The little visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not how to look up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying. Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good behaviour which it ought to produce, and Fanny’s misery was only increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for her not to be happy.

The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became soon no trifling evil. And the constant sidelong glances at Mrs. Norris in the bright moonlight accorded her peculiar, even grotesque, momentary hallucinations of lupine scowling jaws which were of course not there. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas, and all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be a good girl. In vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa with herself and pug and a medium-sized First Dynasty oil jug that took up much of the seating space. And vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards giving her comfort.

Fanny took one look to the right and saw a crocodile, to the left, a replica of the Sphinx, and, right before her, what appeared to be a very deceased and frightful face of an upright golden god with eyes shut—a minor blessing—and a serpent coming out of its chin. No wonder she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls before tears interrupted her!

Sleep seeming to be her likeliest friend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed. There she dreamed of strange never before imagined ghouls—some bloodless, others shriveled, all walking upright, shreds of desiccated linen wrappings, the howling of wolves, and everywhere, bright sun-lit sand. In short, rather ghastly and unwarranted stuff.

“This is not a very promising beginning,” said Mrs. Norris, sitting down next to the oil-jug on the other side of Lady Bertram, when Fanny had left the room. “After all that I said to her as we came along, I thought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend upon her acquitting herself well at first. I wish there may not be a little sulkiness of temper—her poor mother had a good deal; but we must make allowances for such a child—and I do not know that her being sorry to leave her home is really against her. For, with all its faults, it was her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she has changed for the better. But then there is moderation in all things.” And Mrs. Norris pushed herself somewhat against the jug to make room on the sofa for her own person.