CHAPTER IV.

_THE STUMBLING BLOCK._

FOR two or three days Fanny was pretty sick, and did not sit up at all. She was really frightened about herself, was sure she had some dreadful disease, and was very angry at the old doctor from the village for saying there was nothing serious the matter.

"I guess you don't know how badly I feel," said Fanny.

"I guess I have seen other little girls who had made themselves sick by eating too much of grandma's nice cakes and pies," said the doctor, smiling. "A little medicine and a few days of toast and gruel will make you all right again, and then you must be more careful. If you eat so many sweet things, you will get the dyspepsia, and then I cannot cure you."

Fanny said no more, for she did not like the allusion to her having eaten too much, and she was afraid of his asking inconvenient questions.

She was better in a few days, but it was a whole week before she was able to go out of the house. During this time she was in a manner forced to think a little, for she could not read all the time, and her grandma was very busy helping Oney in the dairy, so Fanny was left to herself for some hours of every day. As she looked back over the time she had been at her grandmother's, she was not pleased with herself. She was conscious that, so far from making the impression she had intended, she had not made herself respected by anybody. Her grandmother had threatened to punish her, and, as she confessed, not without reason. Willy showed himself a better scholar than herself, and had been surprised at her ignorance, and Sarah Leyman, so far from being impressed with her superiority, had declared that Fanny was no better than she was, for all her schooling. All this was very disagreeable, and made Fanny very angry at herself and everybody else as she remembered it.

Then again, Fanny's conscience was aroused. She realized for the first time in her life what a naughty girl she had always been, and she wondered, with a shudder, what would have become of her if she had died. It was all true. She was not one bit better than Sarah Layman.

"But I am going to be better," said Fanny to herself. "I mean to read my Bible and say my prayers and attend to the sermon and learn my Sunday-school lessons. Grandma says that Willy is a real Christian. It is a pity if I can't be as good as that little poorhouse boy."

This was not exactly a Christian spirit, but Fanny did not think of that. She was as good as her word, however. She read three chapters in the Bible every day, said all the prayers she could think of, and felt very good indeed.

She went to church and Sunday-school and to the meeting at the schoolhouse, and was so sober and attentive that her grandmother was much pleased with her, and told her so. This set up Fanny still more in her own conceit, and she was wonderfully well satisfied with herself.

"Fanny, do you Want to take a walk this afternoon?" asked her grandmother one day when Fanny was quite well again. "It is very cool and pleasant after the rain."

"Yes, grandma," replied Fanny; "I should like it very much."

"Then there are two people suited," said Mrs. Lilly, smiling. "I want you to carry this basket down to old Mrs. Merrill, and you may stop at the post-office and see if the papers have come. Put on your broad hat, and don't walk to fast."

"May I play in the grove a little while when I come back?" asked Fanny.

"Yes, if you like, only don't stay too long or lose your papers."

Fanny, set out on her errand feeling very well pleased. She went first to Mrs. Merrill's and left her basket of eggs and other good things.

"Dear, dear, how good your grandma is to think of me!" said the old lady, much gratified. "And what a nice little girl you are to do errands! I suppose you are Alvin's eldest girl, ain't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Fanny.

"You look like your aunt Eunice," said Mrs. Merrill. "I mean as she did at your age."

"I never knew that I had an Aunt Eunice," said Fanny.

"Oh, she died long before you were born, my dear. She was only sixteen when she died—just the age of my Mary Jane. I remember as if it was yesterday when we had our first Sunday-school in the village. Eunice and my Mary Jane and Sally Leyman and Mrs. Cassell's eldest girl—her name was Eugenia—they were all in one class, and the next year they all joined the church the same Sunday. But Sally was the only one who lived to be over thirty."

"Was Aunt Eunice pretty?" asked Fanny.

