Secondly, my sorrow was only mine, and no one's else. Those whom I loved
were happy, every one of them;--mamma and Fanny,--I could not doubt
it,--happier far than I ever could have made them, even if I had always
tried as hard as I did after they began to leave me,--safer than they
could ever have been in this world, and safe forever; and Jim,--I would
not begin now to think about him again, but just so much I must,--he was
happy with Emma. Even thus much brought a fresh gush of tears, though
not for him,--I could still truly say that I had never shed one for him,
and that was some comfort to my pride at least;--but for Fanny; because
I had sometimes thought that, when she was well and I had time to think
of anything besides her, if I ever _did_ tell anybody of the mistake and
trouble I had fallen into, I would tell her,--and now, however much I
might need advice and assistance, _that_ could never be. My guardian and
his wife were happy in each other, and would be happier still after I
roused myself, as I must and ought, and ceased to sadden their home. The
world in which I still must live was, whatever people might say of it,
not all sin, sickness, or sorrow. Even where I sat, in one of those
spots which most persons accounted the dreariest in it, I could hear the
laughter of light-hearted children at their play, the soft lowing of
cattle grazing in the pleasant fields, and shouts of strong men at their
wholesome, useful work.
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