as we are, I am sure we ought to receive others in the same way, and
love them too, even as he has loved us."

Very pleasantly did that summer afternoon pass away. Emma, after she
had rested awhile, thought of going home; but Fanny entreated her to
stay. She wanted to show her the bee-house, her grandfather's new
beehive, the flower-garden, and many other things. Mary dearly loved to
be near Emma; but this good little girl possessed the very best kind of
courtesy, because it was the fruit of a pure loving heart--that kind of
heart always forgetting its own wishes, in gratifying the wishes of
another. Mary was always happy, but it was a sweet reflex happiness.
She loved Emma, and dearly loved to hear her talk; but she did not
claim the right of keeping close to her side. She sometimes lingered
far behind, as Fanny and Emma walked arm-in-arm; but there was neither
envy nor jealousy in this. She knew that Fanny was ashamed of being
kind and affectionate, and she thought it best that they should be left
to themselves; so she kept with Alice, and tried to do her good.

That night, as the sun went down, Fanny might have been seen standing
at the door, where she had bid Mary and Emma good-night. Alice was
preparing to go, but Fanny seemed quite forgetful of her. She was still
looking far down the road, where Mary and Emma, with an arm around each
other's waist, were walking slowly along. Alice prided herself on being
more genteel in her manners than was Fanny Brighton; but she had not
Mary Palmer's self-forgetting courtesy. All the afternoon she had felt
vexed, because she imagined that but little notice had been taken of
herself; and now, as Fanny stood so absent-minded, picking a rose to
pieces, as her eyes wandered far away, Alice hurriedly put on her
bonnet, and said, in a tone of pique, "Good-night, Miss Brighton; I
suppose you would like now to cut acquaintance with me."