out."

"We'll blind her," said Dent. "Throw dust in her eyes—eh? That's where you can help me, Granger—and five pound, not in notes, but gold, for the job."

Granger looked dubious.

"Bet's going to the police-court," he said.

"She mustn't go—no, not on no account. Look here, Granger, you wern't, so to say, special tender and fatherly to them boys o' yourn, were you?"

"What now?" said Granger.

"Well, just this," replied Dent. "I want you to take them boys, and manage so as Bet shall have a hint of it, and pretend as you're going to do bad by them. Take them out of her sight. She'll follow—she'll spend all the time, while Will's little business is being settled, looking for the boys. It can be done, and we'll lure her out of Liverpool, and we'll pretend as Will is free, until such time as I can wed her. Then I don't care what she knows. Come into the 'Star and Garter,' mate—we'll have a drink, and soon fix up this yer business."



CHAPTER XXIII.

It sometimes happens that a very valiant and resolute spirit is contained in a small body. Bet Granger's little brothers, known in the slums as the captain and the general, were as thin, as lanky, as under-grown little chaps as could be found in Liverpool. Not a scrap of superfluous flesh had they, and certainly not an iota of superfluous growth. They were under-fed, under-sized; but nevertheless brave spirits shone out of their eyes, and valiant and even martial ideas animated their small frames. The "Cap'n" and the "Gen'ral" were considered so plucky by the other boys—and girls of the neighborhood that as a rule they were asked to take the command in a fight, and to assume leading and distinguished positions in a general fray. Most valiantly then would they strike out left or right—regardless of black eyes, indifferent to bumps or blows. They looked like little furies on these occasions, and the other children applauded and admired. It was well known in Sparrow Street, and it was even beginning to be recognized as a certain fact in Paradise Row, that when both the captain and the general were engaged together in one encounter there was not the smallest chance of the opposite side winning.

These untrained and somewhat desperate little bravos had also certain instincts which taught them to espouse the cause of those weaker than themselves: and it was often a ludicrous as well as a pathetic sight to see these small champions leading the van, and eagerly supporting girls and boys a great deal bigger than themselves. Their mother had certainly told them that fighting was sinful; but it was the breath of life to them, and when Thady was once asked what he liked best in the world, he answered promptly, "Punchin' another feller's head." These small boys were quite little braves in their way; but, as there is a weak point in the most invincible armor, so were there conditions under which the general and his gallant captain would undoubtedly show the white feather. There was a presence which could effectually quench the ardor of two pairs of keen eyes, could cause two little faces to blanch to an unwholesome and sickly hue, could cause two little hearts to beat anxiously, and could so affect the moral equilibrium of two very steadfast little souls, that lies would fall glibly from their lips, and the coward's weapons of deceit and subterfuge would be gladly used by them in self-defence.

It was a father who had this effect upon his children; and the torturing and ruining of these young child-lives was being effected in the civilized England of our nineteeth century. Granger represented a not too uncommon type of man, and Nat and Thady did not suffer more than hundreds of other boys when exposed to his influence.

On the morning after Bet had written her letter to Will, she rose early, and was preparing to go to the police-court, to look her last on her lover, when the door of their one little room in Sparrow Street was burst rudely open, and Granger, his face red and bloated, and his whole manner indicating that he had reached the quarrelsome stage of insobriety, entered the room with heavy strides. He was a big man, powerfully made, and when in his present condition even Bet thought it wisest to let him alone. He entered the room and glared about him savagely. A great deal of this manner was put on, for he was acting a part under Dent's instructions; but none of his children knew this, and when striding across the room, he caught the poor little blue-eyed captain by his ragged collar, the boy uttered a scream, and the general, basely deserting his brother, rushed to Bet for protection.

"Give up that lad," shouted Granger, hoarsely. "I want the two of 'em. They are my lads, and you have played the fool with 'em long enough. I have got work as 'ull suit them, away in Warrington, and I'm going to take 'em by an early train. There—hands off, Bet—give me the lads." "Never," cried Bet. She looked like a wild creature about to be deprived of her young. Holding one arm firmly round the general, she gripped the little captain by the other hand.

"Gi' them up to me, father! You shan't have them—you shan't touch them—there! What do you mean? You take 'em away to work at I knows not what?—and they no more nor seven years old! Let 'em be—they're my lads, and you shan't harm a hair of their heads."

The boys clung to her, with white faces. The man, savage and amazed at this unexpected resistance, stood wavering for an instant. At that moment it seemed to Bet as if a thousand furies possessed her, and a thousand strengths were given to her. All the accumulated anguish of the past week seemed to gather vehemence now, and to lend iron force to her muscular arms. She wrenched the little captain quite away from the red-faced, bloated man; and then, both arms freed for a moment, she actually pushed him before her to the door, and, before he could utter a word, or collect his scattered forces, she locked him out.

"There! lads," she said, turning round with a triumphant half laugh, "you see as Bet's as good as her word."

"You're a born fighter," said the captain, in a tone of admiration. He recovered his spirits and his courage on the spot, and in a few moments he and the general were amusing themselves in acting the scene which Bet had just gone through.

"Boys," said their sister's voice, after ten minutes had passed, and no attack been made on the door, she concluded that Granger had for the present withdrawn himself—"Boys, I'm a wanting to go out."

"Oh, no, Bet, no—father'll come back."

"But the door's werry strong. I'll lock it from the outside, and make off with the key. I won't be long, boys; I'm a hungered to see somebody—my heart draws me, and I'm in pain. You won't be in any danger, dear lads, and I'll be back werry soon. I jest want to set eyes on one face that I'll never see no more. You won't be afeard, ef there's a locked door between you and father."

The rare tears which scarcely ever came to her stood in Bet's eyes.

"No, we won't be afeard," said the captain, running up to his sister— "there ain't nought to be afeard of. You're wanting to see your sweetheart—ain't yer, Bet?"

