"I never do such a thing!" said the old man, with some spirit.

"Perhaps not," was the reply; "I suppose your profits are enough to hire it done; but here is a shawl,--what is the price of it?"

"Five dollars, miss; and a good bargain at that." "Five dollars! O what a cheat!" and f.a.n.n.y laid the shawl, all unfolded, upon the gra.s.s, where scissors, needles, b.u.t.tons, tape, pins, &c., lay strewed in wild confusion. Once more the poor man wiped his forehead, and kept his patience. It is bad policy for the poor to lose their patience.

"There comes Mary Palmer, and the missionary of Appledale," said f.a.n.n.y.

"Mr. Cotting will have to give up his office, or take Miss Lindsay as colleague."

f.a.n.n.y knew that Emma was near enough to hear these remarks, but she did not know for what intent the feeble girl had taxed her strength in walking so far to see her.

The old peddler was now sadly putting his things back into his box; and f.a.n.n.y, looking at him a moment, felt the injustice of causing him so much trouble for nothing: so she said to him, "Wait a moment--I will take some of your knickknacks, though they are not worth buying;" and she put into his hand a bill to pay for some articles which she hastily selected.

The old man thanked her, and his hand trembled as he gave her the change. Then he took up his heavy box, and Emma handed him the straps which fastened it upon his shoulders.

"Is it very heavy?" she asked.

"Yes," was the reply, "it is; but I am used to heavy burdens."

"Well, the burden and heat of your life's day is almost over," said Emma, as, a.s.sisted by Mary, she drew the strap firmly into the buckle.

"Then, sir, if you are a Christian, you will _rest_."

"I know it," said the old man; "I know it, child:" and he looked at Emma, as though she had given him something better than silver or gold.

"Call at the large house, among the apple-trees," said Emma, "and tell the lady that her daughter sent you."

All this time f.a.n.n.y stood as if counting her money, while the old peddler went along.

"He has cheated himself in making change," said she; "I owe him a quarter more."

"Never mind," said Alice; "you paid enough for the things, and that is clear gain."

f.a.n.n.y paid no attention to Alice, but ran after the old man, and gave him all his due.

Emma saw this; and the charity in her heart which "rejoiceth not in iniquity, but in the truth," exulted as one that findeth great spoil.

She forgot the bitter remark which f.a.n.n.y had made respecting herself; forgot all, except the one joyful thing that f.a.n.n.y was not wholly selfish.

"We walked over to see you for a little while," said Mary, as f.a.n.n.y came back; and Emma was far from feeling it a rudeness, though f.a.n.n.y did not say, "I am glad to see you." She, however, invited them into the house where her grandfather and grandmother lived--for f.a.n.n.y was an orphan.

Emma was very tired, and f.a.n.n.y brought a pillow, which she placed upon the old-fashioned lounge, and asked her if she would like to lie down.

She saw that Emma was pale, and this little act of kindness was prompted by a momentary feeling of pity: yet f.a.n.n.y was ashamed of this kindness, and afraid that Mary and Alice would think her anxious to show Miss Lindsay particular attention; so putting on her old "care-for-n.o.body airs," she said, "Don't _you_ undertake to faint, Mary Palmer. We country girls are neither genteel nor sentimental enough for that."

"And not feeble enough, I hope," replied Emma. "You have much to be thankful for, and so have I; for if it please G.o.d to deprive us of health, he will not leave us comfortless--not if we trust in him."

f.a.n.n.y was not naturally a hardhearted girl. Her aged grandparents had done much toward making her what she was. Left to them when she was but two years of age, f.a.n.n.y found herself left also to the full sway of every selfish pa.s.sion and desire. The old people believed from their hearts that such another child never lived--so bright, so witty, so smart, and fearless. They talked and laughed over her sayings in her presence, and, in the blindness of their fond affection, saw not that the child was impudent, even to themselves; yet there was a fountain of purer water in that young heart, though self-love was rapidly drying it up. Emma, however, had that day discovered a bright drop from that better fountain, and she believed that the wasted streams of affection might be unsealed, even in f.a.n.n.y's heart; and the rude girl herself wondered at the feelings which came over her, as Emma replied so meekly to her unkind remark. "I did not know that you were out of health,"

said f.a.n.n.y; and both Mary and Alice were surprised at the tone of her voice and the expression of her countenance. She arose too, propped the pillow under Emma's head, and begged to know if she could do anything for her.

"Nothing," said Emma; "only love me: if you can do that, f.a.n.n.y, I shall feel better."

f.a.n.n.y tried to laugh, though she felt more like crying. "I am not much like other people," said she; "and those who want to have anything to do with me, must take me as I am."

"O yes," replied Emma; "if the Saviour does not refuse to take us just as we are, I am sure we ought to receive others in the same way, and love them too, even as he has loved us."

Very pleasantly did that summer afternoon pa.s.s away. Emma, after she had rested awhile, thought of going home; but f.a.n.n.y entreated her to stay. She wanted to show her the bee-house, her grandfather's new beehive, the flower-garden, and many other things. Mary dearly loved to be near Emma; but this good little girl possessed the very best kind of courtesy, because it was the fruit of a pure loving heart--that kind of heart always forgetting its own wishes, in gratifying the wishes of another. Mary was always happy, but it was a sweet reflex happiness.

