Elizabeth Sewell (1815-1906), Amy Herbert (1844), 1886 edition


Produced by Daniel FROMONT




AMY HERBERT



BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON



AMY HERBERT



BY



ELIZABETH M. SEWELL



Why should we fear Youth's draught of joy, If pure, would sparkle less?
Why should the cup the sooner cloy Which God Hath deign'd to bless?

CHRISTIAN YEAR.




NEW EDITION


LONDON

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

1886



AMY HERBERT.



CHAPTER I.


In a remote picturesque village, on the borders of one of the few
remaining forests in England, was situated the home of Amy Herbert. It
was a lovely cottage, with a thatched roof and latticed windows, covered
with creepers and roses, and standing upon a smooth velvet lawn, which
gently sloped to the edge of a clear stream, that flowed sparkling along
at the bottom of the garden. A small but very beautiful pleasure-ground
divided it from the forest, which stretched far away behind for many
miles; whilst in the front it commanded a view over the village of
Emmerton, with its scattered dwellings and its gray church-tower, and
the distant country beyond. The interior of the cottage consisted of
a drawing-room, with windows opening upon the lawn, a small study, a
dining-room which looked out on the most retired part of the garden, and
several bedrooms; and it was here that Amy Herbert passed the earliest
and the happiest portion of her life: and though to some it might
have seemed that her pleasures could have been but few, as she had no
companions of her own age, not many servants to wait upon her, and no
money to expend on whatever might be the fancy of the moment, yet it may
be doubted whether any of those who have been brought up in the midst of
luxury, have ever spent so happy a childhood as hers. For Amy lived in
her quiet home, with the mother who to her was all in all; and when she
sat by her side at work, or read to her aloud, or walked with her, or
listened to her sweet voice as she sang her favourite songs, she had not
a wish for anything else that the world could give. In the summer,
Amy's mornings were employed in learning from her mother all that was
considered necessary for the education of a lady; for Mrs Herbert,
besides possessing a well-cultivated mind, understood both music and
drawing, and spared neither time nor trouble in endeavouring to give her
child a taste for the same pursuits. The afternoons were often spent in
an arbour, shut out from the view of every passer-by, where Amy read to
her mother the books which most interested her; and in the evening she
generally walked with her into the village, either to inquire after some
of their poor neighbours, or to pay a visit to the rectory, where the
affection with which she was received was always a source of enjoyment,
though there were no children to be her play-fellows. Occasionally,
also, Amy would persuade her mother to wander with her into the forest,
and there, leaving her seated on the trunk of some old tree, with her
book or her work, she would search amongst the thick underwood for wild
flowers or wood strawberries, and return to her, triumphantly laden,
as she said, with spoils: and when the falling dews and the gathering
twilight told that it was the hour of rest. Amy, kneeling in her
chamber, repeated her evening prayers, and, after receiving her mother's
last fond kiss and her fervent blessing, laid her head upon her pillow,
to dream of the joys of the past day, and the interests of the coming
morrow.

The winter also brought its delights: the warm fire-side in the morning,
and the quick walk in the middle of the day, when the sun was shining
and the earth glittering with the frost, and the tales of days and
people long gone by, with which Mrs Herbert would amuse her little girl
in the dusky twilight; whilst in the evening came the bright lamp and
the hissing urn, to make them forget that there was anything like cold
or discomfort to be endured without. And so Amy's childhood passed
tranquilly on; not that it was entirely free from interruptions
and disappointments, or that she was always able to follow her own
inclinations; for there were gloomy days and causes of vexation, and
she had faults which, at times, interfered with her happiness; but
her annoyances were soon over, and whenever she gave way to any
evil feelings, either of ill temper, indolence, or carelessness, the
sorrowful expression of her mother's countenance, and the grave tone of
her voice, never failed to recall her quickly to a better mind.

There were, besides, other pleasures to vary the regularity of Amy's
life; a drive in the rector's carriage to the neighbouring town, or an
invitation to drink tea at the parsonage, or, what she most delighted
in, a long walk with her mother, to wander over a large old house, which
was about two miles distant from the cottage, and situated on the same
side of the forest, though in a different direction from the village.
Emmerton Hall was indeed a most interesting place; the house--the work
of ages passed away--was of gray stone, deeply stained by exposure to
the severity of many a wintry storm. It was a large, irregular
building, with high gable ends, deep oriel windows, turrets with pointed
pinnacles, and heavy, clustering chimneys nearly hidden by masses of
the rich, dark ivy which covered a great proportion of the walls. The
principal front consisted of the original three-gabled house and two
projecting wings which had been added at a later period, and along its
whole length extended a broad gravel terrace, divided from the other
part of the grounds by a stone balustrade, and ornamented at regular
intervals with large Italian vases. From this terrace a flight of steps
at each end descended to the pleasure-garden, which was laid out in
green lawns, and shrubberies, and winding walks, and bounded by a clear
sheet of water flowing through the whole of the demesne. On the other
side of the water stretched a richly-wooded park that had once formed a
portion of the forest, whilst from the terrace might be seen beyond this
a wide expanse of lovely country,--corn-fields, meadows, villages,
and churches, blended together in the soft mists of the distance, and
terminated by the faint shadow which marked the outline of one of the
highest ranges of hills in all England.

To the right of the house the ground rose abruptly in a hill of
considerable height, the sides of which had been partly formed into
smooth grassy terraces, and partly planted with beech, ash, elm, and oak
trees, and amongst these many walks were cut, ascending gradually to
the top, and opening at length upon a line of down, from whence might be
discovered a view so extensive as to reach even to the glittering waves
of the ocean.

At the back and to the left of the mansion, the grounds were of great
extent, and still beyond them lay the park, carrying the eye into deep
hollows and sunny glades, till its furthest trees were lost amongst the
rich foliage of the adjacent forest.

Such was the exterior of Emmerton Hall, and the interior suited well
with it in beauty. The oldest part of the building consisted, indeed,
of long, low chambers, wainscoted with dark oak, and giving an idea of
solemnity, if not of gloom; but the wings, which were of a later date,
contained spacious saloons, and large lofty drawing-rooms hung with
paintings, and rich in splendid though old-fashioned, furniture, that
would have done honour to the palace of the proudest noble in the land.
It was not amongst these, however, that Amy Herbert found her chief
enjoyment,--she cared little for the more modern additions; but her
great pleasure was to wander through the long passages, and explore the
dark rooms which had for years been disused, while the silent mansion
echoed with the gay sounds of her young voice, as she discovered
some hitherto unknown closet, or started back half amused, and half
frightened, at the grim visage of some valiant knight or ancient lady
which stared at her from the walls.

There was a chapel, too, attached to the house; and great was Amy's
delight to look down from the private gallery that had been specially
reserved for the ladies of the family, upon the massive oaken seats
ranged on each side of the narrow aisle, and while the rays of the sun,
streaming through the painted glass of the east window, lighted up every
corner of the building with a rich, unearthly hue, to people them in her
own imagination with the servants and retainers, who, she had been told,
once occupied them daily.

For the first few years of her life, Amy's visits to Emmerton Hall had
been those of unmixed happiness; but as she grew older, and learned
to feel more and more that no joy was complete unless her mother could
share it with her, she began to perceive that, however willingly Mrs
Herbert might grant her petition to visit the old house, and however
patiently she might wait whilst she satisfied all her childish
curiosity, yet, at their return home, there was always a look of sorrow
on her countenance, and sometimes even a tear glistening in her eye; and
the cause of this she was soon able to understand, for Emmerton had been
to Mrs Herbert all that the little cottage was to Amy. It had been the
scene of her earliest pleasures--the home of her childhood--the spot
where she had dwelt with parents, brothers, sisters, and friends, who
were now, some dead, some scattered in distant countries, and all so far
from her as to make her feel lonely and sad in the halls where once
she had known little but enjoyment. But it was not till Amy had nearly
reached her twelfth year that she became aware of the increasing extent
of the painful feelings excited in her mother's mind by these visits to
the Hall. During the first year of her marriage, Mrs Herbert had lived
at the cottage, but her family were still settled at Emmerton, and the
separation was merely nominal. After that time, the death of her father
and mother broke, in a great degree, the ties which had bound her to her
early home; for her brother, on whom the property devolved, had married
a lady, whose proud disposition suited but ill with Mrs Herbert's meek
spirit; and when, on the death of a relation, Mr Harrington became the
owner of a still finer estate in another county, Emmerton was almost
deserted. It was true he returned to it occasionally, but his visits
were less and less frequent; and, although the steward and housekeeper
were ordered to keep it in complete repair, it was only as a place for
show, and because his pride would not permit him to sell or let an old
family residence.

