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LOYE. The beautiful crocus are lying low. The white flakes over them fall. And the daisies, too, are under the snow, But love knows no winter pall. The violets hide from the icy rain While the bare oaks watch above, Where their blue eyes shone—they will shine again In the light of the May day love. THE WANDERING BOYS; Or, The Adventures of Bold Beil and Timid Tom. “You will not be left alone during my ab sence,"said liichard Carston to his weeping wile as be was on the eve ot embarking on board a ship for Mexico. “My niece, llosanna, will be with you, and for myself,” he added, with a smile, “I am sure to be well looked after, since it is Rosanna's husband, Captain Murdoch, who commands the ship in which I atn to sail, whilst for a faithful watchdog, who could y*u have bet ter than poor John, there? Though they do say he is not very sharp witted, he’s honest, like his name, and he’ll look after the master’s wife and children; won’t you Johnny ? ’ “Ay, that I will, master,’’answered John Trus ty, warmly. “I’d like to see any one a hurtin they, while I wiir by.” His master smiled at tho honest, simple-mind ed, warm-hearted fellow’, and then went to the cradle where his two infant sons slumbered in happy unconsciousness. They were twins, and their father gazed at them a few moments with emotion, and in si lence. Rending his head down to the sleeping inno cents, he kissed them tenderly, exclaiming in a fervent whisper as he did so — “God bless you, my Benny ! God bless you, my Tommy.” Then hastily passing his hands over his eyes, he sprang up, and once more clasping his wife to his bosom, hurried away, followed by John Trusty, to the beach. The unconscious infants still slumbered on, whilst the sorrowful wife and mother stood and watched the boat until it reached the ship, and then followed with her eyes the ship itself, until it became like a tiny speck in the distant hori zon, and at last faded aw r ay. Then in her first loneliness she sat down by her children’s cradle and wept. Eight months afterwards, suddenly to the great surprise of Mrs. Carston, and, we may add, John Trusty, Captain Ralph Murdoch made his appearance one evening at Cliff House. John opened the door to the captain. Rosanna, who recognized her husband’s voice, flew to meet him. “You have returned in safety, Ralph, love ?’’ she exclaimed fervently, and then in a lower but equally eager tone she whispered, “is it done?" “res," was the whispered reply. John heard this, and no more just then ; hut this was quite sufficient to set him wandering. He did not think it strange that Mrs. Mur doch should utter a joyful exclamation at her husband’s return, hut he did think it strange that his master did not return with the captain- When about to retire to bed, having locked up all the doors, and was passing the room where the family usually sat, the door of which was njar, he heard Mrs. Murdoch say to her hus band, eagerly: “Now, then, dear,” crouching down on the hearth rug, at his feet, and looking up anxious ly in his face, tell me all, but first, am I to un derstand you that Richard Carston is dead ?” “Yes, ” returned the captain, nodding his head, and sending forth a vigorous puff of smoke from his lips, “he is dead.” Rosanna Murdoch gave a sigh of relief, and poor trnsty John felt as though any one might have knocked him down with a feather. “Oh, poor master! poor missus! Lor’ ’a mus- sy on ’er poor soul! Lor’ a mussy on us all!” he groaned mentally. “And how did you mnr—I mean—contrive to get rid of him ?” continued Rosanna, inquir ingly* “It was very simple," returned her husband, coolly; “we were standing on deck together one night, during a stiff gale, and I knocked him over the ship’s side.” “And no one saw you, or suspected you?” asked Rosanna. “Not a soul,” returned Captain Ralph, with a meaning smile; “he fell overboard—accidentally, of course. People often do that at sea.” Mrs. Murdoch drew her husband’s face down to her, as she knelt, and kissed his dark, bronzed features. “What a bold, clever fellow yon are, Ralph !” she murmured, admiringly, “to do this deed so skillfully.” “What a bold, clever woman yon are, my love, who suggested it,” he replied, flatteringly. “What two horrid wretches the pair on ’eebe," thought the horror-stricken John, behind the door. “Am I not justified in what I have done?” continued Rosanna. “I should have inherited my UneleRichard s property at his death, had he not thought fit to marry and have children, to the utter ruin of my prospects.” “At all events, he is dead, now,” remarked the eaptain, suggestively. “True, and there only remains his wife and brats to dispose of,” added Rosanna, in a low hut