Rough and Ready

CHAPTER XIV.
ROSE KIDNAPPED

"So I've found you at last," said James Martin, looking grimly at Rose, bending over so that the fumes of his breath, tainted with liquor, seemed to scorch her innocent cheek.

"Let me go," said Rose, terrified and ready to cry.

"Let you go!" repeated Martin, with a sneer. "Is that all the welcome you've got for me, after I've taken the pains to come clear over from Brooklyn to find you? No, I can't let you go; I'm your father, and you must go with me."

"I can't, indeed I can't," said Rose, in distress "I want to stay with Rufie and Miss Manning."

"I can't allow it. I'm your father, and I'm responsible for you. Your brother aint fit to have charge of you. Come along."

He seized her by the shoulder, and began to push her along.

"I don't want to go," said Rose, crying. "I don't want to leave Rufie."

"I don't care what you want," said Martin, roughly."You've got to come with me, anyhow. As for your brother, I don't want him. He'd be trying to kidnap you again. I might have put him in prison for it; but I'll let him go this time, if you don't make any fuss."

"What is the matter?" asked a policeman, who came up as Rose was struggling weakly in the grasp of her stepfather. "What are you pulling along the little girl for?"

"Because she won't come without," said Martin. "She ran away from home with her brother a few weeks ago, and I've just found her."

"Is she your child?"

"Yes."

"Is that true?" asked the policeman, not particularly prepossessed in Martin's favor by his personal appearance, his face being unusually inflamed by his morning potations. His question was of course directed to Rose.

"No, I aint his child now," said Rose. "Rufie has the care of me."

"And who is Rufie?"

"He is my brother."

"He's a young rascal," said Martin, "up to all sorts of mischief. He'll lie and steal, and anything else that's bad. He aint fit to have charge of Rose."

"It isn't true," said the little girl, indignantly. "He doesn't lie nor steal. He's the best boy that ever lived."

"I haven't anything to do with that," said the policeman. "The question is, is this your father?"

"He was mother's husband," said Rose, reluctantly.

"Then he is your stepfather."

"Don't let him take me away," said Rose, imploringly.

"If he's your stepfather, I can't stop him. But, hark you, my man, I advise you to be kind to the little girl. If you are not, I hope she'll run away from you. You look as if you'd been drinking pretty hard this morning."

"It's the trouble I've had about her that made me drink," said Martin, apologetically. "I was afraid she wasn't taken good care of. Come along now, Rose. He says you must go."

"Let me go and speak to Miss Manning first," entreated Rose. "I've got a spool of cotton I've just bought for her."

"I'm not such a fool as that," said Martin. "I've looked for you long enough, and now I've got you I mean to hold on to you."

"But Miss Manning won't know where I am," pleaded Rose.

"It's none of her business where you are. She aint no relation of yours."

"But she's been very kind to me."

"She was kind enough to keep you away from me, she hasn't anything to do with you, and I don't mean she shall ever see you again."

Poor Rose! the thought that she was to be forever separated from her kind friend, Miss Manning, smote her with a sharp sorrow, and she began to cry bitterly.

"Stop your whimpering," said Martin, roughly, "or I'll give you something to cry about."

But, even with this threat hanging over her, Rose could not check the flow of her tears. Those persons whom they met looked with sympathy at the pretty little girl, who was roughly pulled along by the red-faced, rough-looking man; and more than one would have been glad to interfere if he had felt authorized to do so.

James Martin did not relish the public attention drawn to them by Rose's tears, for he knew instinctively that the sympathy would be with her, and not with himself. As soon as possible he got the child on board a horse-car bound for the South Ferry. This was something of an improvement, for he was no longer obliged to drag her along. But even in the cars her tears continued to flow.

"What's the matter with your little girl?" asked a kind, motherly-looking woman, who had a daughter at home about Rose's age, and whose sympathies were therefore more readily excited by the appearance of distress in the child's face.

"She's been behaving badly, ma'am," said Martin.

"She doesn't look like a bad child," said the good woman, kindly.

"You can't tell by her looks," said Martin. "Maybe you'd think, to look at her, that she was one of the best children out; but she's very troublesome."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You should try to be good, my dear," said the woman, gently.

Rose didn't reply, but continued to shed tears.

"She's got a brother that's a regular bad one," continued Mr. Martin. "He's a little scamp, if there ever was one. Would you believe it, ma'am, he induced his sister to run away from home some weeks ago, and ever since I've been hunting all around to find her?"