"Why, no, not so very—not what folks call handsome nowadays, but she was so sweet in all her ways that nobody ever thought of her looks after the first five minutes. I don't think I ever saw a better girl than Eunice Lilly—such a consistent Christian, and yet nothing gloomy about her, always ready to help on any fun there was no harm in, but as firm as a rock when any one tried to make her join in what wasn't just right. You will try to be like her, won't you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I mean to try."

"That's right. Here's your basket; and thank you very much, and your grandma too."

"I mean to be just like Aunt Eunice," thought Fanny as she walked up the quiet street. "I mean to be so good that everybody will love me and praise me, just as they did her, and I mean to set a good example to Harry and Nelly, and make everybody look up to me. I mean to be very good indeed, and perhaps somebody will write my life some day."

Fanny's musings were interrupted by hearing her own name called. She looked up and saw Mrs. Cassell leaning out of her carriage.

"Isn't this Miss Fanny Lilly?" asked Mrs. Cassell, politely.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Fanny.

"I have some books that I wish to send to your grandmother," said Mrs. Cassell. "I intended to drive up and bring them myself, but I find I shall be engaged to-morrow. If you will get into the carriage and ride over to our house, I will give you the books, and Hiram shall bring you down to the village again."

Fanny got into the carriage, and a few minutes brought her to Mrs. Cassell's house. It was a beautiful old mansion built of dark red bricks with trimmings of white marble, which is very abundant in that part of the country. It stood a long way back from the road, and there were many noble old trees about it. Everything about the house and grounds was in perfect order, and Fanny thought she had never seen a prettier place in her life.

"I must ask you to come in and wait a few minutes," said Mrs. Cassell. "Annie shall take you to see the kittens and Guinea pigs and the rest of her pets. Annie, where are you?"

"Here, grandma," answered a pleasant voice, and a little girl came out of the next room. She was much younger than Fanny, being only about seven years old. She was a blue-eyed, fair-haired, delicate-looking child, and was very prettily dressed in a pink frock and white apron.

Fanny peeped through the half-opened door, and saw that the room out of which Annie had come was a large library.

"This is Miss Fanny Lilly, my dear," said Mrs. Cassell; "Miss Fanny, this is my granddaughter, Annie Mercer, from Detroit, who is come to spend the summer with me."

Annie came forward, like a well-bred little girl, to speak to Fanny.

But Fanny, like many other girls who are bold in the wrong place, was also shy in the wrong place, and made but a poor and awkward return.

"You may take Fanny to see the kittens and Guinea pigs, Annie, while T do up the parcels," said Mrs. Cassell, kindly. "I suppose you have done all your lessons?"

"Oh yes, grandma, and my sewing too," answered Annie. "I hemmed a yard on my cap border, and Aunt Emma said it was very nicely done. I have been helping Uncle Hugh cut the leaves of the new books. Come, Fanny."

"Do you like Guinea pigs?" asked Annie as she led the way along the verandah at the back of the house.

"I don't know; I don't like pigs, anyway," answered Fanny.

Annie laughed.

"Oh, they are not real pigs, you know," said she. "They are little wee things, and Uncle Hugh says they are more like rabbits than pigs. See, here they are. I have to keep them shut up, away from old puss; he would soon eat them. But he don't know any better, you know," added Annie, apologizing for pussy. "He thinks they are some kind of mice."

Fanny looked down into the box, and saw half a dozen little creatures about as large as young rabbits, spotted with black, brown, and yellow. All of them that were not eating were asleep, and all that were not asleep were eating, after the custom of Guinea pigs.

"Are they not pretty?" said Annie. "Old Mrs. Willson gave them to me. I had only these two at first; all the rest are young ones."

Fanny did not care much for pets, and she was mortified at the mistake she had made. But she looked at the Guinea pigs and said they were very pretty.

"After all, they are stupid little things; you may pet and feed them ever so long, and they never seem to care for anything but eating," said Annie. "But I don't suppose they are to blame for not knowing any more."

"What will you do with them when you go home?" asked Fanny.

