ome one night in a state
of agitation from a concert and ball at Mrs Merdle's house, and on her
sister affectionately trying to soothe her, pushed that sister away from
the toilette-table at which she sat angrily trying to cry, and declared
with a heaving bosom that she detested everybody, and she wished she was
dead.

'Dear Fanny, what is the matter? Tell me.'

'Matter, you little Mole,' said Fanny. 'If you were not the blindest of
the blind, you would have no occasion to ask me. The idea of daring to
pretend to assert that you have eyes in your head, and yet ask me what's
the matter!'

'Is it Mr Sparkler, dear?' 'Mis-ter Spark-ler!' repeated Fanny, with
unbounded scorn, as if he were the last subject in the Solar system that
could possibly be near her mind. 'No, Miss Bat, it is not.'

Immediately afterwards, she became remorseful for having called her
sister names; declaring with sobs that she knew she made herself
hateful, but that everybody drove her to it.

'I don't think you are well to-night, dear Fanny.'

'Stuff and nonsense!' replied the young lady, turning angry again; 'I am
as well as you are. Perhaps I might say better, and yet make no boast of
it.'

Poor Little Dorrit, not seeing her way to the offering of any soothing
words that would escape repudiation, deemed it best to remain quiet. At
first, Fanny took this ill, too; protesting to her looking-glass, that
of all the trying sisters a girl could have, she did think the most
trying sister was a flat sister. That she knew she was at times a
wretched temper; that she knew she made herself hateful; that when she
made herself hateful, nothing would do her half the good as being told
so; but that, being afflicted with a flat sister, she never WAS told so,
and the consequence resulted that she was absolutely tempted and
goaded into making herself disagreeable. Besides (she angrily told
her looking-glass), she didn't want to be forgiven. It was not a right
example, that she should be constantly stooping to be forgiven by a
younger sister. And this was the Art of it--that she was always being
placed in the position of being forgiven, whether she liked it or not.
Finally she burst into violent weeping, and, when her sister came and
sat close at her side to comfort her, said, 'Amy, you're an Angel!'

'But, I tell you what, my Pet,' said Fanny, when her sister's gentleness
had calmed her, 'it now comes to this; that things cannot and shall not
go on as