"No," said Bet, with an almost-cry—"I han't got a sweetheart now. All the same, I hungers for the sight of a face. And I'll be back soon. Don't you be fretting, lads. There'll be a locked door atween you and harm."

She wrapped her shawl about her, waited for no further words, locked the door on the little prisoners, and rushed downstairs. As she said, her heart was drawing her. Nothing but that passionate hunger would have caused her to forsake the children at this supreme moment. The house was intensely quiet, for most of the lodgers had gone out on their day's avocations. Not a sign of Granger was to be seen.

Bet walked fast, and presently reached the police-court, where Will was to be tried. A crowd of people were waiting outside; a few policemen stood about. The doors of the building were not yet open. Bet saw Hester Wright standing very near the entrance. She made an effort to get to her, and called her name over the heads of the crowd; but Hester, after looking at her coldly, turned her back without making any response. This action cut Bet to the quick. She found the tears again springing to her eyes. Oh! for one glance, if only the last, of Will's kind face. The minutes dragged themselves along; the crowd increased; but as the right hour had not yet come, the doors remained fast shut. At last, at the stroke of ten, they were opened, and Bet was pressing in with the rest, when she felt a hand laid heavily on her arm. She turned, to see the coarse black-eyed girl who had bought her beat from Granger.

"Ef I was you, I'd go home, Bet," said the girl.

"You mind your own business," said Bet, shaking her off roughly.

"Well—there's a mischief brewing, and I saw what I saw. Don't you say as you wasn't warned; and ef the two little chaps come to grief, it ain't Louisa Perkins' fault."

These last words alarmed Bet.

"Say out yer say at once," she answered, clutching the girl now, and forcing her back against the crowd who were pushing their way into the building,—"say your say and have done," she repeated. "What has come to the lads? I left them safe not an hour agone."

"I saw Granger making off with them."

"You didn't—that's a lie! I left them locked up safe in my room."

"Granger was hurrying off with them," repeated Louisa, "werry red in the face, and mad like. The captain was crying, and t'other chap had a red mark down his cheek—it's not a quarter of an hour by St. Giles' clock as I saw him."

"Where was they going?" asked Bet. "Tell me quick, or I'll shake you."

"Down Castle Street, making for Lime Street and the railway station, I expect."

Bet ceased to push inwards with the crowd. They went past her, and the little police-court was soon filled to overflowing. Isaac Dent almost rubbed against her shoulder as he went by. He winked at Louisa, but Bet never noticed him.

"Hester—Hester Wright!" she suddenly called out.

Hester had not yet gone into the police-court. She was standing against one of the posts of the door, watching the crowd as they filed past.

"Hester!" repeated Bet. "Hetty—Hetty! Come and speak to me for a minute! I must go, but I want to send a message. Just one word, Hetty,—Hetty, come!"

Perhaps Hester did not hear. At any rate, she neither turned nor heeded. Bet gave a low despairing cry; then, flinging her shawl off her shoulders, she ran as fast as if there were wings to her feet in the direction of Sparrow Street.



CHAPTER XXIV.

She reached her destination very quickly. The smooth-faced landlord was standing at the door.

"Eh! is that you, Bet Granger?" he exclaimed. "Eh—you are in a taking. You might stop a minute to pass a civil good-morning with a chap. Well, what a gel that is! But ain't she handsome—just."

Bet flew past him like a whirlwind, and his last words were addressed to the empty air. Three pairs up she ran, her breath coming quicker and quicker. On the landing she paused, and pressed her hand to her wildly beating heart. It was all quite true. Louisa Perkins had not told her a lie. The room door stood wide open; the room itself was empty.

"Boys!" she called, when she could gather breath to speak. "Little lads, I ha' come back to you! You needn't hide no more, for Bet's yere."

But she knew as she said the words that the boys were not hiding. They had fallen into the clutches of the oppressor—they had gone. She went slowly now into the deserted room. She was waiting for her breath to return, for her heart to beat easily, to commence her search. Yes: that was the only duty left to her in life—to find the boys and redeem her promise to her mother. She sat down on a chair, and wiped her heated forehead, and gradually made her plans. First of all she would go to Mother Bunch—and then, then—away to Warrington. Warrington was not a big place; it would be impossible for Granger to elude her long there. Could she once again find the lads she need not greatly fear her father. After all she had nearly, if not quite, his physical strength; and she believed that if it came to a personal encounter between them, her muscles, joined to her woman's wit, would give her the victory.

Opening the front of her dress, she pulled out a handkerchief, and, unknotting it, looked at the little money in her possession. The handkerchief only contained a few pence—certainly not the price of a third-class fare to Warrington. As she was leaving the room, however, she caught a hidden gleam on the little deal dresser. She ran to it and picked up half-a-crown. How had it got there? She had no time to think of that; it was hers now, to use as she thought best. She would go to Mother Bunch first. That worthy was offended with her; but what of that, she must soothe Mother Bunch's temper, make her once more her friend, get her to look out for any tidings of the boys, and then go on her wildgoose chase to Warrington.

Whenever Mother Bunch was not eating, sleeping, or scolding some one, she was engaged over the wash-tub. It might have puzzled an outsider to know what results she achieved from such arduous labor, for she scorned to take in washing as a profession; and neither she nor her good man, a certain lanky-looking Patrick O'Flaherty, were remarkable for the whiteness of their linen, or the general cleanliness of their apparel.

Mother Bunch washed and washed, hanging out numerous garments to dry, rinsing the suds from her own arms, rendering her small kitchen damp and messy at all hours, and during all seasons. She scarcely raised her head when Bet entered. The soft sound of the soapy water and the gentle splash of the dripping garments greeted the girl as an accustomed sound, and Mother Bunch's broad back was reassuring.

"Oh, Mrs. O'Flaherty," said Bet, running up to her, putting her arms round her neck, and imprinting a kiss on her soapy forehead. "I'm in a sight of trouble, and I've come to you to help me."