All this was a great trial for Mrs Herbert, though, whilst Colonel
Herbert was with her, it was comparatively but little felt; but the
duties of his profession at last called him to a foreign land, and it
was then that she first knew the real loneliness of her situation, the
only alleviation being the society of her friends at the parsonage, and
the delight of receiving constant and cheerful letters from abroad. At
the period, however, just mentioned, when Amy was about twelve years of
age, the time appointed for Colonel Herbert's absence had expired; but
no news had been received from him for a considerable time. Post after
post arrived without letters from him. Friends came back from the
country to which he had been sent, but none brought intelligence of
him. Mrs Herbert's heart sank within her, the most sad forebodings took
possession of her mind, and even the company of Amy often served only
to increase her melancholy, as it reminded her more forcibly of the
probable failure of those visions of future happiness, in which she had
indulged when dwelling upon the prospect of her husband's return to his
native land, to spend the remainder of his days with her and with his
child.

Continued anxiety at length seriously affected Mrs Herbert's health; and
even Amy, young as she was, became sensible of it, and learned to look
eagerly for the daily post, in hopes that it might bring some letter
which would make her mother smile again as she had been used to do,
while she seldom expressed a wish to go to Emmerton, since it only added
to Mrs Herbert's depression, by reminding her of the absence of her
relations as well as of that of her husband. Still Amy did not fully
enter into the causes of her mother's uneasiness; and when she stationed
herself at the white garden-gate every morning to watch for the old
postman, it was with a feeling of expectation very different from the
nervous eagerness with which Mrs Herbert longed for his arrival.


"Here he is, mamma!" she exclaimed, joyously, as she ran to the
drawing-room window one lovely summer morning, after having waited
unusually long at the gate. "Here he is! just turning the corner of the
lane. Do let me go and meet him; I shall bring the letters much quicker
than he will, and there must be one from papa to-day."

Mrs Herbert half smiled as she kissed her child's forehead, and parted
her dark ringlets. "You may go, love," she said; and Amy waited to hear
no more. In a minute she was at the end of the lane, entreating the old
postman to give her the letters; but he was both deaf and obstinate,
and resolved that no one should have the honour of delivering them but
himself; and Amy, after repeatedly urging her request in vain, returned
disappointed to her mother. The delay had but increased Mrs Herbert's
painful anxiety; and when the man appeared with the letter--for there
was but one--she felt as if she had scarcely the power to take it from
him.

"It is from papa, I am sure," said Amy; but Mrs Herbert shook her head,
and her face became very pale as she saw the deep black edge. With a
trembling hand she tore open the letter; and Amy, seeing that something
unusual was the matter, looked earnestly in her face while she read.
For a moment her mother's countenance wore the appearance of intense
anguish, but it was soon succeeded by an expression of comparative
relief; and when she had concluded, although she was grave and
melancholy, it was evident that the news had not been what she so much
dreaded.

"Is it from papa?" asked Amy; "and is he quite well, and coming home
soon?"

"It is from your uncle Harrington, my dear," said Mrs Herbert: "he gives
me no information about your papa, and he writes in great distress."

"Why, why, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, eagerly; "does it make you unhappy
too?"

"Yes," said Mrs Herbert; "I must always be sad when I know that your
uncle is in affliction. You have lost your cousin Edward, Amy; he has
died quite suddenly, and," but here Mrs Herbert paused, for her voice
failed her. Amy endeavoured to comfort her; but it was not in her power
to stop the course of her mother's grief, and for a few minutes she
gave way to it without restraint; and then rousing herself, she said, "I
ought to be thankful that I have been spared a still greater trial; for,
though I can feel bitterly for my poor brother, it would have been far
worse if I had known Edward well; and one thing, Amy, which will give
you pleasure in the midst of all this sorrow is, that your uncle tells
me he intends coming to Emmerton immediately; and he begs me to go
there, and give orders for everything being prepared for them."

"To Emmerton, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, with delight, forgetting what had
given rise to this sudden plan. "Will they really come to Emmerton--my
uncle, and aunt, and all my cousins? Oh! you will look happy again,
then."

"I will try to do so, at least," said Mrs Herbert; "for it is only
selfishness to destroy your happiness, my dear child, by anxiety,
which you cannot understand. But, indeed, you must not expect any great
enjoyment at first; for your uncle's letter speaks of himself and all
the family as being in the greatest distress."

"Ah! but," said Amy, "when they come to Emmerton, they must be cheerful.
To be sure," she added, looking suddenly grave, "it is very sad to think
that Edward will not be with them; but then, mamma, I dare say he is
gone to heaven, so why should they be so very sorry?"

"Should not you be very sorry to part from me, Amy, if I were to die?
and yet I trust that when it shall please God that I should do so. He
will take me to heaven."

"Oh mamma! don't talk so," said Amy, her eyes filling with tears; "you
know I should be so miserable. I should die too."

"No, my love," replied Mrs Herbert, "I hope you would not die; for you
may always be happy whether I am with you or not, when you have God to
watch over you; but I wished to show you that you must not expect
other people to be less sorrowful than you would be yourself in such a
situation. Your cousins will, of course, be unhappy when they first come
to Emmerton."

"But when will it be?" asked Amy.

"Not till the week after next," answered Mrs Herbert; "for the house
must be made ready for them."

"Oh! such a long, long time!" sighed Amy. "There are five days to the
end of this week; and then will they come on the Monday week after?"

"They have not fixed the day, my dear, so you will try and wait
patiently, I know," said Mrs Herbert; "and now you must get your lessons
and read by yourself this morning, for I wish to be alone in my own
room."

This was not pleasant news to Amy, but she made no objection, and with
her book in her hand seated herself at the window. It was a harder
task to learn on that morning than she had ever before found it; for,
notwithstanding all her endeavours, some thoughts of Emmerton would
creep into her mind perpetually. First she fancied what rooms her
cousins would choose; then whether they would like the same that she
did; whether any of the old dark chambers would be used; and, above all,
whether her uncle would have prayers in the chapel every morning, and
fill it with his servants, so that she might really see it as she had
been told it used to be.

The very loveliness of the day only served to increase her distraction
of mind. The sunlight was glancing on the turf, the butterflies were
settling continually on the flowers by the window, and the birds were
singing gaily amongst the trees; and delightful as all this really was,
it only made Amy feel the stronger wish to be at that moment running
over the lawns at Emmerton, or standing by the side of the lake,
watching the swans and the other water-fowl as they sailed proudly along
on the bosom of the calm water.

"I shall never learn these tiresome lessons, mamma," she exclaimed, as
Mrs Herbert entered the room, after an absence of about a quarter of an
hour.

"And why not, my love? why should it be more difficult now than at any
other time?"

"Because I am so longing to be at Emmerton, mamma, and I cannot fix
my attention on them. Please let me leave off now, and I will learn a
double quantity to-morrow."

"No, Amy; that is a great mistake. To-morrow will have enough to do in
its own occupations, without burdening it with those of to-day. Besides,
my dear, this is just the opportunity for learning to do in a little
way what will be required of you perpetually during your whole life--to
conquer your own inclinations; you will be infinitely the happier for it
afterwards."

Amy looked as if she could not quite believe this, but she did not speak
in reply.

"You will endeavour, I am sure, my dear child," continued Mrs Herbert,
"if it is only to please me; you know my greatest wish is to teach you
to do what is right, without thinking of what is pleasant; so make
one more effort, and turn your face from the window, that you may have
nothing to divide your thoughts, and then the lessons will soon be
learned."

Mrs Herbert left the room; and Amy, obeying her directions, seated
herself with her back to the window, making a firm resolution in her
own mind that she would not look up from her book till her lessons were
ready; and when her mother reappeared, they were repeated without a
fault. Mrs Herbert's smile sufficiently repaid her for the exertion, and
with renewed pleasure she continued her usual morning occupations.

"And now, mamma," she exclaimed, as she finished her reading, "I may
think about Emmerton. Will you tell me if you are really going there
this afternoon?"

"We will set off immediately after dinner," replied Mrs Herbert; "and as
I cannot walk so far, I have sent to the parsonage to borrow Mr Walton's
carriage."

"Shall you stay all the afternoon, mamma? and will you let me hear all
you say to Mrs Bridget and Stephen?"

"I am afraid that will not interest you much, my dear," replied Mrs
Herbert, smiling; "but you deserve to have your wishes granted, to
reward you for your endeavours this morning. Was I not right in saying
that you would be far happier if you attended to your lessons first, and
thought of your amusements afterwards?"

"Ah! mamma," said Amy, "you know you are always right, and I am always
wrong; but then it does not signify so much while you are with me to
teach me."

Mrs Herbert sighed. "You must not look to me, my dear child: I cannot
keep you right. It is God alone who can do that, and He only knows how
long I may live to tell you what you ought to do. But do not look so
grave now, I did not mean to make you unhappy. You must get your bonnet
and take one turn with me in the shady walk, and by that time dinner
will be ready."




CHAPTER II.


