appy ending; for one
thing Emma saw too deeply into the facts of life, and was herself too
sad, to cease her music on a merry chord; and, moreover, it was half
a matter of principle with her to make the little ones thoughtful
and sympathetic; she believed that they would grow up kinder and more
self-reliant if they were in the habit of thinking that we are ever
dependent on each other for solace and strengthening under the burden
of life. The most elaborate of her stories, one wholly of her own
invention, was called 'Blanche and Janey.' It was a double biography.
Blanche and Janey were born on the same day, they lived ten years,
and then died on the same day. But Blanche was, the child of wealthy
parents; Janey was born, in a garret. Their lives were recounted in
parallel, almost year by year, and, there was sadness in the contrast.
Emma had chosen the name of the poor child in memory of her own sister,
her ever dear Jane, whose life had been a life of sorrow.

The story ended thus:

'Yes, they died on the same day, and they were buried, on the same day.
But not in the same cemetery, oh no! Blanche's grave is far away over
there'--she pointed to the west--'among tombstones covered with flowers,
and her father and mother go every Sunday to read her name, and think
and talk of her. Janey was buried far away over yonder'--she pointed
to the east--'but there is no stone on her grave, and no one knows the
exact place where she lies, and no one, no one ever goes to think and
talk of her.'

The sweetness of the story lay in the fact that the children were both
good, and both deserved to be happy; it never occurred to Emma to teach
her hearers to hate little Blanche just because hers was the easier lot.

Whatever might be her secret suffering, with the little ones Emma was
invariably patient and tender. However dirty they had made, themselves
during the day, however much they cried when hunger made them irritable,
they went to their aunt's side with the assurance of finding gentleness
in reproof and sympathy with their troubles. Yet once she was really
angry. Bertie told her a deliberate untruth, and she at once discovered
it. She stood silent for a few moments, looking as Bertie had never seen
her look. Then she said:

'Do you know, Bertie, that it is wrong to try and deceive?'

Then she tried to, make him understand why falsehood was evil, and as
she spoke to the child her voice quivered, her breast heaved. When the
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