All this time Christmas was drawing near, and strange, unusual feelings began to stir in Miss Bennett’s heart, though generally she did not think much about that happy time.  She wanted to make Hetty a happy day.  Money she had none, so she went into the garret, where her youthful treasures had long been hidden.  From the chest from which she had taken the books she now took a small box of light-coloured wood, with a transferred engraving on the cover.  With a sigh—­for the sight of it brought up old memories—­Miss Bennett lifted the cover by its loop of ribbon, took out a package of old letters, and went downstairs with the box, taking also a few bits of bright silk from a bundle in the chest.

“I can fit it up for a workbox,” she said, “and I’m sure Hetty will like it.”

For many days after this Miss Bennett had her secret work, which she carefully hid when she saw Hetty coming.  Slowly, in this way, she made a pretty needle-book, a tiny pincushion, and an emery bag like a big strawberry.  Then from her own scanty stock she added needles, pins, thread, and her only pair of small scissors, scoured to the last extreme of brightness.

One thing only she had to buy—­a thimble, and that she bought for a penny, of brass so bright it was quite as handsome as gold.

Very pretty the little box looked when full; in the bottom lay a quilted lining, which had always been there, and upon this the fittings she had made.  Besides this, Miss Bennett knit a pair of mittens for each of Hetty’s brothers and sisters.

The happiest girl in town on Christmas morning was Hetty Stanley.  To begin with, she had the delight of giving the mittens to the children, and when she ran over to tell Miss Bennett how pleased they were, she was surprised by the present of the odd little workbox and its pretty contents.

Christmas was over all too soon, and New Year’s, and it was about the middle of January that the time came which, all her life, Miss Bennett had dreaded—­the time when she should be helpless.  She had not money enough to hire a girl, and so the only thing she could imagine when that day should come was her special horror—­the poorhouse.

But that good deed of hers had already borne fruit, and was still bearing.  When Hetty came over one day, and found her dear friend lying on the floor as if dead, she was dreadfully frightened, of course, but she ran after the neighbours and the doctor, and bustled about the house as if she belonged to it.

Miss Bennett was not dead—­she had a slight stroke of paralysis; and though she was soon better, and would be able to talk, and probably to knit, and possibly to get about the house, she would never be able to live alone and do everything for herself, as she had done.

So the doctor told the neighbours who came in to help, and so Hetty heard, as she listened eagerly for news.

“Of course she can’t live here any longer; she’ll have to go to a hospital,” said one woman.