She loved Emma, and dearly loved to hear her talk; but she did not claim the right of keeping close to her side. She sometimes lingered far behind, as f.a.n.n.y and Emma walked arm-in-arm; but there was neither envy nor jealousy in this. She knew that f.a.n.n.y was ashamed of being kind and affectionate, and she thought it best that they should be left to themselves; so she kept with Alice, and tried to do her good.

That night, as the sun went down, f.a.n.n.y might have been seen standing at the door, where she had bid Mary and Emma good-night. Alice was preparing to go, but f.a.n.n.y seemed quite forgetful of her. She was still looking far down the road, where Mary and Emma, with an arm around each other's waist, were walking slowly along. Alice prided herself on being more genteel in her manners than was f.a.n.n.y Brighton; but she had not Mary Palmer's self-forgetting courtesy. All the afternoon she had felt vexed, because she imagined that but little notice had been taken of herself; and now, as f.a.n.n.y stood so absent-minded, picking a rose to pieces, as her eyes wandered far away, Alice hurriedly put on her bonnet, and said, in a tone of pique, "Good-night, Miss Brighton; I suppose you would like now to cut acquaintance with me."

"Nonsense," said f.a.n.n.y. "Wait a moment, I am going a little way with you;" and as they walked along, f.a.n.n.y tried to be herself again.

"There comes Graffam," said she: "now I hope that he is drunk; if so, we will make him tell about the times when he was major."

But in this f.a.n.n.y was disappointed. Soberly, but sadly, the poor man of the plain came along, and shrunk from the gaze of those merry girls.

"O," said f.a.n.n.y, "Uncle Pete is not tipsy; so we shall not hear from the major to-night."

Poor Graffam pa.s.sed them quickly, for he heard this remark; and a deeper shade of gloom came over him. "What is the use of this dreadful struggle?" thought he. "What suffering this self-denial has cost me!

and yet what is gained? Nothing, but to know that I am ridiculed and despised."

"It is the first time," said f.a.n.n.y to herself, as she parted with Alice that night--"the first time that I have ever acted a part: but I would not have her suspect my feelings; and why do I feel so?"

Thus thought f.a.n.n.y, as she sat down upon a rock by the roadside, and could not keep back the tears which came from a heart never so sad before. And why so sad? f.a.n.n.y had been, for a few hours, in close converse with one who every day was becoming more and more meet for an inheritance with the saints in light. She had ridiculed and set at defiance the most common rules of politeness; but what was she to do with the self-forgetting, affectionate courtesy which she had seen, not forced nor constrained, but beaming forth so sweetly, so naturally, from those young disciples of Christ? f.a.n.n.y felt that, however deceitful the world's polite intercourse might be, _this_ was holy:--and how can sin approach purity without fear and trembling? She felt this mysterious fear. The reckless girl, whose highest boast had always been that she feared nothing, now trembled, as in imagination she changed places with Emma, and stood where she saw her standing,--upon the brink of the tomb.

It was on this evening that Emma was summoned to her mother's room. She found her mother sitting alone with Martha. There was no light there save moonlight, and Emma was glad, for she knew that her own countenance was deathly; and she had known that for weeks her mother had watched her narrowly.

"Emma, my dear," said Mrs. Lindsay, "you understand the reason of my coming to this place--that it was solely on your account."

"Yes, mamma," said Emma.

"I have invited some of the gayest of our young friends," continued Mrs. Lindsay, "to keep us company; and all this because I wanted you to make the most of being in the country. I have them here, my love, to talk, to ride, to run, and walk with you. This was the advice of your physician. He said that you would soon become healthy and happy, provided his directions were faithfully followed: but they are not; and how can we expect these favorable results? You neither ride nor walk with suitable company; not that I care much about your present a.s.sociations. If they are conducive to health, that is sufficient: but I have reason to think, dear, that you spend a great part of your time alone--that you go into the woods, not with your gay young friends (as the doctor requires) to run and have a good frolic, but to sit down and read. Is it not so?"

"Yes, mamma," said Emma, "it is so. I cannot run now, and I get very tired in walking only a short distance; but it _rests_ me, dear mother, to read the Bible."

"But how can I have you go away alone to read your Bible, and think sadly of--being so weak?" asked her mother.

"Not sadly," replied Emma; "I do not think sadly, mother, for all the sadness is gone; and if I have not become healthy, I certainly have become happy, very happy, since we came to Appledale. It is true that I see a great deal to be done now, and wish sometimes that those who have the prospect of years before them would undertake this work."

"I am glad that you mentioned this," said Mrs. Lindsay; "you have imbibed some of Dora's strange notions, my dear, about living for others. You may be a.s.sured, Emma, that I have not sacrificed so much for any object save that of your health. I did not leave the society of the refined and intelligent for the sake of benefiting the rude and ignorant; and I would have you remember what _was_ my object. You have nothing to do with this community only with a view to your health. If such society amuses you, mingle with it freely, but waste no thoughts upon the people here. They have always taken care of themselves, and can do this still without any help from little Emma Lindsay."

This the mother said playfully, as she kissed her cheek, and added: "I did not give you a fashionable education, my dear; but it was not because I intended you for a missionary."

"My heavenly Father may have intended this," replied Emma; "and you would not oppose Him, mother, for he has purchased me with a great price. We may be unwilling to make the smallest sacrifice for our fellow-creatures, yet G.o.d gave his only Son a sacrifice for us."

"How that child talks," said Mrs. Lindsay, bursting into tears as Emma left the room.

"And yet," replied Martha, "if we cannot save her, mother, you would rather that she should be as she is."

The mother made no reply, for she knew not what to say.