arabella was weeping, so that for some little time she could say nothing more to ben; and he did not, in the profundity of his imagination, very well know what to say to her, except now and then muttering the maxim of "easy does it," which ben thought singularly applicable to all human affairs. but this was a state of things which could not last; and arabella wilmot, nerving herself sufficiently to speak in a few minutes, said to ben in a low self-deprecatory tone—

"oh, sir, i—i—have done something very wrong."

"eh?" said ben, opening his eyes to their utmost.

"yes," added arabella, "very wrong, indeed."

"humph!"

"you would not probably have expected it of me, mr. ben, would you now?"

"well, a-hem!" said ben. "easy does it."

"i am a wicked—wicked girl."

"oh, dear—oh, dear!" said ben.

"you cannot guess, mr. ben, what i have done; but i feel i ought to tell you, and it will be quite a relief to me to do so."

ben shook his head.

"i tell you what it is, my dear," he said. "your best plan is to go and tell your mother, my dear. that's the proper person to tell. she is sure to find it out somehow or another; and you had better tell her at once, and then—easy does it."

"my mother? tell my mother? oh, no—no—no!"

"well, if you have got any respectable old aunt now, who is a good, kind old soul, and would not make too much fuss, you had better tell her; but goodness gracious, my dear, what puts it into your head to tell me?"

"because i think you are kind-hearted."

"well, but—well, but—"

"and, then, of course, as you are mixed up, you know, mr. ben, in the whole transaction, it is only proper that you should know what has happened at last."

ben turned fairly round, and looked down into the face of arabella wilmot with such a coarse expression of alarm upon his face, that at any other than so serious a time she must have laughed.

"me?" he cried. "me?"

"yes, mr. ben."

"me mixed up in the—the—oh dear!"

"ah, mr. ben, you know you are by far too kind not to be; and so i feel as though it would be quite a relief to me to tell you everything."

"everything?"

"yes, all—all."

"not all the particulars, surely. come—come. i ain't an old woman, you know, my dear."

"an old woman, ben?"

"no, my dear, i say i ain't an elderly female, so i don't think i ought to listen to all the particulars, do you know. come—come, you go home now, and say no more about it to me. easy does it, you know; and keep your own counsel. i won't say a word; but don't you, because you are in such a state of mind as you hardly know what you are about, go on blubbering to me about all the particulars, when perhaps to-morrow you'll give one of your pretty little ears that you had not said a word to me about it."

"alas!—alas!"

"pho! pho! easy does it."

"who am i to cling to but you?"

"cling to me? perhaps you'll say it's me?"

"what's you, mr. ben? explain yourself. how strange you talk. what do you mean, mr. ben?"

"well, that's cool," said ben.

"what's cool?"

"i tell you what it is, miss arabella w., i'm disappointed in you; ain't you ashamed to look me in the face?"

"ashamed?"

"yes, positively ashamed?"

"no, mr. ben. i may regret the indiscretion that is past; but i cannot see in it anything to be ashamed of."

"you don't?"

"indeed, mr. ben, i do not."

"then, miss a. w., you are about the coolest little piece of goods i have met with for some time. come—come, easy does it; but haven't you been telling me all this time about something you have been about, that—that—was rather improper, in a manner of speaking?"

it might have been the tone in which ben pronounced the word improper, or it might have been the sagacious shake of the head which ben accompanied his words with, or it might have been that arabella was drawing a conclusion from the whole transaction; but certain it is, that she began to have a glimmering perception that mr. ben was making a great mistake.

"oh, heaven!" she said. "what are you saying mr. ben? i am speaking of the advice i was foolish enough to give johanna."

"advice?"

"yes, that is all. into what mischief could you have tortured my meaning? i am much mistaken in you, sir."

"what? then, it isn't—a-hem! that is to say, you haven't—dear me, i shall put my foot in it directly. what a fool i am."

"you are, indeed," said the now indignant arabella, and a slight flush upon her cheeks showed how deeply wronged she was by the unworthy construction ben had put upon her innocent words.

"good-bye, miss a. w.," added ben. "good-bye; i see i am out of your books; but if you fancy i meant any harm, you don't know me. god bless you. take care of yourself my dear, and go home. i won't stay to plague you any longer. good-bye."

"stop! stop!"

ben paused.

"i am sure, mr. ben, you did not mean to say a single word that could be offensive to a friendless girl in the street."

"then, then?—easy does it."

"let us be friends again then, mr. ben, and i will tell you all, and you will then blame me for being so romantic as to give johanna advice which has induced her to take a step which, although my reason tells me she is now well protected in, my imagination still peoples with horror."

ben's eyes opened to an alarming width.

"you recollect meeting us in this street, ben?"

"oh, yes."

"when johanna was disguised?"

"yes, miss a. when she had on them, a-hem! you may depend upon it, my dear, there's no good comes of young girls putting on pairs of thingamys. don't you ever do it."

"but, mr. ben, hear me."

"well—well. i was only saying. you stick to the petticoats, my dear. they become you, and you become them, and don't you be trusting your nice little legs into what-do-you-call-'ems."

"mr. ben?"

"i've done. easy does it. now go on and tell us what happened, my dear. don't mind me. go on."

"then johanna, in boy's cloathes, is now—"

"now? oh, the little vixen. didn't i tell her not."

