Mansfield Park

acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you.  She is
choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought,
and I am glad her love of money does not interfere.
You will be what you ought to be to her.  I hope it does
not distress you very much, Fanny?"

"Indeed it does:  I cannot like it.  I love this house
and everything in it:  I shall love nothing there.
You know how uncomfortable I feel with her."

"I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child;
but it was the same with us all, or nearly so.  She never
knew how to be pleasant to children.  But you are now
of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving
better already; and when you are her only companion,
you _must_ be important to her."

"I can never be important to any one."

"What is to prevent you?"

"Everything.  My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness."

"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny,
believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using
the words so improperly.  There is no reason in the world
why you should not be important where you are known.
You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you
have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness
without wishing to return it.  I do not know any better
qualifications for a friend and companion."

"You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise;
"how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking
so well of me.  Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall
remember your goodness to the last moment of my life."

"Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at
such a distance as the White House.  You speak as if you
were going two hundred miles off instead of only across
the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever.
The two families will be meeting every day in the year.
The only difference will be that, living with your aunt,
you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be.
_Here_ there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with
_her_ you will be forced to speak for yourself."

"Oh!  I do not say so."

"I must say it, and say it with pleasure.  Mrs. Norris
is much better fitted than my mother for having the charge
of you now.  She is of a temper to do a great deal
for anybody she really interests herself about, and she
will force you to do justice to your natural powers."

Fanny sighed, and said, "I cannot see things as you do;
but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself,
and I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile
me to what must be.  If I could suppose my aunt really
to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself
of consequence to anybody.  _Here_, I know, I am of none,
and yet I love the place so well."

"The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you
quit the house.  You will have as free a command of the
park and gardens as ever.  Even _your_ constant little
heart need not take fright at such a nominal change.
You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library
to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse
to ride."

"Very true.  Yes, dear old grey pony!  Ah! cousin, when I
remember how much I used to dread riding, what terrors
it gave me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good
(oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's opening his lips
if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind
pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears,
and convince me that I should like it after a little while,
and feel how right you proved to be, I am inclined to hope
you may always prophesy as well."

"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris
will be as good for your mind as riding has been for
your health, and as much for your ultimate happiness too."

So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate
service it could render Fanny, might as well have been spared,
for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her.
It had never occurred to her, on the present occasion,
but as a thing to be carefully avoided.  To prevent its
being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation
which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield
parish, the White House being only just large enough to
receive herself and her servants, and allow a spare room
for a friend, of which she made a very particular point.
The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted,
but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend
was now never forgotten.  Not all her precautions, however,
could save her from being suspected of something better;
or, perhaps, her very display of the importance of a