Tempest and Sunshine

On her way home, conscience clamored loudly in behalf of Fanny's rights.

It said, "Beware what you do! Give Fanny her letter. It is a crime to

withhold it." But again the monitress was stilled, and the crafty girl

kept on her way, firm in her sinful purpose, until she reached the corner

which brought her in sight of the window where Fanny was impatiently

watching for her. The sight of that bright, joyous face, as it looked from

the window, anxious for the expected sight of her letter, made Julia for a

moment waver. She thought how gentle and loving Fanny had always been to

her and involuntarily her hand sought the letter which lay like a crushing

weight in her pocket. It was half drawn from its hiding place when the

spirit of evil which seemed ever to follow Julia's footsteps whispered,

"Let it alone. You have gone too far to retreat. You have Dr. Lacey to

win, and it can be done in no other way."

Julia listened to the tempter, her hand was withdrawn, and Fanny looked in

vain for her letter. A faint sickness stole over her for a moment but she

thought, "Perhaps Julia means to tease me. I will appear very unconcerned

and not ask for it." So when Julia entered the room, she found that her

sister's attention was suddenly, distracted by something in the street;

but Fanny was not accustomed to dissemble and the rosy flush on her cheek

showed how anxious she was.

At last Julia said, "Why do you not ask for your letter, Fanny?"

Oh, how eager was the expression of the sweet, pale face which was

instantly turned toward the speaker. Springing up she exclaimed, "Oh,

Julia, you have got me one, haven't you? Please give it to me."

"I will tomorrow when it arrives," said Julia. "It has probably been

delayed."

Fanny's countenance fell and she said, "Then you haven't got me a letter?

Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"Never mind, sister," said Julia. "It will come tomorrow, and will seem

all the better for waiting."

Tomorrow came, but with it came no letter, and days wore on, until at last

it was Saturday night. Alone in her room poor Fanny was weeping bitterly.

Was Dr. Lacey sick or dead? This was the question which she continually

asked herself. A suspicion of his unfaithfulness had not yet entered her

mind. While she was yet weeping an arm was thrown affectionately round

her, and a voice whispered in the sweetest possible tones, "Dear sister,

do not weep so. If he were dead, some one would inform you. And now I

think of it, why do you not write to him? There would be no harm in doing

so. Come, sit down, and write him a few lines before dark, and I will take

them to the office."