his face to hers, 'be fond of him for my sake. Tell him how I
love him still, and how much I loved you; and when I think that you two
are together, and are happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give you
pain by doing wrong--indeed I never will!'

The child suffered him to move her hands, and put them round his neck.
There was a tearful silence, but it was not long before she looked upon
him with a smile, and promised him, in a very gentle, quiet voice, that
she would stay, and be his friend, as long as Heaven would let her. He
clapped his hands for joy, and thanked her many times; and being
charged to tell no person what had passed between them, gave her an
earnest promise that he never would.

Nor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her quiet
companion in all her walks and musings, and never again adverted to the
theme, which he felt had given her pain, although he was unconscious of
its cause. Something of distrust lingered about him still; for he
would often come, even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid voice
outside the door to know if she were safe within; and being answered
yes, and bade to enter, would take his station on a low stool at her
feet, and sit there patiently until they came to seek, and take him
home. Sure as the morning came, it found him lingering near the house
to ask if she were well; and, morning, noon, or night, go where she
would, he would forsake his playmates and his sports to bear her
company.

'And a good little friend he is, too,' said the old sexton to her once.
'When his elder brother died--elder seems a strange word, for he was
only seven years old--I remember this one took it sorely to heart.'

The child thought of what the schoolmaster had told her, and felt how
its truth was shadowed out even in this infant.

'It has given him something of a quiet way, I think,' said the old man,
'though for that he is merry enough at times. I'd wager now that you
and he have been listening by the old well.'

'Indeed we have not,' the child replied. 'I have been afraid to go
near it; for I am not often down in that part of the church, and do not
know the ground.'

'Come down with me,' said the old man. 'I have known it from a boy.
Come!'

They descended the narrow steps which led into the crypt, and paused
among the gloomy arches, in a dim and murky spot.

'This is the place,' said the old man. 'Give me your hand while you
throw back the cover, lest you should s