"Glory! child, don't stand right in the way of the soap suds! There you go—splashing all the clothes, and I'll have to wash 'em all over again. Oh, dearie, dearie me—my heart's broke, and that's the truth I'm telling ye. Well, honey—and so ye comes back to Mother Bunch when you want a rale drop of consolation. You know as the old Irishwoman's your frind, and don't bear no malice."

"I know that, Mother Bunch! I think now I did wrong to take the lads away from you—only I did it for the best."

"Well, now, honey, I wouldn't say that ef I was you. You did it for love, and love's contrairey. But don't talk to me of doing it for the best. How's that broth of a boy, Scarlett? Have you got your own way about him, lovey?"

"Yes," said Bet. "Will has got his liberty by now." Her face turned white. "We won't talk of that; there was a price to be paid and it's paid. Will is free, that's a comfort."

"Yes," said Mother Bunch. "But there's a sore thrubble on ye, honey. I see it in your eyes. I'm glad the lad's free. Ef they consailed a lad like that in prison—why it would have been the death of him, my dear. Will's the boy that must have his liberty. I expect you'll find him quare and altered, even after one week of prison, Bet."

Bet's face brightened, "I'm glad that you, too, understand Will," she said. "I knew that the prison would kill my lad. He's free now."

"And why arn't you with him, honey? Why, it's an iligant wedding you ought to be having together, and Mother Bunch dancing an Irish jig, and pouring down blessings on the heads of two of yez. Come now, Bet, what's up? Spake your mind free to the old Irishwoman."

"I have nothing to tell, and I can't wait," said Bet. "Father have took away the two lads, and I'm follering of him. He said he would take them to Warrington. I'm a-going arter him, and I'll fetch them back; only I thought I'd tell you, Mother Bunch, so as you might keep your ears open, and let me know ef there's any tidings or news going. Father may have said Warrington jest to deceive me, for he's awful deep, and the lads may be here all the time. You keep your eyes open, and your ears too, Mother Bunch, and I'll come back to you in a day or so ef I can't find them. Now, good-bye—I'm off, I want to catch a train."

Bet found herself at Warrington soon after one o'clock.

She was landed on the platform and stood looking round her in a bewildered way. The place was totally strange, and she felt like a deserted vessel cast adrift from its usual moorings. There was no part of Liverpool where she would not know what to do and how to act; but here, standing on this lonely, deserted platform, with scarcely any money in her pocket, her head aching, her tired brain dull and confused, she scarcely knew where to turn. If her father were really here with the children, it might not be such a very easy task to find them.

She was startled by a familiar, half-mocking, half-exultant voice at her elbow. She turned quickly, and there stood the sailor, Isaac Dent.

"Ha, ha! sweetheart!" he said. "I wasn't long in a-follering of you up—was I? And you're mine now, my beautiful Bet. You're mine, and no mistake."

Bet's eyes flashed, and her face grew crimson,—it was as much as she could do to restrain the impulse to raise her hand, and strike Dent. But then she recollected herself. After all, she did belong to this man, and Will's liberty was the price. "You know my terms," she said, when she could find her voice to speak. "Is my lad free? Ef my lad's not free as the air—I'll—! Tell me that afore I have any more words with you."

Dent laughed; he was in exuberant spirits.

"Your lad!" he repeated. "It seems to me as I'm your lad. Name the feller you mean in some other way afore I answers any saucy questions. You're a fine young woman, Bet, but you has to go Isaac Dent's way now. What's the name of the feller you wants me to tell you about?"

"Will Scarlett—is he out of prison?" replied the girl. She swallowed a deep breath, and her face was white and cold as marble.

"Yes; Will Scarlett's free," answered Dent "He's out of prison, in course, and he's free as the air. All owing to that good feller Dent standing up for him, and witnessing for him, and proving him as innercent as the babe unborn. My word!—worn't he glad to get his liberty. And didn't he wring my hand, and say, 'God bless you, my boy!' You sent him a letter, Bet, and he read it, and gived me a line or two to take to you. You'd know Will's fist ef you see'd it on an envelope now—wouldn't you?"

"I can't say," replied Bet. "Give me his letter!"

"All in good time, my pretty—all in werry good time! Shall we walk down the street a bit? You're obliged to poor Isaac Dent, now, ain't you, Bet? He have done his part by Will Scarlett, haven't he?"

"Yes, Isaac. I'm much obleeged to yer. I'm glad as Will is free. Give me the letter what he writ to me, please."

"I will, by-and-bye. You have got to forget him now. You're mine now— you remember as that's the bargain?"

"Yes, Isaac, I remember—I'll wed you as soon as you can fix up the license. Oh, I'm glad that Will is free! Did he look awful bad and changed, Isaac?"

"Bad?" repeated Dent. "Yaller as a guinea,—awful, he look—but he'll be better soon. He said to me, 'Another week o' this, and I'd ha' been a dead man, Dent—bless you, Dent, old pal' said Will—'and take the gel and my blessing too. She was right, Bet wor—liberty's more nor anything else to a sailor chap. Oh, yes—I'll miss her; for she was rare and handsome; but, lord there's plenty of other good fish in the sea;' and then he writ this letter, and give it me—jest a line or two, to make it all square atween you and me, as he said. And he'll come and see us arter his next voyage, he said. Here's the letter, Bet—and obleeged you ought to be to me, sweetheart."

"Thank you, Isaac," replied Bet.

She took Will's letter with a hand that trembled, and thrust it unopened into the bosom of her dress.

"It wor what I wanted," she muttered, half under her breath. "All the same I'm stunned like. Isaac, I ha' come here to find father and the lads. Father has made off with the two boys, and he dropped a hint about bringing 'em here."

