"Call at the large house, among the apple-trees," said Emma, "and tell the lady that her daughter sent you."
All this time Fanny stood as if counting her money, while the old peddler went along.
"He has cheated himself in making change," said she; "I owe him a quarter more."
"Never mind," said Alice; "you paid enough for the things, and that is clear gain."
Fanny paid no attention to Alice, but ran after the old man, and gave him all his due.
Emma saw this; and the charity in her heart which "rejoiceth not in iniquity, but in the truth," exulted as one that findeth great spoil. She forgot the bitter remark which Fanny had made respecting herself; forgot all, except the one joyful thing that Fanny was not wholly selfish.
"We walked over to see you for a little while," said Mary, as Fanny came back; and Emma was far from feeling it a rudeness, though Fanny did not say, "I am glad to see you." She, however, invited them into the house where her grandfather and grandmother lived—for Fanny was an orphan.
Emma was very tired, and Fanny brought a pillow, which she placed upon the old-fashioned lounge, and asked her if she would like to lie down. She saw that Emma was pale, and this little act of kindness was prompted by a momentary feeling of pity: yet Fanny was ashamed of this kindness, and afraid that Mary and Alice would think her anxious to show Miss Lindsay particular attention; so putting on her old "care-for-nobody airs," she said, "Don't you undertake to faint, Mary Palmer. We country girls are neither genteel nor sentimental enough for that."
"And not feeble enough, I hope," replied Emma. "You have much to be thankful for, and so have I; for if it please God to deprive us of health, he will not leave us comfortless—not if we trust in him."
Fanny was not naturally a hardhearted girl. Her aged grandparents had done much toward making her what she was. Left to them when she was but two years of age, Fanny found herself left also to the full sway of every selfish passion and desire. The old people believed from their hearts that such another child never lived—so bright, so witty, so smart, and fearless. They talked and laughed over her sayings in her presence, and, in the blindness of their fond affection, saw not that the child was impudent, even to themselves; yet there was a fountain of purer water in that young heart, though self-love was rapidly drying it up. Emma, however, had that day discovered a bright drop from that better fountain, and she believed that the wasted streams of affection might be unsealed, even in Fanny's heart; and the rude girl herself wondered at the feelings which came over her, as Emma replied so meekly to her unkind remark. "I did not know that you were out of health," said Fanny; and both Mary and Alice were surprised at the tone of her voice and the expression of her countenance. She arose too, propped the pillow under Emma's head, and begged to know if she could do anything for her.