from the hot school-room and its daily duties,
the sail down the river, and the opportunity
of seeing again his new acquaintance on the
Ayte, made him long for the next year, and
count the weeks between. In the winter
evenings, when his uncle was absent, he sat
with Mrs. Frampton in the old room where
his mother had died, reading to her, while
she worked; or listening with never-failing
interest to her oft-told tale—the uneventful
story of her life; how a gipsy had foretold
her future husband, long before she had
heard the name of Frampton; how she met
him by the merest accident in the world, and
never thought, till long afterwards, of how
his appearance exactly tallied with the gipsy's
description, having always been a disbeliever
of such tales; how there sprang up a coldness
between them, so that she did not see him for
a long time, till he came again and sought her
out, and finally married her, and settled
her at Eton;—out of which slender materials
she contrived to spin a story, which for length,
had it been written, might have astonished a
professed novelist. Sometimes he would ask
her about his mother, when she would not
check him, as some would have done, but strove
to give him an idea of her manners and appearance.
She even went with him, on Sundays,
sometimes to visit her grave; for she said
that it made her heart ache to think how the
living are unmindful of the dead. Thus
the time of the holidays drew nearer—the
winter passed away—the spring came with
longer days: and, finally, one summer evening
he calculated, and found that it wanted just
three weeks to the wished-for time. His
uncle was again absent, although they expected
his return. It was growing dusk. The boy
sat at the threshold of the door, and Mrs.
Frampton, although she could no longer see
to work—not choosing, upon some theory of
economy peculiar to herself, to light a candle
till it was quite dark, or, as she said, between
the lights—had sat listening to the ticking of
the clock till she could not hear it any longer,
and wondered whether it was stopped; when
suddenly her ear caught it again, and a moment
afterwards missed it once more; and her eyes
shut and opened to look at the bird winking
and standing upon one leg on the cross-stick
of his cage; and finally she nodded, and
fell asleep. Meanwhile her young companion
sat looking at the sky, and watching the tints
that changed and faded still in two long drifts
of cloud; till turning to bid Mrs. Frampton
come and look at them also, he saw that she
slept beside an open window, and, rising,
walked on tiptoe across the room, shut down
the window slowly, so as not to wake her, and
returned. Even in that moment many stars
seemed to have been added; the drifts of
clouds were darker: the walls of the College
Chapel looked more solemn, and the bats were
out.

Looking still at the sky, and wrapped in
childish fancies, he did not hear a footstep
behind him, till a hand was laid upon his
shoulder, and he turned and saw his uncle.

"What, asleep, Will? " said the old man.
"Wake up, and see whether you recollect this
face." Then he saw, for the first time, a girl
standing behind his uncle, and looking closer
into her face, he exclaimed, " Annie!"

"So you have not forgotten her, or her
name? " said the barge-master.

"No, no uncle," said the boy; "and you,
Annie, do you remember me, too?"

"I do not know your name," she replied.,
timidly; "you came to see us in the barge.''

"Where is your mother, boy?" inquired
John Chester, after he had lifted his nephew
up and kissed him.

"Hush! " said he: "she is tired and has
fallen asleep. I was afraid of waking her, so
I sat at the door in the dark, and waited."

The old man entered with the children,
treading lightly; but Mrs. Frampton woke at
the sound of their footsteps. "Oh, it's you,
Mr. Chester? " said she. "How you made me
jump! And what little girl is this?" she
asked, as soon as she had lighted a candle.

"This is Annie Burton, the basket-maker's
daughter, of whom you have heard me speak,"
he replied. "She comes to stay with you for
awhile. She is not very well, poor thing, and
her father thinks the island is not healthy;
so I offered to bring her home, to live at Eton
for a week or too, thinking that the change
might do her good. I saw she did n't look
well, and proposed it first; but Burton said
she should n't come without he paid something
for her board; which I told him flatly he
should n't do. However, I've often told you
what he is—a good creature, but a deal of
pride in him. He said, positively, she should n't
come; and I left him a little out of temper;
but, afterwards, I thought it was a pity the
child should lose a chance of benefit because
we were a couple of old fools; so I went back
and agreed to take the money. It'll not hurt
him, anyway, for he is not a poor man. But
isn't it nonsense to talk of the value of the
board of a child like that? However, I think
I know what was at the bottom of his heart,
though he did n't know it himself. He did n't
want the child to go from him. He carried
her down to the water-side, and it grieved me
to see him part with her. I believe he had
half a mind to take her back. 'Chester,'
said he, 'I wouldn't trust her on the water—
no, not out of my sight—with any man but
you. I know you will take care of her.' I
shook his hand, and he stood looking after us
till I could n't see the island any longer."

"See, Chester," said Mrs. Frampton, "you
have made the child cry. What a thoughtless
man you are to say all that before her!"

"I am a rough old fellow," said he. "I am
always hurting some one's feelings, without
meaning it. Poor little Annie! There, you
know best how to talk to children. Say
something to her, Mrs. Frampton."

"Never mind, Annie," said she, standing