aby" no
longer, she was still afraid of the dark.

It had always been a dreadful moment to her when, leaving the cheerful
nursery, she must be tucked up in her little bed and see nurse take away
the candle. She would lie and stare with her bright round eyes into the
thick blackness, and feel grateful if she could fix them on any little
faint thread of light coming through chink or crevice. She could not
have told you what it was she feared, and perhaps this was the reason
why she never spoke of it to anyone--not even to mother. Besides, in
the bright morning light she forgot her fears, and being naturally a
cheerful and courageous child would have been ashamed to mention them.
In a large family children are not encouraged to make too much of their
troubles, for there is not time to attend to them; so no one knew that
merry little Nan, who was afraid of nothing by daylight or candle-light,
often lay awake at night long after she should have been asleep, and
felt very much afraid indeed.

And now I am going to tell you how on one occasion Nan conquered her
fears all by herself, with no help from anyone on earth; and you must
remember that it is a far braver thing to do what one is told in spite
of being afraid, than not to be afraid at all.

At Ripley, which was the next village to that in which Mr Beresford,
Nan's father, was rector, lived Squire Chorley, who had a large family
of boys and girls. They were fond of getting up concerts, and
theatricals, and readings for the poor people, and in all these things
the Beresfords were always asked over to help. And one Christmas
holidays there was to be an unusually grand entertainment given by the
children, which included a display of "Mrs Jarley's Wax-works."

Nan would listen with absorbing interest to the discussion about who
should represent the different characters in wax-work, and she was
allowed to be present at the rehearsals, but there was no question of
such a little thing taking a part. She thought all the figures very
beautiful, especially Joan of Arc, who was dressed in splendid tinsel
armour and a crimson skirt, and was seated on a spotted rocking-horse.
When she gracefully waved her sword Nan could hardly believe that it
really was her own sister Sophy, and afterwards when she read about Joan
of Arc in the history of England she always fancied her looking just
like that, with long fair hair streaming down her back.

There were a great many figures, as