Part 15 (2/2)
”Now, stop a moment: 'For we are saved by hope,'” said the sufferer.
”Do you know what the emblem of Hope is, f.a.n.n.y?”
”An anchor.”
”Will you hand me that little box on the table?”
f.a.n.n.y pa.s.sed the box to her, and she took from it a little gold breastpin, in the form of an anchor.
”This was given to me by my father when I was a little girl. My Sunday-school teacher told me years ago what an anchor was the emblem of, and told me at the same time to remember the verse you have just read--'For we are saved by hope.' That anchor has often reminded me what was to save me from sin. f.a.n.n.y, I will give you this breastpin to remember me by.”
”I shall never forget you, Jenny, as long as I live!” said f.a.n.n.y, earnestly.
”But when you remember me, I want you to think what the anchor means.
You say you are not good, but I know you are. You mean to be good, you hope to be good; and that will make you good. Do you know we can always have what we hope for, if it is right that we should have it? What we desire most we labor the hardest for. If you really and truly wish to be good, you will be good.”
f.a.n.n.y took the breastpin. If it had been worth thousands of dollars, it would not have been more precious to her. It was the gift of the loving and gentle being who was soon to be transplanted from earth to heaven; of the beautiful girl who had influenced her as she had never been influenced before; who had lifted her soul into a new atmosphere. She placed it upon her bosom, and resolved never to part with it as long as she lived.
”Hope and have, f.a.n.n.y,” said Jenny, when she had rested for a time.
”Hope for what is good and true, and you shall have it; for if you really desire it, you will be sure to labor and to struggle for it.”
”Hope and have,” repeated f.a.n.n.y. ”Your anchor shall mean this to me.
Jenny, I feel happier already, for I really and truly mean to be good.
But I think I ought to tell you how wicked I am.”
”No, don't tell me; tell your mother.”
”I have no mother.”
”Then you are poorer than I am.”
”And no father.”
”Poor f.a.n.n.y! Then you have had no one to tell you how to be good.”
”Yes, I have the kindest and best of friends; but I have been very ungrateful.”
”They will forgive you, for you are truly sorry.”
”Perhaps they will.”
”I know they will.”
Jenny was weary again, and f.a.n.n.y sang in her softest and sweetest tones once more. It was now the twilight of a long summer day, and Mrs. Kent, having finished her household duties, came into the room. Soon after, the sufferer was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which seemed to weaken and reduce her beyond the possibility of recovery. When it left her, she could not speak aloud.
”I am going, mother,” said she, a little later. ”f.a.n.n.y!”
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