That afternoon was one of perfect enjoyment to Amy. The drive in the
rector's carriage was an unusual treat, and the road through the forest
had never before seemed so beautiful; the light danced amongst the
trees, and sparkled on the gay primroses and harebells, and the deep
blue violets, which peeped from amongst the thick underwood. The rich
moss which covered the trunks of the old oak trees, was of a hue so
bright as to be surpassed only by the vivid green of the young leaves,
which had reached their full beauty, undimmed as yet by the scorching
rays of the summer's sun; and when at length they reached the park gate
of Emmerton, and drove under the long rows of oak and chestnuts, and by
the side of the clear silver lake, Amy's delight was unbounded. Several
months had passed since she had last been there, and the beauty of the
place was now increased by the thought that she should soon be able to
visit it constantly, and might, perhaps, at times, spend days, and even
weeks there with her cousins.

"Dear, dear mamma!" she exclaimed, as she jumped up in the carriage
to look at the lake, "do you think my uncle can be unhappy while he is
here?"

"Why should he not be, my love?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"Oh! because it is so beautiful, mamma," said Amy; "and it is all his
own, and he may go where he pleases, and do what he pleases, and you say
he has plenty of money: I am sure if I were he, I should have nothing to
wish for. If I lived at Emmerton, nothing could ever happen to vex me,
except," she added, looking grave, as she saw a tear in her mother's
eye, "except if anything were the matter with you: but here comes
Stephen down the avenue. I wonder what he will say when he hears that my
uncle is coming back?"

The steward approached the carriage as Amy spoke; he was a tall, hearty
man, of about seventy, with a step as firm, and a back as unbent, as
if he had numbered thirty years less. His features were very strongly
marked, and expressive of great intelligence, and might even have been
called handsome, though his complexion was completely tanned by age,
and many years' exposure to the variations of the weather. There was a
bright, happy look in his clear, gray eye, and a smile about his mouth,
and yet a person who had watched him narrowly might have seen the trace
of care on his brow; but it seemed as if it had only recently been
acquired, as if joyousness were the natural inmate of his breast, and
melancholy only its occasional visitant: and so, indeed, it was. Stephen
Browning had entered the service of Mrs Herbert's father when quite a
lad, and had risen from being a mere stable-boy to the higher offices
of groom and coachman; he had been the instructor of the young ladies
of the family in horsemanship, and of the young gentlemen in all their
boyish sports, and considered himself--and was indeed considered by
many others--as the most important personage about Emmerton Hall, always
excepting Mr Harrington.

During this period, his life had been a very happy one; and the pride
with which he watched the children as they grew up was scarcely inferior
to that of their parents. Even the death of old Mr Harrington did not in
any serious degree disturb his peace of mind, after the first shock was
over; for death, as he said, was the lot of all men, and 'twas no use
to grieve for him who was gone to happiness; and so Stephen consoled
himself for his loss, and still looked with delight upon the scenes he
had known from his childhood, and interested himself as much in the new
generation that had sprung up, as he had done in those who had long
been beyond his instruction. But a most bitter trial awaited him in the
removal of the family from Emmerton, and it was one for which he was
totally unprepared; the first intelligence was so astounding, that it
was some time before he could be induced to believe it; and when at last
the truth forced itself upon his mind, he sank into a state of listless
indifference, which was for a time in no slight degree alarming. He did,
however, recover from it; and at Mr Harrington's request consented
to remain at the Hall, and to take charge of it as steward; but his
occupations, his enjoyments, all seemed gone, and his only remaining
pleasure was to visit the cottage, and talk over the old days with Mrs
Herbert, and tell Amy stories of the feats of her uncles and aunts in
horsemanship, long before, as he said, she was ever thought of. For Mrs
Bridget, the housekeeper, who had only lived about twelve years in the
family, Stephen had an especial contempt. She was quite a new body, and
'twas no good talking to her; she could not remember the good old times
when the master was a young gentleman, and used to ride about the park
on his Shetland pony, and learn to play at cricket and leap-frog; and
then she dressed herself out smart, with gay ribands and silks, not
befitting the housekeeper of Emmerton Hall, who ought to keep to the
ancient fashion; and she would have young idle lads and lassies about
the place, which was never known in his days, when everything was kept
strict and in order; and, above all, she would never admit him and his
pipe into the house, but turned away when she saw it, as if she was too
fine a lady to bear what he knew she must have seen a hundred times in
her father's farm kitchen. Mrs Bridget, on her part, quite returned the
feeling; and though she acknowledged that Stephen might be very honest
and trustworthy, and she would not for the world say a word against any
one, yet she could not help hinting occasionally that he was growing
old, and would be better by his own fireside than attempting to give
directions which he could know nothing about; and certainly the air
with which she was accustomed to turn her back upon him, and tell him,
whenever he approached with his pipe, not to come near her with that
thing in his mouth, would have been quite sufficient to deter a less
adventurous person than Stephen from making a second attempt.

The steward's loud exclamation of "Sure, 'tis young madam and little
miss!" was heard when he was still at some distance from the carriage,
and he turned immediately to the house with the quickest step which his
age and gouty foot would allow, that he might be ready to receive them.

"Well, 'tis a strange sight, to be sure," he said, as he lifted Amy
from the carriage. "I thought Emmerton was never going to see any of
you again; and I have said to myself fifty times within the last month,
that, for certain, young madam couldn't have forgotten me, and my pretty
little miss, too, who used to be here so often."

"Ah, but Stephen," said Amy, "poor mamma cannot walk so far as she did,
and you know we have only the rector's carriage; but why don't you come
to see us?"

"The gout, the gout, Miss Amy, that's what keeps me; in the old days, I
could almost have run there and back in less than the hour, but 'tis all
changed--house, and garden, and servants, 'tis all alike--and little
it signifies what comes to me. But, madam," he added, turning to Mrs
Herbert, "you'll be for walking in and resting yourself, and Mrs Bridget
will attend upon you; she won't let me put foot within doors, if she can
help it, since I last threw some tobacco on her new gown, which was more
loss to me than to her, seeing 'twas all I had, and there was nobody to
send to get some more."

"I want to talk to you first, Stephen, for a few minutes," said Mrs
Herbert.

"Ah sure, ma'am," replied Stephen, "and 'twill do me good to listen; for
there's no one here to whom one can talk that will understand, seeing
they are all new,--all new;" and the old man's sigh almost amounted to a
groan.

"I have had a letter from your master to-day, Stephen," said Mrs
Herbert, fearing to impart too suddenly the death of his young
favourite, Edward.

"Have you, ma'am? and does he say he's well, and the young gentlemen and
ladies? 'tis the best I can hope to hear now."

"He does not write in good spirits, Stephen; he has been suffering a
great deal lately."

"Sure, ma'am, that's bad news; but what could any one expect but to be
ill, away from one's own place, and all the air that's natural to one?"

"Your master has not been ill himself, Stephen; but one of his
children."

"Not master Edward!" exclaimed the old man, taking alarm from Mrs
Herbert's countenance. No answer was given for a moment, and Stephen
turned to Amy for an explanation. "'Tis not master Edward; it can't be.
O Miss Amy! just speak."

"I will tell you, Stephen," said Mrs Herbert, recovering her composure.
"It will grieve you very much; but it is indeed poor Edward, who was
taken ill about a week since, and is now, I trust, gone to a happier
world."

The poor old steward's bronzed complexion became of an unnatural sallow
hue, and he leaned against the stone porch for support; but it seemed as
if the power of utterance were taken from him.

"Run into the house and fetch a glass of water, Amy," said Mrs Herbert;
and Amy, in extreme alarm, flew to obey her mother's order.

In a few moments she returned, followed by Mrs Bridget, a gaily-dressed,
sharp-visaged person of about forty, who forgot the last grievous
offence against her new gown when she heard Amy's frightened
exclamation, that dear old Stephen was so ill she thought he must be
dying. By this time, however, the colour had returned to his cheek,
and he was able to inquire more calmly the particulars of his young
favourite's illness. They were few, but very painful; for the disease,
which was inflammation of the lungs, brought on by a neglected cold, had
made most rapid progress, and he died about two days after he had first
been considered seriously ill. "But," said Mrs Herbert, after she had
answered the old man's various questions, "I have not told you yet,
Stephen, the only thing which I think is likely now to give you
pleasure: my brother talks of returning to Emmerton again to live."

"To live, ma'am!" exclaimed Stephen, starting back; "but it can't be
true. When the carriage drove away from this very place, now ten years
ago, I said to myself they were gone for ever; and so it has proved.
'Tis but a false hope, ma'am. The master will change his mind when he
begins to forget his grief."

"Ah, but Stephen," said Amy, taking his hand affectionately, "it is not
a false hope, though; for mamma heard all about it this morning, and
she has come now to tell you and Bridget to get the things in order, and
they are to be here the week after next. Think of that, Stephen. Won't
that make you happy?"

"Poor master Edward! poor master Edward!" sighed the old steward;
"'twould have been a joyful day, indeed, if he had been coming too. To
have looked upon his young face again would have added ten years to my
life; but God's will be done!"

"But, Stephen," said Amy, half disappointed, "you are not as much
pleased as I thought you would be."

"Ah, little Miss," replied Stephen, as he patted her shoulder, "you are
too young to know anything about sorrow; but I shall be glad by and by,
when I can think that it is true."

