Annie glanced up at her Granny, and saw that the dimness came from something besides age, for the eyes of Janet were brimful of tears which were ready to flow over. Annie read out as follows:— "Dear Granny, I am very sorry indeed that the pig is dead, and you in such trouble, but I hope that things will be brighter soon. I have hardly a minute for writing, but will soon let you hear again. I wish you and Annie a happy New Year, and send lots of love to you both; from your loving grandson, Joseph." "Is that all?" asked Janet almost fiercely. "I have not missed a word," replied Annie. She spoke sadly for she was as much disappointed as her Granny could be, though she was not, like her, angry besides. "Then you may just fling that letter into the fire after the rotten nuts!" exclaimed Janet, trembling with vexation. "After all I wrote to him about the potatoes and the rent, to think of his not sending so much as a sixpence to his Granny, who nursed him when sick, and fed him and cared for him—ungrateful, selfish fellow that he is!" "Oh! Granny," interrupted the poor little sister, who could not bear to hear such hard words spoken of Joe. "He 'is' selfish," repeated old Janet. "Did he not buy himself a silver watch last summer, I guess that cost him a pretty bit of money, enough to clear off my debt for rent—and more. Think of his buying himself a watch, and leaving his Granny and his sister to be turned out of doors for want of a couple of pounds! 'Lots of love' he sends us, does he! I'd not give a crooked pin for such love! I like proofs, real proofs of love. I've given him many many such, though now he forgets them all!" Poor Janet put her thin hands before her face to hide the big drops that were now running fast down her wrinkled cheeks. "Granny, do let us 'trust' Joe," said Annie softly. "Perhaps he could not send any money, he may have spent all before he heard of your trouble." "He might have written so then," said Janet, drying her eyes. "No, no, in the fine big house in London he forgets all about the poor little cottage which was his home for many a day. While he feasts like a lord with meat twice a day, what does it matter to him if we have not so much as a bit of bacon even on Sundays? He might have thought of 'you,' Annie, my poor child, if my trouble was nothing to him." "I am 'sure' that Joe loves me," said Annie firmly, her cheeks flushing red at the thought that any one should doubt it.