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Again Fanny went on. She had now to go from William-street to the upper part of the city; and precious as her sixpences had become, she felt it was utterly impossible for her to walk. She, therefore, on reaching Broadway, got into an omnibus, and was soon at the door of Mrs. Emly’s fine house in Waverley Place, and was shown into a room where that lady was sitting in her peignior [peignoir], looking over with her sister some dresses that were to be trimmed for a party the following evening. A very elegant young woman was sitting at a table drawing.

“A sempstress, ma’am, from the intelligence office,” said the servant, announcing Fanny.

“A sempstress, with a child!” exclaimed Mrs. Emly.

The young lady looked up at Fanny as she entered; she was struck by her beauty, with her excessive delicacy, and with the gushing of the blood to her pale cheek at Mrs. Emly’s exclamation. She rose, handed Fanny a chair, and saying most kindly, “What a very pretty child, mamma;” she offered to take it. The little creature stretched out its hands in obedience to the magnetic influence of beauty, youth, and a countenance most expressive of cheerful kindness. If, as is sometimes said, a voice may be “full of tears,” this lovely young creature’s was “full of smiles.” Fanny looked up most gratefully, as the young lady took her infant, saying to her, “You must be very tired—is it not very tiresome to carry a baby?”

“The baby does not seem to tire me; but I am not very strong,” replied Fanny, wiping away the tears that were gathering at the gentleness addressed to her.

“You do not look strong, nor well,” said the young lady, and she poured out a glass of wine and water, and insisted on Fanny taking that, and some more solid refreshment, from the waiter on which a servant had just served lunch. It was well for poor Fanny that she accepted the hospitality, for she needed to be fortified for what followed. Fanny had been so thoroughly drilled in sewing by her aunt, who, it may be remembered, was a tailoress, that she answered very confidently, as to her abilities as a sempstress. She should be content, she said, with any wages, or no wages, for the present, if Mrs. Emly would put up with the inconvenience of her child.”

“Oh, the child will not be in my way, said Mrs. Emly;” you’ll be up in the attic, and I shan’t hear it; so, if you will give me a satisfactory reference, I will try you.”

“I have never lived out,” answered Fanny. Discouraged by the rebuffs she had already received, she shrunk from a direct communication of her position.

“Well, where do your parents live? If I find you have decent parents, that will be enough.”

“My parents died—long ago—I lived with my aunt—and she is dead—and I am——friendless.”

“Aha!” said Mrs. Emly,” with an emphatic nod of her head to her sister, who screwed up her mouth, and nodded back again. The young lady walked up to her mother, and said to her in a low voice, and with an imploring look—

“Mamma, for Heaven’s sake don’t say any more to her; I am sure she is good.”

“Ridiculous, Augusta; you know nothing about it,” replied Mrs. Emly aloud. And turning to Fanny, she said, “How comes it that you are friendless and alone in the world? Have you not a husband?”

“No,” answered Fanny, some little spirit mounting with her mounting colour.”I never had a husband, I have been betrayed and forsaken—I am no farther guilty,—no more innocent.”

“Quite enough! quite enough! I can’t of course take any such person into my house.”