"Indeed, indeed, it is true," repeated Amy; "and mamma knows it."

"Amy is right, Stephen," said Mrs Herbert. "My brother writes me word
that Wayland Court is now become so melancholy to him, that he cannot
bear to live there, and he intends being at Emmerton as soon as the
necessary arrangements can be made."

"God be thanked for it!" exclaimed Stephen, clasping his hands together;
"and I shall go to my grave in peace, for the old times will be come
back again. But no, they won't, though," he added, whilst a bitter
recollection flashed upon his mind. "He will never be here again:" and
he brushed his hand across his eye to wipe away the tear which glistened
in it.

Mrs Bridget, half annoyed that Mrs Herbert should have chosen to
communicate so important a piece of intelligence to Stephen rather than
to herself, now came forward, and in a formal manner, and with a voice
which told there was a storm within, said, "I suppose, madam, my master
and mistress will communicate with me before they arrive?"

"I believe not, Bridget," replied Mrs Herbert; "they are in too much
distress to think about anything now; but they have left it all to me,
and I was wishing to ask you what would be wanting."

"Nothing, ma'am," said Bridget, drawing up her head rather proudly,
"nothing at all. Though I say it that shouldn't say it, the house is
just in as perfect order now as it was when my master went away. But I
should like to know if my mistress would choose to have the coverings
taken off the furniture in the great drawing-room; and there have been
a few breakages in the bedrooms; and Stephen tells me there is a pane
of glass out of the conservatory; and the fringe of the curtains in the
saloon was torn yesterday by the girl who was here cleaning the rooms, I
scolded her well for it, and she is coming again to-morrow to mend it."

"Well," said Mrs Herbert, stopping her, "all these things you can quite
well manage yourself, they are but trifles. You had better get all the
rooms in order, for I do not at all know which they will choose."

"And the chapel, mamma," said Amy, "won't Bridget have the chapel
cleaned? When I was last in it, there was such a heap of dust on the old
monument near the door."

Bridget looked annoyed. "The chapel is not my department, Miss Amy;
it was given in particular charge to Stephen's niece by Mrs Harrington
herself; but she is an idle trolloping girl, and always neglects.
Stephen," she added, turning to the old man, who appeared quite absorbed
in his own thoughts,--"Stephen, Miss Amy declares the chapel is dusty."

The steward started up like a man awakened from a dream; and catching
only the meaning of the last word of the sentence, exclaimed--"Dusty!
and whose fault is that, pray?"

"Whose, but that fine lady's your niece?" said Bridget, giving way to an
irritation of temper which she did not dare to exhibit to Mrs Herbert,
and delighted at having something to find fault with. "She is so busy
all day with her flounces and her furbelows, that she has no time to
think of her work."

Stephen, now fully alive to everything, looked steadily at Mrs Bridget
as she said this; and then scanning her from head to foot with a half
contemptuous smile, muttered--"Not so very different from other people,"
and walked away, though it was only a few paces, for his angry feelings
were very soon subdued.

"I should like to go over the house, Bridget," said Mrs Herbert; "and
after that, perhaps, you will get us some tea; for the evening is so
fine we need not return home till late."

"Dear mamma," said Amy, "may we have it in your own room? I should so
enjoy it! you know I like it better than any in the whole house."

Mrs Herbert made no objection; for although there were many melancholy
ideas connected with this room, yet she felt like Amy, that to her it
had more charms than any other.

It was in nearly the oldest part of the house, and had been occupied
by herself and her favourite sister from the time when she was about
fifteen, and was considered old enough to leave the schoolroom, and yet
too young to go into society. Her mother had fitted it up for them with
everything that could be required for their enjoyment; and here they had
been accustomed to spend their mornings together free from interruption,
for it was so far removed from the more modern buildings that even the
sounds of the visitors' carriages could scarcely reach them. The deep
oriel window looked out on the quietest and loveliest part of the
pleasure-ground; and a private door opening upon it, afforded them a
free and unobserved access to the garden; and many were the hours which
Mrs Herbert had spent with her sister Edith, reading together under
the shade of the large elm trees, with not a thought or wish beyond the
enjoyment of the present moment.

The room was now deserted. The piano was still in its accustomed place,
but its rich, full tone had become wiry and harsh by time. The table was
still standing by the window, but its clear polish had a cold, repulsive
appearance. There were no books, no work, no flowers. The chairs were
ranged in regular order against the empty bookshelves; the gay colours
of the curtains and ottomans were faded; and, instead of the bright
smile and the merry laugh which had once greeted Mrs Herbert, there was
nothing now to tell of the companion of her childhood but the picture
which hung over the fire-place.

But Mrs Herbert did not complain: she had early left a home of happiness
for one which was even more delightful to her; and her sister, who had
married likewise, was still in the possession of health and prosperity.
She had, therefore, much cause for thankfulness; and yet she never
entered this room and recollected the pleasures of her youth, without
a pang, which became the more painful when her husband's long-continued
absence gave her so great a cause of anxiety.

Amy's associations with what had generally been called the oriel room
were of a more cheerful character. She had never known it different
from what it now was; and to her it only brought the remembrance of many
happy hours spent there with her mother, in their occasional visits to
Emmerton, and particularly of various incidents in Mrs Herbert's
early life, which were almost sure to be recalled by some object or
circumstance connected with it. With a secret hope that something of
this kind would complete the pleasures of the day, she now followed
her mother through the silent, deserted chambers, while directions were
given for everything which might render them more comfortable; but at
last, wearied with listening, she left Mrs Herbert's side, and wandered
by herself into the pleasure-ground, till she became so tired that she
was glad to find her way back to the oriel room, where Mrs Bridget,
whose great favourite she was (and it was the only point on which
Bridget and Stephen agreed), had prepared the tea, and spread the table
with fresh fruit and cakes. This was not, to Amy, at all an unpleasing
sight; and when Mrs Herbert came in, she felt quite inclined to begin
her evening meal; but they had scarcely seated themselves when Amy
started back, exclaiming, "Oh mamma! pray look there. Did you ever see
such a wretched little object?"

Mrs Herbert turned to the window, and saw a miserable girl, with a pale,
haggard countenance and covered with rags, holding out her hand and
begging for charity.

"Dear mamma! do give her something," said Amy; "she looks so dreadfully
hungry."

"I will ask her a few questions first," replied Mrs Herbert, "and find
out where she comes from, and then we shall know what is best to be done
for her. I suppose she found her way into the pleasure-ground through
the back lane and the kitchen-garden."

Mrs Herbert opened the window; and, beckoning to the girl to approach,
made several inquiries as to her parents, her home, and her present
necessities. She seemed sadly frightened; but answered without
hesitation, that her father, who was a common labourer, had lately died,
leaving a wife and six children, of whom she was the eldest. It was her
mother's wish to return to her parish, thinking she should be better
provided for there than amongst strangers. She had set out on the
journey; but, being taken very ill, she had been obliged to stop at a
village about a mile and a half distant, where she had spent all her
money, and now, being totally destitute, she had sent her child to beg
for some assistance.

"What will you do for her, mamma?" whispered Amy.

"I must know a little more about her before I decide," replied Mrs
Herbert. "Is there no one in the village," she added, speaking to the
girl, "who has helped your mother?"

"The clergyman's lady has been very good to us, ma'am," was the reply;
"but the people of the house want mother to pay for the lodging, and she
has no money."

"It is a sad case, if it be true," said Mrs Herbert; "but I will make
some inquiries to-morrow; and now you shall take home something for your
supper; and I will write to the lady who has been so kind to you, and,
if you have spoken the truth, she will give your mother something for
me."

The girl curtsied, and seemed pleased and grateful; and Amy, whilst
her mother was writing a note, begged that she might take her round to
Bridget's room, and give her her supper before she returned home; and
when the girl had left the house with some bread and a bone of meat, Amy
went back to her own comfortable meal with a much higher sense of the
greatness of her daily blessings than she had had a quarter of an hour
before.

The idea, however, of so much poverty and suffering in some degree
diminished her enjoyment, and she sat for a while thoughtful and silent.
At length, turning suddenly to Mrs Herbert, she exclaimed-- "Mamma, it
is very strange that some people are so poor and others so rich!"

"It does seem so at first," replied Mrs Herbert; "and we can only
account for it by saying, that it is the will of God; that He alone
knows what is good for us all, and therefore He ordains different things
for different people; and though we consider poverty an evil, yet it
is often a very great good, and makes people think of Him and love Him,
when they would otherwise forget Him."

"But there is such a great, great difference in people," said Amy; "that
poor woman has not a farthing, and my uncle Harrington has thousands
a-year, you have told me."

"So he has," replied Mrs Herbert; "and yet, in a few years, they may
both, perhaps, be equally rich."

"Oh mamma! how can that be possible?" exclaimed Amy.

"It may be true to a certain extent, at this very moment, my dear. You
know what is meant by being an heir--having a right to certain property
or money, which is to be received at some future period. Now, it is more
than probable that your uncle with all his riches, and that poor woman
in the midst of her sufferings, have both the same expectations for the
future."

