Three times that night aunt Hannah went to the front door, to answer the eager questions of young Farnham, who had been wandering for hours in sight of the house. At last, as if struck with sudden compassion, the old lady invited him into the kitchen, and these two seemingly uncongenial persons, sat and conversed together with strange confidence till the day dawned.
When young Farnham arose to go, he took the aged hand of his companion and pressed it to his lips, with a homage to years acquired from abroad. He did not see the blood flush up into that withered face, or the tears that gathered slowly into her eyes; and was therefore, surprised when she arose, and as if actuated by an unconquerable impulse, kissed his forehead.
"Good-bye," she said, in a broken voice, "the poor girl up stairs shall not die for want of nursing."
"How good you are!" said the young man; "how can I ever repay you?"
Aunt Hannah looked at him with strange fondness.
"You paid our debts last night," she said, "or we might have had no home to give this girl."
"That was nothing, never mention it again."
"Nothing, why, boy, it was an act that you shall never forget to your dying day."
"Save her, and that will be an act that I shall never forget."
"Do you love her so much, then?"