child, a little light-haired boy, upon his
knee.

"Come, Mr. Chester," said the woman who
had served out the refreshments, "you mustn't
give way—you must keep up. Poor little Will
will want your help, for a good many years
to come, before he 'll be man enough to get
his own living."

"No, Mrs. Frampton," replied the man.
"I won't fret too much. But this is very
sudden. Three weeks ago, before I sailed
down the river last time, I left her alive and
well. You know how fond I was of her. I
have hardly any relatives living of my own;
but, if she had been my own born sister,
instead of my poor, dear brother's widow, I
couldn't have loved her more."

"Well, well!" said the woman; "your
kindness to her, and the little money you
allowed her every month, made her life
comfortable to the last. And now to-day you've
done your duty by her; paid your last
respects to her memory, as I may say, and
so you have nothing to reproach yourself
with. I am sure she couldn't have a better
grave—a nice gravelly soil."

"Did she seem to suffer much in her
illness?" inquired the man.

"Oh no! not at all. She did n't think she
was so nigh, till the day before she died; and
then she began to wander—called me John,
thinking me to be you; and begged me to
take care of her boy. Then, when that
lady sitting there asked her if she knew her,
just to try whether she was sensible, she rose
up in the bed and stared at her, and said,
'You are my husband's spirit. I needn't ask
you to watch over our boy, and keep him
from temptation, that he may come at last
before God with a pure heart.'"

"That's correct," said the old woman
referred to; "likewise trying to clutch my
bonnet, and staring dreadfully."

"Ah, poor soul!" exclaimed Mrs. Frampton,
"she's better provided for, now, than any
of us. She was a good woman, and paid
her way; which, I may say, is the outward
sign of a good woman. All Eton knows
that."

Eleven respectable witnesses simultaneously
bore testimony in the name of all Eton to the
good character of the deceased, and the truth
of Mrs. Frampton's observations. But John
Chester's heart was too full to note their last
remark. The account which they gave of his
sister-in-law, mindful of him as she approached
her end, had touched him more than all; and
the tears were trickling down his face.

"There," said Mrs. Frampton, "I'll not
speak any more about it. Don't be giving
way like that—don't."

"I'm not giving way," he replied.

"You are giving way. You are questioning
God's Providence, which is a sin."

"Well, then, I won't," he replied. "I'll
tell you what, Mrs. Frampton. You see, the
barge is laden, and I must be gone to London;
so, if you will take charge of the boy till I
return, we can then arrange matters."

"Oh, sir!" she replied, "I wanted to say
to you—though I didn't mean to talk of
business to-day—but I wanted to say, that I
would be glad to take the shop myself.
You know the business is small, but it will
be a help to me."

"You shall have it, Mrs. Frampton," said
he, "and what's in it. I know you were a
good friend to my sister; and so that's
settled. As to the rent, we 'll agree about
that by-and-by. And now you are going
to stay here, I think you had better take
charge of the child altogether. You will
keep him at school, and charge me with
everything."

"Oh yes, sir;" she replied. "Indeed I 'll
bring him up as if he was my own."

Shortly afterwards, the female mourners,
with the exception of Mrs. Frampton,
departed, secretly whispering among themselves
that the latter was a very artful and designing
woman; and that John Chester would
do well to mind what he was about. Mrs.
Frampton, however, was a simple, honest
person, a little tedious in her discourse, but
anxious, as she said, " to do her duty by
everybody." The child became a frank and
honest youth under her care; and in after
years, when the memory of his mother
became less distinct, and the expression of
her features was forgotten,—and even that
terrible day, when with a child's curiosity he
lifted the covering from her face, timidly,
when no one was looking, and saw her lying
still, grew less like a recollection than something
that had been told him in his infancy,
he felt towards his second mother all the
affection of a son; and she, in her turn,
loved him as if he had been her own.

His uncle came to see him every time the
barge returned to Eton, bringing often with
him some gift for Mrs. Frampton or the boy,
and hearing him read out of the Bible, with
pride at the progress that he made.

Sometimes, in school holidays, he took him
down the river in the barge, returning in a
few days. It was on one of these occasions
that they set out early one tine summer morning,
the child being then about ten years old.
The barge, newly painted, was loosened from
her moorings against the bridge, and floated
slowly down the river, while John Chester
and the apprentice raised up the great tawny
sail, by means of a windlass at the head.
They were laden with malt, in sacks below,
and the deck was clean, and everything upon
it stowed away in an orderly manner. John
Chester was steering, and the child sat beside
him, watching the cattle in the fields, and the
long rows of willows moving slowly on either
side. Above, the huge sail was flapping
lazily, and the ripples on the water kept up a
gentle tapping upon the bows. In the afternoon
the mainsail was lowered again, and the
barge swerving, came alongside an island in