"Not on earth, mamma!" observed Amy.

"No, my love," replied Mrs Herbert; "but a person is not the less an
heir because he will not receive his inheritance until he is admitted to
heaven. I remember that I first learned to think upon this subject when
I was about two years younger than you are now."

"Do tell me how, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, her eyes sparkling with delight:
"it must be one of your stories about the time when you were a little
girl."

"It is not quite a story, Amy, and, at any rate, it is rather a grave
one; so, perhaps, we had better wait till you are quite in the humour."

"Oh! but I am quite in the humour always, mamma; and I think I like
grave stories best. Will it be a long one?"

"No," replied Mrs Herbert; "neither long nor amusing, and yet, perhaps,
it may interest you, as it may help to explain a subject on which you
have often heard me speak, and which it is very necessary you should
understand and think about.

"The time I am going to tell you of was, as I mentioned just now, when
I was about ten years old and your uncle Harrington one-and-twenty.
Persons at that age are, you know, considered capable of taking care of
their property; and the day of their attaining it is very often marked
by great rejoicings, in the case of those who have the expectation of
a large inheritance. This was your uncle's situation, and great
preparations were made for several weeks before, that the event might be
properly celebrated. Invitations were sent to all our friends, who were
then very numerous, and many came from a distance to spend some
days with us. A dinner was to be given to the tenants and the school
children; there were to be fireworks let off from the terrace in the
evening, and a band of music was engaged for the occasion;--and all
this was to do honour to my brother. You may imagine how much I was
interested in it, and how very delightful I thought it must be to be in
his place. I do not think I ever longed for anything in my whole life
so much as I did for the arrival of this day. I could talk of nothing
else,--I could think of nothing else; and I am afraid I gave my
governess, Miss Harwood, very much trouble for a whole week, I was
so inattentive to my lessons. At length it came--the long-wished-for
twenty-ninth of June; and certainly it was as lovely a day as I could
possibly have desired. I remember waking very early, and jumping out
of my bed to look at the weather. The sky was of a deep rich blue,
with only a faint mist over the distance, foretelling the heat of the
noonday. From my window I could see far over the country, and everything
that I could distinctly view was my father's property. I called to my
sister Edith, and made her come to the window, to enjoy the perfect
beauty of the morning; and I can well recollect saying to her, with a
half-envious sigh, 'Should you not like to be Charles, and to think
that all this was to be your own?' Your aunt, Amy, was of a very sweet,
contented disposition, and she checked me for the wish, and said that
she was thankful for her brother's blessings, but she could hardly
desire them for herself,--she was afraid she should not make a good
use of them. We stood for some time together; but said very little, for
there was such a perfect stillness reigning around that it almost seemed
as if it would be wrong to break it. Presently, however, we heard
the sound of distant music; it came nearer and nearer, and we soon
recognised the sweet voices of the village children, who had been sent
to pay this first mark of respect to their young master.

"I cannot describe how beautiful it sounded to me, though perhaps it
was only because I was in a state of such excitement, and so inclined
to find delight in everything; but I know that I listened to it with
breathless attention, and when I turned to look at Edith, there was a
tear in her eye, and I do not think that she, though so much calmer in
disposition, has ever forgotten, any more than myself, the tones of that
simple hymn."

"But, mamma," interrupted Amy, "the children never sing so beautifully
now?"

"I do not mean, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert, "that the music was
really so very much better than what I had usually heard, though I dare
say they had had a great deal of pains taken with them. But you will
find, as you grow older, that many things which are in themselves
common, will appear delightful to you if you are inclined to be
particularly happy; and so it was with me on that morning. Edith and
myself stayed so long at the window, even after the children's singing
was over, that we were only just dressed by the time the bell rang for
morning prayers, and when we entered the chapel, it was quite full. All
the servants of the family, with those of our numerous guests and a few
of my father's tenants, were ranged on the long oaken benches in the
aisle; the seats for the gentlemen were occupied by my father, my
brother, and their friends; and the ladies' gallery, in which we were,
was also crowded. I felt quite frightened when I went in, for many
of those present were strangers to me, having arrived late the night
before; but I took my place between Edith and Miss Harwood, and the
service began. It was read by my brother's tutor, a clergyman who
lived in the family; and when it was over, the party assembled in the
breakfast-room, but we were considered too young to join it, and we came
back to what was then the schoolroom--the very room in which we now are,
Amy--to be with Miss Harwood and the younger children till it should
be time for us to wait upon the poor people, who were to have a dinner
given them on the lawn, in front of the house. All that I could think of
was the grandeur of my brother's situation, and the pleasure of having
so many persons assembled to do honour to oneself. I could not fix my
attention to anything, but could only count the hours till two o'clock,
and run occasionally to the top of the great stair-case to look at what
was going on below, for preparations were making on a large scale
for the evening's entertainment; servants were constantly passing and
repassing, and I heard my brother's name repeated by almost every one.
At length Edith and I were told to go into the servants' hall, where
the school children were to meet, and to place them in order, that they
might walk regularly, two and two, to the ground where the dinner was
laid. This was to me most welcome news; for I was tired of being nearly
the only useless person in the midst of so much bustle, and we spent at
least a quarter of an hour endeavouring to make them understand which
were to go together, and how they were to behave, and distributing some
little coloured banners which we had amused ourselves with preparing for
the occasion; and when the great bell sounded, Edith and myself walked
before them to the ground. My father and his guests were assembled on
the terrace, and my brother stood by my father's side exactly in the
centre. The children and their parents, and the rest of the tenants,
were ranged at their several tables; and then, when the steward had
called for silence, they all rose, and my father spoke to them, in a
voice so clear that I think it must have been heard by every one. He
told them of the gratification it was to him to see them all before him,
and of the certainty he felt of their good-will towards him, with many
more expressions of the same kind; and then, taking my brother by the
hand, he led him forward to the edge of the terrace, and presented him
to them as his heir, and their future master, saying that he trusted he
would always prove himself their true friend; and that when he should
be laid in his grave, my brother might receive from them, and from their
children, the same marks of sincere attachment which they had always
shown to himself.

"A general burst of applause followed this speech of my father's, and
the words 'Long live the young master!' were heard from every lip; even
the children joined in the cry; and when the excitement had a little
subsided, my brother also spoke. He was extremely frightened, and I
could not hear all that he said; but I was told afterwards that he
thanked them for their reception of him, and added that he hoped it
would be very long before he should be called on to act as their master;
but that, when that time should arrive, it would be his one earnest
endeavour to follow his father's footsteps. As he concluded, another
loud cheer was given by the tenants, and just as it was dying away I
heard a voice behind me say, in a deep, suppressed tone, 'May God in
heaven bless him! and may he one day be the possessor of a far richer
inheritance!' I was quite startled at the solemnity with which the words
were spoken, and I did not at the moment understand their meaning. They
seemed to be quite involuntary, and were certainly not intended to be
overheard; and I turned quickly to see who was near. I was standing
between the two tables, and on my right hand was a young man whose face
I did not at all recollect. He appeared about my brother's age; but
instead of Charles' healthy complexion and strong limbs, he looked
completely worn by disease. There was not the slightest tinge of colour
in his cheeks; his eyes were deep sunk in his head, and even his lips
were of an ashy paleness, and the hand by which he supported himself,
as he leant rather than stood against the table, was more like that of
a skeleton than of a living being; his clothes were neat and clean,
but showed marks of great poverty; and, in fact, I had seldom seen such
indications of extreme sickness and want."

"Poor man!" exclaimed Amy; "was he really unhappy, mamma?"

"No, my love," replied Mrs Herbert. "I was just going to tell you that,
notwithstanding all these symptoms of suffering, he looked perfectly
contented, and there was even a smile upon his face. I watched him as he
seated himself after the speeches were ended, and saw that he was quite
exhausted; he ate little or nothing; and, before the dinner was over,
he was obliged to leave the ground, assisted by an elderly woman, whom
I knew very well, and who was in very distressed circumstances. I could
not help thinking, as he slowly walked away, of the vast difference
there was between him and my brother in everything; and the same
question arose in my mind which you asked me just now, Amy, 'Why God
should make some people rich and others poor?' but there was no one near
me then to answer it. The remainder of the afternoon was spent by us
in setting the village children to play, and resting ourselves in the
schoolroom. And when the heat of the day began to lessen, and we knew
that the company were at dinner, Miss Harwood proposed that we should go
to the top of the hill at the side of the house, which was our favourite
walk, where we should probably see a magnificent sunset, and return in
time to be dressed for the drawing-room.