fiercely emphatic tone, “and that, since they are hero in Cornwall, instead of out at sea, may not be quite so easy.” Captain Murdoch puffed at his cigar for a few moments in thonghful silence, and then he said, slowly and deliberately: “They, like their relative, must be cleared from our path, that’s certain. “The husband perished by water. The wife and children must die by the opposite element —fire!” “Ah, yes, fire,” she exclaimed, eagerly; “I never thought of that. And how do you intend to accomplish it ?” she asked. “I do not apprehend any difficulty,” returned Ralph. “Isabella Carston is unsuspicious and docile, and can easily be persuaded to any thing, and without any hesitation would move out of the rooms she now occupies, and take up her abode in the cliff wiDg, with her children, and then the wing would catch fire some night —accidentally, of course,” replied the captain, with a sinister smile. “What an admirable plan,” she cried; “it cannot fail! So safe, too, for ourselves. Oh ! what a brain you’ve got for plotting, Ralph, dear!” “The plan is perfectly safe,” he said, “and— as I will work it—if any oue gets the credit of having burnt down the wing, it,will he that faith ful simpleton, John Trusty.’* “Inhuman wretches! murderers!” exclaimed John. The violent start that convulsad the frames of the plotters, and the ghastly look of horror and surprise that overspread their features, might have convinced John that he had been over heard. He crept softly from his hiding place, utterly unconscious that he had been uttering his words half aloud ; but his foot hardly touch ed the first stair when a powerful arm seized him by the back of his coat collar, and dragged him violently into the parlor. “You have been listening, you prying hound!” hissed Ralph Murdock fiercely. “I ’ave been listening cappen, andl’m'thank ful I’ve ’eered what I did. You’ve killed the ‘poor master, an’ now you’d destroy the missus an’ the innercent boys, yer would. But yer I Then hugging his precious charge in his arms sharn’t while I live. I promised I’d look arter 1 he hurried along the cliff, with the chill fresh ’em, an’ I w-ill too. Take your blood-stained j wind from the sea blowing upon him and mak- ’ands off me, d’ye ’ear?" 1 =A 1 —- 1 1 r — * *—* Captain Murdock, grasping the pistol he held by the barrel, dealt him a heavy blow on the skull with the butt end, and laid him senseless at bis feet. “He's silenced," he muttered, in a satisfied tone, “and the sooner his carcass is got rid of the better. ” “And where is he to be removed to?" asked Rosanna. “To the cellar beneath the cliff wing,” return ed her husband; “should he come to his senses, he may bawl himself hoarse there. No one would hear him. ” “I will help you carry him,” said Rosanna, voluntarily; “two can convey a burden to its destination quicker than one.” * * * * • * “Water! water! where be I?" were the first words ejaculated by John Trusty when he recov ered his consciousness. ing his blistered hands and face smart terribly, at the same time that it revived him and he was soon far from the scene of destruction. Then he paused and looked back upon it for a mo ment, with tears in his eyes. Bathe wiped them hastily away *s he exclaimed with exultation: “The babes are safe ! Benny and Tommy he safe, an’ they shall come wi’ me. John Trusty must be fayther and mother to ’em both, now.” “The flames that consumed Mrs. Carston and her babes have also made an end of John Trus ty,” said Captain Murdock to his wife. “We are now safe.” CHAPTER I. Fifteen years, as every one knows, is a very long time to look forward to, but a mere span to look back upon. Fourteen years have elapsed since the eventful night when John Trusty res cued Benny and Tommy from a terrible fate. John left Cornwall at once, and never paused No one answ-ered him; he was surrounded by I until he reached Wales, where he had a sister black darkness. His head ached terribly, and he could not help uttering a faint moan. By slow degrees the past came back to him. He had no means of judging the flight of time. He might have been there a night only; or sev eral days might have passed. From the weakness he felt, and the excrucia ting sense of thirst he endured, he was inclined to believe the latter. “Oh, my poor missus and the dear boys !” he moaned, in an agony of grief. “An' I promised master I’d look arter’em, an’’ere I be shut up like a rat in this dark cage an’ canna do ought to ’elp ’em. God forgive me ! it ain’t my fault! ’ Then there fell upon his ear a sound which he gradually recognized as the roaring of a tierce flame. Once more the whole awful truth return ed to him in all its vivid horrors. He sprang to his feet. “It be the fire those