"No, thank you," said she, "this is very well;" and they were seated at the table.
It was upon the whole a cheerful meal. It seemed as though each one had been a long journey, and had just returned; they were pleased with each other, and talked of old acquaintances, and other days, themes upon which they had held no converse for a long, long time past.
As their supper was finished, the little one in the cradle moaned again, and Mrs. Graffam brought from the basket a long flannel dress, and put it upon "wee bit," gently rubbing its blue limbs; then, with something of the freedom and confidence of other days, she laid poor baby upon its father's knee, and going again to the friendly basket, brought thence a bottle, from which she dropped a little fine-flavored cordial into warm water. The babe opened its large eyes upon its mother, as though wondering what it could be that was so good upon its poor little tongue and lip; then rubbing its tiny hands up and down the flannel dress, it looked smilingly into the father's face, and uttered an expressive "goo!" The parent was not quite dead in that father's heart, though long buried beneath the waves of selfish indulgence. He looked upon that poor little creature, and wondered that he could ever forget one so suffering and dependent. "The baby feels better," said Graffam to his wife; and he thought to himself, "I too should feel better, could I break my chains and be a man."
Through most of that night Graffam thought the same thing, and wondered if it could be done. "I have dug my own grave," thought he, "and officious hands have helped me in; they have cast over me the dirt of scorn and ridicule, until I am well-nigh buried alive. O, if there was left in others one particle of respect, I might come forth from this grave! I know that I might, from the little of kindness and civility shown me this day. I was once respected, and so was my wife; but I have dragged her down, down with me. It is a shame, for she is worthy a better fate." Thus thought poor Graffam through many hours of that night, and in the morning he turned from his hut again, with but little hope of seeing it as he did then, with open eyes, from which his soul looked forth; thinking, hoping, fearing, yet ready to struggle once more for life.
It was a beautiful morning, and Emma sat beside the open window, less languid than she had been the day before. Dora was putting things in order, when Emma asked this question:—"Through what medium do we see people, Dora, when we discover nothing but their faults?"
"Through the medium of self," was the ready reply. "If there is anything offensive in a person, self is nettled on its own account, and in its excitement sees nothing but the offense."
"How would charity act toward a person whose manners are extremely rude?" asked Emma.
"Charity is always giving," replied Dora, "while it exacts nothing. It is never jealous of its own dignity. It never behaveth itself unseemly; but beareth, hopeth, and endureth all things, even from those who know nothing of its own sweet expression—courtesy."
"I must see Fanny Brighton again," thought Emma, "and ask Charity to lend me her eyes, that I may see if there is nothing good in her; or if I can manage to put out the eyes of self, by seeing nothing through this medium, perhaps charity will become eyes to the blind."
It was by the blessing of God upon the humble efforts of that pious old lady called Dora, that Emma had become what she was. Mrs. Lindsay was a worldly woman, and the time had been when she had no higher hopes for her children than to see them richly gifted with worldly accomplishments. Her two eldest daughters, Helen and Amanda, had been models in this respect; and for a season the mother rejoiced in this pride of her eyes. But there is a strange intruder often found where he is least desired, and never retiring simply because his presence is deprecated—that is death. Who has not entertained this uninvited guest?