thankful for, and so have I; for if it please God to deprive us of
health, he will not leave us comfortless--not if we trust in him."

Fanny was not naturally a hardhearted girl. Her aged grandparents had
done much toward making her what she was. Left to them when she was but
two years of age, Fanny found herself left also to the full sway of
every selfish passion and desire. The old people believed from their
hearts that such another child never lived--so bright, so witty, so
smart, and fearless. They talked and laughed over her sayings in her
presence, and, in the blindness of their fond affection, saw not that
the child was impudent, even to themselves; yet there was a fountain of
purer water in that young heart, though self-love was rapidly drying it
up. Emma, however, had that day discovered a bright drop from that
better fountain, and she believed that the wasted streams of affection
might be unsealed, even in Fanny's heart; and the rude girl herself
wondered at the feelings which came over her, as Emma replied so meekly
to her unkind remark. "I did not know that you were out of health,"
said Fanny; and both Mary and Alice were surprised at the tone of her
voice and the expression of her countenance. She arose too, propped the
pillow under Emma's head, and begged to know if she could do anything
for her.

"Nothing," said Emma; "only love me: if you can do that, Fanny, I shall
feel better."

Fanny tried to laugh, though she felt more like crying. "I am not much
like other people," said she; "and those who want to have anything to
do with me, must take me as I am."

"O yes," replied Emma; "if the Saviour does not refuse to take us just