"is now filling the situation of errand boy at sweeney todd's, opposite. can i be otherwise than wretched, most wretched!"

"arrant boy?"

"no, not arrant boy. errand boy."

"at todd's—opposite—in—boys—clothes? oh—oh—just you wait here, and i'll soon put that to rights. i'll—i'll. only you wait in this door-way, miss a. w., just a moment or two, and i'll teach her to go and do such things. i'll—i'll—"

"no—no ben. you will ruin all, you will, indeed. i implore you to stay with me. let me tell you all that has happened, and how johanna is protected. in the first place, ben, you must know that sir richard blunt the magistrate has her under his special protection now, and he says that he has made such arrangements that it is quite impossible she can come to any harm."

"but—"

"nay, listen me out. he says that nothing can now expose her to any danger, but some injudicious interference. i ought not, you see, to have told you, mr. ben; but since i have, i only ask of you, for johanna's sake, for her life's sake, to do nothing."

ben looked aghast.

"and—and how long is the little lamb to be left there?" he asked.

"only a few hours i think now, ben—only a few hours. where are we now, mr. ben?"

"why, this, my dear, is bell-yard we have strolled into; and that is the famous pie-shop of which they talk so much. they say the woman has made an immense fortune by selling them."

as ben made a kind of movement towards mrs. lovett's window, it was then that sir richard blunt, who had followed him and arabella wilmot from fleet-street, and who had, in fact, overheard some portion of their conversation, stepped up in the manner that mrs. lovett had remarked from within the shop.

we have before stated that the three personages, consisting of the magistrate, big ben the beef-eater, and arabella wilmot, walked to fleet-street together from bell-yard. sir richard blunt shook his head at arabella wilmot, as he said—

"miss wilmot, i cannot help saying that it would have been better in every respect, and possibly much more conducive to the safety of miss oakley, if you had gone home quietly, and not lingered about fleet-street."

"i could not go, sir."

"but yet a consideration for miss oakley's safety should have induced you to put that violence upon your own feelings."

"i felt that when once you, sir, had pledged yourself for her safety, that safe she was; and that my weeping perchance in a doorway in fleet-street could not be so important as to compromise her."

"i am fairly enough answered," said sir richard blunt, with a slight smile. "but what say you to coming with me to the temple?"

"the temple?"

arabella cast a lingering look towards todd's shop, which sir richard at once translated, and replied to it by saying—

"fear nothing for your young friend. she knows she is protected; but even she does not know the extent to which she is so protected. i tell you, miss wilmot, that i pledge my own life for her safety—and that, although to all seeming she is in the power of todd, such is not the case."

"indeed?"

"i have a force of no less than twenty-five men in fleet-street now—one half of whom have their eyes upon todd's shop. by heaven! i would not have a hair of that young and noble girl's head injured for the worth of this great kingdom!"

"bravo!" cried ben, as he seized sir richard by the hand, and gave it a squeeze that nearly brought the tears into the eyes of the magistrate; "bravo! that's what i like to hear. all's right. bless you, sir, easy does it. you are the man for my money!"

"will you both come with me, then?"

"to be sure," said ben; "to be sure; and as we go along, i'll tell you what a sad mistake i made about miss arabella here. you must know that i met her crying in fleet-street, and she—"

arabella shook her head, and frowned.

"and—and—and—she—nothing."

"well," said sir richard, "i must confess i have heard anecdotes with a little more point to them."

"you don't say so!" said ben.

"i think i will go home," said arabella, gently.

"if you will," replied the magistrate, "of course, i cannot say anything to stay you; but i think it will be a great disappointment to colonel jeffery not to meet with you to-day."

"colonel jeffery!" exclaimed arabella, while her face became of the colour of a rose-bud; "colonel jeffery?"

there was just the ghost of a smile upon the face of sir richard blunt, as he calmly replied—

"yes; i am on my way to meet that gentleman in the garden of the temple; and i am sure he would be glad to see you."

"glad to see me?"

"yes, as so true a friend of johanna's, he will be more than glad; he will be delighted."

"delighted?"

"do you doubt the colonel's friendly feeling towards you?"

"oh no—no. i—no—certainly not."

"then let me beg of you to come."

"no. not now; i will go home. it will look particular for me to go to the garden to meet him."

"it will look much more particular to refuse, i think, miss wilmot. you are with me, and with your old friend, and johanna's relative, mr. a—a—"

"they calls me ben."

"mr. ben; and so you cannot refuse," he said, "to go to meet colonel jeffery, you know. come, come, i pray you come. indeed, i know the colonel wishes to speak to you; and as it would be obviously out of order for him to call upon you, i think you ought, seeing that you're not alone, to give him, as a gentleman of wealth and honour, this opportunity of doing so."

"you say, he wishes to speak to me?"

"he does, indeed. what do you say, mr. ben? don't you think miss wilmot might as well come with us?"

"easy does it," said ben, "and that's my opinion all the world over."

"then allow me to look upon it that we have prevailed with you, miss wilmot. pray do me the favour to take my arm."

arabella trembled, but she did take the arm of sir richard blunt, and made no further opposition to proceeding to that temple gardens, where already such affecting interviews had taken place between the colonel and poor johanna. the gardens appeared to be empty when they reached it, but from behind some shrubs colonel jeffery in a moment made his appearance, for sir richard, in consequence of his meeting with ben and arabella, was considerably behind his time.