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 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." "Nonsense," said Fanny. "Wait a moment, I am going a little way with you;" and as they walked along, Fanny tried to be herself again. "There comes Graffam," said she: "now I hope that he is drunk; if so, we will make him tell about the times when he was major." But in this Fanny was disappointed. Soberly, but sadly, the poor man of the plain came along, and shrunk from the gaze of those merry girls. "O," said Fanny, "Uncle Pete is not tipsy; so we shall not hear from the major to-night." Poor Graffam passed them quickly, for he heard this remark; and a deeper shade of gloom came over him. "What is the use of this dreadful struggle?" thought he. "What suffering this self-denial has cost me! and yet what is gained? Nothing, but to know that I am ridiculed and despised."