wretches have kindled to destroy poor Mrs. Carston and her babes. Oh, villians, monsters !” ho raved in an agony of desperation. “But why do I call? they don’t living, and with whom he henceforth resolved to reside. Jane Trusty owned a small freehold in Nerth Wales, in the county of Denbighshire. The dwelling house stood at the foot of the hill in the beautiful vale ot Clwyd, and was called by the appropriate name of Clwyd Vale cottage. It was here, then, that John took up his abode. j‘' r ’ His sister, a kind hearted woman of some fifty years of age, who lived entirely alone, gladly received him and his young charges, and soon the youngsters made the cottage ring again with their infantile mirth. But now, at the end of fourteen years, they were no longer chil dren crawling about the floor on their hands and knees, or toddling up and down the garden walk, but had gradually sprung up into two fine, wel'-grown, handsome boys. Ben was a kind hearted, fearless lad, with dark hair and eyes, like his father. There was a brave look about him that seemed to suit as no other look would have done, and which caused hind them. “Who says there be no trout, to-day, eh ? ” These words were uttered by a strong country looking man, who. following the bank ot the stream, had arrived at within a few yards of them. He was coarsely dressed, in rough cord breeches, leather gaiters, and very thick boots, a cowskin waistcoat, and a faded brown velve teen coat with capacious pockets. He had a rod over his shoulders, and a basket at his back, which, as he approached, he lowered to the ground. “Dan?” exclaimed both the boys simulta neously. "Yes, here I be. This don't look much like no trout, do it ? ” As Dan spoke, he opened his basket. “Why it’s full—quite full!” cried the boys, in amazement. “And we’ve been here two hours and can’t get a single one. What can he the reason of that ?” “There be summat wrong some’eres, that’s sartin,” returned Dan, with a knowing shake of his head. “Y'our basket ought to be as full as mine. Let me look at your iiy.” Tom gathered up the line, and holding the hook with the fly attached to it, he said: “This beant one o’ my makin’?” “No, that’s one I made myself,” Ben an swered. “And very well made it be, too, so far as the makin’ be concerned,” Dan admitted; ‘‘but—” Dan paused and shook his head. “It's an exact copy of yours,” interposed Ben. “Well, not quite exact, my lad,” Dan answer ed, with a good-humored smile. “The colors be all right enough, but it be just about twice as large as it ought to be. ’ “Does that make so much difference?” “It makes all the difference !” returned Dan, in atone of authority; “when trout be on th’ feed it don’t so much matter about the shape or color o’ the fly you uses. It’s the size. I'll prove it to ’ee.” Dan as he spoke took from his pocket a mar vellous knife, that seemed to have any quantity of blades, besides other curious instruments concealed in its handle. With one of the small shouted, as he disappeared from view. “Poacher or no poacher, I do like Dan, thafs the truth,” said Tom, after his rough acquain tance had departed. “So do I,” assented Ben: “he’s the cleverest man lever knew. He knows everything—there’s another !” Tuiswashis ejaculation as a third trout was landed. “ Isn t this jolly ?" cried Tom, dancing with delight, “ we shall empty the stream if we go on this manner.” The sport continued so good that Ben was not inclined to stop, though it was getting on for dinnertime. “I don’t know how you feel,” he said to Tom, “but I’m awfully hungry.” “So am I. answered Tom; “suppose I go home and tell dad how the fish are biting, and fetch some bread and cheese, and beer at the same time?” “Ah, do ! there’s a good chap, and then you shall take a turn at the rod,” said Ban; “ be quick. I’m as hungry as a hunter.” Away ran Tom, and Ban still continued to cast his fly, unconscious of the presence of two new comers, mounted hpon two ponies. CHAPTER II. v * ■- f w :r : V --.I, '}i \- rm ^ PfP \.\ mm !'Ax> vl , i mvi : -;t fe&At Iffet “ Ben heard the polite remark and glanced around.” ’ear me! they be deaf to mercy ! Good Heaven, listen to me, and 'elp me to save the wife and babes of my dear master !” He raised his head and looked up. He dis tinctly saw, at one particular spot above him, a glimmering light. It was a trap door. He hesitated an instant, and then exclaiming with heroic desperation: “I’ll do it, though I burn the flesh from my bones. ” people to speak of him as Bold Ben. Not that his boldness ever took the form of rudeness or insolence. No boy was ever more obedient to his guardian, more generous amongst his com panions or kinder to his brother, than Ben. blades he cut away a portion of the artificial