My father tenderly embraced me at the conclusion of his narrative, so did my aunt and cousins, with many kind expressions of joy at my being restored to my family.
'Your likeness to your mother is very great,' said my aunt. 'She was my chosen friend at school from the time she came to it, which was when she was twelve years old. In features, in voice, you are as like what she was at your age as if you were the same person.'
In the course of the evening my father told me that in a few days, when I should have had a proper assortment of clothes made up for me, it was his intention to make a tour.
'We will go to town,' said he, 'again, and pay a visit to all those people who have been your friends, and even those who have been otherwise. I intend to go to those cruel people in the Borough. A few words of proper admonition may be of service to them, and induce them to treat another poor child with more humanity. And to Mrs. Williams, honest Davis, and that good man Joseph we must show our gratitude by deeds as well as words.'
About a week after this we went to town, and soon after paid a visit to Davis's cottage. We knocked at the door, which was opened by Mrs. Davis, who seemed surprised at so many fine people coming to her cottage, and asked, 'What was our pleasure?' My father told her that he was come to thank her for the kindness she had shown to a little friendless girl who went by the name of Lady Anne, and whom he had lately discovered to be his daughter. She looked astonished, but, fixing her eyes upon me, instantly recollected me, and burst into a flood of tears.
'Do not cry, Mrs. Davis,' said I, for I was grieved at seeing her weep. 'I do sincerely thank you, for you were very kind to me till just the last.'
'Ah, Lady Anne,' said she, 'I have never been happy since I sent you away. My husband was dreadfully angry with me, and I don't believe he has forgiven me yet. He said that I had turned an orphan out of doors, and that it would bring ill luck upon our heads, and so it proved, for about a week after Mr. Freeman himself caught Susan as she was filling her pockets with plums, and discharged her instantly. Luckily Phoebe had none in her pocket, and Tom they knew to be an honest boy, so they two escaped, but we had a world of trouble with Susan, for, as she had lost her character, we could hardly get her a place at all, but at last a woman in the village who takes in washing agreed to take her. There she has a great deal of work to do for very little money, but she is determined to be honest, and to stay there for a year that she may recover her character, and then we hope that she will do better, but it grieves me to the heart to think that I encouraged her to bring the fruit home, for if I had scolded her for it at the first, she would have left it off, and might now have been at Mr. Freeman's.'
'Well, my good woman,' said my father, 'you seem so sensible of your error, both with respect to encouraging your daughter in dishonesty, and your ill-treatment of mine at the last, that I shall say nothing further to you on the subject, but thank you for the kindness you did show to my child during the greater part of the time she was with you. Now I wish to see your husband. Is he here or gone to town?'
'He is at the garden, sir, for Richard and the women quarrelled about the money that they took, and at last one of them told Mr. Freeman of the tricks they played, so Richard and some of the women were discharged, and the rest had such a lecturing that I don't believe there is now a creature in the garden would dare to take so much as a gooseberry from it, but my husband is there a good deal to look after them, for Mr. Freeman says he shall not trust them too far.'
'Ah,' said my father, 'you see that honesty is still the best policy. Well, I wish you good-day, and hope you will continue in your good resolutions.'