She always said this, although her tones of late had grown less confident.

On this occasion she took Hester's place by the sick child; and Hetty being at liberty wrapped her cloak about her, and went out.

The small captain was lying at death's door; but there were other things to be considered, and Hester Wright's brain was full of a daring project just then.

Mrs. Flannigan was doing very well with Hetty's basket; so she was at liberty to use her own time as she thought fit, and as the old woman would scorn to rob the singer, her pockets were not quite empty. It was the middle of the day—dull and cloudy, a slight drizzling mist falling now and then.

Hester stepped into one of the tramcars, and after a ride of about half-an-hour found herself in a pretty suburb of the great city. She was going to see Sister Mary Vallence, and sincerely hoped that she might find her at home. Her errand was important, and the whole success of the scheme which she was forming in her mind would depend on this young lady's co-operation.

Sister Mary was fairly popular amongst the people for whom she worked. She was a brave, fearless, high-minded girl, never leaving a stone unturned to help others, and influencing many people by the power of a great love. She was at home, and Hetty Wright was at once admitted into her presence. Hetty had never before come in contact with Miss Vallence. Popular as she was in the slums, her rather remarkable face and her great gift of song were both unknown to the young lady. The fact, however, of Hester wearing a poor gown, and one look into her rather worn and pathetic face, ensured her a kindly and interested greeting. Sister Mary asked Hester to seat herself, and then sat quietly down, with that look of leisure on her face which always gives assurance to the teller of a story. Sister Mary did a great deal in her life, but she was never in a hurry; and this fact weighed now with Hester giving her confidence, and causing her heart to beat quietly.

"I ha' come to trouble you with a sad tale, madam," she began.

"I am sorry—will you call me sister, please," responded the young lady.

"Bet Granger has told me of yer," continued Hester. "You were good to her poor mother."

"Certainly, I had a great regard for Mrs. Granger,—she was good. I know she was difficult to understand, but she was a woman with a great faith. I have often been sorry for her daughter; how is she now?"

"Lost, ma'am—lost, as far as we know—we can't get word nor trace of her. She's not in Liverpool, and I don't know where she be. I fear me she's in the clutches of a bad man, and I ha' come to you to-day, Sister Mary, to ask you to help me to save her. Listen. I can tell in a few words her story, since the night as her mother died."

Hester's great gift was song, but even her speaking voice was refined, pathetic, and with some uncommon notes in it, which always exercised a certain influence over those who listened to her. She told of Bet and Will, of their love and their despair; and the sad tale certainly lost nothing by her manner of telling it. Sister Mary no longer sat still; she rose to her feet, clasping and unclasping her white hands, her lips opening, as if she must arrest the speaker's words—as if she must pour forth some of the pent-up feeling which the story had aroused.

"Then you believe," she said at last, "you firmly believe, that the man, the sailor with the blue eyes, whose face haunts me still, is innocent?—that he never stole my purse—that he is lying in prison now under a false charge? Oh, how glad I am! It seemed to shake my very faith to have to believe that a man with a face like that was really guilty."

"He is innocent, sister. Will Scarlett told a true story. Dent gave him the notes because he wanted to get rid of them, and because he wanted to win Bet for himself. Isaac Dent is the thief, sister; my cousin Will is innocent."

"But if you knew this, Hester Wright—if you were certain on this point," answered Miss Vallence, "why did you not come to the police-court the other day, and clear the sailor? Oh, I think it was cruel of you to stay away."

"What's my word, lady? I know it, but I can't prove it. The facts are all agin' Will—he's in the House of Detention now, and he says he's safe to get two year."

"Two years' imprisonment, when another man did the deed!"

"Yes, sister—he says he's quite sure."

"But this is dreadful! I will speak to my father—you must tell your story to my father."

"That'ull do no good, lady. Facts go agin' Will, and there's only one way of clearing him."

"Oh, is there a way? How glad I am! You are a brave girl, Hester. Tell me at once about the way."

"I can't tell you much, Miss Vallence, but I ha' come here to-day—I ha' come to say—yes, to say that we can't never clear Will, and that a plan I have got in my head can't be carried through without you,"

"Without me? Yes; I will certainly help—tell me what I can do."