fly on Ben’s hook, and trimmed£it_ down to the proper limits, and then said: “Now try.” Ben cast his line as before, and the fly had It was only if he was unfairly treated, or if he ! scarcely touched the surface ol the water when saw others ill-used or oppressed, that his spirit was stirred, and then he was for the time, a true specimen of the noble ooy. His twin brother, Tom, save in the kindliness He sprang up, grasped the heated edge, and I of his disposition, was the exact opposite of Ben, dragged himself up into the ground floor of the wing chamber. Here the wood and straw had to a great extent burnt itself out, but the room was stifling with smoke. Holding his hand before his mouth,he planted bis foot upon the topmost flight of stairs and summoning all his remaining strength, with a desperate blow of the heel, he smashed in the panels of the door. “Missus!—missus ! where be ee?” Alas ! the answer soon came. The unfortunate lady, clad in the night wrap per she had hastily assumed when the fire had aroused her, lay prostrate and unconscious on the floor, her face ghastly and convulsed, with a froth on her lips. “Oh, Heaven! she be dyin’ o’ suffocation 1” ex claimed John as he hastily carried her towards the window. But it was too late. She breathed heavily a few times, and with a convulsive struggle her spirit fled. The infantS^Vere soon discoveved. “They be alive! they be alive !” cried John in a frenzy of delight. “If I can only save they ! If I only can, I’ll tuink I’ve done summat. But how be 11’ get them through the flames? “They shan’t die if I can help it!” murmur ed John pityingly, as he dragged a blanket from the bed, and having dumped it as effectually as he could with the water in the jug, he placed the babies in it, and rolled it completely around them, hugged them closely to him, and ap proached tne door. He turned to the window and shouted desper ately for help. But no one heard or answered him. His voice was drowned by the roaring of the fire. Suddenly the crackling of burning timber be neath his feet increased, and the floor grew in sufferably hot. Tlie children uttered a f int wail. “Oh, God, be good to us !” murmured John fervently; “it be only Thee as can ’elp us now !” At this moment the planks parted in front of him, and gave away with a crash, and brave John Trusty, still clasping his young charges, disappeared with awful suddenness into the basement beneath. A shriek of horror burst from his lips as he went crashing down amid sparks, flames and smoke, the two infants clasp ed to his bosom. It’ll soon be over anyhow now,” thought John with golden hair and mild blue eyes, such as his mother had before hiup His temperament also lacked the impetuous boldness of the former, and led him—though he was by no means a coward—to avoid the scrapes and encounters that his brother was so frequent ly mixed up in. It was this caution that secured for him the title of Timid Tom. Though thus named he had spirit enough on certain occasions, and if Ben got into trouble, Tom was sure to stick to him back and edge. The minister of the village had early taken notice of the boys, and under his fostering care their education had kept pace with their growth. But John Trusty never revealed the secret of the atrocious acts which left them orphans, and caused him to become their guardian. Not even to his sister did he relate the history of that terrible night when he rescued them from the devouring flames. All the explanation he ever gave about the boys was that they were the orphan children of a very dear friend of his, whom he felt it his duty to look after for their parents’ sake. This was quite sufficient for his sister and his simple-minded neighbors, whilst the lads with out troubling themselves about the matter, nev er having heard their legitimate titles, answered to the names of Benjamin and Thomas Trusty. On a fine May morning, on the banks of a sparkling stream, clear as crystal, stood Ben and Tom. Both looked the picture of health and happi ness, and, as they stood there in their loose suits of gray tweed, two fairer specimens of boyish beauty could scarcely have been imagined. But just then they looked a little perplexed. “I can’t make it out at all,” said Ben; “it’s a beautiful morning, the wind’s in the right quar ter, and yet I can’t get a fish to bite. What’s the reason ?” “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Tom. “I wish Dan was here, he’d tell us. Let me try, perhaps I shall have more luck.” ” Here you are, Tom; fire away, but don’t think it’s of much use,” Ben answered. “I fancy the fish saw us coming, and have entered into a conspir acy not to bite,” he added, with a laugh, as he surrendered the rod to his