"I mean to take one pair home with me for a little lame boy who lives near our house, and give the others away. I will give you a pair if you like. Don't take them if you don't want them," she added, seeing that Fanny hesitated; "I shall not be offended a bit."

"I guess I won't take them, then," said Fanny, "though I am much obliged to you all the same. I am afraid I should forget to feed them, or something."

By this time Fanny began to feel at her ease, and, as usual, she began to ask questions.

"Do you learn lessons every day?"

"Yes; every day but Sunday."

"Who hears you say them?"

"Aunt Emma, generally, and sometimes Uncle Hugh. I used to go to school when I was at home, but they do not think I am well enough now, and I am glad of it, because I like doing my lessons with Aunt Emma."

"Where do you live when you are at home?" asked Fanny.

"In Detroit, in Michigan. Oh, it is a long way from here. We were two or three days coming, and only think, Fanny! I had a beautiful doll, all dressed in a travelling suit, and with a little morocco bag and all, and I let a girl play with it on the cars, and she stole it when I was asleep. Wasn't it a shame? But she hadn't any mother, I know, and perhaps she didn't know any better."

By the time Mrs. Cassell called Fanny to take the books, the two girls had become very good friends. When they went back to the parlour, Mr. Brandon came out of the library with two or three pretty-looking books in his hand.

"Are you fond of reading, Miss Fanny?" he asked, pleasantly.

"Yes, sir—some kinds," answered Fanny, doubtfully.

"'Some kinds' means stories, I suppose?" said Mr. Brandon, smiling. "I believe one of my Sunday-school boys—Willy Beaubien—lives at your house, does he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"I should like to have you carry him this book, if you will be so kind; and here is one you will perhaps like to read yourself. Tell Willy he shall have another when he has finished this."

"I wonder if Mr. Brandon knows that Willy is only grandma's hired boy," thought Fanny. But she did not say anything, and the carriage being ready, she took her leave.

"Hiram had better take you home, I think," said Mrs. Cassell. "It is a long walk, and up hill all the way. Drive to the entrance of Mrs. Lilly's lane, Hiram."

Hiram obeyed, and left Fanny at the gate of the lane. Annie would have thanked him for such a service, but Fanny never thought of doing so. She had never been taught to be polite to servants, and she considered them as a being much below herself in the social scale.

As she walked along, she was startled to hear somebody say, in a laughing tone, "What a great lady, to be sure! She feels too fine to speak to common folks."

Fanny turned round in a hurry.

The next minute Sarah Leyman jumped over the fence almost as lightly as a deer, and walked along by her side.

"Where have you been, all so grand?" she asked.

"Nothing so very grand," replied Fanny, in a superior tone. "I dare say it seems so to you, but I have often been in much finer carriages than Mrs. Cassell's."

"Oh 'dear'!" said Sarah, mimicking Fanny's tone. "How wonderful we are, to be sure! I wonder we can condescend to speak to anybody, much less to a common person like poor Sarah Layman. But never mind. Let's go into the grove and have a good time. What books have you got?"

"I am not going to play with you any more, Sarah," said Fanny, in what she intended for a very impressive and dignified tone. "I don't want to quarrel with you, and I am very sorry for you, but I am going to be a Christian, and, of course, I can't have anything more to do with you."

"Well, I declare!" said Sarah, and then she burst into a ringing fit of laughter. "What next? I should like to know how long since you felt so?"

Fanny felt very much vexed, but she answered, in the same tone, "Since I was sick. I was very low indeed, and the doctor thought I was dying for ever so long—"

"That's a big one to begin with," interrupted Sarah. "I asked the doctor about you myself, and he said that there was nothing more the matter than that you had eaten too much, and that you would be about again directly."

"I don't believe it!" exclaimed Fanny, though she knew that Dr. Perkins had told her the very same thing. "Where did you see him, I should like to know?"

"I saw him go up to your house, and I waited for him at the gate and asked him what was the matter. You see I thought about you, Fanny, though you don't mean to play with me any more."