"I was so restless, that it was a great relief to have some occupation
found for me, and I enjoyed the thought of the cool evening air after
the fatigue and sultriness of the morning; and I determined also that
I would, if I could manage it, get Miss Harwood alone, and ask her to
explain what had so puzzled me, and find out from her who the poor man
was who had left the table, for his face seemed constantly before me,
with its expression of great suffering, and yet of quiet happiness.
Edith and I set out together; but I soon left her with the others,
searching for wild flowers, and joined Miss Harwood. We easily
outstripped them, and reached the top of the hill long before they had
half filled their baskets. Miss Harwood always noticed any change in us,
and she asked me why I was so fond of getting away from the rest, and
whether I should not be much happier with them than with her. I had no
concealment from her any more than you have from me, Amy, and I told her
directly what I wanted to ask her, and how I had wondered to see that
poor man apparently so destitute when my brother had everything that the
world could give him. She gave me very much the same answer that I have
given you, that it was the will of God, and that He knew what was good
for us, and often sent us sufferings to teach us to think of Him; and
then she added that she knew the poor man well, and had been present
when he and my brother had both been declared heirs of a far richer
inheritance than any that my father had to bestow. I felt surprised;
and the exclamation I had heard in the morning, and which before I had
scarcely thought of, flashed upon my memory. I supposed Miss Harwood's
words must have some allusion to it, though I could not understand how;
and I eagerly asked why the poor man did not obtain any benefit from his
inheritance. 'He does obtain a great benefit from it at this moment,'
replied Miss Harwood, almost sadly; 'and I do not doubt that, in a very
short time, he will be admitted to possess at least a portion of it.'
You may imagine how desirous I was of having this mystery explained; but
when I looked at Miss Harwood, I saw that she was thinking of something
very serious, and a sudden notion of her meaning came into my mind. 'You
mean an inheritance in heaven?' I said, half doubting whether I might
not be wrong. A smile of pleasure passed across Miss Harwood's face as
she answered, 'Yes, Ellen, you are quite right; and I will tell you what
I meant when I said that he was made an heir of heaven. It is now many
years ago, I was staying at Emmerton, soon after your brother's birth,
and long before I thought of ever being a governess. On the day on which
he was baptized I went with your father, and several of his friends,
to the village church. I stood at the font with the godfathers and
his godmother (who, you know, are called sponsors), and I heard the
clergyman ask them some very solemn questions, which they were required
to answer in your brother's name. He then took him in his arms,
sprinkled him with water in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and
of the Holy Ghost, and marked on his forehead the sign of the cross;
and, giving him back to his nurse, he declared him to be one of that
society or set of persons who form what is called the Church, and to
whom God has promised His kingdom. From that moment,' continued Miss
Harwood, 'your brother was made a Christian and an heir of glory, such
as we cannot imagine; the sins of his original evil nature were forgiven
him, and a new spirit was implanted in him; and when I looked at him, as
he lay in his nurse's arms, I could not help thinking that it would be
happier for him if it were to please God to take him at once to Himself,
before he could by any sin of his own forfeit his innocence, and risk
the loss of his eternal inheritance. But,' she added, 'he was not the
only one who on that day received the promise of the kingdom of
heaven. Besides our own party, there stood by the font four of our poor
neighbours, some, indeed, of the poorest in the parish. One of them held
a sickly-looking infant, wrapped in a coarse kind of cloak; and when
Charles had been baptized, this child was given to the clergyman. The
same questions were asked, the same water was sprinkled upon him, the
same words were pronounced, the same sign was marked on his forehead,
and then he also was restored to his parents, a Christian, and an heir
of everlasting happiness. Notwithstanding the vast difference in their
outward circumstances, there was none in the eye of God; both had
received infinite blessings, both were engaged to keep the most solemn
promises.'

"'Your brother, Ellen,' continued Miss Harwood, 'has grown up in the
midst of every earthly luxury, and has to-day been declared heir to a
splendid property: the other child was bred in poverty, and accustomed
to the severest privations. He was early obliged to leave his home, and
work for his livelihood amongst strangers; and now he has returned to
his mother, who is a widow, and nearly destitute, completely broken
in health, and with no prospect before him but that of a speedy death.
Which do you think is the more to be envied?'

"I was silent, for I knew that I would far rather be my brother, the
possessor of health and riches, than a poor man in need of everything.
Do you think I was right, Amy?"

"If the poor man went to heaven, mamma," said Amy, "I suppose he would
have everything there that he could desire."

"Yes, my love," replied Mrs Herbert, "he would indeed; and yet, though I
knew this then as you do now, I could not easily forget all the respect
that I had seen shown to my brother that morning, and I did not like to
say anything that was not true.

"Miss Harwood waited for a few moments, and then said, 'Look, Ellen,
at the park, and the woods beneath us, and the pretty little village
beyond--you know it is all your father's--is it not very lovely?'

"'Yes!' I replied, surprised at the question.

"'But now look farther,' said Miss Harwood; 'do you not see what a vast
extent of country there is on the other side, stretching away till it
reaches the sea? The owner of all that property would be a much greater
person than even your father.'

"'Yes, indeed he would,' I said, as I turned in the direction to which
she pointed.

"'But now, Ellen, look once more,' said Miss Harwood, 'over the sea into
the sky--look at that mass of brilliant purple and golden clouds, behind
which the sun is now sinking; do you not see, far away to the right, a
pale bright star?--it is the only one which has yet appeared; but in
a short time the whole firmament will be studded with millions and
millions like it. Each of those stars is, as you well know, a world; and
we may believe infinitely more perfect than ours. If it be a great thing
to be the child of one who owns so beautiful an estate as your father,
must it not be a far greater to be the child of Him who not merely owns,
but who created those glorious worlds?'

"'But my brother,' I said, 'was made the child of God as well as that
poor man.'

"'Yes,' replied Miss Harwood; 'and we may hope that when it shall be the
will of God that he should die, he also may inherit the blessing which
has been promised him, but his trial is yet to come: he may be tempted
to do wrong, and forget God, and he may, therefore, lose it; but that
poor man's trial will in all probability soon be over. I know that he
has endeavoured to keep the vow made for him at his baptism, and trusts
only to the merits of his Saviour for salvation, and therefore I have
but little fear for him; but I do feel for your brother, because I know
he is in the midst of great temptations.'

"These words sounded very strangely to me,--it seemed as if Miss Harwood
were pitying Charles, instead of envying him, as I did; and I was going
to ask her some more questions, when Edith and my other sisters came
running towards us, telling us that they had gathered a most beautiful
nosegay, and wished now to return home. They began laughing at me
for running away from them; but they could not make me join in their
merriment, for I could only think of all that Miss Harwood had been
saying; and even when we reached the house, and were dressed for the
evening, I still remembered it.

"The large saloon was lighted up when we entered, and there were a great
many people assembled, all gaily dressed, and walking up and down whilst
the band was playing. My brother was noticed by every one, and was
evidently considered the chief person, and I felt that I should have
been happy to be him; but then Miss Harwood's words recurred to my mind,
and I became thoughtful; for I knew that although he might be the heir
of earthly grandeur, yet that, if he were to do wrong, and lose the
promise of heaven, he must be miserable. We were not allowed to stay
very long, Amy, and therefore I cannot give you a great description of
the ball. I only remember how very tired I was when I went to bed, and
that my last thoughts were of my conversation with Miss Harwood, and of
my brother and the poor man."

"Is that all, mamma?" said Amy.

"Yes, my dear," replied Airs Herbert; "you know I told you it was not a
very interesting story."

"I did not mean that, mamma," said Amy; "for I have liked it very much;
but I was thinking of the poor man. Did you never see him again?"

"Only once," replied Mrs Herbert; "for he was too ill, after that
day, to leave his home. It was one afternoon when I had been with Miss
Harwood into the village; and, as we were returning, we passed his
cottage door; he was seated at it, supported by pillows, and looking
even worse than on the day of the fete. Miss Harwood had a basket of
fruit for him, and she stopped and talked to him for some little time. I
cannot tell you all that passed, Amy, for I did not entirely understand
it myself, and some of it was too solemn to be repeated again; but I
well remember the peaceful expression of the poor man's countenance,
and that he said he would not exchange his prospect of happiness for
anything earth could give; he also mentioned my brother, and seemed to
feel a great interest for him. But there was nothing like envy at what
appeared to me so much more desirable a lot: he looked, and indeed
he was, perfectly contented; and a few days after, I was told by Miss
Harwood that he was dead."

"And what became of his mother?" asked Amy.

"She is living still in the village, and in the same cottage; for
although it is almost a hovel, she cannot afford anything more
comfortable: and I hardly think she would change it if she could; for
she has often said to me, that it was there her husband and her
child died, and she should never love any place so well. But you have
frequently seen her, my dear; do you not remember the little thatched
cottage next the blacksmith's shop, and the old woman we often notice
spinning at the door?"

"Oh yes," said Amy,--"old widow Watson; but she is very cheerful."

"She has the same cause for cheerfulness that her son had," replied Mrs
Herbert. "But now, Amy, do you understand from my story why I said that
the mother of the poor little ragged girl we saw just now has probably
as great a prospect of future happiness as your uncle Harrington?"

"Yes, mamma, if she has been baptized: but we are not sure of that."

