like_ to lie"; from both in unison I heard, "It is good and
brave to look things in the face and on all sides; but then among the
sides, never forget the bright side, little Katy."

Could I refuse? I looked for the bright side. It was not far to seek. In
the first place, the worst was over. Never again could I lose what I had
lost, nor--so at least I thought then--could I feel what I had felt.
Secondly, my sorrow was only mine, and no one's else. Those whom I loved
were happy, every one of them;--mamma and Fanny,--I could not doubt
it,--happier far than I ever could have made them, even if I had always
tried as hard as I did after they began to leave me,--safer than they
could ever have been in this world, and safe forever; and Jim,--I would
not begin now to think about him again, but just so much I must,--he was
happy with Emma. Even thus much brought a fresh gush of tears, though
not for him,--I could still truly say that I had never shed one for him,
and that was some comfort to my pride at least;--but for Fanny; because
I had sometimes thought that, when she was well and I had time to think
of anything besides her, if I ever _did_ tell anybody of the mistake and
trouble I had fallen into, I would tell her,--and now, however much I
might need advice and assistance, _that_ could never be. My guardian and
his wife were happy in each other, and would be happier still after I
roused myself, as I must and ought, and ceased to sadden their home. The
world in which I still must live was, whatever people might say of it,
not all sin, sickness, or sorrow. Even where I sat, in one of those
spots which most persons accounted the dreariest in it, I could hear the
laughter of light-hearted children at their play, the soft lowing of
cattle grazing in the pleasant fields, and shouts of strong men at their
wholesome, useful work. I knew there must be sickness, sin, and sorrow
in it; but could not I do some little to help them, with my free hands
and the health and strength which were almost always mine? Very good I
was not myself, but I had been watchfully brought up in an innocent
home; there was no crime upon my conscience, and, even as I cast a
rueful glance upon its blemishes, I heard a well-remembered voice say
from a grave once more: "Have patience with my little daughter. Some of
the richest fruits and souls are not the first to ripen. The chief thing
that she wants is time to mellow."

And one of the brightest points in all