Fanny’s feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself incapable of expressing. But her countenance and a few artless words fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began to find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and a strong desire of doing right. And he could perceive her to be further entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation, and great timidity.

In the abrupt revelation of the Curse, he had never knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that she required more positive kindness not to mention a better explanation. And with that view Edmund endeavoured to lessen her fears, despite all things. He gave her a great deal of good advice as to avoiding Aunt Norris, treading with care around Lady Bertram’s archeological items, playing with Maria and Julia, and being as merry as possible despite strange noises in the night.

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She felt that she had a friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits with everybody else. The place, despite its unraveling secrets and strangeness became less strange, and the people less formidable—even the tediously nagging fanged ones, even during a full moon. And if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best manner of conforming to them. He own little rusticities and awkwardnesses necessarily wore away, and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris’s howlish voice make her start too much.

To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper. They had to admit—when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness—that “Fanny was good-natured enough.”

Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and Fanny had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her.

As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan. It was pretty soon decided that, though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble.