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We have gone too much into detail, we must limit ourselves to the most striking particulars of our story.

A year passed. Christmas came again, and the day wore drearily away.”Mr. Stafford has forgotten me,” sighed Fanny in her inmost heart, as she remembered her last Christmas gift.

“That flushy fellow, with his yellow cape and cuffs, won’t trouble us again, I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Hyat. The day deepened into twilight;—Fanny heard a whistle—she started—it was repeated, and again repeated. She drew near to her aunt as if for defence, and sat down by her, her heart throbbing. After a few minutes, there were again three whistles, still she sat resolutely still.

Mrs. Hyat laid down her slop-sewing, wiped her spectacles, and heaving a deep sigh, said, “I grow blinder and blinder, but I won’t murmur as long as it pleases God that I may earn honest bread for you and me, Fanny.” Fanny looked up, and her aunt saw there were tears in her eyes.”Poor child,” she continued, “it is not a merry Christmas you are having.” The whistle was again repeated.”Go to the baker’s, Fanny, and buy us a mince-pie—it won’t break us; I can pay for it, if I work till twelve to-night, and it will seem more like Christmas to you.”

Again Fanny heard the whistle; the opportunity was too tempting to be resisted, and Fanny threw a shawl over her head and ran down stairs. A man wrapped in a cloak had just passed the door; he turned back at the sound of her footsteps, threw his arms around her, and kissed her cheek. She sprung up the door-step, but he gently detained her, and she, looking up in his face, saw that it was Stafford himself, and not, as she supposed, his servant.

“Why do you run away from me?” he said, in a low, sweet voice; “how have I frightened you? Am I not your friend? None can feel a greater interest in you. I will prove it in any way that I can.”

Fanny’s instincts directed her aright, and fixing her beautiful eyes on him, she said, “Come up, then, and say to my aunt what you say to me.”

She did not understand the smile that lurked on Stafford’s lips as he replied, “No, your aunt, for some reason, I am sure I cannot tell what, has taken a dislike to me; you know she has, for she will not permit you to receive the slightest gift from me. Come, you were going out, walk along, and let me walk by you.” He slid his arm around her waist; she shrunk from him, and he withdrew it.”How old are you, Fanny McDermot? You perceive I know your name; and I know much more concerning you, that you would not suspect.”

“Oh! Mr. Stafford, how should you know about me? I am fourteen, and a little more.”

“Only fourteen? Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen will soon come, and each year, each month, you are growing more and more beautiful. Fanny, I dream of you every night of my life; and when I wake, my first thought of you is, ‘I cannot see her—I cannot speak to her.'”

“Mr. Stafford?”

“It is true, Fanny, true as that the beautiful moon is shining on us. Why should it not be true? It is unnecessary, it is cruel, that you should be shut up in that forlorn old house with that old house with that old woman,”—the ‘old woman’ grated on Fanny’s ear, but she did not interrupt Stafford, and he continued, “Do you like riding, or sailing?”

“I never rode but once, and that was to Uncle Ben’s funeral, and I was never in a boat in my life.”