Soon after Fanny's funeral, Miss Mehitable told me she had found out who
the lady was that wished for my painting at the fair. Her niece had
pointed her out as she drove by in a barouche; and it was Miss Dudley.

My second copy was begun in the last fortnight of Fanny's life, as she
slept and I sat beside her. I had not then had time, nor since had
heart, to go on with it. But now, seeing an opportunity to do something
more to fulfil her wishes and to "do anything for Miss Dudley," I took
up my task again, and quickly finished it. Then, still unsatisfied, I
roamed through the woods, and along the shore, to gather specimens of
the native plants, insects, and shells that seemed to me most like the
foreign ones that I had copied, and grouped and painted and framed them
like the first. The Doctor left both for me at Miss Dudley's gate, with
this inscription on the envelope: "A little offering of great gratitude,
from a sister of Fanny Morne." I suppose, by the way, this is one source
of the satisfaction that some real mourners find in wearing mourning, as
they say, "_for_ the dead,"--a vague longing, like mine, after they have
passed beyond human care, to do or sacrifice still something more for
them.

After that, there seemed to be nothing more that I could do for Fanny,
nor anything that, for myself, I cared to do. From habit only, I
employed myself. Julia, as she begged that I would call her, had a large
basket of baby-clothes cut out. At that I seated myself after breakfast;
and at that I often worked till bedtime, like a machine,--startled
sometimes from my revery, indeed, by seeing how much was done, but
saying nothing, hearing little, and shedding not a tear.

Julia would have remonstrated; but the Doctor said to her: "Let her