"We may hope that she has been," replied her mother; "but that which I
am most desirous you should think of, is not so much the case of that
poor child as your own. You can have no doubt of your baptism, and you
may therefore feel quite certain of having had a promise made to you;
and when you grow older, and begin to know what the troubles of life
really are, you will be able to appreciate the blessing of having
something to hope for and expect beyond the pleasures of the world."

"Everybody who is grown up talks of having had a great deal of sorrow,
mamma," said Amy; "and so I suppose it is true: and sometimes I feel
quite frightened, and wish I could be always young; for I am very happy
now, and when my cousins come, I do not think I shall ever want anything
more."

Mrs Herbert looked rather grave as she answered,--"I am afraid, my dear,
that your cousins arrival may make a great change in many of your ideas.
They have been brought up very differently from you, and you will see
them dressed in fine clothes, and with servants to wait on them, and
carriages to drive about in; and then, perhaps, you will become envious
and discontented."

"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Amy, "how can you think so, when I shall have you
with me?"

"I wish I could teach you, my love, how much better it is to be the
child of God than to be my child," replied Mrs Herbert. "I should have
no fears for you then; for you would not care for the grandeur and
riches which you will see your cousins possess, and you would always be
happy whether I were with you or not."

"Mamma," said Amy, "you have often talked lately of my living without
you; but it makes me so very miserable to think of it, I wish you would
not mention it."

"You must not give way to this kind of feeling, my dear child," answered
her mother; "for we must bear whatever God thinks fit to appoint. But I
cannot talk any more now: you shall go into the garden till the carriage
is ready, and leave me alone, for I am sadly tired."

"I do not like to leave you," said Amy, "you look so pale and ill; and
you never used to do so. Oh, how I wish----," but here she stopped,
fearing lest the mention of her father's name might increase her
mother's grief.

"You need not be afraid," replied Mrs Herbert, with a half smile,
though she well knew what was uppermost in her child's mind; "all that I
require is rest and quiet."

Amy said no more, but placed a glass of water by her mother's side, and
left the room.

When she was gone, Mrs Herbert closed her eyes, and seemed as if
endeavouring to sleep; but the working of her forehead, and the pressure
of her lips, showed that there was no repose of the mind. Solitude only
brought before her more clearly the image of her husband in a distant
land,--perhaps ill and unhappy, it might be dying; but it was necessary
for her own health, and for Amy's happiness, that she should struggle
against these sad forebodings; and although a few tears at first rolled
slowly down her cheek, and she felt that it was almost impossible to
prevent herself from giving way to her grief, she did at length succeed
in turning her mind to the consideration of the watchful providence and
mercy of God; and by the time Amy returned with the announcement that
the carriage was ready, she had quite regained her tranquillity.

Stephen was at the door as they drove off, and bade them good-bye with
a happier look than was his wont; though, when Amy asked him if he were
not delighted at the thought of all the carriages and horses he should
soon see, he scarcely smiled as he answered, "Ah! yes, Miss Amy, 'twill
be very fine; but there will be no one now to ride the Shetland pony in
the park;" and he turned his head and walked quickly away. Mrs Bridget's
civilities, now that she knew how much depended on Mrs Herbert's good
opinion, were greater than usual; and many were the hopes she expressed
that everything had been satisfactory in the house, and that dear little
Miss Amy had liked the cake and strawberries. But Mrs Herbert was too
tired to listen long to her speeches, and expressed her approbation in
few words; and Amy, who liked Stephen a great deal better than Bridget,
declared that it was all quite delicious, and then ran after the old
steward to say good-bye once more.




CHAPTER III.


"There are only six days now, mamma," said Amy, as she sat at work by
her mother's side, about a week after their visit to Emmerton; "only six
days, and then my cousins will be come; but they seem dreadfully long;
and I have been thinking, too, that perhaps I shall not be liked; and if
so, you know all my pleasure will be at an end."

"You had better not think anything about that, my dear," answered Mrs
Herbert; "it is nearly the certain way of preventing yourself from being
agreeable. If you are good-natured and sweet-tempered, there is very
little doubt of your being liked; but if you make any great efforts to
please, you will probably be led into saying and doing things that are
not quite natural, and you will at once become disagreeable; besides,
you may be tempted to act wrongly in order to suit your cousins'
inclinations. You know, Amy, we ought to try not to be liked, but to be
good."

"But will you just tell me everything about my cousins, mamma, that I
may know what to expect? There will be Dora, and Margaret, and Frank,
and Rose; four of them. Now, what will Dora be like?"

"I really can tell you very little," replied Mrs Herbert; "it is a long
time since I have seen any of them, and you have heard almost as much
as I have. Dora, I believe, has been brought forward a good deal, and
probably, therefore, considers herself older than she really is; she
must be more than fourteen, and I should think would not be so much your
companion as Margaret, who is a year younger. Frank you will not see a
great deal of, as he is at school the chief part of the year; though,
perhaps, now, the difference of his position in the family may make some
change in his fathers plans for him. Little Rose, who is not quite six,
is the pet of the whole house, and especially doated upon by her mother;
and this is nearly all the information I can give you."

"And will the young lady I have so often heard you speak of come with
them, or will my aunt teach them as you do me?"

"She will come with them, I have no doubt," replied Mrs Herbert; "for
although your aunt objects to a regular governess, and has educated your
cousins almost entirely herself, yet, lately, Miss Morton has assisted
her very much in their music and drawing."

"Miss Morton is the daughter of a clergyman who lived very near
Wayland--is she not, mamma?" said Amy.

"Yes," answered her mother. "He died suddenly, and his wife only
survived him about a month, and this poor girl was left quite unprovided
for. Some of her relations interested themselves for her, and placed her
at a very excellent school, where she had great advantages; and having
a superior talent for music and drawing, she made very rapid progress.
When she was nearly nineteen, she entered your uncle's family, and has
lived with them now for two years."

"Will she be with them always?" asked Amy, "or will she have separate
rooms, as I have heard most governesses have?"

"I believe she has been accustomed to have a sitting-room to herself,"
said Mrs Herbert; "or, at least the schoolroom has been considered hers,
and she seldom joins the rest of the party."

"Poor thing!" said Amy; "without any father or mother, it must be very
sad in the long winter evenings."

Mrs Herbert thought the same, but she did not wish to express her
opinion; and Amy, having finished her work, was told to go and prepare
for a walk, her mother being glad to find an excuse for breaking off the
conversation, and so avoiding any further questions.

The arrival of her brother's family was, indeed, a subject of anxious
consideration for Mrs Herbert. It must have a great influence on Amy's
mind, either for good or evil; and there was much reason to fear that
the evil would preponderate. Mr Harrington was a man of high honour
and extreme benevolence; but he was constitutionally indolent, and had
allowed his wife to gain so much influence over him, that the management
of everything was chiefly in her hands. It certainly might have been
entrusted to worse, for Mrs Harrington had good judgment, superior sense
in all worldly affairs, and a never-failing activity. Her establishment
was the best ordered, her dinners were the best dressed, her farm and
dairy were the best supplied of any in the county--all was in a style
of first-rate elegance, without any pretension or extravagance, but when
she attempted to apply her sense and her activity to the management of
her children, she failed essentially, for the one thing was wanting--she
had no real principle of religion.

She had, it is true, taken care that they should be taught their
Catechism, almost as soon as they could speak; but she had never
endeavoured to explain to them its meaning; they had been accustomed
to repeat a hasty prayer every morning and evening, but they had never
learned how solemn a duty they were performing; and every Sunday they
had been in the habit of reading a chapter in the Bible, but it was
hurried through without the smallest thought, partly as a task, and
partly as a means of passing away the time. If it had not been for this
great deficiency, Mrs Harrington would have been well calculated for the
task of education; caring, however, only for accomplishments which
might make a show in the world, she considered the cultivation of her
children's minds a matter of secondary importance; and although she was
desirous they should be clever and well-read, that they might appear
to advantage in society, she thought very little of the effect their
studies might have upon their general character.

From these circumstances, as might easily be supposed, Dora and Margaret
grew up with all their natural evil inclinations unchecked and the good
unimproved. Dora's temper, originally haughty, had become year by year
more overbearing, as she found that, from her father's rank and fortune,
and from being herself the eldest daughter of the family, she could
exact attention, not only from her brothers and sisters, but from
most of her playmates, and all the servants and dependents; and if
occasionally she excited her mother's displeasure, when a music lesson
had been particularly bad, or a drawing very carelessly executed, her
talents easily enabled her to regain that place in Mrs Harrington's
affection, which depended so much upon external superiority. And yet,
under good guidance, Dora Harrington might have become a very admirable
person. Her disposition was generous and candid, and her feelings were
warm and easily excited; but her pride and self-will had hitherto marred
every better quality.

