The peddler looked in through the little casement window. He saw the falling tears, he saw Lucy’s sorrowful gaze at the rosy little dreamer. He needed no explanation of the tableau. He knocked at the door; Lucy’s tones were tremulous, as she bade him come in. “I thought you might be wanting some more silk,” said he, respectfully, with his eyes fixed upon little Fanny. “Sit down--sit down,” said Lucy; for the tones of his voice were kindly, and her heart in its loneliness craved sympathy. “It is dull weather we have, sir; one don’t mind it when all is right _here_,” and she laid her hand on her heart. “True,” said the peddler, in a low voice, still gazing at Fanny. “The child sleeps,” said Lucy. “It was of her I was thinking when you came in; it would be very bitter to die and leave her alone, sir;” and Lucy’s tears flowed again. “Have you no relatives--no friends, to whom you could intrust her?” asked the peddler, with his eyes bent on the ground. “None, God help us,” replied Lucy. “Sir,” and Lucy drew her chair nearer to the peddler, “a great sorrow may sometimes be in the heart, when smiles are on the face.” The peddler nodded, without trusting himself to speak. “This poor heart has borne up until now, with what strength it might; but now”--and she glanced at little Fanny--“O, sir--if I could but take her with me.” “God will care for her,” said the peddler, stooping to remove his hat, that Lucy might not see his emotion. “Sometimes I feel that,” replied Lucy; “and then again--O, sir, trouble makes the heart so fearful. My poor daughter--she was our idol, sir--the sunbeam in our home; so good--so beautiful--so light-hearted, till the trouble came. It was like a lightning bolt, sir--it scathed and withered in one moment what was before so fresh and fair; it blighted all our hopes, it blackened our hearth-stone, it killed my husband--poor Jacob. Pardon me, sir, I talk as if you had known our history. It was Mary’s lover, sir; he was taken up for swindling, at our very door;--and yet I loved the lad--for the ground she walked on he loved--for Mary’s sake.” “_She_ forgave him?” asked the peddler, in a voice scarcely audible. “She?--poor dear--she? All the world could not have made her believe ill of him. She? Why, sir, she would sit at the window for hours, watching the way he used to come. It crazed her, poor thing; and then she would come and go just as she was bid. Her father saw her fade, day by day, and cursed _him_;--he forgot business--every thing went wrong--one way and another our money went, and then Jacob died.” “He forgave _him_--your daughter’s lover, before he died?” asked the peddler, tremulously. “You have a kind heart, sir,” said Lucy. “Yes, Jacob’s heart softened at the last;--he said we all needed God’s mercy. His last words were ‘Peace.’” “God be thanked,” murmured the peddler; then adding, quickly, “it must have made _you_ so much happier; you say you loved the lad.”