"Hasn't he told you, Hannah?"
"Yes, he wants us to keep this little thing in yonder, and let others pay us for it. I don't sell kindness—do you, Nathan?"
"No, no, certainly not; but then, Hannah, you must reflect; the Judge's own house is not exactly suited for a person like this little girl; and if we don't take her who will?"
The woman stood musing, her cold face unchanged, her eyes cast thoughtfully downward.
"You see, sister," persisted uncle Nathan, "this little girl isn't as the Judge says, a sort of person to make a pet of, like the one Mrs. Farnham has adopted."
Aunt Hannah started, and looked up with one of those sharp glances, that we have once seen disturb the cold monotony of her face. There was something in the name of Mrs. Farnham, that seemed to sting her into life.
"She isn't handsome, you know," persisted the good man, "but you won't care for that, Hannah. The Judge says she's a bright, good little creature, and she'll be company for us, don't you think so?"
Aunt Hannah looked at the Judge, who stood regarding her with some degree of anxiety.
"Judge," she said, "that woman yonder? She is rich, and these two children loved each other—why did she send this girl to me?"
"She did not; I brought her without her knowledge," said the Judge.
"Young Farnham first suggested it."