f.a.n.n.y knew how far she was from being an angel, and she had no heart for deceiving the poor woman. It might be fun and excitement to deceive the people at Woodville, but Mrs. Kent seemed to be sanctified by her sorrows.
"I hope you haven"t robbed yourself by your good deed, miss," added the poor woman, wondering why f.a.n.n.y did not speak.
"O, no! I have some more money."
Perhaps Mrs. Kent thought it singular that a young girl, like f.a.n.n.y, should happen to have so much money about her, but she did not ask any questions; and perhaps she did not think that one who had been so kind to her could do anything wrong.
"Now, you will come into the house and see poor Jenny. She will want to thank you for what you have done," said Mrs. Kent, leading the way to the door.
f.a.n.n.y could not refuse this reasonable request, but she felt very strangely. She found herself commended and reverenced for what she had done, and she could not help feeling how unworthy she was. Conscious that she had performed a really good deed, she could not reconcile it with her past conduct. It was utterly inconsistent with the base act she had done in the morning; and in the light of one deed the other seemed so monstrous that she almost loathed herself.
She followed Mrs. Kent into the room where the sick girl was reclining upon the bed. There was no carpet on the floor, and the apartment was very meagerly furnished with the rudest and coa.r.s.est articles. Jenny was pale and emaciated; the hand of death seemed to be already upon her; but in spite of her paleness and her emaciation, there was something beautiful in her face; something in the expression of her languid eyes which riveted the attention and challenged the interest of the visitor.
"Jenny, this is the young lady whom G.o.d has sent to be our friend,"
said Mrs. Kent, as they approached the bedside.
f.a.n.n.y shuddered. "Whom G.o.d had sent"--she, a thief! She wanted to cry; she wanted to shrink back into herself.
"May I take your hand?" asked Jenny, in feeble tones.
f.a.n.n.y complied with the request in silence, and with her eyes fixed on the floor. The sick girl took the offered hand in her own, which was almost as cold as marble.
"Mother has prayed to Our Good Father, and I have prayed to Him all the time for help," said Jenny, whose accents were hardly above a whisper.
"He has sent you to us, and you have saved us. Will you tell me your name?"
"f.a.n.n.y Grant."
"f.a.n.n.y, I am going to heaven soon, and I will bear your name in my heart when I go. I will bless you for your good deed while I have breath, and I will bless you when I get to heaven. You are a good girl, and I know that G.o.d will bless you too."
Poor f.a.n.n.y! How mean she felt! As she stood in the presence of that pure-minded child, already an angel in simple trust and confiding hope, she realized her own wickedness. The burden of her sins seemed to be settling down upon her with a weight that would crush her.
"I love you, f.a.n.n.y," continued the invalid, "and I will pray for you to the last moment of my life. Won"t you speak to me?"
"I was very glad to do what I did," stammered f.a.n.n.y, almost suffocated by the weight which pressed down upon her.
"I know you are; for it is more blessed to give than to receive."
"I am very sorry you are so sick. Can I do anything to help you?"
"You have done all that could be done, f.a.n.n.y. I like to speak your name. It sounds like music to me. After what you have done, _f.a.n.n.y_ will always mean _goodness_ to me. You cannot do anything more; you have already done enough."
"Don"t you want anything?"
"No; I am happy now. I shall soon pa.s.s away, and go to my Saviour."
Mrs. Kent sobbed.
"Don"t cry, mother," continued Jenny. "G.o.d will take care of you, and we shall meet again."
"Can"t I get anything for you, Jenny? Isn"t there anything you want?"
asked f.a.n.n.y, who felt that she must do something, or she would soon be overwhelmed by the emotions which agitated her soul.
"Nothing, f.a.n.n.y. I don"t think much of the things around me now. I feel just as though I didn"t belong here. This is not my home. Can you sing, f.a.n.n.y?"
"I do sing, sometimes," replied she.
"Will you sing to me?"
"I will; what shall I sing?"
"Something about heaven?" answered Jenny, as she sank back upon the pillow, and fixed her gaze upon the ceiling, as though beyond it she could see the happy home which, was ever in her thoughts.
f.a.n.n.y, as we have said before, was a remarkable singer, not in the artistic sense, though, with proper cultivation of her talent, she might have been all this also. She had a fine voice, and sang as naturally as the birds sing. But this was not an occasion for artistic effects. Never before had the soul of the wayward girl been so stirred.
She was a Sunday-school scholar, and familiar with most of the beautiful and touching melodies contained in children"s song-books.
She was asked to sing "something about heaven;" and she began at once, as though it had been selected by some invisible agency and impressed upon her mind, with the beautiful hymn:--
"There"s a home for the poor on that beautiful sh.o.r.e When life and its sorrows are ended; And sweetly they"ll rest in that home of the blest, By the presence of angels attended.
There"s a home for the sad, and their hearts will be glad When they"ve crossed over Jordan so dreary; For bright is the dome of that radiant home Where so softly repose all the weary."
The "home for the poor on that beautiful sh.o.r.e" seemed to be almost in sight of the singer, for the pale, dying girl spread heaven around her; and f.a.n.n.y sang as she had never sung before. She could hardly keep down the tears which struggled for birth in her dim eyes, and her sweet voice was attuned to the sentiment of the words she sang, which were wedded to a melody so touching as to suggest the heaven it spoke of.
There was a seraphic smile on the wan face of Jenny as the singer finished the first verse, and she clasped her thin white hands above her breast in the ecstasy of her bliss. f.a.n.n.y sang the four verses of the hymn, and every moment of the time seemed to be a moment of rapture to the dying girl.
"How beautiful!" cried Jenny, after a period of silence at the conclusion of the hymn. "I have never been so happy, f.a.n.n.y. Let me take your hand in mine again."
"Can I do anything more for you?" asked f.a.n.n.y, as she gave her hand to the invalid.
"No, nothing. It will make you tired to sing any more now."
"O, no! I could sing all day."
"But the sweet strains you have just sung still linger in my soul. Let me hold your hand a moment, and then I will go to sleep if I can. I like to hold your hand--you are so good."
f.a.n.n.y despised herself. She wanted to tell Jenny what a monster of wickedness she felt herself to be, and she would have done so if it had not been for giving pain to the gentle sufferer.
"I would like to go to heaven now, holding your hand, and mother"s, and Eddy"s; for it seems to me I could carry you up to the Saviour with me then, and give you all to him; and he would love you for my sake, and because you are so good. But I shall never forget you; I shall bear your name to heaven with me, f.a.n.n.y."
The wicked girl shuddered. "Depart from me," seemed to be the only message the Saviour had for her.
"Let me do something more for you," said f.a.n.n.y, who could not endure to be called good by one who was so near heaven that there could be no hypocrisy or shadow of deceit in her heart.
"You may sing me one more hymn, if you are not too tired," replied Jenny.
"O, no! I am never tired of singing;" and she sang the song containing the refrain, "There is sweet rest in heaven," with exquisite taste and feeling.
Mrs. Kent whispered that Jenny must be weary now, and f.a.n.n.y took the hand of the sick girl, to bid her good by.
"Good by, f.a.n.n.y. I shall never see you again; but we shall meet in heaven," said Jenny, with her sweetest smile.