"If Mrs. Newton, who lived about fifteen years ago near the turnpike on
the P---- road, will apply to Messrs. Long and Black, she will hear of
something to her advantage. Or should she be dead, any person who can
give information respecting her and her family, will be rewarded."
Mrs. Newton sat without the power of speech--so much was she surprised;
at last she said, "It is Fanny's father!--I know, I am sure it can be
no one else!"
Mr. Walton looked surprised, for he had never thought of this; he was
almost sorry to think his little flower-girl should have another
protector. At length he said it must be as Mrs. Newton thought, and he
would go up to London himself next day, and see Mr. Long and Mr. Black.
So he went; and two days afterwards, when Fanny had returned from Mrs.
Walton's school, and was sitting with Mrs. Newton in the little shady
arbor they had made in the garden, and talking over early days, when
they used to sit in another arbor, and Fanny used to learn her first
lessons from flowers, then came Mr. Walton walking up the path towards
them, and with him was a fine-looking man, of about forty-five years of
age.
Mrs. Newton trembled, for when she looked in his face she remembered
the features; and she said to herself, "Now, if he takes my Fanny from
me?--and if he should be a bad man?" But when this man came nearer, he
stepped hastily beyond Mr. Walton, and catching Mrs. Newton's hands, he
was just going to drop on his knees before her, when he saw Fanny
staring at him; and a father's feelings overcame every other, and with
a cry of joy he extended his arms, and exclaiming "my child!'--my
child!" caught her to his breast.
Then there followed so much talk, while no one knew scarcely what was
saying; and it was Mr. Walton, chiefly, that told how Fanny's father
had had so much to struggle against, and so much hardship to go
through, but how he had succeeded at last, and got on very well; now he
had tried then to find out Mrs. Newton and his dear little Fanny, but
could not, because Mrs. Newton had changed her abode; how, at last, he
had met with a good opportunity to sell his land, and had now come over
with the money he had earned, to find his child, and repay her kind
benefactor.
Oh, what a happy evening was that in the widow's cottage! the widow's
heart sang for joy. The widow, and she that had always thought herself
an orphan, were ready to sing together--
"Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow."
Mrs. Newton found that Mr. Marsden, that was the name of Fanny's
father, was all that she could desire Fanny's father to be:--a
Christian in deed and in truth; one thankful to God and to her, for the
preservation and care of his child; and who would not willingly
separate Fanny from her, or let her leave Fanny.
As he found Mrs. Newton did not wish to leave kind Mr. Walton's
neighborhood, and that his daughter was attached to it also, Mr.
Marsden took some land and a nice farm-house, not far from the Manor
House, where Mr. Walton lived. He had heard all about the
half-sovereign, and loved his little flower-girl before he saw her.
So Mrs. Newton had to leave her widow's house; and she shed tears of
joy, and regret, and thankfulness, as she did so; she had been happy
there, and had had God's blessing upon her and her dear girl.
But Fanny was glad to receive her dear, dear grandmother into her own
father's house; her own house too; and she threw her arms round the old
lady's neck, when they got there, and kissed her over and over again,
and said, "Ah! grandmother, do you recollect when I was a little girl
tying up my flowers while you lay sick in bed, I used to say so often--
"'Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow.'"
They had a large garden at the farm-house, and Fanny and Mrs. Newton
improved it; and Mrs. Newton would walk out, leaning on Fanny's arm,
and look at the lilies and roses, and jessamine, and mignonette, and
talk of past times, and of their first garden, and their first flowers,
and of their first knowledge of the God who made them; who watches the
opening bud, and the infant head; who sends his rain upon the plant,
and the dew of his blessing upon the child who is taught to know and
love Him. And Fanny's father, when he joined them, talked over his
trials and dangers from the day that his poor wife lay dead, and his
helpless baby lay in his arms, and then he blessed the God who had led
him all his life long, and crowned him with loving-kindness.
Three years passed, and Fanny, the little flower-girl, was a fine young
woman. A farmer's son in the neighborhood wished to get her for his
wife; but her father was very sorry to think of her leaving him so soon
for another home.
He spoke to Fanny about it, and said,--"My dear girl, I have no right
to expect you should wish to stay with me, for I never was able to
watch over your childhood or to act a father's part by you."
And Fanny answered, with a blush and smile, "And I, father, was never
able to act a daughter's part by you until now, and therefore I think
you have every right to expect I should do so for some time longer. I
have no objections to be Charles Brierley's wife, and I have told him
so; but we are both young, and at all events I will not leave you."
"Now," said Mrs. Newton, who was sitting by, "instead of that young man
taking more land, which is very dear about here, would it not be a good
plan if he were to come and live with you, Mr. Marsden, and help you
with the farm."
And Mr. Marsden said, "That is the very thing; I will go and speak to
him about it; and Fanny and her husband can have the house, and farm,
and all, as much as they please now, and entirely at my death."
So it was all settled; and Fanny was married at the village church, and
Mr. and Mrs. Walton were at the wedding. Good Mrs. Newton lived on at
the farm-house, and when Fanny's first child was born, it was put into
her arms. Then she thought of the time when Fanny herself was laid in
the same arms; and she blessed God in her heart, who had enabled her to
be of use to one human creature, and to one immortal soul and mind,
while she passed through this life to the life everlasting.
