"Charity is always giving," replied Dora, "while it exacts nothing. It
is never jealous of its own dignity. It never behaveth itself unseemly;
but beareth, hopeth, and endureth all things, even from those who know
nothing of its own sweet expression--courtesy."

"I must see Fanny Brighton again," thought Emma, "and ask Charity to
lend me her eyes, that I may see if there is nothing good in her; or if
I can manage to put out the eyes of self, by seeing nothing through
this medium, perhaps charity will become eyes to the blind."

It was by the blessing of God upon the humble efforts of that pious old
lady called Dora, that Emma had become what she was. Mrs. Lindsay was a
worldly woman, and the time had been when she had no higher hopes for
her children than to see them richly gifted with worldly
accomplishments. Her two eldest daughters, Helen and Amanda, had been
models in this respect; and for a season the mother rejoiced in this
pride of her eyes. But there is a strange intruder often found where he
is least desired, and never retiring simply because his presence is
deprecated--that is death. Who has not entertained this uninvited
guest?

When Helen and Amanda began to droop, as Emma now did, Dora was the
oldest servant in Mrs. Lindsay's family, and highly esteemed, both on
account of her fidelity and her pleasing manners. "There is something
peculiar about Dora," Mrs. Lindsay would say, "she is never untruthful
and never impolite; two ideas which, in the eyes of fashionable
etiquette, seem antagonistic. It was not, however, until her daughters
began to show symptoms of decline, that Mrs. Lindsay understood this
peculiarity in Dora.