Sebastian didn't follow the officers and Hannover nor did he lead Timothy back to bed. He escorted the child downstairs to the kitchen with the same air he might have used while showing a guest to their room. There, he stoked the dying coals in the range and had a small pot of tea brewing soon enough.

The steaming cup of tea helped calm Timothy's excited nerves. After a few long sips, he looked up at the butler with teary eyes. "What'll 'appen to Mr. Bently?" he asked.

"He will be imprisoned until the day of his trial, unless he has the means to pay his bail." Sebastian answered coolly. "Then his fate will be decided by the judge and jury. Most likely, he will be shipped to the colonies in Australia and forced to work in penal servitude for the rest of his life."

"What's that mean?"

"It means that he will live like a slave in chains and disgrace," the man answered without pity.

Tim sighed, and a tear dripped into his tea. "Poor Mr. Bently," he sniffled.

"Poor? I fail to see anything poor about him. He will receive what he deserves; what he has gained by his fraudulent lifestyle."

"But he is poor," Timothy insisted. "He's poor 'cause he don't 'ave God. An' wivout God, he don't got nuffin'."

Mr. Lory stared at the child. Like everyone else, he was slightly impressed and slightly baffled by the little boy's words. He wondered where the lad had learned such things. And suddenly, he wanted to know who this strange orphan was.

"Timothy, where do you come from?" he asked, sitting down at the table across from Tim.

"I dunno, sir."

"You must know something. Where did you live before you came here? What was it like?"

"It was a big, bustlin' place, sir. Bigger than this one, I fink! I rode a train t' get away from it ya see, an' it took an awful long time afore I come 'ere."

"You rode a train? How? Did someone pay for your ticket? Was someone accompanying you?" Sebastian asked.

Tim blushed in guilt. "Will ya be angry, sir? Ya see, I didn't know much 'bout Jesus back then. An' I didn't fink it was so very bad t' steal onto a train wivout payin' first. I slipped in ahind of a big ol' lady an' hid in a bunch o' luggage. When we got t' the station, the man what asked for tickets was awful angry wiv me. He would'a 'ad me sent t' the police, but the nice ol' chap couldn't do it. Instead, he showed me the way to a church, an' it was rainin' so 'ard, I was glad t' get inside. I hid in there wivout bein' seen 'cause I didn't want nobody t' find me right then. I was runnin' away, an' I was afraid they'd send me back t' the workhouse. But I 'eard so many nice fings in the church that day that I started goin' every Sunday like the man at the train station 'ad told me to! I don't fink nobody would send me back t' the workhouse now, d'you, sir? I can work an' do a whole lot o' fings to 'elp people."

"Workhouse? Who sent you to the workhouse, lad?" Sebastian asked.

"I dunno that I was sent there or not. It seemed t' me I'd always been in the workhouse..." The little boy paused and thought hard, straining his mind to find a recollection further back in time. The longer he thought, the more a vague memory wanted to come back to him. But it was so misty and old that he couldn't recall it. "Anyhow, they tried t' teach me 'ow t' read an' write an' a few other fings. But I s'pect I weren't very good at it 'cause the folk there were awful mean t' me. T'other lads weren't nice neither. They made fun o' me, they did! So I run away."

"Did they call you Timothy there?"

"Always, sir. Unless they called me other names. An' they did sometimes. But I didn't like most of 'em. Have you ever been called names, sir? T'ain't nice at all!"

"Who were your other associates? That is, who were your friends and the people in charge of the workhouse? Can you remember any of their names?"

Tim thought back. It had only been a couple of years, but in that short period of time his memories had grown foggy and distant. Perhaps it was because that time hadn't been worth remembering. Some things were better left behind and never recalled again. Still, he remembered several of the other boys who had bullied him in the workhouse, and he could still remember one of the men who had been in charge of them.

"His name was Mr. Ick..icka...Ickinbody or somefing like that. An' I always thought it was a right proper name for 'im, sir, 'cause he weren't a nice fellow, an' it weren't a nice name. I'm sorry for sayin' it though! But, why d'ya wanna know, Mr. S'bastian?" Timothy asked at length. "'Ave ya ever been in the workhouse afore?"

The butler stiffened in offence. "I certainly have not!" he said reproachfully. "My family has worked in this house for two generations! And I was always devoted to my mistress's service."

"Who was that?" Tim asked. The fire died out of Sebastian's eyes, and a faint, sad smile touched the old man's lips.

"Miss Averill," he answered.

"Was she a nice lady?"

"Nice?" The butler let out a deep sigh, forgetting himself for a moment. "She was beautiful! Beautiful till the day she died."

Timothy settled down more comfortably with his cup of tea predicting that a long story was about to begin.

"I was ten years old when I began work here," Sebastian carried on. "I started work as a stable boy, and my mistress often came to watch me tend the animals. She was a year younger than myself. By the time I was sixteen, I became the footman for her family's carriage. When I was eighteen, she made me her groom."

The old man's heart beat faster with emotions from the past. "Every day, I rode with her down the shoreline, listening to her laugh and sing. But there came a day, when we were both growing old, that she no longer rode on the beach. Then she made me her butler and set me over the affairs of her household."

He took a slow endearing look at his mistress's house. "You will pardon me for the times I have been short with you, Timothy," he said apologetically. "You cannot understand how priceless the things in this house are to me. I was charged with their safety, and I cannot help being overly protective of them. Things are often worth more than money. Sometimes, they are all you can hold on to when you have lost something you love."

Tim cocked his head. "Did ya love Miss Averill?" he asked.

The old man sighed deeply. "How could I have helped it?" he answered. "I loved her until the end, all the while knowing that she returned my love. Or at least, believing it without a shadow of doubt. But I did not tell her how I felt. It would have been the height of impropriety for a servant to marry a lady of her status. Even if she had accepted my proposal, I could not bear to throw such disgrace upon her. Goodness knows, her family had already endured enough scandal and impropriety in the past. Her name had only regained its honor through her father's wisdom and charity. I was not about to bring fresh shame upon her."

As stern as he usually seemed, Sebastian did have a heart; a heart which had once loved and broken, and a heart which could still love again. There was enough goodness inside of the old man to make him care about a child like Timothy. After they drank their tea, Sebastian walked the little boy to the foot of the attic stairs and sent him to bed.

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