“Well, I must say, Miss Schomberg has a nice way of speaking, which gets over you some how,” said cook, “I wish I had her temper.”

More than one in the kitchen mentally echoed that wish of cook’s.

The balloon went on beautifully, and was completed by seven o’clock.  Fred was delighted when he came in to tea, and John no less so.  All the rude speeches were forgotten, and Emilie was as sympathetic in her joy as an elder sister could have been.  “I don’t know what you will do without Miss Schomberg,” said Mr. Parker, as he sipped his tea.

“She had better come and live with us,” said Fred, “and keep us all in order.  I’m sure I should have no objection.”

Emilie felt quite paid for the little self-denial she had exercised, when she found that her greatest enemy, he who had declared he would “plague her to death, and pay her off for not letting them send up their fire-works,” was really conquered by that powerful weapon, love.

Fred had thought more than he chose to acknowledge of Emilie’s kindness; he could not forget it.  It was so different to the treatment he had met with from his associates generally.  It made him ask what could be the reason of Emilie’s conduct.  She had nothing to get by it, that was certain, and Fred made up his mind to have some talk with Miss Schomberg on the subject the first time they were alone.  He had some trials at school with a boy who was bent on annoying him, and trying to stir up his temper; perhaps the peacemaker might tell him how to deal with this lad.  Fred was an impetuous boy, and now began to like Miss Schomberg as warmly as he had previously disliked her.

On their way to old Joe’s house that night, Emilie thought she would call in on Miss Webster, not having parted from her very warmly on the first night of the holidays.  A fortnight of these holidays had passed away, and Emilie began to long for her quiet evenings, and to see dear aunt Agnes again.  She looked quite affectionately up to the little sitting room window, where her geraniums stood, and even thought kindly of Miss Webster herself, to whom it was not quite so easy to feel genial.  She entered the shop.  The apprentice sate there at work, busily trimming a fine rice straw bonnet for the lodger within.  She looked up joyously at Emilie’s approach.  She thought how often that kind German face had been to her like a sunbeam on a dull path; how often her musical voice had spoken words of counsel, and comfort, and sympathy, to her in her hard life.  How she had pressed her hand when she (the apprentice) came home one night and told her, “My poor mother is dead,” and how she had said, “We are both orphans now, Lucy.  We can feel for one another.”  How she had taught her by example, often, and by word sometimes, not to answer again if any thing annoyed or irritated her, and in short how much Lucy had missed the young lady only Lucy could say.