“One of these flowers, child! why?”
Fanny did not answer; but one of the elder and cleverer girls said—
“Oh! she comes from France, you know, ma’am, and the Roman Catholics put flowers, and ribands, and things, over the graves; you recollect, ma’am, we were reading yesterday about Pere-la-Chaise?”
“Well! what then?”
“And Miss Fanny will do any kind of work for us if we will give her flowers.”
“My brother told me where to put them;—but these pretty flowers, I never had any like them; they may bring him back again! I’ll be so good if you’ll give me one, only one!”
“Will you learn your lesson if I do, Fanny?”
“Oh! yes! Wait a moment!”
And Fanny stole back to her desk, put the hateful book resolutely before her, pressed both hands tightly on her temples,—Eureka! the chord was touched; and Fanny marched in triumph through half a column of hostile double syllables!
From that day the schoolmistress knew how to stimulate her, and Fanny learned to read: her path to knowledge thus literally strewn with flowers! Catherine, thy children were far off, and thy grave looked gay!