"Werry like he did," replied Dent. "He dropped a hint to me about making a tidy penny or so out of them boys round yere. Ef you stay for a day or two, Bet, you'll most likely find them. I'll help you all I can. And Warrington ain't a bad place to stop in. We might be married here—why not? I know a decent gel here what'll share her room with you—we'll go and find her now."



CHAPTER XXV.

Dent soon made terms with the girl who was to accommodate Bet with half her room. Her terms were half-a-crown a week, which Dent offered to provide. Bet, however, scowled at him.

"None o' that" she said. "I ain't your wife yet—and I can't be, neither, thank goodness, for a fortnight. Jenny here says I may go round with her and help her to hawk her basket. I'll help Jenny with her bits of cress and vegetables-and I want no help from you."

"You're a proud 'un," said Dent, "but I'll break yer in yet."

He spoke more angrily than he had meant. Bets cheeks grew white; he was turning away, but she followed him.

"Listen, Isaac," she said. "I'm not your wife yet; and by the laws of England I can't be for a fortnight. It was them laws as parted me and Will—cruel, I thought them—bitter cruel. Him and me would have been mated together, and safe and happy—oh, yes! we two would have been happy but for them laws which we mustn't break, if we was to be honest and true man and woman. And them same laws stand good still, Isaac Dent; and I can't come to you to be wedded to you under a fortnight. They was cruel once—now they're kind; they gives me a fortnight afore I steps into a state what will be worse nor death to me—ay, worse than the cold grave! We must wait a fortnight, Dent—you must wait a whole fourteen days afore you take to bullying me. And, listen, Dent—I'm a despert girl. I have lost all that makes life worth anything. You trust me 'cause you know it's said everywhere as Bet Granger keeps true to her word through all things. But I ha' broke a promise already made most solemn to my mother when she lay a-dying; and ef you tries me too far, and don't do what I wish for the next fortnight afore we can come together—why, I'll fling my word back in your face, and dare you to do your worst. I'm despert—evn my word ain't much to me, now. And I'll do it, Isaac, I'll do it; I'll declare as I'll never, never be wed to you! You can't harm me—you can't force me. And Will's free now. You could never touch me at all except through Will. And now my lad's free, and the salt sea will soon blow the prison look out of his face. You haven't got me yet, Isaac Dent: so you had better humor me for the next fortnight."

Dent's unwholesome face became much mottled and disturbed in hue during Bet's speech. When she spoke of Will being free, his lips took an ugly sneer, and he found extreme difficulty in restraining himself. He was well aware, however, that if he disclosed the fact of his own treachery his last hope of winning this proud lass was over. After all, nothing held her to him but her promise; and if she came to regard promises in the same light in which he did, all his pains and troubles would be thrown away. If he wished to win her, it behoved him, therefore, to be cautious, and, as she put it very plainly, to humor her. After the wedding day all the self-restraint which he must at present exhibit might be withdrawn. His feelings for Bet contained a curious mixture of anger and fierce admiration. It never occurred to him for a moment even to try to make her a good husband; but get her he would—oh, yes—possess her he must.

When she harangued him thus, with her eyes flashing, and a world of scorn curving her beautiful lips, he replied gently, drawing close to her, but not offering to touch her.

"I'll do anything in my power to please you, Bet," he said. "I ain't a bad sort—my bark's worse nor my bite. I'm not a polished diamond. But ef I don't make you a good husband, and ef you and me won't have the jolliest little house in Liverpool together, my name ain't Dent—no—my name ain't Dent. You trust me, Bet—I'll not anger you either now nor in the future. What is it you wants me to do?"

"To leave me alone," said Bet, "until you can fetch the license and bring me to church with you. Ef I was to see too much of you atween now and our wedding, no promise that ever was would bind me. You keep away, Isaac, and leave me my fortnight in peace, and I'll do what I said I'd do—yes, I'll do it—I'll pay the price. You go back to Liverpool, Isaac, and leave me yere—I has to find father and the lads. And ef Jenny's a good sort, I'll stay with her. Ef she ain't, I'll find my own lodging. But in no case will I walk with you, or talk with you, until the day as we is wed. Ef I stays here for a fortnight we can be wed here, but you must go back to Liverpool. Them's my terms, and if you don't humor me for the present,—why, you know what to look for."

"Oh, I'm agreed," answered Dent, "I'll humor you now, and I'll humor you in the future. I suppose we can be married before the register. You don't want no church words over yer,—do you, Bet?"

"No, not when I stand by your side," said Bet, shuddering.

"Well, I'll do yer pleasure. I'll go now, and make inquiries, and enter our names to be wed as soon as may be. Liverpool 'ull suit me a deal better than this dull hole of a Warrington. Goodbye, my fine lady Bet—when next we meets, it 'ull be never to part."

He kissed the tips of his fingers to her, and could not resist a laugh which sounded between mockery and triumph.

As Dent turned away, Bet's attention was arrested by the girl called Jenny, who had been standing by during this colloquy, and plucked her by the sleeve.

"Yer a rare 'un!" she said, in a tone of sincere admiration. "Don't you mate with him. He ain't fit for the likes of you. Break your word with him,—what's a lie or two?"

"I hate lies," said Bet in a voice of scorn. "Let me be, Jenny—you're right in what you say of Isaac Dent; but he have my promise, and I ain't one as lies, ef it's only myself I have to think on."

"Yer a rare 'un," repeated Jenny. She was small and squat, with a broad, freckled face, and light blue, saucer eyes. She looked up at the handsome girl by her side with the most sincere admiration.

"Lor! you have the courage," she said. "I'll be proud to go a-hawking with you."

Jenny's most commonplace appearance—her homely words—had a soothing effect on Bet.

"I'll go with you presently. Jenny," she answered. "But now may I go to your room, and may I stay alone there—for—for—say an hour?"

