"But Johanna, Ben--there is Johanna?" "Johanna?" "Yes. Is she not there to see to some of her father's comforts? She
loves him--I know she does, Ben!" Ben placed his finger by the side of his nose, and in an aside to
himself, he said--

"Now I'll touch her up a bit--now I'll punish her for all she has done,
and it will serve her right." Then, elevating his voice, he added--"Did
you mention Johanna?" "Yes, Ben, I did." "Then I'm sorry you did. Perhaps you think she's been seeing to the old
man's comforts a little--airing his night-cap, and so on--Eh? Is that
the idea?" "Yes, I know that she would do anything gladly for her father. She was
always most tenderly attached to him." "Humph!" "Why do you say, Humph, Ben?" "Just answer me one question, Mrs. O. Did you ever hear of a young girl
as was neglected by her mother--her mother who of all ought to be the
person to attend to her--turning out well?" "Do not terrify me, Ben." "Well, all I have got to say is, that Johanna can't be in two places at
once, and as she isn't at home, how, I would ask any reasonable
Christian, can she attend to the old man?" "Not at home, Ben?" "Not--at--home!" "Oh, Heaven! why did I not stay in that dreadful man's house, and let
him murder me! Why did I not tell him at once that I knew of his crime,
and implore him to make me his next victim! Oh, Ben, if you have any
compassion in your disposition you will tell me all, and then I shall
know what to hope, and what to dread." "Well," said Ben, "here goes then." "What goes?" "I mean I'm a-going to tell you all, as you seem as if you'd like to
know it." "Do! Oh, do!" "Then of course Johanna being but a very young piece of goods, and not
knowing much o' the ways o' this here world, and the habits and manners
o' the wild beasteses as is in it, when she found as the old house
wasn't good enough for her mother, she naturally enough thought it
wasn't good enough for her, you know." "Oh, this is the most dreadful stroke of all!" "I should say it were," said Ben, quite solemnly. "Take it easy though,
and you'll get through it in the course of time. Well then, when Johanna
found as everything at home was sixes and sevens, she borrowed a pair of
what do call 'ems of some boy, and a jacket, and off she went." "She what?" "She put on a pair of thingumys--well, breeches then, if you must have
it--and away she went, and the last I saw of her was in Fleet Street
with 'em on." "Gracious Heaven!" "Very likely, but that don't alter the facts of the case, you know, Mrs.
O. On she had 'em, and all I can say is that you might have knocked me
down flat to see her, that you might. I didn't think I should ever have
got home to the beasteses in the Tower again, it gave me such a turn." "Lost! Lost!" "Eh? What do you say? What have you lost now?" "My child! My Johanna!" "Oh! Ah, to be sure. But then you know, Mrs. O, you ought to have staid
at home, and gived her ever so much good advice, you know; and when you
saw she was bent upon putting on the boy's things, you as a mother ought
to have said, 'My dear, take your legs out of that if yer pleases, and
if yer don't, I'll pretty soon make you,' and then staid and gived the
affair up as a bad job that wouldn't pay, and took to morals." "Yes--yes. 'Tis I, and I only, who am to blame. I have been the
destruction of my child. Farewell, Ben. You will perhaps in the course
of time not think quite so badly of me as you now do. Farewell!" "Hold!" cried Ben as he clutched the arm of Mrs. Oakley only the more
tightly in his own: "What are you at now?" "Death is now my only resource. My child is lost to me, and I have
driven her by my neglect to such a dreadful course. I cannot live now. Let me go, Ben. You will never hear of me again." "If I let you go may I be--Well, no matter--no matter. Come on. It's all
one, you know, a hundred years hence." "But at present it is madness and despair. Let me go, I say. The river
is not far off, and beneath its waters I shall at least find peace for
my breaking heart. Let my death be considered as some sort of expiation
of my sins." "Stop a bit." "No--no--no." "But I say, yes. Things ain't quite so bad as you think 'em, only it was
right o' me, you know, just to let you know what they might have been." "What do you tell me?" "Why that there ain't a better girl than Johanna in all the world, and
that if all the mothers that ever was or ever will be, had neglected her
and set her all their bad examples in the universal world, she would
still be the little angel that she is now, and no mistake." "Then she is not from home? It is all a fable?" "Not quite, Mrs. O. just you trot on now comfortably by the side of me,
and I will tell you the whole particulars, and then you will find that
there ain't no occasion to go plumping into the river on Johanna's
account." Poor Mrs. Oakley, with delight beaming upon every feature of her face,
now listened to Ben while he explained the whole matter to her, as far
as he himself was cognisant of it; and if he did not offer to be very
explicit in minor details, she at all events heard from him quite enough
to convince her that Johanna was all that the tenderest mother could
wish. "Oh, Ben," she said, as the tears coursed each other down her cheeks,
"how could you torture me as you have done?" "All for your own good," said Ben. "It only lets you see what might have
happened if Johanna had not been the good little thing that she is,
that's all." "Well, perhaps it is for the best that I should have suffered such a
pang, and I only hope that Heaven will accept of it as some sort of
expiation of my wickedness. If you had not held me, Ben, I should
certainly have taken my life." "Not a doubt about it," said Ben; "and a pretty kittle of fish you would
then have made of the whole affair. However, that's all right enough
now, and as for old Oakley, all you have got to do is to go into the
shop and say to him. 'Here I am, and I am sorry for the past, which I
hope you will forgive, and for the future I will strive to be a good
wife.'" "Must I say that, Ben?" "Yes, to be sure. If you are ashamed to say what's right, you may depend
upon it you haven't much inclination to do it." "You have convinced me, Ben. I will humble myself. It is fit and proper
that I should. So I will say as nearly as I can recollect just what you
have told me to say." "You can't do better; and here we are at the corner of the street. Now
if you would rather go in by yourself without me, only say the word, and
I'm off." Mrs. Oakley hesitated for a moment and then she said--

"Yes, Ben, I would rather go alone." "Very good. I think it's better too, so good-by; and I'll call to-morrow
and see how you are all getting on." "Do so, Ben. No one can possibly be more welcome than you will be. You
will be sure to come to-morrow?" "Rather." With this Ben walked away, and Mrs. Oakley entered the house. What then
passed we do not feel that we ought to relate.