“Why, Fanny?”
“I’d like to sleep in it, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, Fanny. Yon can’t sleep in the coal-cellar.”
Fanny sighed mournfully, and partly rose. “I can’t stop ’ere, then, Blanche?”
“You shall if you like, Fanny, and you shall sleep with me.”
“O, Blanche!” cried Fanny, clasping her face with her dirty little hands. The tears forced themselves between the thin, bony fingers.
“Why, that looks as if you were sorry, Fanny!”
“I’m cryin’ for joy, Blanche. I should ’ave taken my ’ook to-night if it ’adn’t been for you. When I fell down in a faint outside your door, I thought I was goin’ to die.”
“You shall not die, Fanny,” said Becky; “you shall live, and grow into a fine young woman. Listen to me, and don’t forget a word I say to you. You are sharp and clever, and I want you now to be sharper and cleverer than ever you have been in your life before.” Fanny nodded, and fixed her eyes upon Becky’s face. “I am a servant in this house; my mistress’s name is Mrs. Preedy; she is out gossiping, and I expect her back every minute. If she comes in while I am talking, I shall bundle you into bed, and you’ll fall fast asleep. You understand?”