Fanny’s influence originated in an act of kindness to Susan. It had very early occurred to her that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for ever on the sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was continually. Her uncle had given her £10 at parting, and she was willing to be generous. But she was so unused to conferring favours, so unpractised in removing ordinary evils of the non-supernatural kind, or bestowing kindnesses among her equals, and so fearful of appearing to elevate herself as a great lady at home, that it took some time to dare make such a present.

It was made, however, at last. A silver knife was bought for Betsey (and Fanny had in mind protection from the dark as well as pleasure), and accepted with great delight, its newness giving it every advantage over the other.

Susan was established in the full possession of her own knife. Betsey declared that now she had got one so much prettier herself, she should never want that again. And no reproach came from the equally satisfied mother. In one fell swoop, a source of domestic altercation was entirely done away, and it was the means of opening Susan’s heart to Fanny.

Susan shewed that she had delicacy: pleased as she was to be mistress of an item for which she had been struggling for at least two years, she yet feared that her sister’s act was a gentle reproof designed to establish tranquility in the house.

Her temper was open. She acknowledged her fears, blamed herself for having contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny understood the worth of her disposition and began to feel again the blessing of affection. She gave advice, too sound to be resisted by a good understanding, and given so mildly and considerately as not to irritate an imperfect temper. And she had the happiness of observing its good effects. More was not expected—Fanny saw with sympathy all that was hourly grating to a girl like Susan. Her greatest wonder soon became that so many good notions should have been hers at all, under the circumstances. Brought up in the midst of negligence and error, Susan had managed to form a solid proper foundation all on her own—she, who had had no cousin Edmund to direct her thoughts or fix her principles.

The intimacy thus begun between them was an advantage to each. By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a great deal of the disturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to be quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but that was a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the less because reminded by it of the East room.