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the other, interested. "Where did you find her, if I may be allowed to ask?"

"In a low place, in the western part of the city," said Mr. Martin. "It wasn't a fit place for a child like her. Her brother carried her away from a good home, just out of spite, because he got angry with me."

"It must have made you feel very anxious."

"Yes," said Mr. Martin, pathetically. "It worried me so I couldn't sleep nights. I've been hunting night and day for her ever since, but it's only to-day that I got track of her. She's crying now because she didn't want to leave the woman her brother placed her with."

"I'm sorry to hear it. My dear, you will be better off at home than among strangers. Don't you think you will?"

"No, I shan't," said Rose. "Miss Manning was a good woman, and was very kind to me."

"She isn't old enough to judge," said Martin, shrugging his shoulders.

"No, of course not. Where do you live?"

"In Brooklyn."

"Well, good-by; I get out here."

"Good-by, ma'am. I hope you won't have so much trouble with your children as I have."

"I am sure your little girl will be better when she gets home."

"I hope so, ma'am."

Rose did not speak. She was too much distressed, and, child as she was, she had an instinctive feeling that her stepfather was false and hypocritical, and she did not feel spirit enough to contradict his assertions about herself and Rufus.

At length they reached the ferry, and embarked on the ferry-boat.

Rose no longer tried to get away. In the first place, she was now so far away from home that she would not have known her way back. Besides, she saw that Mr. Martin was determined to carry her with him, and that resistance would be quite useless, so in silent misery she submitted herself to what it seemed impossible to escape.

They got into the cars on the other side, and the trip passed without incident.

"We get out here," said Mr. Martin, when they had been riding about half an hour.

Rose meekly obeyed his summons, and followed him out of the car.

"Now, young lady," said Mr. Martin, sternly, "I am going to give you a piece of advice. Are you listening?"

"Yes," said Rose, dispiritedly.

"Then you had better give up snivelling at once. It aint going to do you any good. Maybe, if you behave well, I'll let your brother see you after a while, but if you kick up a fuss you'll never see him again in the world. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I hope you do. Anyway, you'd better. I live over here now. I've took board for you and myself in the house of a woman that's got a girl about as big as you. If you aint foolish you'll have a good time playing with her."

"I want to see Rufie," moaned Rose.

"Well, you can't, and the sooner you make up your mind to that the better. Here we are."

He opened the front door of the shabby boarding house, and said to the servant whom he met in the entry, "Where's Mrs. Waters?"

"I'll call her directly, if you'd like to see her."

"Yes, I want to see her."

Mrs. Waters shortly appeared, her face red with heat, from the kitchen.

"I've brought my little girl along, as I told you," said Martin.

"So this is your little girl, is it? She's a nice child," said Mrs. Waters, rather surprised to find that a man of Mr. Martin's unpromising exterior had so attractive a child.

"No, she isn't," said Martin, shaking his head. "She's very badly behaved. I've let her stay in New York with some relations, and she didn't want to come back and see father. She's been making a great fuss about it."

"She'll feel better to-morrow," said Mrs. Waters. "How old is she?"

"Seven years old."

"Just the age of my Fanny."

"You said you could let her occupy the same bed with your little girl."

"Yes, they can sleep together. Fanny will like to have a girl of her own age to play with. Wait a minute,—I'll call her."

Fanny Waters was a short, dumpy little girl, of extreme plainness. Rose looked at her, but didn't appear to feel much attracted.

"You can go out into the back yard together and play," said Mrs. Waters; "only mind and don't get into any mischief."

"Wait a minute," said Mr. Martin, calling Rose aside, "I want to speak to her a minute. If," he continued, addressing the child, "you try to run away, I'll go over to New York, and shoot your brother through the head with a pistol. So mind what you're about."

Rose listened in silent terror, for she thought her stepfather might really do as he threatened, and it had a greater effect upon her than if he had threatened harm to herself.

James Martin witnessed with satisfaction the effect produced in the pale, scared face of the child, and he said to himself, "I don't think she'll run away in a hurry."

CHAPTER XV.
INTRODUCES A DISTINGUISHED PERSONAGE

"'Times,' 'Herald,' 'Tribune,' 'World'!" cried Rough and Ready, from his old place in front of the "Times" building. "All the news that's going, for only four cents! That's cheap enough, isn't it? Have a paper, sir?"

"I don't know. Is there any particular news this morning?" asked the individual addressed.