Jenny's beaming face fell. In her rough, untutored heart she had already conceived an affection for Bet. She would have dearly liked to sit in her very dirty attic bedroom, and gossip with her. That would have been nearly as good as walking through the streets of Warrington in company with so distinguished a companion. To walk through the streets, the envied of all, with Bet by her side would have been a crowning triumph for the poor little hawker, Jenny; but to give her up her room,—not to see her at all for a whole hour,—was a far less agreeable matter.

"Oh, I'll do it," she said. "You're welcome to the room. It ain't for me to make no objections."

She spoke summarily, and with some bitterness of spirit, but Bet was far too much absorbed in her own meditations to notice her.

When Jenny finally closed the door of her apartment, and unwillingly sauntered downstairs, Bet drew Will's letter from its hiding-place. She tore it open, and her feverish bright eyes devoured the few lines it contained. These were thewords with which Will bade his sweetheart good-bye:

"Dear Bet,—Isaac Dent will take you my farewell. I am free, and I means to find a berth in the first ship as leaves the docks as 'ull take me on board. Dear Bet—I was innercent as the babe unborn—but it was Dent as cleared me. He spoke as a man, dear Bet, and I was proud to think as we was pals once on board The Albion ship when it sailed over the dancing waves. He's not a feller to let a comrade suffer, is Dent. I got your letter. You was right, Bet—I couldn't a-bear prison,—it was killing me by inches. I'm wasted now almost to a shadder. Dent tells me as you'll soon be wed, and that never may I call you wife o' mine. Bless you and him! I hasn't another word to say.—Will Scarlett."

Bet read this letter with some difficulty. She was, as she said, "a poor scholard," and she had to spread out the sheet of thin paper on Jenny's little bed, and laboriously spell through the words before she could arrive at any true glimpse of their meaning. It dawned upon her, after nearly an hour's severe study,—it dawned upon her just as Jenny's impatient tap came to the door, and her still more impatient voice exclaimed—

"Time's hup—I'm going hawking."

Bet felt herself turning cold and hot, as the meaning of Will's words seemed to scathe and burn her brain. Then, quick as a flash of lightning, another thought came to her, and she smiled, and tore the obnoxious and cruel letter into a thousand little bits.

"That wasn't from my Will," she said. "Dent wrote it—not Will. My lad,—why he jest couldn't put words on paper sech as them! This is Dent's villainy;—yes, Jenny, I'm a-coming," she called out in quite a cheerful tone.

A weight was lifted from her mind when the conviction became assured that this letter was none of Will's. She went downstairs, and Jenny and she, on the best of terms, commenced their life of hawking together.

Will was free,—no doubt on that point arose to shake her confidence, —but Will's whole nature had not changed. He who possessed the tenderest and the truest heart for her in all the world had not lost it during one week in jail. Bet almost sang as she accompanied Jenny through the Warrington streets. Will was free—freed by her act,—freed by her sacrifice; but a fortnight still stood between her and her doom. For a fortnight, therefore, she could be almost happy, and could at least devote her time to searching for her brothers, and trying to rescue them from the tender mercies of their most cruel father.



CHAPTER XXVI.

Two or three days after Will's second examination before the magistrates-an examination which had ended, owing to Dent's testimony against him, in his being remanded for trial at the coming assizes-Hester Wright was standing in her little room, putting on her shawl and bonnet to go out to her usual day's work. Hester was not at all a model worker; nor had she any of the qualities which ensure commercial success. She was clever all round; and whether it was singing her soul away, or toiling by the hour at shop needlework, or hawking fruit and vegetables about the Liverpool streets, she did a little better than anybody else; but as she would never sell her gift of song, and as her nature was in several respects, notwithstanding its real depth and earnestness, volatile, she could never keep very long to the same mode of earning her bread. A month or two of needlework would be followed by a month or two of hawking: she did not earn more than enough to keep soul and body together by either of these trades; but money and creature comforts were alike matters of indifference to her, and as a rule she preferred the roving life of a hawker, as it brought her more into contact with her fellow creatures. Hawking was in the ascendant now, and she was hurrying out to replenish her basket at St. John's Market when a boy unceremoniously opened her door, and, thrusting a crumpled and dirty piece of paper into her hand, stood staring at her while she opened it.

The letter was a scrawl from Will Scarlett.

"Dear Hetty," it ran, "I may see a friend to-day. Come to me at noon, for I am in a sore taking.—Your cousin Will."

"All right, ain't it?" questioned the boy.

"Yes," replied Hester. "It's from Will. How did you come by it, Davy?"

"John Wheeler gave it to me—he's one of the jailers. He said Will was in a sore way about his lass."

A frown gathered on Hester's brow. "I'll go to him," she said. "Thank you, Davy—the letter's all right."

The boy nodded and vanished, and Hester, taking up her basket, went slowly downstairs.

At twelve o'clock that day she stood by Will's side in his dreary little cell. She was allowed to see him for a few minutes without the presence of a third person. Will had lost somewhat of his bronze; his face was thin and pale; and Hester, going up to him, and clasping his hands, was about to burst forth into a distressful wail at his changed appearance, when he stopped her.

"We ha' no time, Hetty. I know just what your heart's full of, but it's all about Bet we must talk. The time's all too short, and I'm bound hand-and-foot here, and can do nought. See, Hetty-I had a letter from my lass."

"I know, Will; but it ain't worth your while to fret for her. I know she has gived you up for that Dent fellow; and ef she, what thought to call you mate, can wed with one like him-why, let her, I say. I'm sorry as you're pained, Will; but don't let's waste the minutes talking about one like Bet Granger."

"Hush," said Will. "You say false words, Hetty-I'm 'shamed of you."

Will's blue eyes flashed.

He pulled Bet's letter out of the bosom of his prison shirt, and kissed it passionately.

"She gived me up-poor Bet did," he said. "And that's all you thinked on her! She thought to save me, and she took what would be as death to one like her. I'm 'shamed of you, Hetty. I thought-I did think-that when a gel did an out-and-out grand thing you'd be the first to see it."

