Tell him how I love him still, and how much I loved you; and when I think that you two are together, and are happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give you pain by doing wrong--indeed I never will!' The child suffered him to move her hands, and put them round his neck.
There was a tearful silence, but it was not long before she looked upon him with a smile, and promised him, in a very gentle, quiet voice, that she would stay, and be his friend, as long as Heaven would let her.

He clapped his hands for joy, and thanked her many times; and being charged to tell no person what had passed between them, gave her an earnest promise that he never would.
Nor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her quiet companion in all her walks and musings, and never again adverted to the theme, which he felt had given her pain, although he was unconscious of its cause.

Something of distrust lingered about him still; for he would often come, even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid voice outside the door to know if she were safe within; and being answered yes, and bade to enter, would take his station on a low stool at her feet, and sit there patiently until they came to seek, and take him home.

Sure as the morning came, it found him lingering near the house to ask if she were well; and, morning, noon, or night, go where she would, he would forsake his playmates and his sports to bear her company.
'And a good little friend he is, too,' said the old sexton to her once.
'When his elder brother died--elder seems a strange word, for he was only seven years old--I remember this one took it sorely to heart.' The child thought of what the schoolmaster had told her, and felt how its truth was shadowed out even in this infant.
'It has given him something of a quiet way, I think,' said the old man, 'though for that he is merry enough at times.

I'd wager now that you and he have been listening by the old well.' 'Indeed we have not,' the child replied.