“Now, my dear Emily, let me hear all about your visit at Mrs. Stanley’s.—Who was there besides the little Stanleys? What did you do? Did you enjoy your evening?”
Emily.—“Oh! there were the little Vincents, nice merry little girls, and I played a great deal with them at first; but, mama, there was one little girl whose name I did not know, with a face so pretty, but so pale, and with a black frock on, who did not play at all, and I could not help watching her; and I began to pity her, so that I left off playing, and sat down close by her on the grass; but I did not speak to her, because she looked so very sad, and I did not know what to say to comfort her; but I think she saw I pitied her, for she took hold of my hand, and said, ‘I could love you, but you would not love me long.’ I was going to say, ‘Indeed I would,’ but just then Lucy Stanley came running up to us, and said, ‘Your servant is come, Emily, and Edwin is in such a hurry to go, he is looking for his little hat, and begs me to call you.—Do you think he is tired of us, that he is in such haste to leave us?’—‘O no,’ I said, ‘Edwin does not want to leave you, but he is such a good little boy, that he is always in a hurry to do what he knows mama wishes, and she told us not to keep nurse waiting.’—And then, mama,—what could it be for?—the little pale girl burst into such a fit of crying, let go my hand, and jumped up, and ran into the house, and Lucy looked after her, and said, ‘Poor unhappy Clara!’ Do you know why she is in black, mama; and why she is so unhappy, and why what I said about Eddie could make her cry?”
“Poor Clara! my heart indeed aches for the unhappy little girl. I will tell you her story—it is a sad one, but might be useful to many a little girl who may have the same fault which has rendered her so very wretched.”