"Yes, sir, lots of it. You will find ten cents' worth in every one of the papers, which will give you a clear profit of six cents on your investment. Which will you have?"

"Let me look at a paper a minute, and I'll see."

"I don't do business that way," said the newsboy; "not since one morning when I let an old gentleman look at a paper just for a minute. He read it for half an hour, and then returned it, sayin' there wasn't much in it, and he guessed he wouldn't buy."

"Well, here's your money. Give me the 'Times,'" said the other.

"Here you are!" said the newsboy, pocketing the money, and placing a "Times" in the hand of the purchaser.

"Give me the 'Herald,'" said another.

Unfolding the paper, he glanced his eye over it, and said, in evident disappointment, "I heard there was a railroad accident somewhere, with about fifty persons killed and wounded; but I don't see it anywhere."

"I'm sorry you're disappointed," said the newsboy. "It's soothin' to the feelings to read about a smash-up, with lots of persons killed and wounded. Just come along to-morrow mornin', and I guess you'll find what you want."

"What makes you think so?" asked the customer, suspiciously.

"If you won't mention it," said Rough and Ready, lowering his voice, "I don't mind telling you that the 'Herald' has sent up a reporter to put a big rock on the Erie Road, and throw off the afternoon train. As he will be on the spot, he can give a full report, exclusive for the 'Herald'! Then again, the 'Times' and 'Tribune' are arrangin' to get up some 'horrid murders.' Maybe they'll have 'em in to-morrow's paper. You'd better come round, and buy 'em all. I'll make a discount to a wholesale customer."

"It's my belief that you're a humbug," said the disappointed customer.

"Thank you, sir," said Rough and Ready; "I've been takin' lessons of Barnum, only I haven't made so much money yet."

The next customer asked for the "Tribune."

"Here it is, sir."

"Did you ever see Mr. Greeley?" he inquired. "I live in the country, and I have often thought I should like to see so intrepid a champion of the people's rights."

"There he is now," said the newsboy, pointing to a somewhat portly man, who had just got out of a horse-car.

"You don't say so!" ejaculated the country reader of the "Tribune." "I should like to go and shake hands with him, but he might take it as too great a liberty. I didn't know he was so stout."

"Go ahead!" said the newsboy. "He won't mind. He's used to it."

"I think I will. I should like to tell the folks at home that I had shaken hands with Horace Greeley."

Now it happened that the personage who had been pointed out as Horace Greeley was really no other than Mr. Barnum himself, the illustrious showman. The newsboy was well aware of this, and was led to make the statement by his desire to see a little fun. I shall not attempt to justify him in this deception; but I have undertaken to set Rough and Ready before the reader as he was, not as he ought to be, and, though a good boy in the main, he was not without faults.

Mr. Greeley's admirer walked up to Mr. Barnum, and grasped his hand cordially.

"Sir," he said, "I hope you will excuse the liberty I am taking, but I couldn't help addressing you."

"I am glad to meet you, sir," said Mr. Barnum, courteously. "Perhaps I have met you before, but I meet so many people that I cannot always remember faces."

"No, sir, we have never met before, but your fame has reached our village; indeed, I may say, it has spread all over the country, and when I was told who you were I could not help coming up and telling you how much we all sympathize with you in your philanthropic efforts."

Mr. Barnum looked somewhat perplexed. He was not altogether certain whether his temperance lectures were referred to, or his career as manager of the Museum. He answered therefore rather vaguely, "I try to do something to make the world happier. I am very glad my efforts are appreciated."

"Yes, sir, you may be certain they are appreciated throughout the length and breadth of the land," said the other, fervently.

"You are very kind," said Barnum; "but I am afraid you will not get all to agree with you. There are some who do not view me so favorably."

"Of course. Such is always the fate of the philanthropist. There are some, no doubt, who decry you, but their calumnies are unavailable. 'Truth crashed to earth will rise again.' I need not continue the quotation."

"You are certainly very complimentary, Mr.–; perhaps you will oblige me with your name."

"Nathan Bedloe. I keep a seminary in the country. I have read the 'Tribune' for years, Mr. Greeley, and have found in your luminous editorials the most satisfactory exposition of the principles which I profess."

Mr. Barnum's eyes distended with astonishment as he caught the name Greeley, and his facial muscles twitched a little.

"How did you know me?" he asked.

"That newsboy pointed you out to me," said the other, indicating Rough and Ready, who was watching with interest the conversation between the two.