"I can't lady—not yet-the time ain't ripe yet; but ef you'll trust a lass like me, and give a promise, then I can carry out my plan. And ef it succeeds Will will be cleared, and Bet won't be tied for life to a villain; and a bad man—perhaps two bad men—'ull meet what they deserve. Oh," continued Hester, "I never said as I believed in God—I never went in for being a good 'un in any sense; but I think I do believe in Him now—I think I do. Trust, and He will bring it to pass. Lady," here Hester resumed her usual manner, "I ha' come to ask you to give me a promise in the dark."

"That is a difficult thing to give," replied Miss Vallence, slowly. "I am most desirous of helping you—I may say further, that I certainly will help you to the best of my ability; but a promise in the dark seems scarcely right—why do you ask it of me?"

"Because you can help me in no other way, Miss Vallence. It's just a question of trusting a lass you ha' never seen afore. No harm shall happen to you—not a hair of your head shall be touched, but you must go blindly with me,—in the dark—that's it; there's no other way."

"You're a strange creature" said Miss Vallence. "You move me, you excite me. In spite of myself, I cannot help believing in you. I may be wrong, but for once I will be guided by the queer influence you have over me—by the something within which compels me to trust you. Hester Wright, I will promise to do what you want."

Hester's earnest dark eyes filled with tears.

"You ha' taken a load off me," she said. "There is a good God—for He made you. The lad has a chance now, and Bet has a chance; and perhaps the little 'un may get well arter all. Oh! every thing may come right arter all, and it 'ull be owing to you, just because you weren't afeard, and trusted a lass you had never seen. Miss Vallence, it won't be to-night, nor to-morrow night—but the night arter—some time the night arter—I'll come here, and then I'll ask you to go with me. You needn't be afeard; no one in all Liverpool will be safer nor you; but you'll be coming with me in the dark. A brave lady! Eh! I used to think as ladies had no real sperrit, but I'll never think so no more!"

"I'll be ready for you, Hester," said Sister Mary, in her gravest voice. "The night after next—at what hour will you call for me, Hester?"

"Sister, I may not come at all, and I can't name the hour—it may be any time atween eight o'clock and midnight. I may fail—only I don't think so."

"You will not fail," said Miss Vallence. "I will be ready."

They clasped each other's hands and parted.



CHAPTER XXIX.

If ever a girl ought to feel happy it should be on the eve of her wedding-day. To a great many, however, this turning-point in life, this step into a new and unknown world, is fraught with terror and distress. Wedding bells do not always mean happiness.

Bet Granger was sitting alone in Jenny's attic. She was to be married before the registrar to-morrow to Isaac Dent. He had made all arrangements, and had come over from Liverpool that day to see his promised bride. He had spent half an hour with Bet—had told her when and where to meet him the next morning, and then had gone back to his old haunts, a victorious and satisfied man.

When he left her, Bet had gone up to the attic, and had sat there ever since without moving or speaking. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, and her dull and heavy eyes were fixed on the fire. Jenny, finding her poor company, had gone out, and Bet was quite alone. She was to be a bride to-morrow,—Isaac Dent's bride. Her heart beat slowly and calmly; there was nothing more now to hope for; she would keep her promise, and she would try to endure the life which stretched before her. After all, the mate of a sailor had some advantages,—she could often be parted from her lord; he could go away on long voyages,—he could be, he would be, he must be, months away from home; and during that time the very winds that blew, the very breezes that fanned her cheeks, would help to divide them—would help to show her how many miles stretched between her and him.

Yes; the thought of the coming separation, of the certain and inevitable separation, cheered Bet, and made her feel that her lot was endurable.

She was to be a bride to-morrow! How strange! She felt accustomed now to the idea of being almost a bride. It was only a few weeks back that she sat in another attic waiting for the dawn of another wedding-day, and the embrace of another bridegroom. She had not been happy then,—she had been full of fear and apprehension; but the heart now so queer, and dull and heavy, had beat fast, and the eyes had been bright with intense excitement, and in her restless dread and earnest longing she had paced the floor of Mother Bunch's attic until the very dawn. Then she had been unhappy, but she had been alive. Now, what had come over her? Had the spirit of the real Bet Granger gone away with Will over the dancing sea? Had it refused to be parted from her true lover, and was Isaac Dent only marrying a dead woman?

