She told herself, with a mad little
laugh, that she would never again pick up anything; never again would
she run through her neighbors' gates, tap on their doors and visit them
in their kitchens. Never again could she hurry up the spring street
with the south wind caressing her cheek. No more would she gad about
to learn the doings of her little world. Would it come to talk to her,
to make her laugh now that she was helpless? Was she never to hear the
music of living? Was she to lose her knack of making people laugh? To
lose her place in life--to live and yet be forgotten--would she have to
face that?
These were some of the thoughts that were torturing poor Fanny that
day. And then she gave a cry, for around the corner of the house came
Nanny Ainslee in just the same old way. Grandma Wentworth and the
minister were just behind her.
They stared lovingly at each other, the girl who was as lovely as life
and love and springtime could make her, and the woman whom the game had
broken. Then Nanny spoke--not to the broken body of Fanny Foster but
to the gipsy, springtime spirit of Fanny.
"I only just came home, Fanny. I went through town and saw pretty
nearly everybody, and every soul tried to tell me a little something.
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