aunt. Her mother had died a good many years ago,
"when Johnnie was a mere baby." She "kept house for father, and took care
of Johnnie." She "tried hard not to have father feel his loss. It was
very hard," she added, gravely, "for a man to be left alone so." She had
bought a little book for Johnnie, but she never had much time to read;
besides she wasn't quick to learn. She could pick the words out, to be
sure, but, somehow, it didn't make good sense, and would I read the book
to her?

Oh, to take counsel of my own despair! How dark and wild it was growing
outside! Where was I going? whom should I meet there?

And so I read, at the foot of gorgeously-illuminated pages, how--

"Henny Penny and Ducky Lucky got started for the fair,
When Goosie Poosie and Turkey Lurkey went out to view the air," etc.,

the range of characters swiftly widening as the narrative increased in
power. To my surprise, the mature child listened to this nonsense with
the utmost gravity and interest. No shadow of derision played on her
attentive features. When I had finished--it was soon finished--she
said:--

"Oh, that sounded so good; it made such good sense," and sighed, very
wistfully.

"Do you want me to read it again?" I exclaimed, in despair.

_Would_ I read it again? she asked.

I read it again.

After that she was silent and thoughtful for some time. Then she said,
looking gravely into my face:--

"Do you love Jesus?"

"No, my dear," said I, surprised into much gentleness.

The faded blue eyes filled with tears. She had no notion of harassing me
on the subject, but spoke quietly and at length of her own religious
convictions.

The east wind crept in through the window, and once my little companion
shivered. I noticed that she was rather thinly clad. I unstrapped my
shawl and wrapped it around her. She let her head fall at my side, and
went to sleep. Slowly, I was constrained to draw her up closer and put
my arm around her as support. In so doing, I received from some source
an unaccountable strength and calm of spirit.

At Braintree, which the child had told me was her home, I woke her up,
and she got off.

I was to stop at West Wallen, the railway station least remote from
Kedarville, and expected there to meet Mrs. Philander Keeler, or some
member of that mysterious family, to convey me to Wallencamp.

It seemed as though the train had had time to travel the whole
interminable length of the Cape, and plunge of