hope to see you again
some day. Will you not be kind to this poor creature, ma'am? Forgive me,
if I offended you last night, and favour me by accepting this, to show
that we are friends." As he spoke, he slid his purse into the woman's
hand. "I shall feel ever grateful for whatever you can do for Fanny."

"Fanny wants nothing from any one else; Fanny wants her brother."

"Sweet child! I fear she don't take to me. Will you like me, Miss
Fanny?"

"No! get along!"

"Fie, Fanny--you remember you did not take to me at first. But she is so
affectionate, ma'am; she never forgets a kindness."

"I will do all I can to please her, sir. And so she is really master's
grandchild?" The woman fixed her eyes, as she spoke, so intently on
Morton, that he felt embarrassed, and busied himself, without answering,
in caressing and soothing Fanny, who now seemed to awake to the
affliction about to visit her; for though she did not weep--she very
rarely wept--her slight frame trembled--her eyes closed--her cheeks,
even her lips, were white--and her delicate hands were clasped tightly
round the neck of the one about to abandon her to strange breasts.

Morton was greatly moved. "One kiss, Fanny! and do not forget me when we
meet again."

The child pressed her lips to his cheek, but the lips were cold. He put
her down gently; she stood mute and passive.

"Remember that he wished me to leave you here," whispered Morton, using
an argument that never failed. "We must obey him; and so-God bless you,
Fanny!"

He rose and retreated to the door; the child unclosed her eyes, and
gazed at him with a strained, painful, imploring gaze; her lips moved,
but she did not speak. Morton could not bear that silent woe. He sought
to smile on her consolingly; but the smile would not come. He closed the
door, and hurried from the house.

From that day Fanny settled into a kind of dreary, inanimate stupor,
which resembled that of the somnambulist whom the magnetiser forgets
to waken. Hitherto, with all the eccentricities or deficiencies of her
mind, had mingled a wild and airy gaiety. That was vanished. She spoke
little--she never played--no toys could lure her--even the poor dog
failed to win her notice. If she was told to do anything she stared
vacantly and stirred not. She evinced, however, a kind of dumb regard to
the old blind man; she would creep to his knees and sit there for
hours, seldom answering when he addressed her, but uneasy, anxious, and