“Miss Somers, I am afraid, will be waiting for us,” said Susan. “You know she said she would call at six; and by the length of our shadows I’m sure it is late.” When they came to their own cottage-door, they heard many voices, and they saw, when they entered, several ladies standing in the kitchen. “Come in, Susan; we thought you had quite forsaken us,” said Miss Somers to Susan, who advanced timidly. “I fancy you forgot that we promised to pay you a visit this evening, but you need not blush so much about the matter; there is no great harm done; we have only been here about five minutes; and we have been well employed in admiring your neat garden, and your orderly shelves. Is it you, Susan, who keeps these things in such nice order?” continued Miss Somers, looking round the kitchen. Before Susan could reply, little William pushed forward, and answered, “Yes, ma’am, it is _my_ sister Susan that keeps everything neat; and she always comes to school for us, too, which was what caused her to be so late.” “Because as how,” continued John, “she was loth to refuse us the hearing a blind man play on the harp. It was we kept her, and we hopes, ma’am, as you _are_—as you _seem_ so good, you won’t take it amiss.” Miss Somers and her sister smiled at the affectionate simplicity with which Susan’s little brothers undertook her defence, and they were, from this slight circumstance, disposed to think yet more favourably of a family which seemed so well united. They took Susan along with them through the village. Many neighbours came to their doors, and far from envying, they all secretly wished Susan well as she passed. “I fancy we shall find what we want here,” said Miss Somers, stopping before a shop, where unfolded sheets of pins and glass buttons glistened in the window, and where rolls of many coloured ribbons appeared ranged in tempting order. She went in, and was rejoiced to see the shelves at the back of the counter well-furnished with glossy tiers of stuffs, and gay, neat printed linens and calicoes. “Now, Susan, choose yourself a gown,” said Miss Somers; “you set an example of industry and good conduct, of which we wish to take public notice, for the benefit of others.” The shopkeeper, who was father to Susan’s friend Rose, looked much satisfied by this speech, and as if a compliment had been paid to himself, bowed low to Miss Somers, and then with alertness, which a London linen-draper might have admired, produced piece after piece of his best goods to his young customer—unrolled, unfolded, held the bright stuffs and calendered calicoes in various lights. Now stretched his arm to the highest shelves, and brought down in a trice what seemed to be beyond the reach of any but a giant’s arm; now dived into some hidden recess beneath the counter, and brought to light fresh beauties and fresh temptations. Susan looked on with more indifference than most of the spectators. She was thinking much of her lamb, and more of her father.