Tempest and Sunshine

When she at last returned to the room, and tried to converse with her

sister, she observed that Fanny shrank from her approach and that she had

been weeping. In a very ironical tone Julia said, "What now is the matter?

I declare, Fan, I believe you are a perfect little simpleton. I wouldn't

be such a cry baby, anyway; and make so much fuss about one

good-for-nothing doctor."

Fanny replied very calmly, and without once taking her eyes from her

sister's face, "If you think I have been crying about Dr. Lacey, you are

mistaken."

"Pray what did you cry for?" said Julia, laughingly. "Did somebody look

sideways at you, or omit to call you by some pet baby name?"

"I cried," said Fanny, "because I feared you had been acting very wickedly

toward me."

In an instant Julia's assurance left her. The bright color forsook her

cheek, which became perfectly white. Fanny noticed the change, and it

confirmed her fears. She did not know that the circumstances to which she

alluded had long since faded from Julia's memory, and that her present

agitation arose from the fear that she might have been detected in her

work of deception, and that, after all, she might be foiled and entangled

in her own meshes. A glance of intense anger flashed from her large black

eye, as she muttered between her closed teeth: "Has the wretch dared to

betray me?"

Fanny supposed she referred to Luce; and her first feeling was to save the

helpless servant girl from Julia's displeasure; so she said, "Do not

condemn Luce; she did not tell me. I received my information from our

teacher, Mr. Miller."

"Luce! Mr. Miller! What do you mean?" asked Julia, her eyes lessening to

their usual size, and the color again coming to her cheeks and lips. This

sudden change in her sister's appearance puzzled Fanny; but she proceeded

to relate what she had just heard from Mr. Miller. Julia was so much

relieved to find her fears unfounded, and her darling secret safe, that

she burst into a loud laugh, which she continued for some time. During

this fit of laughter, she was determining whether it were best to confess

the whole and seem sorry for it, or to strenuously deny it. Finally, she

decided on the former, but resolved not to give the right reason for her

conduct; so she said, with an air of great penitence: "Yes, Fanny, I am

guilty, and I am glad you know it, too. I have been on the point of

acknowledging it to you many times, but shame kept me silent."