"It is her idea not to come, since I have taken Fanny. Did you notice her? She prefers to have her wait."
"Who is Fanny?"
"Her father is old Ichabod Bowles, who lives on the Neck. Last winter her mother sent for me, and begged me to take her. I could not refuse, for she was dying of consumption; so I promised. The poor woman died, in the bitterest weather, and a few days after Ichabod brought Fanny here, and told me he had done with womankind forever. Fanny was sulky and silent for a long time. I thought she never would get warm. If obliged to leave the fire, she sat against the wall, with her face hid in her arms. Veronica has made some impression on her; but she is not a good girl."
"She will be, mother. I am better than I was."
"Never; her disposition is hateful. She is angry with those who are better off than herself. I have not seen a spark of gratitude in her."
"I never thought of gratitude," said Verry, "it is true; but why must people be grateful?"
"We might expect little from Fanny, perhaps; she saw her mother die in want, her father stern, almost cruel to them, and soured by poverty. Fanny never had what she liked to eat or wear, till she came here, or even saw anything that pleased her; and the contrast makes her bitter."
"She is proud, too," said Aunt Merce. "I hear her boasting of what she would have had if she had stayed at home."
"She is a child, you know," said Verry.
"A year younger than you are."