Hester colored. Her eyes filled with tears.

"It seemed to me," she said, "as no one what loved you could take up with one like Dent. I may be wrong—I was angered at Bet and I spoke angry. Never mind. It's you as she has wronged—ef you can forgive her, I'll bear no malice."

"I ha' nothing to forgive," said Will. "Forgive? It's all t'other way. She said in her letter,—no, I don't want you to read it, as you doubted her, but this is some o' what she said: 'I give you your freedom, Will. I ain't much, only a lass like any other lass; but freedom—that's all in all to one like you. I remember me how you spoke of the salt breeze blowing on your cheek, and you said the fresh air off the Mersey was nought at all to the fresh air off the ocean, when you was miles and miles away to sea. I give it back to you, dear Will. I'll be Dent's wife, for he won't set you free no other way; but there's many another lass, and I pray that you may wed a good wife, and forget poor Bet.' But I'll never forget her," said Will, who had been reading these extracts in a choking voice, "and I say she's the noblest lass in England, what thinks more of her lad than of herself, and I'm proud of her for writing me like this, for she has let me see down into her heart—and it's a good heart, and strong and pure; and though she don't say no words about it she's the best gel in the land, and ef I gave her up arter reading this letter I'd be the meanest cur that ever sailed, and it's Davy Jones' locker as 'ud be the right place for me, and no other. I'm as innercent as a baby, Hester, and that you know, and so does my gel; and you has got now to turn round, and think on her my way, and help me to save her."

Hester went up close to Will and took one of his hard muscular hands in hers.

"I'll go your way, whether I think it or not," she said. "Let thoughts alone, this is a time for deeds. What do you want me to do, Will?"

"To find Bet," said Will. "She mustn't wed that feller. Thank the good God—she can't for a few days; but time passes, and Dent may have her safe in his clutches afore I know. You has got to find her, Hetty, and you has got to say that William Scarlett will never give her up—that I love her tenfold more than ever for what she thought to do for me; but ef she has promised herself ten times over to that scoundrel Dent, she must tear up them promises, and think nought of them,—for she was mine first, and I refuse to part her. Tell her from me, Hetty, that ef they're the last words I'm ever to speak, much as I love her now, I could curse her—ay, and I would curse her—ef she was to become wife to Dent."

"But she can't, Will," said Hester; "the condition was ef you was set free. Dent did not set you free. He locked you up firmer nor ever in jail, so it ain't likely as Bet, seeing as she loved you, 'ud give herself to him when he only deceived her, and done you an injury?"

"But, a while back," said Will, with a sad smile, "you misdoubted Bet's love for me. I never misdoubted it, nor ever will; but I do misdoubt Dent. He's a coward and a sneak, and deep is no word for him. Ef he wants Bet—and I know he wants her, for he let out as much to me—he'll move heaven and earth to win her, and he'd think nought of deceiving her, and telling her dozens of lies. What does a girl like Bet Granger know of the ways of the world? She has been up and down in the slums, you say, all her life; but there's some as evil can't touch, and she's one of them. Dent, he's full of wickedness, and he knows wicked ways here and wicked ways in other places—so how could a gel like Bet be a match for him? She's brave as a lion. But I can't sleep o' nights thinking how he'll deceive her. He'll let her think as I'm free, and she'll believe him, and he'll cast up her promise to her—and she's terrible over promises, is Bet. You must find her, Hetty, and you mustn't lose an hour, for it's near a week now since the day I was examined last. You must find her and take her my message. Say it any way you like, only let her feel that I'll never, never give her up."

"I'll find her," said Hester. "I'll find her, and speak your words to her. Don't you fret, Will. I ain't your cousin Hetty, and the most popular singer in the Liverpool slums, for nought. I own I was a bit rough on Bet, and she's a proud lass, and wouldn't come nigh me ef she thought I was angered, or took her the wrong way. Maybe I judged her wrong—maybe I didn't—we won't go into that. When I meets her now I'll promise to be gentle, and I'll keep her for you, cousin, ef such a thing's possible, and I'll save her from that scoundrel, ef such a thing's possible. You trust her to me. But now, one word about yourself, Will. You has been done a bitter wrong, and you don't look spry—no, you don't look spry."

"It was Dent," said Will. "I see it all now. It was a scheme of his to win my gel from me. I don't suppose as I'll be acquitted, Hetty, and they say as I'll have two year. Well, I ain't the first innercent man as has been done by a rogue; no, nor the last neither. You tell Bet to keep up heart, for, even if it is two year, I'll come to her at the end, and we'll be none the worse, seeing that we know each other and love each other as we do. Good-bye, Hetty—I hear the warder coming. That bit of a verse you sang keeps running in my head, and it soothes me wonderful when I get most mad, like. You remember it—'Oh, rest in the Lord, wait patiently for Him!'"

"And He will give thee thy heart's desire," said Hester. Her eyes lit up, and she half sang, half chanted the words.

"Seems as if He might." she said. "Not as I holds with no goodness; but them words, they fasten on to me, and I can't rid myself neither of them or of their meaning. Good-bye, Will. I'll do my best, not only for Bet, but to set you free again."



CHAPTER XXVII.

When Hester left the jail she went straight to Sparrow Street. She knew that Bet had gone back there, and felt pretty certain either that she would see the girl herself or be able to leave a message for her with one of the other lodgers. She climbed the three pair of stairs, and knocked at the door of Bet's room. A voice, not Bet's, invited her in, and she found herself in a cloud of tobacco-smoke, and in the presence of both Granger and Dent, who were lounging one on each side of the fire, smoking very coarse tobacco, and imbibing beer from a great jug which stood on a little deal table between them.

Both men started, and removed their pipes from their mouth, when Hester entered.

"Well, Hetty, what's your pleasure?" asked Granger, in a would-be facetious tone. "Going, Dent?" For the younger man had risen to his feet and was preparing to leave the room.

