“JUSTICE” SENDS A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE “EVENING MOON.”
Closer and closer did the little match girl cling to Becky, as she was carried through the dark passage and down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. Then, and then only, did Becky clearly perceive how thin and wan her humble little friend had grown. Fanny’s dark eyes loomed out of their sunken sockets like dusky moons, her cheeks had fallen in, her lips were colourless; her clothes consisted of but two garments, a frock and a petticoat, in rags. Becky’s eyes overflowed as she contemplated the piteous picture, and Fanny’s eyes also became filled with tears—not in pity for herself, but in sympathy with Becky.
“O, Blanche, Blanche,” she murmured, “I begun to be afeard I should never see you agin.”
Becky touched Fanny’s clothes and cheek pityingly, and said,
“Has it been like this long, Fanny?”
Fanny replied in a grave tone, “Since ever you went away, Blanche. My luck turned then.”
“It has turned again, my dear,” said Becky, with great compassion, “and turned the right way. Make a wish.”
“A thick slice of bread and butter!” said Fanny, eagerly.
“O, Fanny, are you hungry?”
“I ain’t ’ad nothink to eat to-day excep’ a damaged apple I picked up in Coving Garden.”