During the fortnight that Bet had spent at Warrington she had searched high and low for her father and the boys. Of course, she had searched in vain. It was quite possible for a clever man like Dent to furnish her with endless clues which all led to nothing. His object was to give her a reason for remaining in Warrington—his object was to keep her at any hazard out of Liverpool. He knew that in Liverpool the knowledge of his treachery towards Will could not long be concealed from her. She would meet Hester Wright—she would meet one friend or another who would certainly tell her that the lad for whom she had sold herself was still in prison.

After they were married—oh! then it mattered nothing at all. Then his triumph would be all the greater when the bad man showed her that, although she was his absolutely, she had done nothing for Will by her deed of self-sacrifice.

Jenny had been a good friend to Bet during the last fortnight. She knew Dent, but did not admire him; and it was an unceasing puzzle to her how any promise could bind Bet to such a man.

"You'll be his forever," she said. "Well, I wouldn't have him—not for no price. I wouldn't be his wife, not if you was to pay me for it. And the other lad, he'll come back from sea, and he won't like to see you Isaac's wife. It's a wrong promise you ha' made, Bet Granger; and you needn't go for to tell me nothing else. If I was you, I wouldn't keep it. Don't 'ee, now, Bet—don't 'ee. Think of the other poor sailor feller—how he'll look at yer when he comes back from sea!"

At first, when Jenny spoke like this, Bet had shut her up with a few sharp words, but of late she had taken no notice; her face every day had grown duller, and her words further apart. Her whole attitude was so dull and lifeless that Jenny gave up teasing her; and finding that, from being an entertaining companion, she was now one of the dullest, left her a good deal to herself.

Bet sat on in the attic, and presently the fire went out, and only the moonlight lit up her little dreary room. Bet closed her eyes, and fell into a heavy doze; she slept for about ten minutes, and, whether that sleep had refreshed her, and lifted a cloud from her brain, no one can say, but she awoke in quite a different mood: the apathy and indifference of the last few days had left her; she was once more keenly alive, keenly suffering and rebellious.

The events of the two last months—all the story which had come to her since her mother's death-kept flitting like a series of pictures before her vivid imagination. She saw Will's face with a tender light in the eyes; she felt his breath on her cheek, and her hand seemed again to be clasped in his. Once more she heard Hester and Will singing together—

"I had a message to send her- To be whom my soul loved best, But I had my task to finish, And she had gone home to rest."

Bet saw once more the little room in Sparrow Street, and the smile, the look so full of satisfaction, on her dead mother's face.

"Oh, mother, mother!" she sobbed.

She fell on her knees, and the tears streamed through the fingers which covered her face. "Oh mother! life ha' gone hard—bitter, bitter hard—for poor Bet. I ha' broke my word to you—and the lads, I dunno where they are. Oh, I'm good for nought—I'm good for nought—I wish I were lying dead beside my mother!"

She sobbed and sobbed; and her tears, while they seemed to rend her heart, brough a certain sense of lightness and relief.

"Mother, you was a good woman-you believed in religion and all that. I didn't. I were allers a hard 'un—allers, and allers; but I'd give the world,—mother, mother, hear me, hear me, ef you can, up in heaven with God!—I'd give all the wide world to be good, GOOD, to-night!"

Again Bet seemed to hear Will and Hester singing to her—

"And I know that at last my message Has passed through the golden gate, And my heart is no longer restless, And I am content to wait."

She rose to her feet. Her tears were over, her great grief was lightened, but now a curious and inexplicable desire took possession of her. She would not fail Isaac Dent. If she had broken every other promise she would at least keep this one. She would marry him tomorrow, and perhaps her mother's God would help her to be a good wife to him. But she would—she must—go to Liverpool tonight. She had money enough in her pocket to take her there; she looked at the coins, going close to the window to see them the better in the moonlight, and saw that she had sufficient to purchase a single third-class fare. How was she to get back to Warrington in the morning? How was she to meet Dent at the registrar's office? She did not know; she felt also that she did not care. Already her marriage with Dent seemed to be removed into a dim and intangible future. She would marry him,—oh, yes—but when and how she did not know, she did not care. She could scarcely bring her thoughts to bear on the great and terrible subject which an hour ago had filled her whole horizon. Liverpool, the great city, was drawing her, as though it was the voice of Will himself. She rose, brushed out her hair, plaited it, and wound it in a great coronet round her beautiful head, washed her face and hands, wrapped her mother's shawl tidily round her, and ran downstairs.

