It was Bessie Lane. One June day, on her way to school, a sudden dash of
rain had driven the child there for shelter. And ever since, the happy
little girl, with flaxen hair and clear eyes, would go to the forsaken
old house to chat with Aunt Ruth. As that springing step was heard, and
the latch lifted, there would come a gleam of brightness to the faded
eyes, and a smile to the thin mouth.

[Illustration: _"A sudden dash of rain had driven the child there for
shelter."_]

The child found ready entrance to the lonely heart; children will, you
know, they are so "queer," as wise old heads sometimes affirm.

"What in the world makes you visit that old hermit?" said Eliza Ray,
her schoolmate, one morning. "Bridget, our hired girl, says she is sure
such a looking old hag must be a witch."

"Witch or not, I like her;" and Bessie Lane tossed up her hat, and
pranced off after a fox squirrel just down the road.

So Bessie kept up her visits, and the two would sit and talk together by
the hour, Aunt Ruth showing her long-treasured trinkets, relics of years
gone by, and detailing their history, till Bessie's eyes would dilate
with wonder.

On this wintry morning, in which we have introduced her to you, sitting
by the dull fire, and looking from the dingy window, the time of
Bessie's absence had been longer than usual. The sky was leaden, and the
wind whistled down the chimney and shook the casements.