On their way to old Joe's house that night, Emilie thought she would
call in on Miss Webster, not having parted from her very warmly on the
first night of the holidays. A fortnight of these holidays had passed
away, and Emilie began to long for her quiet evenings, and to see dear
aunt Agnes again. She looked quite affectionately up to the little
sitting room window, where her geraniums stood, and even thought kindly
of Miss Webster herself, to whom it was not quite so easy to feel
genial. She entered the shop. The apprentice sate there at work, busily
trimming a fine rice straw bonnet for the lodger within. She looked up
joyously at Emilie's approach. She thought how often that kind German
face had been to her like a sunbeam on a dull path; how often her
musical voice had spoken words of counsel, and comfort, and sympathy,
to her in her hard life. How she had pressed her hand when she (the
apprentice) came home one night and told her, "My poor mother is dead,"
and how she had said, "We are both orphans now, Lucy. We can feel for
one another.
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