At the door she met Jenny.

"Good-bye, dear," she said in a gentle tone. And she stooped and kissed the little round-faced girl.

"Why, Bet, are you mad?" said Jenny. "Where are you going? How spry you look! And your eyes are so bright! Oh, Bet, Bet! have you come to your senses? Are you going to break your promise to Dent?"

"It is not that," said Bet. "I'll be here tomorrow morn. I won't fail Isaac. I'll see you again to-morrow morning, Jenny, but I must go to Liverpool to-night. My heart draws me—I must go. Good-bye, Jenny—good-bye, dear."

Jenny looked after the tall, stately figure.

"Well, this is a rum go," she muttered. "And ef she don't hurry she'll be late. The last train goes at eight o'clock—she'll lose it ef she don't run."

But Bet did not lose the train.



CHAPTER XXX.

Isaac Dent did indeed feel himself a triumphant man. If such a nature as his could possibly know anything of love, he had something which he called by that name for the handsome girl whom he had deceived, and whose happiness he had wrecked. His powers of loving, however, might have been described as uncertain, dubious, and absolutely unworthy of so high and sacred a name. But there was no doubt at all with regard to his powers of revenge, or as to his cunning and double dealing.

It was the night before his wedding; and the prize—the choice, rich, great prize of the bravest and most beautiful girl in the city—was almost his. Will was safe in prison; Bet was safe at Warrington. One week of happiness with her, and then he would secure for himself a good berth on board a prosperous ship, and sail away, the luckiest fellow in the land.

If Dent had a conscience at all, it was a very dull one, and it certainly gave him no trouble some qualms that night. He still possessed seven or eight pounds of the stolen money, and he intended to have a right good time with Bet—to spend his ill-gotten wealth freely, and to enjoy himself in a thorough manner for once in his life. He had been to Warrington and made all final arrangements; and now, about nine o'clock in the evening, he left his lodgings to fulfill an appointment he had made with Granger, who was to meet him and was to have a good time with him at the Star and Garter.

Dent's lodgings were close to the docks; and to go from there to Granger's place in Sparrow Street he generally walked up a very narrow and very disreputable street. He could have gone around, going along Castle Street and down by Lime Street; but the other way was a great short cut: and to meet low people, to hear the voices of tipsy men and loud-voiced women gave him no manner of annoyance. At the time of this story there were some courts in Liverpool which at night-time were absolutely in the dark. Not a single ray of gaslight illuminated them. The doers of evil liked such places; and the courts at nightfall were often full, and sounds the reverse of edifying were apt to proceed from them.

David Street, the short cut which Dent was about to take to keep his rendezvous with Granger, possessed several such courts. It was not far from the Irish quarter, where Mother Bunch held undoubted sway. David Street was not quite so much dreaded as Paradise Bow; but, on account of these same dark courts, few respectable people would care to walk there after nightfall. Dent, however, could scarcely be reckoned amongst this class, and he stepped quickly now through the na'rrow street with its flickering gaslight reflecting a sombre glow on the puddles at his feet, and on the faces of the ragged children and men and women who jostled past him. The only bright places were the public-houses, where the hungriest and most despairing paused to look in and long for the brightness and warmth inside. Those who had pence in their pockets generally entered through the swinging doors; those who had not, looked in with growing envy and increasing despair on their faces.

Dent was by no means a sober person, and more than one public-house in David Street knew him well; but he was bound now for the more select Star and Garter, and did not pause before any of the swing-doors. The gas-lamps in David Street were few and far between, and Dent presently came to a part of the street which evidently remained after nightfall in a state bordering on darkness. He planted his foot in a puddle; he nearly slipped on a piece of orange-peel, and found himself swearing under his breath. The next moment, out on the still night air, floated a heavenly sound. It was a woman's voice, singing a rollicking sailor- song. Pure and limpid rose the notes—the air was very taking. There was a chorus to the song, in which many voices joined vigorously. Between the choruses came the single, sweet, captivating voice. Dent stood still. All these sounds came from one of the dark courts. He had a passion for music—he could sing a little himself; he found himself instinctively beating time with his foot, and adjoining in the chorus with his voice. He stood motionless. Instantly one or two other wayfarers did likewise. Dent became the nucleus of a little crowd— each passer-by added to it, all attracted by the voice which rose and fell, accompanied now and then by the rough choruses, but more often singing alone.

