sekeeper. This aunt,
like her father, was of a cold, hard nature, and had no love for
children. She was, however, an exemplary, pious woman. She denied
herself every luxury, and would sit up late of nights to braid straw and
knit socks, that she might send tracts and hymn-books to the poor
heathen; but she never gave a word of sympathy, or a look of love to the
young being that was growing up by her side. The little girl needed
kindness and affection, as much as plants need the sun; but the good
aunt had not these to give her. When the child was six years old, she
was sent to the district-school. There she met a little boy not quite
five years her senior, and they soon became warm friends. He was a
brave, manly lad, and she thought no one was ever so good, or so
handsome as he. Her young heart found in him what it craved for--some
one to lean on and to love, and she loved him with all the strength of
her child-nature. He was very kind to her. Though his home was a mile
away, he came every morning to take her to school, and in the long
summer vacations he almost lived at her father's house. And thus four
years flew away--flew as fast as years that are winged with youth and
love always fly--and though her father was harsh, and her aunt cold and
stern, she did not know a grief, or shed a tear in all that time.

One day, late in summer, toward the close of those four years,
John--that was his name--came to her, his face beaming all over with
joy, and said:

'O Fanny! I am going--going to Boston. Father [he was a richer man than
her father] has got me into a great store there--a great store, and I'm
to stay till I'm twenty-one--they won't pay me hardly any thing--only
fifty dollars the first year, and twenty-five more every other year--but
father says it's a great store, and it'll be the making of me.' And he
danced and sung for joy, but she wept in bitter grief.

Well, five more years rolled away--this time they were not winged as
before--and John came home to spend his two weeks of summer vacation. He
had come every year, but then he said to her what he had never said
before--that which a woman never forgets. He told her that the old
Quaker gentleman, the head of the great house he was with, had taken a
fancy to him, and was going to send him to Europe, in the place of the
junior partner, who was sick, and might never get well. That he should
stay away a year, but when he came back, he was sure the old fellow
would make