brother. “ Perhaps so,” answered Tom, joining in the laugh, and then swishing the pliable willow Trusty, as he closed his eyes, expecting to fin d ; over his head, he cast the line across the himself engulfed in a flood of fire. * rivulet. He had fallen on his feet, and though the j The fly fell lightly on its rippling bossom, abruptness of the descent threw him on his knees he was able to rise again in an instant. It was then be discovered that heaven had answer ed his piteous cry for help. By the blazing light he quickly found the small door in the cor ner and hurried out from the debris. “My poor master! my poor missus!” he moan ed; “I couldn't save’ee, but thank God I ’ave saved the bairns! Thank God for that." and he drew it with a gentle quivering motion against the current. But no trout rose. Again and again he repeated the experiment, but with no better success. “You’re right, Ben,” he said, at length, “ the slippery things must have seen us coming. I think we may make up our minds on no trout to-day.” “ Eh, what be that? ” cried a hearty voice be- fine trout made a dash at it, and paid for his rashness by being speedily hoisted out of his native element on to the bank. Again Ben threw his line, aDd another victim instantly followed. “There!” exclaimed Dan, triumphantly, “What d’ye think of that? Weren’t 1 right ?” “That you were,” assented Ben, warmly; “you always are !” Dan, in quesdoas of asporting s natnre, always was right. But in the opinion of many persons he was, morally speaking, always wrong. In fact, Daniel Dark had the ^reputation of being a desperate poacher. No one in the world knew so well as he the sports for twenty miles round where game was to he found. No one could catch a hare or rabbit, or trap a bird so skillfully as he could. Nor was any one so ex pert in hiding his snares from prying eyes. So that while Dan was looked upon with distrust and suspicion by all the surrounding game- keepers, not one of them had been able posi tively to bring home any of his depredations to him. But though poor Dan was thus suspected —it must be admitted not unjustly—he had a large stock of kindliness stowed away somewhere under his rough exterior, especially for the youthful portion of his species, with whom he was a general favorite. There was not a boy in the neighborhood who was not glad to see Dan Dark, who could tell such marvellous stories, and who seemed always full of just such knowl edge as boys required. If a pigeon or a canary was ill, Dan had a remedy at his fingers’ ends. If any youngster required instruction in the art of bringing up a family of rabbits or white mice, or even guinea pigs, Dan knew all about it. He knew also how to catch birds, snakes, hedgehogs, rats and mice. His recipe for bird lime was something striking; while for angling, he not only knew every inch of water where fish were to be found, but the best times and seasons, and the most killing baits for catching them. No wonder that Ben and Tom thought him one of the finest fellows in the world. “I think yer’ll have yer basket full arter won’t yer ?” asked the poacher, with a triump- ant smile. “Oh yes, I’m sure I shall now!” answered Ben, in a tone full of confidence; “thanks to you.” ‘‘Well, good day, my boys,” said Dan as he lifted his basket to bis shoulder: “I must sell my fish while they are fresh. You won’t forget to look to the size o’ your flies in the future, will ey ?” “I should think not, responded the boys. “That’s right;then ye are sure to ’ave good sport. See ye agin afore long; good-bye.” As Dan moved away, Ben called after him— “When are you coming into the woods with us rabbit hunting?” “Whenever yer like,” Dan called back. To morrow, if it suits yer. ” “Very well, then, tomorrow.” “And Dan,” cried Tom, “my old black and white lop-eared doe’s got something the matter with her; I wish you would come and see her.” “I’ll call in as I go by and look at her,” Dan These were young gentlemen about his own age, Master Augustus Bumpus, the son of the local magistrate, who lived at the big house, as it was called, and Philip llankley, the nephew of a gentleman from London who was on a visit there. The paternal Bumpus was a corpulent, red-faced, bullyiDg sort of a gentleman, with an inherent tendency to gout and pimples on his face and nose. The son, a 11 it, flabby youth, was a small copy of the father, whom he res embled as much as it was possible for a boy of fourteen to resemble a man of sixty. He inher ited Lis parent's bounce and bullying manner, not forgetting his pimples. His companion was a pale, sallow youth, with tolerably regular, aquiline features, but au un pleasant expression of countenance that ought not to have existed in the face of one of