The crowd outside began to push towards the entrance of the court, and Dent went with them.

Just inside the court stood a broad-faced, burly-looking woman, holding a lantern in her hand. She flashed its light on each new-comer, and Dent felt dazzled for a moment with the strong glare which was turned upon his face. He thought he heard a chuckle—he was certainly pushed far into the court. The singing ceased,—a voice said: "Now! now, Hetty,—yes, it's all right, Hetty." He turned to go away; but, in what seemed less than an instant, his hands were tied behind him, his mouth gagged, and he was borne aloft in the arms of several people, who began to run with him, he did not know where.



CHAPTER XXXI.

When Bet got to Liverpool she went straight to Paradise Row. She intended to spend the night with Mother Bunch, to borrow a little money from her, and to return to Warrington by an early train in the morning. It was about half-past nine when she reached the Irishwoman's house. There was considerable noise and merriment going on within, and Bet heard the scraping of a fiddle, the air of an Irish jig, and the tap-tap of feet as they danced on the floor. She paused, with a sense of dismay stealing over her. Her nerves were highly-strung—she was in an excited, exalted state, and the loud mirth was particularly uncongenial. She wondered if she could slip upstairs unperceived—she wondered if her old attic were still unoccupied. The door of Mother Bunch's room was wide open—bright light streamed into the passage; but Bet making a dart rushed past the door, and went up the dark, broken, dangerous stairs. She reached the old attic, and then started back with an expression of dismay. It was undoubtedly occupied. A candle burned in a shaded corner; a clean bright little fire shone in the grate; a table, with a cloth on it, held medicine, and a glass; and on the bed where Bet herself used to lie slept a child. She was turning away, with a cold feeling round her heart—she had always fancied, doubtless without any reason, that Mother Bunch would keep the little attic vacant for her. She crouched down on the landing, waiting until the merriment should cease downstairs before she sought Mother Bunch.

Presently she heard the sleeping child stir restlessly, and moan in a very feeble manner. This sound smote on her heart.

"Whoever have the charge of that poor lamb don't set much store by it," she commented. "I'll go in and speak soft to the child. Dear heart, what a feeble moan—it might a'most be a baby."

She took off her heavy shoes, and crept back into the room. The outline of the form in the bed was not that of a very little child.

"About the age of the captain or the general?" murmured Bet. "I must be careful if the young 'un's weak not to startle the poor lamb."

She stirred the fire very gently, and seeing a little sauce-pan with something simmering in it on the hob, tasted it, and found it was beef-tea. She poured a little into a cracked tea-cup, and when the child moaned again—and this moan was even fainter than the last—went up to the bed, determined to act the part of the absent mother, who was so shamefully neglecting her sick child.

"Here, honey, take a sip," she said, and she put her strong firm arm under the restless little head. The small face was in shadow. Bet raised the head higher. "Drink, dearie," she said again. There was a pause. Bet's own face could be seen—Bet's own face could be recognized.

"Bet—Bet!" said the captain—"oh, Bet—I did ax God to bring you back to me!"



CHAPTER XXXII.

When Bet Granger ran past the open doorway of Mother Bunch's room she had very little idea that in a corner of that room, tied firmly into a chair, sat her bridegroom of to-morrow—Isaac Dent.

The gag had been removed from his mouth, but his hands were still firmly pinioned, and he was so securely strapped into the chair which held him that he could scarcely move a limb. Under these circumstances Dent did not show to advantage. There was none of that conscious innocence which gives to other men a certain nobility in the hour of trial. On the contrary, his face was blanched with the most unmistakable fear, and his restless shifting eyes looked no one member of the motley group who surrounded him full in the face.

