“Why, Mat? do you like England so much better?”
“No, I don’t think I do, since you said I might stay here.”
“Yes, I would rather you would stay,” said Annie, as she went on rapidly with her knitting. “I should not like to think that the man who risked his life to save mine was going away for ever.”
“Miss Annie, do you know that during the whole of that wild, savage life I was leading, I used often to get out a book that I saved, and think of the young lady who gave it me.”
“Was she such a very nice girl, then?” inquired Annie.
“She was—she was Miss Annie Bell!”
“Me! me give you a book! I never did, Mat.”
“I think perhaps you will remember when I show it you.” And Mat went off to his room, and returning presently, laid an old and much-battered copy of “Robinson Crusoe” in her lap.
“There!” he said triumphantly.
“I do remember it,” said Annie, after looking at the old yellow-leaved volume. “I gave it you in the forest, when I was a school-girl.”