he cottage.

Betty's bed had been moved into the kitchen, for the sake of
light and air. He glanced at the corner where it stood with
almost a feeling of awe, as he followed his cousin on tip-toe. It
was all he could do to recognize the pale, drawn face which lay
on the coarse pillow. The rush of old memories which the sight
called up, and the thought of the suffering of his poor old
friend touched him deeply.

Katie went to the bed-side, and, stooping down, smoothed the
pillow, and placed her hand for a moment on the forehead of her
patient. Then she looked up, and beckoned to him, and said, in
her low, clear voice,--

"Betty, here is an old friend come to see you; my cousin, Squire
Brown's son. You remember him quite a little boy?"

The old woman moved her head towards the voice, and smiled, but
gave no further sign of recognition. Tom stole across the floor,
and sat down by the bed-side.

"Oh, yes, Betty," he said, leaning towards her and speaking
softly, "you must remember me. Master Tom who used to come to
your cottage on baking days for hot bread, you know."

"To be sure I minds un, bless his little heart," said the old
woman faintly. "Hev he come to see poor Betty? Do'ee let un com',
and lift un up so as I med see un. My sight be getting dim-like."

"Here he is, Betty," said Tom, taking her hand--a hardworking
hand, lying there with the skin all puckered from long and daily
acquaintance with the washing-tub--"I'm Master Tom."

"Ah, dearee me," she said slowly, looking at him with lustreless
eyes. "Well, you be growed into a fine young gentleman, surely.
And how's the Squire and Madam Brown, and all the fam'ly?"

"Oh, very well, Betty,--they will be so sorry to hear of your
illness."

"But there ain't no hot bread for un. 'Tis ill to bake wi' no fuz
bushes, and the bakers' stuff is poor for hungry folk."

"I'm within three months as old as your Harry, you know," said
Tom, trying to lead her back to the object of his visit.

"Harry," she repeated, and then collecting herself went on, "our
Harry; where is he? They haven't sent un to prison, and his
mother a dyin'?"

"Oh, no, Betty; he will be here directly. I came to ask whether
there is anything I can do for you."

"You'll stand by un, poor buoy--our Harry, as you used to play
wi' when you was little--'twas they as aggravated un so he
couldn't abear it, afore ever he'd a struck a fly."

"Yes, Betty; I will see that he has fair play. Don't troub