To all appearance, however, these people did jot take the smallest notice of Dent. They left him in his corner, and eagerly pursued their own gay revelries, deaf to the sound of the piteous voice which he raised now and then. Patrick O'Flaherty, Mother Bunch's husband, played the fiddle with much spirit, but Mother Bunch herself was the real mistress of the ceremonies, footing it bravely in the jig, and letting her voice peal forth in such enthusiastic Irish songs as "The Shamrock," "Garryowen," "Saint Patrick's Day," and the like.

Hester Wright alone stood grave and silent at a little distance from Dent, She was impatient of the mirth, and there was a troubled, anxious look on her face. She did not join in any of the songs, and at last, going up to Mother Bunch, she said a few words in her ear.

"Right you are, child," replied the Irishwoman. "Frinds—we'll now, if you plaze, stop these tokens of mirth and victory, and attend to the business of the evening."

Instantly the fiddle ceased; the footsteps became motionless; the voices died into silence; and a little group of about twenty people formed a semicircle round Dent. Mother Bunch, who was in the centre of this group, stepped forward a pace or two. Her brawny arm was bare to the elbow. She raised it now with a slightly significant gesture.

"Child," she said, addressing the prisoner—for surely as such Dent had to consider himself now—"I ax you a plain question, and I ax it in the name of the frinds of love and order here assembled. Will you confess yourself a guilty man, and own to the maneness of your nature in concocting a plot to ruin the innocent boy, Will Scarlett? or will ye keep your lips shut, and feel the power of this right ahrum?" "You're all a set o' cowards," burst from Dent. "Let me go free, this minute— I'll have the law of you—I had nothing to say to Scarlett's imprisonment."

"Yes, you had, child; and there's no use in your going for to deny it. You stole the notes and the gold, and the purty bit of a purse, and you put the blame on Will, 'cause you wanted to get scot-free yourself, and you wanted to take his gurl from him. You're a bad boy, Isaac Dent, and you desarves the least taste in life of the rod. Come along, neighbors, hould him, and do your dooty."

Dent began to scream abjectly, and at this juncture Hester Wright stepped to the front.

"Isaac," she said, in her deep, grave voice, "you have got to submit. We plotted this, I and these good Irish friends of mine. I don't mean that Will Scarlett shall lie in prison for your good pleasure. I don't mean that his good lass shall give herself to you. We plotted this, and we means to see it through. You're a bad man. Isaac, and you deceived Bet, and pretended to set Will free, when you know that he lies still in prison. Bet would have married you, I don't know how soon,—perhaps to-morrow—perhaps the next day,—but now she shall never wed you, Isaac; for here you stay—here you stay, year in, year out, until you confesses the truth."

"Yes—here you stay," repeated the Irish voices in full chorus, and the women began to laugh, and the men to chuckle audibly,

"You don't mean it," said Dent. His white face grew several shades more chalky.

"Yes," continued Hester, "we do mean it. You have managed to escape the law, Dent, and you managed to put the best man in Liverpool under its ban. But we've made a law ourselves, and we'll carry it out on you. Here you stays until you confesses the truth about Will. It ain't no good for you to make a fuss, for the police they doesn't often walk down Paradise Row. Mother Bunch is the only policeman as has much power here. You had better submit, Isaac, for you ha' got no loophole to act contrarywise."

"And ef you felt this right ahrum, child, you mightn't like to feel it a second time," burst in Mother Bunch, as she brandished this powerful member in Dent's face.

"What am I to do?" he exclaimed. "I can't stay on here—I—I—just can't. You ha' got me in your power. You'll rue it some day. Er I say what you want me to say, I'll go to prison instead of Will. It ain't in reason to expect a feller to say a thing like that."

"Isaac," continued Hester, "we don't care nothing about punishing you. This is what you've got to do,—you've got to take Will out of prison, and let him marry his own true love. And you have got to do it in this way. I'm going now to fetch Miss Mary Vallence, the young lady whose purse you stole, and she'll take down your full confession in writing,—all about how you planned to ruin Will, all your reasons, and what you did with the rest of the money. She'll put it down on paper—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; and then you ha' got to sign your name to it, and Mother Bunch and me we'll witness it, and then after that, Isaac, we'll set you free, and one of us will go with you to the end of Paradise Row, and you shall have an hour—jest one hour—to get away in, before Miss Vallence lodges that paper with the police. Them's our terms, Isaac, and you ha' got to say yes or no to them at once."

