"Yes," said the boy;" I would like to be
a basket-maker. Annie's father would teach
me. I tried to help him when I was there
last summer, and he said I should soon learn
to make baskets."

"Well, boy," said the old man, "I will
speak to Burton about it, though I would
rather you had chosen something better."

"And so you want to leave me, Will?" said
Mrs. Frampton, reproachfully. " Ten years
ago, or more, I promised to supply the place
of your poor mother, and to bring you up as
if you were my own. God knows that I have
kept my promise! I take no credit to myself
for that. I loved you, because it was natural
for any one to love you, and you were a
consolation to me, living here alone. I have,
indeed, felt for you as if you had been mine;
but if you had been, I don't think you would
be so quick to leave me for new faces."

"I didn't think of that," said the boy,
walking up to her and kissing her. " I
won't go."

"No, no," said John Chester." The boy
is right. It is not good for him to live all his
life at home. It'll make him a fool in time."
The strong natural sense and decision of the
barge-master, so often displayed in his councils
with Mrs. Frampton, had given her the habit
of relying upon him, and implicitly obeying
him in all things; so with a heavy heart
she yielded to him this time, consoling herself
with the thought that it was for the welfare
of the boy. It was not long before the
arrangements with the basket-maker were
completed, and William Chester bade farewell to
his old home. Mrs. Frampton went with
him to the bridge, and, bidding him have a
letter ready for her when the barge returned
from London, and to come to see her whenever
he could be spared, with a hundred
other injunctions, she parted sorrowfully with
her young companion.

It was evening when they arrived at the
island. The sky was cloudy and dark, and
the old man lit a lanthorn to guide them in
their path; but the horn being broken, the
wind drove out the light, and they climbed in
darkness, holding on to the leafless twigs.
"A dreary place this in the winter time,
Will," said the old man.  The boy followed
close behind him till they descended again,
and saw the cottage by the light that passed
through the crevices of the shutters. The door
was opened by Annie. The room had a cheerful
look as they entered. The large wood fire
blazed, and the tea-things shone upon the
table. The basket-maker sat before the fire,
and next to him was a young woman, whom
the boy had not seen before.

"We began to give you up," said the
basket-maker.

"Aye," replied the barge-master; "I meant
to have been here before dark; but we delayed
at Eton."

"I am so glad you have come to-day," said
Annie. "This is my sister Mary, from
Marlow. She goes away in the morning."
The boy shook hands with her, and afterwards,
sitting at the tea-table, stole a glance
at her, and saw that she was older than
Annie; and afterwards, glancing again, he
thought she looked very good-tempered,
and something like Annie, though far less
beautiful.

As his master had predicted, William Chester
became soon an adept in the art of basket-
making. From the rougher work, to which
he had set him at first, he gradually instructed
him in the branches requiring more taste and
skill, till finally he was outstripped by his
apprentice in the devising and constructing of
articles more fanciful and delicate. The old
house at Eton contained no end of things
which he had made, and sent as presents for
his old protector: stools for her feet, baskets
for her threads and needles, a small house
for the cat and her kittens, a cage for the
lark, wrought in the slenderest of osier
twigs.

Annie was now twenty-one years of age,
and had such a womanly air, that William
Chester, who was two years younger, looked
still a boy beside her. Living constantly with
her, sharing in all her games and pleasures,
and calling her still his "sister Annie," he
had never spoken to her of his feeling, though
he loved her deeply. It was not till it was
proposed that she should leave them, that he
knew this truth in all its force. Mrs. Frampton
was growing old, and though she was not
infirm, the solitude in which she lived was
irksome to her, and she begged that Annie
Burton might come to stay with her, as she
had done when the boy was there, though for
a longer period; and her father, anxious still
to benefit her health—for she was still weak
—again consented, the more readily, also, as
he had a growing affection for his apprentice,
and would not now be left alone when she
was gone. When William Chester heard of
this, his heart failed within him. He could
not endure the thought of leaving his old
companion, whose thoughts and ways had
become so familiar to him. He did not tell
her, at first, how grieved he was. He thought
over it, and tried to reconcile it to himself,
but could not. Many times the words were
on his lips to tell her all his heart, and how
the thought of her departure troubled him
night and day; but sometimes he stopped
himself, determining to wait for a better
opportunity—to test her feeling towards him;
and sometimes he was hurt to see that her
manner, when she spoke of leaving, was still
light-hearted, as if to her, at least, it caused
no pain. This it was that grieved him more
than all. He remembered now his parting
with Mrs. Frampton—how, in his childish love
for Annie, he forgot his old protector; and,
although she had touched him with her
reproaches, till he had repented of his
thoughtlessness, he could not help feeling that this
was a punishment to him for the heedless