“Mamma is dead,” said Fanny, re-seating herself by his side. “What makes you shiver? are you cold?—he is sick, grandma,” said Fanny, running up to Lucy.
“A touch of my old enemy, the ague, ma’am,” said the peddler, respectfully—and Lucy returned to her needle.
“Yes, my mamma is dead,” said Fanny. “Are you sorry my mamma is dead? Sometimes I talk to her—grandma likes to have me; but mamma’s picture never speaks back. Don’t you wish my mamma would speak back?” said Fanny, looking up earnestly in his face.
The peddler nodded—bending lower over the wreath he was twining.
“My papa is dead, too,” said Fanny—“are you sorry my papa is dead? Nobody loves me but grandma and God.”
“And I”—said the peddler, touching her curls again with his fingers.
“Why do you keep touching my hair?” asked the little chatterbox.
“Because it is so like—oh, well—I am sure I don’t know,” said the peddler, placing the wreath over her bright face, and touching his lips to her forehead. “Good-by, dear, don’t forget me. I will make you a prettier wreath sometime, shall I?”
“O yes,” said Fanny; “let me tell grandma. Grandma is so deaf she can’t hear us;” and the child ran back into the room to tell the news.