any more!" interrupted Miss Bennett; "never mind
that! Tell me about your mother and your baby brother."

This was an interesting subject, and they talked earnestly about it. The
time passed so quickly that, before she knew it, she had been in the
house an hour. When she went away Miss Bennett asked her to come again,
a thing she had never been known to do before, for she was not fond of
young people in general.

"But, then, Hetty's different," she said to herself, when wondering at
her own interest.

"Did you thank kind Miss Bennett?" was her mother's question as Hetty
opened the door.

Hetty stopped as if struck, "Why, no! I don't think I did."

"And stayed so long, too? Whatever did you do? I've heard she isn't fond
of people generally."

"We talked; and--I think she's ever so nice. She asked me to come again;
may I?"

"Of course you may, if she cares to have you. I should be glad to do
something to please her."

That visit of Hetty's was the first of a long series. Almost every day
she found her way to the lonely cottage, where a visitor rarely came,
and a strange intimacy grew up between the old and the young. Hetty
learned of her friend to knit, and many an hour they spent knitting
while Miss Bennett ransacked her memory for stories to tell. And then,
one day, she brought down from a big chest in the garret two of the
books she used to have when she was young, and let Hetty look at them.

One was "Thaddeus of Warsaw," and the other "Scottish Chiefs." Poor
Hetty had not the dozens of books you have, and these were treasures
indeed. She read them to herself, and she read them aloud to Miss
Bennett, who, much to her own surprise, found her interest almost as
eager as Hetty's.

All this time Christmas was drawing near, and strange, unusual feelings
began to stir in Miss Bennett's heart, though generally she did not
think much about that happy time. She wanted to make Hetty a happy day.
Money she had none, so she went into the garret, where her youthful
treasures had long been hidden. From the chest from which she had taken
the books she now took a small box of light-coloured wood, with a
transferred engraving on the cover. With a sigh--for the sight of it
brought up old memories--Miss Bennett lifted the cover by its loop of
ribbon, took out a package of old letters, and went downstairs with the
box, taking also a few bits of bright silk from a bundle in the chest.

"I can fit it up for a workbox," she s