"Did you take a long walk?" Jessie asked, apparently anxious to turn my thoughts from the painful theme upon which she supposed them to be dwelling. "Yes, very long, Jessie; I have been over to old Mrs. Bosworth's." She looked at me in astonishment. "Why, you hardly know the ladies! How came you to go there, Aunt Matty?" "The old lady sent for me." "Sent for you!" interrupted Jessie, in wonder and displeasure, while her great eyes gave me a searching glance. "Young Bosworth is very sick, and he wished so much to see me that his grandmother put aside all ceremony, and desired me to go as soon as possible." Jessie turned very pale while I spoke, and leaned heavily against the arm of my chair. "Was it sudden?" she asked, trembling. "Has he been sick long, Matty?" "For several days, I believe." I had not the heart to tell her that he was stricken down the very day after his last visit to her father's house, lest she should accuse herself as the cause. "What is the matter?" "He has brain-fever, Jessie." She uttered a cry. "Oh! Aunt Matty! Aunt Matty!" "I hope he is not in great danger," I said, anxious to soothe her. "He was able to talk with me, and he had a comfortable sleep." She put her hands in mine, with a look so beseeching and helpless, that I answered as if she had spoken. "He asked for you," I said. "He wants to see you, Jessie." She shrunk back, and held up her hands like a child pleading for pity. "Oh! I cannot go! indeed I cannot!" "That is unlike you, Jessie. I did not think you would have refused a sick friend any request!" "Don't blame me--please don't! I would do anything for him; but, indeed, I have not the courage to go there." "Why, what do you fear, my child? I am sure he would not for the world speak a syllable that could pain you." "I know that, Aunt Matty--I am certain of it." "Then what is it?" "Old Mrs. Bosworth has such a stately way; so soft, yet decided. She will look at me so sharply." "I found her very kind and grateful." "But she may think that I have done wrong." "She is too just, too noble, Jessie, to blame any one for that which was not a fault." "Oh, Aunt Matty! even you speak and look so grave! I cannot bear it--indeed I cannot!" I was softened at once. How could I speak so coldly to my Jessie, while she stood there trembling, with her great eyes full of tears. "My own darling!" I said, quickly. "You know I could never feel anything but love for you. Don't shake so, dear! We won't speak of this, if it troubles you." "No, no! I ought to hear--I must not be so weak." She struggled against her feelings, brushed away her tears, and stood up so firm and determined, that I felt a new respect for her. It was beautiful to see how the true womanhood that lay at the bottom of her nature roused itself, and asserted its supremacy in that moment of doubt and distress. "You are a brave girl!" I exclaimed,--"my dear, honest-hearted Jessie!"