“Why didn’t my papa ever come kiss me?” asked Fanny. “Was I too naughty for my papa to love?”
“No—no, my darling,” said Lucy, turning away her head to restrain her tears, “you are the best little girl that—but run away, Fanny,” said she, fearing to trust herself to speak. “Go find grandma a pretty four-leaved clover.”
The child sprang up and bounded toward the door. Standing poised on one foot on the threshold, with her little neck bending forward, she exclaimed eagerly, “Oh, grandma, I dare not; there’s a man climbing over the stile into the meadow, with a pack on his back; won’t he hurt me?”
“No,” said Lucy, peering over her spectacles at the man, and then resuming her seat, “it is only a peddler, Fanny; shops are scarce in the country, so they go round with tapes, needles, and things, to sell the farmers’ wives. I am glad he has come, for I want some more sewing-silk to make these button-holes.”
“Good day, ma’am,” said the peddler, unlading his pack. “Would you like to buy any thing to-day? Combs—collars—needles—pins—tapes—ribbons—laces? buy any thing to-day, ma’am?”
“May I look?” whispered Fanny to Lucy, attracted by the bright show in the box.
“There’s a ribbon for your hair,” said the peddler, touching her curls caressingly; “and here is a string of beads for your neck. You will let me give them to you, won’t you? because I have no little girl to love;” and his voice trembled slightly.
“May I love him, grandma?” whispered Fanny, for there was something in the peddler’s voice that brought tears into her eyes. “May I give him some milk to drink, and a piece of bread?” and hardly waiting for an answer, she flew to the cupboard, and returned with her simple lunch.
“Thank you,” said the peddler, in a low voice, without raising his eyes.
The sewing-silk was purchased, and the box rearranged, and strapped up, but still the peddler lingered. Lucy, thinking he might be weary, invited him to stop and rest awhile.