Amidst all the talking and novelty of her new situation, however, Emilie
was absent and thoughtful; she was dispirited, and yet she was not
subject to low spirits either. There was a cause. She had a tender
conscience--a conscience with which she was in the habit of conversing,
and conscience kept whispering to her the words--"What things soever ye
would that men should do unto you, do ye also to them." In vain she
tried to silence this monitor, and at last she asked to withdraw for a
few minutes, and scribbled a hasty note to Miss Webster; the first she
wrote was as follows:--

"Dear Miss W.--I enclose the key of the pianoforte. I should have
acceded to your request, only I remembered standing on that very spot,
by that very counter, a year ago, petitioning hard for the loan of a
sofa for my dying father, who, in his feverish and restless state,
longed to leave the bed for awhile. I remembered that, and I could not
feel as if I could oblige you; but I have thought better of it, and beg
you will use the piano."

"Yours truly,

"EMILIE SCHOMBERG."

She read the note before folding it, however; and somehow it did not
satisfy her. She crumpled it up, took a turn or two in the room, and
then wrote the following:--

"Dear Miss Webster--I am sorry that I for a moment hesitated to lend you
my piano. It was selfish, and I hope you will excuse the incivility. I
enclose the key, and as your lodgers do not come in until to-morrow, I