POOR HANNAH.
Fanny and her brother Horace were walking in the fields near their house, when they saw a little girl crying very much. She was all in rags and tatters, and looked very pale and half starved. "What is the matter, poor child?" asked Horace. "Oh! I am a wretched creature," said she. "Where do you come from?" asked Fanny. "From the village of Moswood," said the child. "From that village beyond the forest?" said Horace, pointing to the place he meant. "Yes, Sir."—"Bless me!" cried Fanny, holding out her hand with surprise; for Moswood was the village whence they had just come, after spending a pleasant week at their Uncle's, who lived there. "Do tell us your story," said Horace. The girl, between her sobs, told her little tale of woe, in words like these:—"I am a poor orphan; but a rich farmer took me into his service, where I lived content, and healthy. I used to weed the garden, pick up stones, gather wood, and do a hundred other jobs: I was not idle; so they gave me clothes and food. But a week ago, they scolded me, and beat me, and turned me out of the house, and since then, I have lived on turnips, and berries, and water, and I am dying of hunger; for now I have no friend in the wide world, and have lost my all,—my good name!"—"And how did you lose your good name?"—"I do not know, miss; they were all so angry and so rough, I only heard some words about a silver thimble and some scissors; and then they called me a thief; and I cried out, 'I am no thief;' and then they beat me, and called me a liar; but oh! I am no liar!"—"Tell me your name,—quick, quick," said Fanny. "Hannah," said the child. Fanny turned pale; and her brother said, "Surely, this is not the girl that our Uncle's Bailiff, Andrew—" "Yes, yes, I am that poor, poor girl."—"And it was I who lost the thimble; and it was I who said, in a careless way, that I dared say the young weeder had got it," cried out Fanny, bursting into tears. "And you found the thimble again?"—"Yes, in my workbox, up stairs."—"And you said nothing of having found it?"—"No, I did not; I did not think I had done any harm. Dear Horace, do not look so angry! I see I have been very cruel, and very wicked! With my careless words, I have been the ruin of this friendless girl! But let us go home, and explain all, and save her from farther hurt; and oh! never, never let us speak ill of the poor and the friendless, unless we are quite, quite sure they are to blame."