Sarah said these words with an expression of real feeling, and then, suddenly changing her tone, she added, "By the way, as you have made up your mind to be a Christian, I suppose you began by telling your grandmother all about your helping to eat the stolen pie and gingerbread, didn't you?"

"Of course not," replied Fanny, trying to keep up her tone of dignity and reserve, but feeling all the time that she was making a signal failure. "I didn't want to tell of you, Sarah, though I don't mean to have anything more to do—with you," Fanny was going to conclude, but she changed it into "such doings."

"Oh, you needn't mind 'me'," said Sarah. "I wouldn't have you go on telling lies and deceiving your grandmother for anything. Come to think of it, I believe I will be a good girl and a Christian myself, and then I suppose we can play together again. But you can't be a Christian without confessing your sins, you know, Fanny. I dare say Mrs. Lilly is blaming somebody else for the pie all this time. Come, let us go together and tell her all about it directly." And Sarah quickened her steps in the direction of the farm-house.

Fanny looked at her to see if she were in fun, but she appeared quite serious and determined.

"You are not in earnest?" said Fanny, in rather a scared tone.

"Yes, I am in earnest. Come, why don't you walk faster? You can tell what I did, and I can tell what you did, or we can each tell of ourselves. I guess that will be the best way, after all."

"But I can't—I dare not!" exclaimed Fanny, stopping short. "Oh, Sarah, do come back!"

"Well, what now?" asked Sarah, turning and coming back, for she was already some steps in advance. "What's the matter?"

"You won't tell grandma, will you?" asked Fanny, trembling.

"Why, of course," replied Sarah, coolly. "That's the way to begin, by confessing our sins. When old Mrs. Burt joined the church last winter, she went to Mrs. Hoyt's and told her that she had cheated her out of three dollars by putting water in the milk she sold her, and paid her back the money. Mrs. Hoyt said that was the right way to begin, and she gave the money to the missionary collection. Besides, I dare say Mrs. Lilly is suspecting some one else all the time."

Fanny knew that this was true, for she had heard her grandmother say she thought the pie must have been taken by one of Mr. Wye's children.

"But—but I can't," she stammered. "I am afraid. I don't know what she would do to me."

"Didn't she ask you anything about it?" asked Sarah.

"Yes, of course she did."

"And you told her all sorts of lies, I suppose, and mean to stick to them; and yet you call yourself a Christian, and think you are too good to play with me!" said Sarah, in a tone of contempt. "Well, I don't care; I mean to tell her, anyhow."

Fanny sat down on a stone and burst into tears.

Sarah stood by her in silence a minute or two.

"So you don't want me to tell?" said she.

Fanny only sobbed.

"You will make your head ache with crying, and, besides, your grandma will ask you what was the matter," said Sarah, presently. "Come, Fanny, let's make a bargain. Don't you put on any airs to me and I won't tell of you. But just as sure as you act again as you did just now, I will go to Mrs. Lilly and tell her all about the pie and your running away. I don't mind it when people are really good, like Mrs. Lilly and Aunt Sally, but I do hate hypocrites. Come, will you agree to that?"

"I suppose I shall have to," said Fanny, rather sullenly.

"Well, then, kiss and be friends. And now tell me where you have been this afternoon."

"I can't stay now, Sarah, indeed I can't," said Fanny, rising. "I have been gone too long already, but I will tell you all about it another time," she added, seeing Sarah's face darken—"to-morrow, perhaps."

"Well, come up to the spring to-morrow afternoon. And, Fanny, I wish you would lend me a story-book. You have got ever so many, haven't you?"

"Yes, I brought a whole boxful, and Mr. Brandon lent me this one to-day."

"Let me see it," said Sarah, taking it from her hand and turning over the pages. "It looks nice; I would as soon have this as any."

Fanny felt very much vexed, but she dared not say a word.

"On the whole, I will let you read it first," continued Sarah, returning the book. "There! Run along, and be sure you come to the spring to-morrow, or I shall come down to the house and ask for you."