"Yes, I may as well see to that matter by the docks," mumbled Dent, as he made for the door. Hester stepped between it and him.

"A word with you first, Isaac," she said, in that rich, peculiar voice of hers. "I want to speak with Bet—where is she?"

Hester laid her hand on the man's shoulder.

"Where's the girl, Elizabeth Granger, Isaac Bent?" she said. "Tell me that much, and then you can go."

Dent laughed disagreeably.

"Hands off, Hetty," he said. "Bless yer! What do I know of Elizabeth Granger? Ask her father—he's there—the girl ain't nought to me. Stand away from the door, Hetty Wright—I'm in no end of a hurry."

"So am I, and so is Will," said Hetty, without budging an inch." We want Bet—we want the gel what you, Isaac Dent, has stolen away. She was Will's—she was his promised wife, and the good words 'most read over them, and they was very nearly wed. You stepped atween them, and stole her from Will. You're a thief out and out,—you take away a man's character from him, and you part him from his lass as well as stealing bank-notes and sealskin purses from ladies. Oh—I know you! And I'd rather be Will, lying in prison this minute, than I'd be you. Yes, you can go now, for I ha' said my say, and I'd never get the truth out of you ef I was to wait here forever But I'll find Bet, and she shan't be your wife if I can help it. I ain't a singer for nothing; I ain't the most popular singer in the slums for nought. So you needn't defy me; for if I like I can make matters hot for you."

Hester had not only now moved away from the door, but she had flung it open, and Dent, muttering much, with his face white, and a very hangdog expression on it, slunk down the stairs. He said to himself: "There ain't no use in life bandying words with her; and it's true what she says—there ain't a man or woman in Liverpool what wouldn't do her bidding."

When Dent was gone Hester went up to Granger, and, altering her tactics, began to ask him what he knew about Bet. The man was looking up at her in dull surprise, and with an expression of heavy, open-mouthed admiration.

"You did tackle him, Het," he said. "My word!—you has a way with you, lass."

"Let me use it on you, then, Mr. Granger," said Hetty. "I want Bet— where be she?"

"What will you give me ef I tell you?"

"I haven't much to give. I can sing to yer—tell me, and I'll give you the bonniest song—one that no bird in springtime could beat."

"Ay, ay, lass," said Granger. "You know your power, and how you can wheedle anything out of a fellow; but the fact is I don't know where Bet is hiding; and if I did the secret is Dent's, not mine. But I don't—so there. What's the matter, Hester?—what are you staring at?—oh, that child—you let him alone, he's asleep, that child is. I popped him into bed, and he's asleep. You let him be, Hester Wright."

"I will, when I've looked at him," said Hester.

She moved over to the bed, on which a forlorn little figure lay prone. A white cheek pressed the pillow, and two big blue eyes looked up imploringly at Hester.

"Why, it's the cap'n!" said the singer, bending over the boy, and pushing the bright reddish hair off his forehead. "What are you doing, laddie?—and where's your brother?"

The captain's eyes said unutterable things, but his lips did not move —Granger as well as Hester was watching his face.

"He's resting—can't yer see it?" said the man. "You let him go back to his sleep. His brother?—oh, he's out larking in the street."

A curious look came over Hester's face. Her manner completely altered. Stooping again, she pressed a very light kiss on the boy's white cold brow.

"Go to sleep, lad," she said.

Then she turned to Granger.

"I won't trouble you to tell me about Bet," she said, in her most conciliatory tones. "Ef it's Dent's secret, I know as you ain't to blame. There's many a hard thing said about a person what hasn't a word of truth in it. I believe you're a right good man, Mr. Granger. Well, I must go off, for I'd like to get news of Bet, but ef you like I'll come back to-night and sing to you."

"Will you?" said Granger, eagerly. "There's nothing like a song, and somehow, your voice goes through a feller. I'll collect a few neighbors, and we'll have a bit of supper and a fine time. What hour'll you come, Hetty?"

"When the clock's gone seven," said Hester.

"I mightn't be in then,—I sometimes gets an odd job, and I may to- night, down by the docks; but I'll leave the room-door on the latch, and you can come in when you please. The boy? Oh, he's well enough. You won't mind hearing Hetty sing, will you, cap'n?"

Again the blue eyes looked up piteously, but the little white lips were silent. Hester nodded, and smiled brightly at Granger.

"I'll look in as soon as I can," she repeated. "You leave the door on the latch."

Then she tripped downstairs; she had not even glanced again in the direction of the little captain.

"Now to see Mother Bunch," said Hester to herself. "There's no doubt as my hands 'ull be full for the next few days; but I think I see a way of getting the better of Dent, and of Granger too,—see ef I don't—oh! that poor child—that poor, poor child!"

At the corner of the street, leaning half tipsily against the wall, stood the old hag to whom Hester had once given twopence. Her eyes brightened when she saw who was walking down the street.

"God bless yer, Hetty Wright!" she mumbled.

Hester was accustomed to many such exclamations; they always had a power over her, and brought a light into her eyes. She stopped now in front of the old woman.

"Thank you, Mrs. Flannigan. These are hard times with you, I fear."

"So they be, dearie—so they be. I haven't taken sixpence this blessed day, and 'tis bitter cold standing about, and with not much chance of a shelter before yon for the night."

"I have thought of something," said Hester. "I'll be very busy for the next few days, and I'd like to have my hands free. Will you carry round my basket for me, mother? I'll go to the market and get it filled for you every morning, and you'll give me the change at night. You shall have a third of what you earns. One-third goes for stock—one to me, one to you. It's better nor nought; and ef you say an' it's Hester Wright's basket, folks 'ull buy, for they know as my cresses and oranges ain't to be beat in Liverpool."

The old woman's eyes absolutely danced as Hester made her this offer.

