were so patient with me, and took such pains
to teach me, that I knew not when I learned
them. Indeed, I am not the ungrateful girl
you think me—nor have I forgotten one of
all those kind ways that have made you
dearer to me than ever brother could be."

Her companion strove to speak, but his
voice was husky, and almost inaudible, and
he paused to speak with greater calmness;
but Annie rose suddenly from her seat, and
going to him sobbing, laid her head upon his
shoulder.

"Oh, William, how can I go away
to-morrow after this? You will break my
heart. Why have you chosen this night to
make me so unhappy? Tell me, only, what it
is that I have done?"

"Nothing, nothing," he replied, soothing
her. "You are a good girl, and it was very
cruel of me to reproach you. It was because
I thought of your leaving me to-morrow, and
you seemed to be so glad to go! while I,
Annie—I know no rest for thinking of it."

"And was this all? I never once thought
that my going grieved you; knowing, too,
your affection for old Mrs. Frampton, and
that I go for her sake chiefly. Besides you
never said a word of this before."

"I could not speak to you before," he
answered, "though the words were always on
my lips. I saw you always cheerful,—heard
you talk of going so lightly, that I thought
you were no longer like my old playmate, and
I shrank from speaking to you, lest my dream
should be utterly gone. Listen, Annie. I
I have no time for further trifling—to-morrow
you go from me, I know not for how long.
In all this time that we have been together,
although I knew no pleasure like the being
with you, I never knew till now how dear
you were to me. I will never call you again
my 'sister Annie,' for I know now that I love
you with a different love to that of any
brother; and but for the hope of being one
day something more to you than brother, I
could not bear to part with you. Speak, then
—I know not what I would have you say—
—something that I may think of when you are
gone some word that I may cherish more
than any gift or keepsake, till we meet again."

Annie made no answer, but turned her face
from him, and slowly drew her hand from
his; while he sat motionless, stretching forth
his hand, as if he held her still, and watching
her. She lingered a moment, and then
returning to her seat, sat down again, and with
her face between her hands, sobbed deeper
than before.

"It is, then, as I feared," said her
companion. " Oh, Annie, Annie! this night, for
me, divides the future from the past for ever.
I did not dream of this till lately. You were
so good and kind to me, how could I think
of making distinctions between this or that
love? It was enough that you were always
with me, and I was happy; but to-night I
learn the truth."

"No, no," sobbed Annie; " it is not that.
Let me go in now. I will talk to you to-
morrow, before I go. Indeed, I like no one
on earth better than you. I do not know
what more you would have me say; but do
not ask me more to-night. You have made
me very unhappy, though I do not reproach
you for it."

The young basket-maker sat long after she
was gone, musing upon her words. In spite
of all she had said of her affection for him, he
felt that she did not love him. Gratitude
she spoke of, and the warmest friendship; but
he knew that had she really loved him, her
manner would have been far different. He
wondered how it was that he had not
discovered this before; and yet it was not
strange. "I see it all now," he said; "because
I was always by her side, I did not know how
deeply I loved her; and she, for the same
reason, has never thought upon her feeling,
until now she finds she does not love me,
though she would." He rose and walked
about the garden, pondering upon their
acquaintance, and calling to mind a hundred
things which seemed to confirm his belief.
It was getting late, but he waited, watching
for a light at Annie's bed-room window; for
he did not wish to meet her again that night.
He looked again and again, but he did not
see one, though it was past her bed-time;
when, suddenly, as he turned to walk once
more in the garden, he heard her footstep
behind him.

"I have stolen out to speak to you again,"
she said; "I could not rest till I had told
you that I have been thinking over all that
you have said, and that I am sure that I love
you dearly. Indeed, I know not why I
behaved to you as I did, except that you
surprised me, and I hardly knew what I said.
Come, then, and let us never make each other
unhappy again."

"Dear, good, kind Annie," said William
Chester. "I think I read your thoughts, and
know them better than you do yourself. God
bless you for them. I will never reproach
you again."

"Come, then," said Annie; "my father has
been asking for you, many times, and will
wonder at my absence. Let us go in-doors."

He followed her into the cottage, and, without
going into the room where her father was
sitting, went up to bed. He lay awake till
day-break, thinking over all that she had
said; then falling into a happy sleep, he
wandered back, and lived again in the old
times.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

The gap in the household of the basket-
maker, occasioned by the departure of Annie,
was filled by her sister, the lace-worker from
Marlow. She was, as we have said,
something like Annie; but there was a readiness
in her speech, and a liveliness in all her
movements, that contrasted strangely with her