"Yes, the newsboys know me," said Barnum. "So you like the 'Tribune'?"

"Yes, sir, it is an admirable paper. I would as soon do without my dinner as without it."

"I am very glad you like it," said Barnum; "but I fear my own contributions to it (referring to the advertisement of the Museum) are not worthy of such kind compliments. I must bid you good-morning, at present, as my engagements are numerous."

"I can easily believe it, Mr. Greeley. Good-by, sir. Thank you for your kind reception of an humble stranger."

There was another shaking of hands, and Mr. Bedloe departed under the firm conviction that he had seen and talked with Horace Greeley.

Three minutes later, Rough and Ready felt a hand upon his shoulder. Lifting up his eyes, he recognized Mr. Barnum.

"Do you know me?" asked the latter.

"Yes, sir, you are Mr. Barnum."

"Were you the boy who pointed me out as Horace Greeley?"

"Yes, sir," said Rufus, laughing; "but I didn't think the man would believe it."

"He thinks so still," said Barnum. "I don't think there's much personal resemblance between me and the editor of the 'Tribune,'" he continued, meditatively.

"No, sir, not much."

"Don't do it again, my lad. It's wrong to hum-bug people, you know. By the way, do you ever come to the Museum?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, your joke is worth something. Here is a season ticket for three months."

He handed the newsboy, as he spoke, a slip of paper on which was written:—

"Admit the bearer to any performance in the Museum

during the next three months

P. T. Barnum."

"I got off better than I expected," thought Rough and Ready. "I didn't know but both of 'em would get mad, and be down upon me. I wish he'd given me a ticket for three, and I'd have taken Miss Manning and Rose along with me."

As he thought of Rose, it was with a feeling of satisfaction that she was so well provided for. He had the utmost confidence in Miss Manning, and he saw that a mutual affection had sprung up between her and his little sister.

"It'll be jolly when Rose grows up, and can keep house for me," he said to himself. "I hope I'll be in some good business then. Selling papers will do very well now, but I want to do something else after a while. I wonder whether that three hundred dollars I've got in the bank wouldn't set me up in some kind of business."

While these thoughts were passing through his mind, he still kept crying his papers, and presently he had sold the last one. It was still comparatively early, and he thought he would look about a little to see if there was no chance of earning a little extra money by running on an errand.

After a while he was commissioned to carry a message to Twenty-Second Street, for which he was to receive twenty-five cents, and his car fares.

"I'll walk back," he thought, "and in that way I'll save six cents out of the fares."

The walk being a long one, he was absent a considerable time, especially as he stopped for a while at an auction on Broadway. At last he reached his old stand, and was thinking of buying some evening papers, when he heard his name called in a tone of anxiety.

Turning suddenly, he recognized Miss Manning.

"Miss Manning!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "How do you happen to be here?"

"I came to see you, Rufus."

"Has anything happened?" he asked anxiously, seeing the troubled expression of her countenance. "Nothing is the matter with Rose, is there?"

"She has gone."

"Gone!"

"Yes, she has disappeared."

"Don't say that, Miss Manning. Tell me quick all about it."

"I sent her out on an errand this morning, just around the corner, for a spool of cotton, and she has not got back."

"Do you think she lost her way?"

"She couldn't very well do that, it was so near by. No, Rufus, I am afraid she has been carried off by your stepfather."

"What makes you think so, Miss Manning?" demanded Rufus, in excitement.

"I waited half an hour after she went out, wondering what could keep her so long. Then I began to feel anxious, and put on my bonnet, and slipped downstairs into the street. I went round to the store, and found she had gone there and made the purchase, and gone away directly. I was wondering what to do next, when one of the neighbors came up, and said she saw Rose dragged away by a tall man. She gave me a description of him, and it corresponds exactly to the description of Mr. Martin. I am afraid, Rufus, that he has carried our dear little Rose away. What shall we do?"

"I'll have her back," said Rufus, energetically. "He's got her now; but he shan't keep her. But I'm afraid," he added, sorrowfully, "she'll be ill-treated before I can recover her, poor Rose!"

CHAPTER XVI.
HOW ROSE FARED

We return to Rose, who found herself very unwillingly once more in the custody of her stepfather.

"Go out and play in the back yard with Fanny," said Mrs. Waters. "You'll have a nice time together, and be good friends in less than no time."