"And I won't cheat you of a farthing, darling," she exclaimed. "Oh, but it's you as is the blessing of God to me!"

"Come home with me, then," said Hester. "The basket is in my room, and the things unsold,—come at once, for I'm in a rare bit of a hurry."

Having disposed of old Mrs. Flannigan, and in this manner secured for herself as well as for the dame a means of livelihood for the next few days, Hester started off for Paradise Row. It was a fact that there was not a more dishonest nor evil-minded old woman in Liverpool than this same Mrs. Flannigan; but Hester was firmly convinced that she would be true to her word, and not rob her of a farthing, and this proved to be the case.

As usual Mother Bunch was bending over her wash-tub. Her broad back was turned to Hester as she entered the little room. Even in Paradise Row the singer was not quite unknown, and Mother Bunch gave her a welcoming word. Hester soon poured out her story, which was received with many exclamations, and such growing and deepening interest that the wash-tub was forgotten and the Irishwoman stood with her arms a-kimbo, fairly panting with indignation and excitement.

"Oh, the villains!—oh, the black-hearted creatures!" she exclaimed once or twice. "Right you are, Hetty,—you have got Mother Bunch on your side, and I have got an ahrum—see, honey,—I'll do whatever you bids me, darlint,—but I'll save Bet and the poor children."

"Listen, then, Mother Bunch," said Hester. "You tell me that Bet has left Liverpool. Can you not try and remember where she said she was going?"

"She didn't tell me, dear. She didn't let out nought. Only it worn't far away. Too far to walk, honey, and the train was to take the poor child. Some miles off—maybe fifteen—maybe a score; but railly I can't remember. I ain't good at mintal 'rithmetic, darlint."

"Never mind about that now," said Hester; "we have to think of the cap'n first, and of how to outwit Dent. Now, listen. I have got an idea in the back of my head."

Here Hester began to talk in a very low voice, and Mother Bunch listened, nodding vehement approval, chuckling audibly once or twice, grinning broadly at other times, and throwing out several practical and shrewd suggestions of her own. Before Hester left Paradise Row the two had come to a complete understanding.

"I'll have his poor sisther's room as snug as snug for him," said Mother Bunch, in conclusion. "Oh, he'll be safe there. You trust me that-he'll be safe there!"

"And I'll sit up with him to-night," said Hester. "Well—all right, Mrs. O'Flaherty, I'll meet you at a quarter to seven at the corner of Sparrow Street."

There are times when it is dreadful to be quite alone—when the head reels, and the floor seems to sink down beneath one, and the solid earth seems no longer firm and supporting. And when one is very young, and, although the battle of life has gone hard, the years that have passed over our heads are only a few, and we feel that we ought to be petted and loved, and made much of, and held tenderly in our mother's arms, with that tired, weary, drooping little head resting on her breast,—then the loneliness is very hard to bear, and the brave child-heart cries in terror, and wonders if God no longer suffers little children to come to Him.

The captain was very weak and ill. He had gone through a cruel time,— he did not want to think of it,—he was lying all alone in bed, quite alone, with a few flickering shadows from the dying fire reflecting a light on the walls, and making grim shadows, too, which frightened him so much that he liked best to lie with his eyes shut.

His father would come back presently,—it was far worse to have his father there than to lie alone in the dark—only, why did his head feel so queer, and why were his hands so feeble? He did not think he could punch anyone now; and as to being victor in a fight, why—even Dan Davis, the weakest boy of his acquaintance, and one for whom he had the greatest contempt, would have been a match for him.

Still, it was very dull being alone, and the room seemed to grow darker, and his head lighter. He was thirsty, but there was nothing to drink. Where was Bet? Where was the general? He opened his little lips to call these friendly and protecting names, but no audible sound would come from them.

Oh, what was the matter? He was really frightened now—even his father's presence would have been better than nothing. Who and what was that? There was a noise on the stairs—the room door opened, and the large face and solid tub-like form of Mother Bunch seemed suddenly to fill the whole apartment. The poor little captain found sudden vent for one weak cry of rapture, then he fainted away.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

The captain was very ill, but he was no longer uncared for. In the attic which Bet had rendered clean and sweet, he lay and tossed on his hard and feverish bed. His weakness and prostration were difficult to account for; he could give no coherent account of himself, only, as the fever left him false strength, he murmured his brother's name continually, telling him to hide, to run fast, and promising to overtake him as soon as possible. Once or twice he screamed piteously, as though he were again feeling the hard strokes of a cruel hand. The doctor came to see him, and ordered lots of nourishment, and spoke gravely of the boy's state.

"Why is not his sister with him?" the medical man said; for he knew Bet, and had often remarked her kindness and tenderness to her young brothers.

In the absence of Bet, however, the captain was not neglected, Mother Bunch taking care of him by day, and at all times when Hester Wright was obliged to be absent. There were no traces anywhere of the poor little general. It is true he might still be at Sparrow Street, but Hester thought it wiser for many reasons not to venture there just now.

If Granger was in a taking about the kidnapping of his little son, he certainly showed no symptoms of invading Mother Bunch's premises on his behalf; and it was thought best for the captain's sake to do nothing to rouse his father's ire at present.

"We'll have him by-and-bye—he shall feel this ahrum yet," said Mother Bunch. "But now you and me has got to pull this child through, Hetty Wright. It do seem to me that he's 'most took for death, but we'll pull him through by the help of God Almighty."

This was no easy matter; for the little life seemed to be ebbing further and further away from this world's shores, and often it seemed to Hester that the unconscious child scarcely breathed.

"I wouldn't like Bet to come back, and not see the little chap," she replied once to Mother Bunch, who was gazing at him with a very dubious look on her face. "Ef there ever was a good sister, Bet's the one; and I wouldn't like her to come here and see no captain—and, for that matter, no general neither."

"We'll pull him through," said Mother Bunch. "Even if he is took for death—we'll pull him through."