"Is she coming here to live?" broke in low, stern tones from those cold lips. "Yes, I heard her say that she was," replied the little girl, gently, warmed by a touch of sympathy; for even this stern betrayal of feeling was less repulsive than the chill apathy of her previous manner. "And this Isabel. Is the girl hers?" "No, not hers, she is like me--no, not like me--only in having no father and mother--for Isabel is--oh, how beautiful." "And what is she doing here?" questioned the woman, still in her stern, low tones. "Mrs. Farnham has adopted her," answered the child, "and no wonder; anybody would like to have Isabel for a child." "Why?" "Because she is lovely." "Why didn't she adopt you?" said the woman, without a change in her voice. "Me, ma'am! Oh, how could she?" The child, as she spoke, spread her little hands abroad, and looked downward as was her touching habit, when her person was brought in question. The woman stood in the centre of the room, pale, and still gazing upon that singular little face, with a degree of intensity of which its former coldness seemed incapable. At last she strode up to the window, and putting her hand on Mary's forehead, bent back her head, while she perused her face. "And who will adopt you?" she said, at length, as if communing with herself. "I don't know," said the child, sadly. "When I came here I thought perhaps this house was the one that Mr. Sharp expected me to live in." The woman continued her gaze during some seconds, then her hand dropped away from the throbbing little forehead, and she returned to her seat. That moment the door opened, and Enoch Sharp looked through, with a smile that penetrated into the room like a sunbeam. "Come, aunt Hannah," he said, "we can do nothing without you." CHAPTER XXIX. AUNT HANNAH AND UNCLE NATHAN. The apple trees were all growing old, And old was the house that sheltered him; But that brave, warm heart, was a heart of gold! Though his head was grey, and his eyes were dim. Aunt Hannah arose, and walked with a precise and firm step from the room. Enoch Sharp led the way into a low back porch that overlooked that portion of the garden devoted to vegetables. In one end of this porch stood a huge cheese-press; and on the dresser opposite, a wooden churn was turned bottom up, with the dasher leaning against it. Several milking-pails of wood, scoured to a spotless whiteness, were ranged on each side, while nicely kept strainers hung over them. There was a faint, pure smell of the dairy near, as if the porch opened to a butter and cheese-room; but the exquisite cleanliness of everything around made this rather agreeable than otherwise.