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her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she
has changed for the better; but then there is moderation
in all things."

It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris
was inclined to allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty
of Mansfield Park, and the separation from everybody
she had been used to. Her feelings were very acute,
and too little understood to be properly attended to.
Nobody meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out
of their way to secure her comfort.

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day,
on purpose to afford leisure for getting acquainted with,
and entertaining their young cousin, produced little union.
They could not but hold her cheap on finding that she
had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and when
they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they
were so good as to play, they could do no more than make
her a generous present of some of their least valued toys,
and leave her to herself, while they adjourned to whatever
might be the favourite holiday sport of the moment,
making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in
the schoolroom, the drawing-room, or the shrubbery,
was equally forlorn, finding something to fear in
every person and place. She was disheartened by Lady
Bertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks,
and quite overcome by Mrs. Norris's admonitions.
Her elder cousins mortified her by reflections on her size,
and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss Lee
wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered
at her clothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea
of the brothers and sisters among whom she had always
been important as playfellow, instructress, and nurse,
the despondence that sunk her little heart was severe.

The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her.
The rooms were too large for her to move in with ease:
whatever she touched she expected to injure, and she
crept about in constant terror of something or other;
often retreating towards her own chamber to cry;
and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room
when she left it at night as seeming so desirably sensible
of her peculiar good fortune, ended every day's sorrows
by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had passed in this way,
and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet passive manner,
when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund,
the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.

"My dear little cousin," said he, with all the gentleness
of an excellent nature, "what can be the matter?" And sitting
down by her, he was at great pains to overcome her shame
in being so surprised, and persuade her to speak openly.
Was she ill? or was anybody angry with her? or had she
quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled
about anything in her lesson that he could explain?
Did she, in short, want anything he could possibly get her,
or do for her? For a long while no answer could be

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