Rose followed Fanny slowly into the back yard; but she had very little hope of a good time. She was too full of sorrowful thoughts for that. As she looked back, a moment after going into the yard, she saw Mr. Martin shaking his fist at her from the back window, and this she understood very well was a sign of the treatment which she had to expect.

The back yard was not a very pleasant place. It was very small to begin with, and the little space was littered with broken bottles and rubbish of various kinds. In one corner was a cistern nearly full of water, which had been standing long enough to become turbid.

"What shall we do?" asked Fanny.

"I don't know," said Rose, without much interest.

"I'll tell you," said Fanny, "we'll take a piece of wood, and sail it in the cistern. We can make believe it's a ship."

"You can do it," said Rose.

"Won't you play too?"

"I don't feel much like playing."

"Why don't you?" asked Fanny, curiously.

"I wish I was back in New York."

"Who were you with?"

"With Rufie."

"Who's he?"

"My brother."

"Is he a nice boy?"

"Yes, he's the nicest boy that ever lived," said Rose, positively.

"Your father says he's a bad boy."

"He isn't my father."

"Isn't your father?"

"No, he's only my stepfather."

Rose was about to say something against Mr. Martin; but it occurred to her that if it came to the ears of the latter, she might fare the worse for it, and accordingly she stopped short.

Fanny picked up a stick, and began to sail it about in the cistern. After a while Rose went up, and looked on rather listlessly. At length Fanny got tired of this amusement, and began to look around for something better to do. In the corner of the yard she spied the cat, who was lying down in a lazy attitude, purring contentedly as she dozed.

"I know what I'll do," she said; "I'll have some fun with puss."

She lifted the sleepy cat, and conveyed her straightway to the cistern. This attracted the attention of Rose, who exclaimed, "What are you going to do?"

"I am going to see puss swim," said the mischievous girl.

Now Rose had a tender heart, and could not bear to see an animal abused. It always aroused all the chivalry in her nature, and her indignation in the present case overcame not only her timidity, but the depression she had felt at the separation from her friends.

"You shan't do it," she said, energetically.

"Mind your business!" said Fanny, defiantly. "It's my cat, and I'm going to put her into the water."

True to her declaration, she dropped the cat into the cistern.

Rose waited for no more, but ran to the cistern, and, pushing Fanny forcibly away, seized the cat by her neck, and pulled her out. Puss, on being rescued, immediately took to her heels, and soon was out of harm's way.

"What did you do that for?" exclaimed Fanny, flaming with rage.

"You had no right to put the cat in the water," retorted Rose, intrepidly.

"I'll put you in the water," said Fanny. "I wish you were drowned."

"You're a bad girl," said Rose.

"I won't play with you."

"I don't want you to. I don't care about playing with a girl that behaves so."

"I behave as well as you do, anyway."

"I don't want to talk to you any more."

This seemed to exasperate Fanny, who, overcome by her feelings, flew at Rose, and scratched her in the face. Rose was very peaceably inclined, but she did not care about submitting to such treatment. She therefore seized Fanny by the hands and held them. Unable to get away, Fanny screamed at the top of her voice. This brought her mother to the door.

"What's going on here?" she asked, in a voice of authority.

"She's fighting me," said Fanny. "Take her away."

"Let go my child at once, you wicked girl!" said Mrs. Waters, whose sympathies were at once enlisted on the side of her child.

"Then she mustn't scratch me," said Rose.

"What did you scratch her for, Fanny?"

"She's been plaguing me."

"How did she plague you?"

"I was playing with puss, and she came and took the cat away, and pushed me."

"You are a bad, quarrelsome girl," said Mrs. Waters, addressing Rose, "and I'm sorry I told your father you might come here. He told me you were bad; but I didn't think you would show out so quick. If you were my girl, I'd give you a good whipping. As it is, I shall inform your father of your conduct, as soon as he gets home, and I have no doubt he will punish you."

"I only tried to prevent Fanny from drowning the cat," said Rose. "She threw her into the water, and I took her out."

"That's a likely story. I don't believe it. Is it true, Fanny?"

"No, it isn't," said Fanny, whose regard for truth was not very strong.

"So I supposed. You have not only ill-treated my girl, but you have told a wrong story besides. Fanny, come in, and I will give you a piece of cake."

"You won't give her any, will you, ma?"

"No, she don't deserve any."

With a look of triumph Fanny went into the house, leaving poor Rose to meditate in sorrow upon this new phase of injustice and unhappiness. It seemed as if everybody was conspiring to injure and ill-treat her.