Joy and sorrow are always mingled on this earth; so it came to pass
that before Fanny's first child could walk alone, good, kind Mrs.
Newton died, and was buried. As a shock of corn cometh in, in its
season, so she sank to rest, and was gathered into the garner of her
Lord. But--
"The memory of the just
Is blessed, though they sleep in dust;"
and Fanny's children, and children's children, will learn to love that
memory.
Many a day, sitting at work in her garden, with her little ones around
her, Fanny let them gather some flowers, and talk to her about them;
and then they would beg, as a reward for good conduct, that she would
tell them about her dear grandmother and her own childish days; and
much as children love to hear stories, never did any more delight in a
story, than did these children, in the story of Fanny, the Flower-Girl.
Convenient Food.
Little Frances was crying; her sister Mary hearing her sobs, ran in
haste to inquire what had happened; and saw her sitting in a corner of
the nursery, looking rather sulky, as if she had recently received some
disappointment.
"What is the matter, dear little Frances? why do you cry so?"
Frances pouted, and would make no reply.
"Tell me, dear Frances; perhaps I can do something for you."
"Nothing, Mary," she sobbed, "only"--
"Only what, little Frances? It cannot be _nothing_ that makes you cry
so bitterly."
"Only mamma would not give--" she looked a little ashamed, and did not
finish her sentence.
"_What_ would she not give?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing!" Frances shook her elbows, as if troubled by Mary's
inquiries, but the tears continued flowing down her cheeks.
Just at that moment their sister Anne came into the room, singing in
the joy of her heart, with a piece of plum-cake in her hand, holding it
up, and turning it about before her sisters to exhibit her
newly-acquired possession, on which Frances fixed her eyes with eager
gaze, and the tears flowed still faster, accompanied with a kind of
angry sob.
"Frances! what is the matter that you are crying so? see what I have
got! you will spoil all the happiness of our feast."
At the word _feast_, Frances' tears seemed arrested, and her mouth
looked as if she were going to smile. She left the corner, and
immediately prepared to do her part for the feast, setting a little
square table, and then, drawing her own little stool, seated herself in
readiness as a guest.
"Stay," said Anne, "we will make some little paper dishes and plates,
and divide the cake;" so saying, she began the operation, and laying
down the paper dishes, "there at the top, see! there shall be two
chickens, at the bottom a piece of beef, at one side some potatoes, and
at the other some cauliflower;" breaking her cake into small pieces to
correspond to her imagined provision.
Frances looked very impatient at the long preparation, and as Anne
seated herself, inviting Mary to partake, Frances stretched out her
hand to take the beef for her own portion.
"No, no, Frances, you must not help yourself, you know; wait until we
all begin in order."
Frances very reluctantly withdrew her hand, and, whilst she waited,
betrayed her impatience by a little jerking motion of the body, that
threw her breast against the table, as if she would beat time into
quicker motion.
"O we must not forget William!" Anne exclaimed; "where is he? he must
taste our feast; stay here, Mary, with Frances, and I will go and find
him."
Away she ran, and left poor Frances in a fret at this additional delay,
but she began to amuse herself by picking up the small crumbs that had
been scattered on the stool, and at last proceeded to touch the beef
and chickens.
"Do not do so, Frances," Mary said, in a reproving voice.
Frances colored.
"Do not sit _looking_ on, if you are so impatient; employ yourself, and
get a seat ready for William."
"_You_ may get it, Mary."
"Very well; only do not meddle with Anne's feast."
Mary had to go into another room for the seat, and whilst she was away,
Frances quickly helped herself to half of the pieces which were on the
dishes, and, when Mary returned, resumed her position as if nothing had
happened. Mary was so busy in arranging the seats, that she did not
observe what had been done.
Presently Anne came back, accompanied by her brother William; hastening
to her place, and looking on her table, she started with surprise, and
seemed to say to herself, as she gazed, How came I to make a mistake,
an think my pieces of cake were larger? but the expression of her face
called Mary's attention, who at once said,
"Anne, I am sure you placed larger pieces on your dishes."
"Indeed, I thought so, Mary; who has taken any?"
"I do not know."
"O you are only _pretending_, and you have been hiding some."
"No, Anne; I would not have said I do not know, if I had _hid_ it."
"No, no more you would, dear Mary. Never mind," she said, glancing a
look at Frances, not altogether without suspicion, "it is only to
_play_ with, it does not signify whether it is much or little.
"William, shall I help you to a little chicken?"
"O no, Anne, you have forgot, help the _ladies_ first; and beside, you
ought to have placed me at the bottom of the table to carve this dish.
What is it?"
"Beef, William."
"O beef, very well. Come, Miss Frances, let me sit there, and you come
to the side of the table."
In haste to begin the eating part of the play, she rose immediately to
change places, when, to her disgrace, a quantity of crumbs, which had
lodged unobserved in a fold of her frock, fell out, and disordered the
neatness of the table.
"There!" said William, "we have no question to ask who took the liberty
to lessen the dishes."
"For shame, William, I--"
"O Frances, take care what you say, tell no falsehoods; I will tell one
truth, and say you are a greedy girl."