"I hope you haven't robbed yourself by your good deed, miss," added the poor woman, wondering why Fanny did not speak.
"O, no! I have some more money."
Perhaps Mrs. Kent thought it singular that a young girl, like Fanny, should happen to have so much money about her, but she did not ask any questions; and perhaps she did not think that one who had been so kind to her could do anything wrong.
"Now, you will come into the house and see poor Jenny. She will want to thank you for what you have done," said Mrs. Kent, leading the way to the door.
Fanny could not refuse this reasonable request, but she felt very strangely. She found herself commended and reverenced for what she had done, and she could not help feeling how unworthy she was. Conscious that she had performed a really good deed, she could not reconcile it with her past conduct. It was utterly inconsistent with the base act she had done in the morning; and in the light of one deed the other seemed so monstrous that she almost loathed herself.
She followed Mrs. Kent into the room where the sick girl was reclining upon the bed. There was no carpet on the floor, and the apartment was very meagerly furnished with the rudest and coarsest articles. Jenny was pale and emaciated; the hand of death seemed to be already upon her; but in spite of her paleness and her emaciation, there was something beautiful in her face; something in the expression of her languid eyes which riveted the attention and challenged the interest of the visitor.
"Jenny, this is the young lady whom God has sent to be our friend," said Mrs. Kent, as they approached the bedside.
Fanny shuddered. "Whom God had sent"—she, a thief! She wanted to cry; she wanted to shrink back into herself.
"May I take your hand?" asked Jenny, in feeble tones.
Fanny complied with the request in silence, and with her eyes fixed on the floor. The sick girl took the offered hand in her own, which was almost as cold as marble.