While the milk rattled and rushed upon the bottom of his empty pail, uncle Nathan kept quiet, leaning his head against the cow, and thinking over the pleasant ideas that little Mary had aroused in his kind heart. Unconsciously wishing to share those thoughts with his sister, he had driven his cow close to hers that they might converse together. Hannah took no notice of his presence, however, but went on filling her pail so rapidly, that it began to foam over the edge. When her brother saw this, and knew by the soft, feathery sound that she had nearly finished, he stooped down, and with his dear old face just visible under the cow, called out, "I say, Hannah, what do you think of her?" Did the vicious animal start? Or what was it that made the stern woman shriek out, and wheel round so sharply on her stool? "Why, Hannah, did I frighten her! has she kicked again?" cried uncle Nathan, surprised by the sharp action and wild look that she cast back upon him. "Yes, she did start," answered aunt Hannah, rising and taking up the pail, now quite full, which made her waver to and fro, a singular weakness which no one had ever witnessed in her before. "But you ain't frightened, sister; nothing can frighten you," said Nathan, soothingly. "No, but you asked something, what is it." "Only, how you liked her?" "Her!--who?" "Why, Mary Fuller, our little girl, you know." "You are thinking of her then." "Why, yes, Hannah, I can't think of anything else. Isn't she a nice little creature?" "Yes!" "How handy she was about the breakfast, I shouldn't wonder now if all the dishes are washed up by the time we get back." "Do you think so!" said aunt Hannah, gazing down into her foaming pail so steadily, that even uncle Nathan could see that she was not thinking of anything so trivial as her morning's work. "Hannah," he said, "what has come over you! you seem so strange since this little girl came. You scarcely speak." "Do I ever speak much?" she answered. "No," said uncle Nathan with a sigh, "but now something has gone wrong--what is it? don't you like to keep the child?" "Yes, I like it." "She will be a help to you." "Yes, I think so--of course she must." "And company for me--for us both." "For you, yes--as for me, brother, I have no company, good or bad, but my own thoughts." She spoke with some feeling, her voice shook, her hard eyes wavered as they turned towards her brother. In years Nathan had not seen her so moved. Why was it? What was there in the coming of a helpless child beneath their roof, to disturb the composure of a woman like that? As the good man sat upon his stool, pondering over these thoughts, for he was too much surprised for speech, she hung her stool upon a limb of the apple-tree, and moved towards the house, stooping more than usual beneath the weight of her milk-pail.