“Thank you,” said the peddler, in a low voice, without raising his eyes. The sewing-silk was purchased, and the box rearranged, and strapped up, but still the peddler lingered. Lucy, thinking he might be weary, invited him to stop and rest awhile. “I will sit here on the door-step awhile, if you please, with the little girl,” said the peddler. “Are you fond of flowers?” said he to Fanny, again touching her shining curls. “Oh, yes,” she replied; “only I don’t like to go alone to get them--the cows stare at me so with their great big eyes, and the little toads hop over my feet, and I am afraid they will bite; they won’t bite, will they?” asked Fanny, looking confidingly up in his face. “I should not think any thing could harm _you_,” replied the peddler, drawing his fingers across his eyes. “What are you crying for?” asked Fanny, “’cause you haven’t any little girl to love you?” “The dust, dear, in the road, quite blinded me to-day,” replied the peddler. “I will bring you some water for them, in my little cup,” said Fanny. “Grandma bathes her eyes when they ache, sewing on those tiresome vests.” “No--no”--said the peddler, catching her by the hand as she sprang up--“don’t go away--sit down--here--close by me--I will make a wreath of flowers for your hair; your eyes are as blue as this violet.” “They are mamma’s eyes,” said Fanny. “Grandma calls them ‘mamma’s eyes.’ We have a pretty picture of mamma--see--that’s it,” and she bounded across the room and drew aside a calico curtain which screened it. “There, isn’t it pretty?--why don’t you look?” The peddler slowly turned his head, and replied, in a husky voice, “Yes, dear.” “Mamma is dead,” said Fanny, re-seating herself by his side. “What makes you shiver? are you cold?--he is sick, grandma,” said Fanny, running up to Lucy. “A touch of my old enemy, the ague, ma’am,” said the peddler, respectfully--and Lucy returned to her needle. “Yes, my mamma is dead,” said Fanny. “Are you sorry my mamma is dead? Sometimes I talk to her--grandma likes to have me; but mamma’s picture never speaks back. Don’t you wish my mamma would speak back?” said Fanny, looking up earnestly in his face. The peddler nodded--bending lower over the wreath he was twining. “My papa is dead, too,” said Fanny--“are you sorry my papa is dead? Nobody loves me but grandma and God.” “And I”--said the peddler, touching her curls again with his fingers. “Why do you keep touching my hair?” asked the little chatterbox. “Because it is so like--oh, well--I am sure I don’t know,” said the peddler, placing the wreath over her bright face, and touching his lips to her forehead. “Good-by, dear, don’t forget me. I will make you a prettier wreath sometime, shall I?” “O yes,” said Fanny; “let me tell grandma. Grandma is so deaf she can’t hear us;” and the child ran back into the room to tell the news.