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“Come then on Monday, Fanny, at twelve o’clock, to the corner of Grand and Essex streets. I will be there, in a hackney coach, and I will take you a ride just as long, or as short as you please; and when spring comes, you shall go out with me in my boat by moonlight. I often pass an evening in rowing about the harbor, and I should take such pleasure in pleasing you.”

“But, Mr. Stafford, Aunt Sara would never give me leave—never in the world.”

“Do not ask her: how is she to know?”

“Why, I must tell her. I tell her every thing, and I never leave her but to go to school.”

“And how is she to know that you are not at school?”

“Mr. Stafford, do you think I would deceive my Aunt Sara? No, never,—never.”

They had arrived at the baker’s shop. Fanny turned to enter it, and faltered out a “good night, sir.”

“Stop and listen to me one moment,” he said, detaining her. That one moment he prolonged till he had repeated, again and again, his professions of admiration and interest, and his entreaties that she would meet him. She remained true to herself, and to her aunt. She offered to tell her aunt of his kindness, and to ask her leave to take the ride. This he declined, saying “it would be useless,” and finally, he was obliged to leave her, with only a promise from her, that she would not always disregard the whistle.

He kissed her hand, and thrust into it a purse. She would have followed him, and returned it, but at that moment two persons crossed the street, and interposed themselves between her and Stafford; and fearing observation, she reluctantly retained it. On examination, she found in it several gold pieces, and a small locket, with a very beautiful miniature of Stafford on one side, and a lock of his hair on the other. She had the resolution, after examining the features again and again, to ‘tie it up with the purse of untouched money; certainly not without many a pang, as she slowly and hesitatingly did it, and directing the parcel to “Nugent Stafford, Esquire,” she secretly gave it to her devoted thrall, Pat O’Roorke, a clever and honest boy, to convey it to that gentleman, at the Astor House. —Pat returned with the information, that there was no such gentleman there, and Fanny, without having any suspicion of foul play, concluded he was out of town. She hid the parcel from her aunt’s eye, thinking it would uselessly disturb her, and still resolving to return it at the first opportunity.

She had thus far obeyed her conscience, and it “sat li
ghtly on its throne.”

Two years glided away. Fanny’s beauty, instead of passing with her childhood, had become so brilliant that it could not be unobserved. She shunned the street, where the vultures, that are abroad for prey, seeing she was young, and ascertaining that she was unprotected, had more than once beset her. A mine had long been working under her feet. The dreary companionship of the petulant old woman became every day more wearisome to her; still, she was gentle and patient, and for many a heavy month, endured resolutely a life that grew sadder and sadder, as she contrasted it with the world of beauty, indulgence and love, that had been painted to her excited imagination. For the last six months, her aunt had been paralytic, moving from her bed to the chair with difficulty, supported by Fanny, whose slight figure tottered under the superincumbent weight of the massive old woman. Her faculties had decayed one after another; still the paramount affection of her being remained; the last lingering of daylight on the darkening night. She fancied herself still capable of earning their daily sustenance, and hour after hour, she would move the only arm she could move, as if she were sewing, and at evening take the same garment, on which she had thus cheated herself for months, to Fanny, and falter out, “take it to Ray’s, dear, and bring the pay.” Fanny favoured the illusion, took the garment, and always brought the pay.