"They don't feed you overly well at the farm, do they, Ben?" Silas inquired. The boy had turned from the table, and was sitting with his hands clasped around his knees, and his bare feet on the upper round of the chair. After looking at his companion a moment, he thoughtfully shook his head. "You work hard enough, heaven knows," Silas said again, in a tone which sounded like a strong man pitying some one less unfortunate, but there was little difference between the two, except age, for there was every reason to believe that should little Ben's cough get better, he would become such a man as Silas was. "I do all I can," little Ben answered, "but I am so weak that I cannot do enough to satisfy them. I haven't had enough sleep in years: I think that is the trouble with me." That cough, little Ben, is not the result of loss of sleep: you must have contracted that in going out to work in the early morning, illy clad, while other children were asleep. "I'm going to tell you something, poor fellow," Silas said, "which will please you. While you were asleep up at The Locks to-night, the lady kissed you." Little Ben put his hand apologetically to his mouth, and coughed with a hoarse bark that startled Silas, for he noticed that the cough seemed worse every time the boy came to town. But he seemed to be only coughing to avoid crying, for there were tears in his eyes. "You are not going to cry, Ben?" Silas said, in a voice that indicated that he was of that mind himself. "I think not, sir," the boy replied. "When I first went to the farm, I cried so much that I think that the tears have all left me. I was only thinking it was very kind of the lady, for nobody will have me about except you, Mr. Davy. My father and mother, they won't have me around, and I am in Mr. Quade's way; and his wife and children have so much trouble of their own that they cannot pay attention to me. They live very poorly, and work very hard, sir, and I do not blame them; but I often regret that I am always sick and tired, and that no one seems to care for me." Little Ben seemed to be running the matter over in his mind, for he was silent a long while. In rummaging among his recollections he found nothing pleasant, apparently, for when he turned his face to Silas it showed the quivering and pathetic distortion which precedes an open burst of grief. "If you don't care," he said, "I believe I _will_ cry; I can't help it, since you told me about the lady." The little fellow sobbed aloud at the recollection of his hard life, all the time trying to control himself, and wiping his eyes with his rough sleeve. He was such a picture of helpless grief that Silas Davy turned his back, and appeared to be rubbing something out of his eyes; first one and then the other.