village school, in a dilapidated, deserted country store; she occupied the little back room, in which was a fire-place, and I was permitted to take a flask of milk to her every day, as I passed to school; and with what a glad heart I always hurried off in the morning, that I might gather broken brush-wood and dried sticks, for her to kindle her fire with.  Charitable people sent her wood, but it was wet and hard to kindle, and the poor old woman, with her bent back, would go out and painfully gather the dried sticks that lay around her desolate home; but when I came, she would take my book and dinner-basket into her house, and leave me the delight of gathering the sticks.  Ah!  I was happy then—­when I knelt on the rude hearth and blew with my mouth instead of a bellows, the smoking, smouldering wood into a blaze, and heard the loving words that the good old woman lavished upon me.  She loved me—­but not as much as I loved her.  She was my peculiar treasure—­something for me to live for, and think of.  I always left my dinner with her, and at noon returned to eat it with her; though I would feel almost ashamed to spread out the cold meat and bread before her, she looked so much like a lady.

But she always asked a blessing; that was what I never did, and it gave me an awe-stricken feeling, and my meal would have something of a solemn and tender interest—­what with the blessing, and the old woman’s love for me, and mine for her—­and we ate it in a solemn and gloomy room, for there was no table in the little back room, so we used the counter of the old store; and the empty shelves and the closed doors and shutters, with only the light from the back-door, made me often look around shudderingly into the gloom and obscurity of dark corners—­for I abounded in superstitious terrors, and I pitied the poor, lonely old woman for living in such a home more than I ever pitied the cold and hunger she endured.

Often when our dinner was over, I read aloud to her in the Bible.  She could read it herself.  But perhaps she liked to hear the sound of a childish voice, and perhaps she thought that she was doing me good.  Did she do me good? heigho!—­at all events, she left a beautiful memory to gild this dark twilight that grows upon my soul.

But the loving, trusting childhood is gone, and why do I dwell upon it?  Why does its sensitive life yet move and stir in my memory?  Has it aught to do with the cold, dark present?  The Present!  Alas! what a contrast it is to that childish faith!  I almost wish that I could now believe as I did then.  But no. Reason has dissipated the visions and dreams and superstitions of childhood.  It has made unreal to me that which was most real.  In its cold, chilling light, I have looked into the world of tangible facts and possible realities.