"Maybe the child 'ud rather feel my right ahrum," burst from Mother Bunch.

"No," said Isaac, sullenly. "You have me in a trap, and I must do what you wish. You'll be true to your promise about the hour, Hester. Oh!—it's the meanest trick that was ever played on a feller, and I'll be even with every one of you yet."

"You may do your worst, child—we ain't afeard," responded Mother Bunch. "Three cheers, boys all—for Isaac Dent have lost his sweetheart."

The room rang again with the sound of boisterous merriment, and in the midst of the confusion and uproar Hester slipped away.

She was going to Miss Vallence, to ask her to come with her at once, and so to redeem her promise.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

The dread of corporal punishment, the dire sensation of fear, is about the only weapon which produces salutary results on certain individuals. They belong to the lowest of the race, but they undoubtedly do exist, and it is well to know how to deal with them. The Irish people in Paradise Row obtained from Isaac Dent what no amount of prayers and supplications would have won from him. Miss Vallence, when she arrived, took down from his lips a full and free confession of the evil part he had played. This paper was duly signed and attested, and the prisoner was given his liberty and an hour's grace. That he made good use of this hour is apparent; for no one has heard or Been anything of him in Liverpool again. The Irish folks were intensely triumphant; and Mother Bunch, in high good humor, invited every one of the conspirators to a banquet at her house on the day on which Will was let out of prison.

"And now to find Bet, and to see how the little cap'n is getting on," said Hester. "I'll run up and take a look at him now, Mother Bunch. I hope Biddy has not stirred from him during the evening."

"No fear of that, child," responded Mother Bunch, but in reality there was much fear; for the recreant Biddy, Mrs. O'Flaherty's eldest daughter, had been enjoying herself in a back part of the kitchen during the entire evening's entertainment. She slunk away now, afraid to meet her mother's wrath, should it descend upon her devoted head. Hester, accompanied by Miss Vallence, went upstairs.

"It's all very well," she said. "We ha' got rid of Isaac Dent, and poor Will is cleared. But where's Bet! It'll be a sad day for my lad when he gets his liberty, and can't get no tidings of the gel he have given his heart to."

"Oh, we must find her, and we will," said Miss Vallence. "God has helped us—we must not begin to doubt Him now."

Hester stared at her companion.

"I believe in Lord God Almighty," she then said in a solemn tone. "After to-night, I believe in God."

As she said this she stepped into the attic.

"Miss Vallence!" she said, with a glad cry. "Oh, Miss Vallence—come here!"

Hand in hand the two girls approached Bet's humble little bed. A child lay there in a light and refreshing sleep; his head rested on a girl's breast, and her right arm was thrown protectingly over him. The girl, too, slept, and her disordered red-gold hair half covered her face.

In such a manner, therefore, this short history comes to an end. For the captain got well again, and the general was discovered to have found a home for himself in the shelter for children provided by the society for the prevention of cruelty to these defenceless and helpless little beings. Granger thought it best to leave Liverpool, and as soon as possible Will regained his liberty.

Yet again there came the eve of a wedding-day; and on this occasion the day itself dawned brightly and ended in happiness.

These things happened a few years ago, and Bet is a matron now, with golden-haired and beautiful children of her own. She is a grave-looking woman, and in some ways she will carry the sting of that two months' agony to her death. She is religious too; but she says little about her belief, she only acts on it. The sailor Will has the best home in Liverpool, and those who are in trouble have a way of coming to Bet for help and counsel. No one would recognize this sober and yet beautiful sailor's wife for the wild, impetuous, headstrong girl who had vainly made a promise by her mother's death-bed. She has made a promise now, however, which she is not likely to break; and Will says proudly that no one ever had such a wife as his Bet.

Hester was always a Bohemian, and will doubtless remain so to the end. She still sings to the children, and the old people, and the sorrowful. She won't sell her gift; therefore she is likely to remain in so-called poverty for the remainder of her days. In reality, however, she is rich; for a crown of love rests on her brow, and warms her heart.

"I'd rayther," she says now and then, in close confidence, to Bet-"I'd rayther be just what I am-a singer of the slums-than be the greatest lady in the land."

This statement may be difficult to believe, but in Hester's case it is literally true.



THE END.