The next day Miss Bennett sat at the window knitting, as usual—­for her constant contribution to the poor fund of the church was a certain number of stockings and mittens—­when she saw a young girl coming up to the door of the cottage.

“Who can that be?” she said to herself.  “I never saw her before.  Come in!” she called; in answer to a knock.  The girl entered, and walked up to Miss Bennett.

“Are you Miss Bennett?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Miss Bennett with an amused smile,

“Well, I’m Hetty Stanley.”

Miss Bennett started, and her colour grew a little brighter.

“I’m glad to see you, Hetty.” she said, “won’t you sit down?”

“Yes, if you please,” said Hetty, taking a chair near her.

“I came to tell you how much we love you for—­”

“Oh, don’t! don’t say any more!” interrupted Miss Bennett; “never mind that!  Tell me about your mother and your baby brother.”

This was an interesting subject, and they talked earnestly about it.  The time passed so quickly that, before she knew it, she had been in the house an hour.  When she went away Miss Bennett asked her to come again, a thing she had never been known to do before, for she was not fond of young people in general.

“But, then, Hetty’s different,” she said to herself, when wondering at her own interest.

“Did you thank kind Miss Bennett?” was her mother’s question as Hetty opened the door.

Hetty stopped as if struck, “Why, no!  I don’t think I did.”

“And stayed so long, too?  Whatever did you do?  I’ve heard she isn’t fond of people generally.”

“We talked; and—­I think she’s ever so nice.  She asked me to come again; may I?”

“Of course you may, if she cares to have you.  I should be glad to do something to please her.”

That visit of Hetty’s was the first of a long series.  Almost every day she found her way to the lonely cottage, where a visitor rarely came, and a strange intimacy grew up between the old and the young.  Hetty learned of her friend to knit, and many an hour they spent knitting while Miss Bennett ransacked her memory for stories to tell.  And then, one day, she brought down from a big chest in the garret two of the books she used to have when she was young, and let Hetty look at them.

One was “Thaddeus of Warsaw,” and the other “Scottish Chiefs.”  Poor Hetty had not the dozens of books you have, and these were treasures indeed.  She read them to herself, and she read them aloud to Miss Bennett, who, much to her own surprise, found her interest almost as eager as Hetty’s.