"I wish Rufie were here," she said, "so that he might take me away."

Then came to her mind the threat of her stepfather, and she shuddered at the idea of Rufus being killed. From what she knew of Mr. Martin, she didn't think it very improbable that he would carry out his threat.

After a while she was called to dinner, but she had very little appetite.

"So you're sullen, are you, miss?" said Mrs. Waters. "You're a bad girl, and if I were your father, I'd give you a lesson. So you won't eat!"

"I am not hungry," said Rose.

"I understand very well what that means. However, if you don't want to eat, I won't make you. You'll be hungry enough by and by, I guess."

The afternoon passed very dismally to poor Rose. Fanny was forbidden by her mother to play with her, though this Rose didn't feel at all as a privation. She was glad to be free from the company of the little girl whom she had begun to dislike, and spent her time in brooding over her sorrowful fate. She sat by the window, and looked at the people passing by, but she took little interest in the sight, and was in that unhappy state when the future seems to contain nothing pleasant.

At length Mr. Martin came home. His nose was as radiant as ever, and there was little doubt that he had celebrated his capture in the manner most agreeable to him.

"So you're here, are you?" he said. "I thought you wouldn't run away after what I told you. It'll be a bad day for you and your rascal of a brother if you do. What have you been doing?"

"Sitting by the window."

"Where's the other little girl? Why don't you go and play with her, instead of moping here?"

"I don't like her," said Rose.

"'Pears to me you're mighty particular about your company," said Martin. "Maybe she don't like you any better."

To this Rose didn't reply; but Mrs. Waters, who just then chanced to enter the room, did.

"Your little girl abused my Fanny," she said; "and I had to forbid them playing together. I found them fighting together out in the back yard."

"It wasn't my fault," said Rose.

"Don't tell me that," said Martin. "I know you of old, miss. You're a troublesome lot, you and your brother; but now I've got you back again, I mean to tame you; see if I don't."

"I hope you will," said Mrs. Waters; "my Fanny is a very sweet-dispositioned child, just like what I was at her age; and she never gets into no trouble with nobody, unless they begin to pick on her, and then she can't be expected to stand still, and be abused."

"Of course not," said Martin.

"Your little girl attacked her, and tried to stop her playing with the cat."

"What did you do that for, miss?" said Mr. Martin, menacingly.

"She threw the cat into the cistern," said Rose; "and I was afraid she would drown."

"What business was it of yours? It wasn't your cat, was it?"

"No."

"It was my daughter's cat," said Mrs. Waters; "but she tells me she didn't throw her into the cistern. It's my belief that your little girl did it herself."

"Just as likely as not," said Martin, with a hiccough. "Hark you, miss," he continued, steadying himself by the table on which he rested his hand, for his head was not altogether steady, "I've got something to say to you, and you'd better mind what I say? Do you hear?"

Rose didn't answer.

"Do you hear, I say?" he demanded, in a louder tone, frowning at the child.

"Yes."

"You'd better, then, just attend to your own business, for you'll find it best for yourself. You've begun to cut up your shines pretty early. But you don't do it while I'm here. What are you snivelling about?"—for Rose, unable to repress her sorrow, began to sob. "What are you snivelling about, I say?"

"I want to go back, and live with Rufie and Miss Manning," said Rose. "Oh, do let me go!"

"That's a pretty cool request," said Martin. "After I've been so long hunting you up, you expect me to let you go as soon as I've got you. I don't mean to let you go back to Rufie," he said, mimicking the little girl's tone,—"not if I know it. Besides," he added, with a sudden thought, "I couldn't do it very well if I wanted to. Do you know where your precious brother is?"

"Where?" asked Rose, in alarm.

"Over to Blackwell's Island. He was took up this morning for stealing."

"I don't believe it," said Rose, indignantly. "I know he wouldn't steal."

"Oh, well, have it your own way, then. Perhaps you know better than I do. Only I'm glad I'm not where he is."

Of course this story was all a fabrication, invented to tease poor Rose. Though the little girl didn't believe it, she feared that Rufus might have got into some trouble,—some innocent persons are sometimes unjustly suspected,—and the bare possibility of such a thing was sufficient to make her feel unhappy. Poor child! But yesterday she had been full of innocent joy and happiness, and now everything seemed dark and sorrowful. When should she see Rufie again? That was the anxious thought that kept her awake half the night.