he loved you, Annie.”
In the meantime Annie had been doing the one sensible thing—reading the letter, and now she stood pondering it.
“I have it, Hector. He always uses good people to do his kindnesses. Don’t you remember me telling you about the little old lady in Graham’s shop the time your book came out?”
“Yes, Annie; I wasn’t likely to forget that; it was my love for you that made me able to write the poem. Ah, but how soon was the twenty pounds I got for it spent, though I thought it riches then!”
“So it was—and so it is!” cried Annie, half laughing, but crying outright. “It’s just that same little old lady. She was so delighted with the book, and with you for writing it, that she put you down at once in her will for five hundred pounds, believing it would help people to trust in God.”