"Father," said Faithie, with her most coaxing little smile, "please just take this bit of paper and pencil, and set down these stocks and things, will you?" The little smile worked its way; and half in idleness, half in acquiescence, Mr. Gartney took the pencil and noted down a short list of items. "It's very little, Faith, you see." They ran thus: New York Central Railroad 20 shares. Michigan Central " 15 " Kinnicutt Branch " 10 " Mishaumok Insurance Co. 15 " Merchants Bank 30 " "And now, father, please put down how much you get a year in dividends." "Not always the same, little busybody." Nevertheless he noted down the average sums. And the total was between six and seven hundred dollars. "But that isn't all. You've got other things. Why, there's the house at Cross Corners." "Yes, but I can't let it, you know." "What used you to get for it?" "Two hundred and fifty. For house and land." "And you own this house, too, father?" "Yes. This is your mother's." "How much rent would this bring?" Mr. Gartney turned around and looked at his daughter. He began to see there was a meaning in her questions. And as he caught her eye, he read, or discerned without fully reading, a certain eager kindling there. "Why, what has come over you, Faithie, to set you catechising so?" Faith laughed. "Just answer this, please, and I won't ask a single question more to-night." "About the rent? Why, this house ought to bring six hundred, certainly. And now, if the court will permit, I'll read the news." About a week after this, in the latter half of one of those spring days that come with a warm breath to tell that summer is glowing somewhere, and that her face is northward, Aunt Faith Henderson came out upon the low, vine-latticed stoop of her house in Kinnicutt. Up the little footpath from the road--across the bit of greensward that lay between it and the stoop--came a quick, noiseless step, and there was a touch, presently, on the old lady's arm. Faith Gartney stood beside her, in trim straw bonnet and shawl, with a black leather bag upon her arm. "Auntie! I've come to make you a tiny little visit! Till day after to-morrow." "Faith Gartney! However came you here? And in such a fashion, too, without a word of warning, like--an angel from Heaven!" "I came up in the cars, auntie! I felt just like it! Will you keep me?" "Glory! Glory McWhirk!" Like the good Vicar of Wakefield, Aunt Henderson liked often to give the whole name; and calling, she disappeared round the corner of the stoop, without ever a word of more assured welcome. "Put on the teapot again, and make a slice of toast." The good lady's voice, going on with further directions, was lost in the intricate threading of the inner maze of the singular old dwelling, and Faith followed her as far as the first apartment, where she set down her bag and removed her bonnet.