He released his hold on my coat, and sobbing violently, went with the red-faced woman. I hurried back from the apothecary's, and seating myself on the one rickety chair by her bedside, gave the sick woman the restorative. She soon revived, and then, in broken sentences, and in a low, weak voice, pausing every now and then to rest or to weep, she told me her story. Weaving into it some details which I gathered from others after her death, I give it to the reader as she outlined it to me. She was the only daughter of a well-to-do farmer in the town of B----, New-Hampshire. Her mother died when she was a child, and left her to the care of a paternal aunt, who became her father's housekeeper. This aunt, like her father, was of a cold, hard nature, and had no love for children. She was, however, an exemplary, pious woman. She denied herself every luxury, and would sit up late of nights to braid straw and knit socks, that she might send tracts and hymn-books to the poor heathen; but she never gave a word of sympathy, or a look of love to the young being that was growing up by her side. The little girl needed kindness and affection, as much as plants need the sun; but the good aunt had not these to give her. When the child was six years old, she was sent to the district-school. There she met a little boy not quite five years her senior, and they soon became warm friends. He was a brave, manly lad, and she thought no one was ever so good, or so handsome as he. Her young heart found in him what it craved for--some one to lean on and to love, and she loved him with all the strength of her child-nature. He was very kind to her. Though his home was a mile away, he came every morning to take her to school, and in the long summer vacations he almost lived at her father's house. And thus four years flew away--flew as fast as years that are winged with youth and love always fly--and though her father was harsh, and her aunt cold and stern, she did not know a grief, or shed a tear in all that time. One day, late in summer, toward the close of those four years, John--that was his name--came to her, his face beaming all over with joy, and said: 'O Fanny! I am going--going to Boston. Father [he was a richer man than her father] has got me into a great store there--a great store, and I'm to stay till I'm twenty-one--they won't pay me hardly any thing--only fifty dollars the first year, and twenty-five more every other year--but father says it's a great store, and it'll be the making of me.' And he danced and sung for joy, but she wept in bitter grief.