his age. The two young gentlemen reined in their i ponies, and stood watching Ben as he cast his ] fly. Presently Augustus Buinpus exclaimed j sneeriugly: j “There’s a pretty specimen of a worm at one | end of a stick and a fool at the other. Ha, ha !” | Ben heard the polite remark, and glanced | round. He knew the magistrate’s son by sight, and seeing who it was, he treated his insult with silent contempt, and continued his sport. Philip llankley then thought it incubent on himself to indulge in a little gentlemany chaff. So he said facetiously. “ Caught any cock salmon yet?” Still Ben made no reply. “These clodhopping follows are all deaf,” said Augustus. “ I’ll wake him up. Heigh!” he shouted to Ben, “ can’t you hear?” “ Yes,” said Ben turning round coolly, “I can hear two donkeys braying.” “ I don’t hear anything of the sort,” muttered Augustus, not quite liking the remark, but affecting to listen; “do you?” he asked of his companion. “ I hear no donkeys,” the latter replied: “Some donkeys have so little sense,” retort ed Ben, pointedly, “ that they don’t even know the sound of their own voices.” “You’re an insulting scoundrel?” Master Bumpus exclaimed to Ben, furiously. “A vulgar snob,” spluttered Augustus, “ who deserves—a—good ducking 1” “ Duck me then,” said Ben, quietly. “Or a good thrashing,” growled Philip, between his teeth. “ Very -well. Thrash me then—that is, if you can,” was Ban’s cool reply. “So I will,” retorted Master llankley; “I’ll teach you a lesson you won't forget in a hurry.” “That’s right, Phil,” whispered Gus, backing up his friend. “I’d help you if I hadn’t got a boil on my left elbow.” It was one of Master Bumpus’ peculiarities that whenever there was any prospect of a fight he always had a boil somewhere or other which prevented him from availing himself of the op portunity of showing his prowess. “ If it wasn’t for the boil I’d fight him my- sell!” he exclaimed, clenching his fat fist, that looked like a yeast dumpling. “Ugh! I’d smash him!” But Ben was in a comic vein, and it only made him laugh. “Come into the road,” said Philip llankley, with a dark frown, as he took off his jacket. “Anywhere you like,” answered Ben, in a eheertul tone of the most perfect indifference, as he took off his. The juvenile Bumpus, by way of making him self generally useful, held the bridles of tho ponies. “Now then, you fellow !” exclaimed Philip; “are you ready?” “Quite,” replied Ben, smiling; ‘-and wil ling." The combatants took places; but ere a blow could be struck, the sound of carriage wheels was heard, and a carriage was seen approach ing. “ Oh, confound it!” cried the pugilistic Master llankley, as ho hastily dragged on the jacket he had the moment before removed. “It’s my uncle’s carriage; he mustn't see me at this game. Our set-to must be postponed,” he said to Ben. “i'll light you some other time.” “Anytime you please,” answered Ben, with the utmost serenity, as he put on his jacket. When the carriage came up, Philip hailed his uncle, who ordered the carriage to stop. His aunt occupied the opposite seat in the vehicle, and after a few moments’ conversation with his relatives, they were about to proceed, when suddenly the lady caught sight of Ben, who was quietly standing by the road-side, wondering if the tight would really come off’ after the carriage had passed. His face seemed to agitate the gazer to an extent that many would have deemed inexplic able. Having once fastened her eyes upon him, she seemed unable to withdraw them. Nor was this the only effect produced. Every particle of color died out from her face, leaving her white and rigid as marble. Fortunately, Masters Philip and Augustus were talking together, so that they did not observe this palpable emotion. Neither, as it happened, did Ben, who was j scrutinizing the podgy form of Master Bumpus, and thinking what a severe process of training he would require before be could be possibly worth fighting at all. “For Heaven’s sake, Rosanna, what is the matter?” exclaimed her husband, alarmed at her ghastly looks. “Nothing, Ralph,” she murmured , hoarsely; it must be fancy, merely.” She sank her voice to a whisper and added, in a tremulous tone: “Lookupon the features of that youth.” She pointed in a guarded maimer towards Ben. Her husband turned and looked in the direc tion indicated, and the same ghastly look of hor ror instantly flashed over his features as had just before and even now, still lingered on the face of his wife. “Merciful heavens !” he murmured to him self, “ what a likeness! it is so terribly real that I could almost fancy—” He broke off suddenly, and then, as if in obedience to a resistless momentary impulse, he called to Ben:— (CONTINUED ON 8TH I>AGE. )