I read assent in the gentleman's smile; then, turning to the poor motherless children, he told them that he could not leave them one night longer in that miserable place; that he would take them at once to the dwelling of an honest widow whom he knew, who would watch over the sick, and take care of the young, for she herself had once been a mother. Poor Bob, weakened and exhausted by poor living, looked bewildered at the words, as though he scarcely understood them, but was ready, without question or hesitation, to go wherever his benefactor should guide him. One only doubt seemed to linger on his mind. "Shall I," said he, in a hesitating tone, "shall I still be able to go to my school?-- 'cause I shouldn't like to be a-leaving it now!" "Assuredly you shall attend it, my boy, as soon as your health will permit. I have no means of permanently assisting you; my stay in England is but short; I can only give you help for a time. But at the school you will learn to help yourself, and soon, I hope, be independent of any human aid. I should do you an injury, and not a kindness, were I to teach you to rest on others for those means of living which a brave and honest boy desires to earn for himself. Now let us go on to the comfortable lodging which I mentioned." Billy uttered an exclamation of childish delight, as though the word had called up before his mind's eye a warm hearth, a blazing fire, and smoking viands on a table beside him. They all now quitted the place, Neddy appearing if possible more happy than the delighted little child. But Billy was the last to leave the shed, in which he had passed so many days of suffering and want. He lingered for a moment at the door, and looked back with a pensive expression. "You never wish to see that place again, I am sure?" cried Neddy. "No, not the place; but-- but I should ha' just liked a last peep of the pretty spotted rat who used to lead the old blind un by the stick!" CHAPTER XII. A NEW ROAD TO FAME. It may have been but my fancy,-- it probably was so,-- but it seemed to me that Oddity felt a good deal the departure of his little human friend. I thought that he missed the lame child who had taken such pleasure in watching him, and who had found beauties even in his ungainly figure and piebald skin. It certainly was not that he needed the crumbs which the half-starved little Billy had stinted himself to throw to him; but I suppose that it is possible even for rats to grow attached to such as show them confidence and kindness. I often rallied poor Oddity upon his melancholy after the boys had been taken away. Bright-eyes told him that he ought to have been a cat, to sit purring on a mat before the fire, and lick the hand of some old maiden lady, who would feed him with porridge and milk. I said that he should be kept in a gentleman's house, with a bell round his neck, as rats sometimes are in Germany, to frighten their brethren away.