Margaret was very different: she was more inclined to be gentle and
yielding, but this rather from indolence than amiability; and her vanity
and selfishness rendered her, perhaps, even less agreeable than her
sister, when she became more intimately known. There was, indeed,
one peculiarity about her, which, on a first acquaintance, was very
winning--a great desire of gaining the love of others! and for this
purpose she would use the most affectionate expressions, and profess
the greatest interest in their happiness; but her young companions
soon found that she was seldom willing to make the sacrifice of her own
inclinations to theirs; and persons who were older, and could see deeper
into her character, discovered that her love of affection differed but
little from her love of admiration, as she only valued it because it
gained her attention; and the same vanity which made her delight in the
praises of her delicate complexion, and fair hair, and bright blue
eyes, made her also take pleasure in knowing that she was an object of
interest and regard to those around her.

Such were probably to be Amy's companions for the next few years of her
life. Rose being too young to be considered of the number; and it was
well for Mrs Herbert's happiness that she was little aware of their
dispositions. Yet she had some fears as to the principle on which her
nieces had been educated; and she could not but be thankful that she
should, as she hoped, be at hand for at least some time to come, to
watch the effect of the intimacy upon Amy's mind, and to warn her
against any evil which might result from it; as she felt that, in the
event of her own death and her husband's prolonged absence, it would be
upon her brother's family alone that she could depend for friendship and
protection to her almost orphan child.

Amy herself, with all the thoughtlessness of her age, looked forward to
nothing but enjoyment; and when the first rays of the sun shone through
her window, on the morning of the day that was to witness her meeting
with her cousins, and awakened her from her quiet sleep and her peaceful
dreams, it was only to give her the expectation of a yet brighter
reality. For the next hour she lay awake, imagining the grandeur of
Emmerton Hall in its best furniture, the delight of driving in her
uncle's carriage, and the probability that she might have beautiful
presents made her,--new books, or a watch, or a pony, or, what would be
still better, a pony-chaise for her mamma, now that she was unable to
walk far. She even went on to count up the books she should wish for,
and to settle the colour of the pony, not doubting that her uncle would
be willing to give her everything; for she had always been told he was
very kind; and a person who could live at Emmerton, she was sure, must
be able to purchase whatever he desired.


"Oh mamma, I am so happy!" was her first exclamation, as she seated
herself at the breakfast-table. "Do see what a beautiful day it is; and
I have been awake so long this morning, thinking over what we shall do
in the afternoon. I am sure you must be happy too."

"Happy to see you so, my love," said Mrs Herbert, as she kissed her.

"But why not happy in yourself, mamma; are you ill?" and she looked at
Mrs Herbert anxiously; then suddenly becoming grave, she said, "Dear
mamma, it was very wrong in me, but I did not think about poor Edward."

"It was very natural, my dear, and you need not be distressed because
you cannot feel for him as I do, who knew him when he was a healthy,
merry child, the delight of every one."

"Then there is no harm in being happy?" said Amy; "but I will try to be
so to myself, though I should like you to smile too; but, perhaps, you
will when you see them quite settled at Emmerton."

"I hope every one will be reconciled to the loss in time," replied Mrs
Herbert; "and, perhaps, Amy, it will be a greater pleasure to me, by and
by, to know that your uncle is so near than it will be to you."

"Oh mamma! how can that be? you know you are so much older; and you
always tell me that grown-up people do not enjoy things so much as
children."

"But supposing, my dear, that your cousins' being at Emmerton should
make you envious and discontented with your own home, you would not be
happy then?"

For a few moments Amy did not speak; a grave expression came over
her face; and, allowing her breakfast to remain untouched, she sat
apparently deep in thought. At last she said, "Mamma, people must be
very unhappy when they are envious."

"Yes, indeed they must," replied Mrs Herbert; "for they are always
longing for things which God has not chosen to give them, and are
unthankful for those which they possess; besides, they often dislike the
persons whom they fancy more blessed than themselves."

"And should you love me, mamma, if I were envious?" continued Amy,
looking intently at her mother as she spoke.

"It would be a dreadful thing indeed, my love, which would prevent me
from loving you; but I should be very, very sorry to see you so."

Again Amy was silent, and began eating her breakfast hastily; but it
seemed an effort, and Mrs Herbert presently saw that the tears were fast
rolling down her cheeks.

"Amy, my dear child, what is the matter?" she exclaimed.

Amy tried to answer, but her voice failed her; and rising from her seat
she hid her face on her mother's neck, and then said, in a low tone,
"Mamma, I know I have been envious."

"If you have, my dear, you are, I am sure, very sorry for it now; and
you must not vex yourself too much when you discover you have a fault,
since you know that if you pray to God He will forgive you, and help you
to overcome it."

"But, mamma," said Amy, "I did not think it was envy till just now.
It was the other evening when we came back from Emmerton, and I was
fancying how beautiful the house would be when it was all furnished, and
how I should like to live there; and then, when we got near home, I did
not like the cottage as much as I used to do, it appeared so small; and
I began to think I should be happier if I were one of my cousins, and
had a carriage, and horses, and servants. But, Oh mamma! it was very
wicked"--and here Amy's tears again fell fast--"for I forgot that I had
you."

"The feeling was very natural," said Mrs Herbert, "though I will not
say it was right. I have often been afraid lest seeing your nearest
relations so much richer than yourself might make you uncomfortable; but
you know I told you before, that God sends to each of us some particular
trial or temptation, to prove whether we will love and serve Him, or
give way to our own evil inclinations; and this will probably be yours
through the greater part of your life. But when the feeling of envy
arises in your heart, will you, my darling Amy, pray to God to help you,
and teach you to remember that at your baptism you received the promise
of infinitely greater happiness and glory than any which this world can
give? And now you must finish your breakfast, or you will make yourself
quite ill and unfit for the day's pleasure; and, after our reading and
your morning lessons, we will have a very early dinner, so that we may
have time to call at Colworth parsonage before we go to Emmerton. Mrs
Saville has sent me word, that the story the poor girl told us the other
evening is quite true, and I should like to inquire how her mother is."

Amy reseated herself at the breakfast-table; but she could not easily
recover her spirits, and during the whole morning there was a grave tone
in her voice, and a slight melancholy in her countenance, which only
disappeared when Mr Walton's carriage came to the door at two o'clock,
and she found herself actually on the road to Emmerton to receive her
cousins. The increased distance by Colworth was about two miles, and, at
another time, it would have added to her enjoyment to go by a new road;
but every moment's unnecessary delay now made her feel impatient, and
she was only quieted by her mamma's reminding her that her uncle could
not possibly arrive before half-past four or five o'clock, and therefore
it would be a pleasant way of spending the intervening time. "Besides,"
said Mrs Herbert, "we must not forget others, Amy, because we are happy
ourselves; perhaps we may be of use to the poor woman." Amy sighed, and
wished she could be like her mother, and never forget what was right;
and the consciousness of one fault brought back the remembrance of
another, and with it the morning's conversation; and this again reminded
her of their last evening at Emmerton, and her mamma's story, till her
mind became so occupied that she forgot the novelty of the road, and
her impatience to be at the end of her journey; and when the carriage
stopped at the gate at Colworth, she was thinking of what Mrs Herbert
had said about her uncle Harrington, and the poor woman having the
same prospect for the future, and wondering whether they either of them
thought of it as her mamma seemed to do.

Mrs Saville was almost a stranger to Amy; but her kind manner quickly
made her feel at ease, and she became much interested in the account
that was given of the poor woman's sufferings, and the dutiful affection
shown by her eldest girl.

"Is it the one, mamma, whom we saw at Emmerton?" whispered Amy.

"Yes," replied Mrs Saville, who had overheard the question; "she came
home that evening almost happy, notwithstanding her mother's poverty
and illness; for it had been the first time she had ever been obliged to
beg, and she had begun to despair of getting anything, when your mamma
was so good to her. I learned the whole story when she brought me the
note, and scolded her a little for not coming to me at once; but we
had done something for her before, and she did not like to ask again. I
cannot think," she continued, turning to Mrs Herbert, "what the children
will do; for the mother is rapidly sinking in a decline; and she tells
me they have no near relation, excepting a grandmother, who is old and
in want."

"How far off is their parish?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"About ten miles; it is impossible to think of their being moved now;
for the poor woman can scarcely live more than a few days longer; yet
the eldest girl seems to have no notion of her danger, and I dread the
consequences of telling her, she is so fond of her mother."

"I should like to go to the cottage, if it is near," said Mrs Herbert;
"or, at least, I should be glad to see the girl; for I suppose her
mother had better not be disturbed."

"It will be very easy, if you desire it," replied Mrs Saville; "for the
children are kept in a separate room. I should wish you to see the woman
herself, if she were equal to the sight of a stranger, for I am sure you
would be pleased with her contentment and resignation."

"May I go too?" asked Amy, when Mrs Saville left the room.

Mrs Herbert thought for a moment, and then replied, "You may, my dear,
if you are willing to assist in helping these poor people; I mean by
working for them, or doing anything else which may be in your power;
but it never does any one good to go and see people who are suffering,
merely from curiosity."

"I think, mamma," said Amy, "I should be very willing to do something
for them, if you would tell me what it should be."

"We must see them before we are able to decide," replied Mrs Herbert;
"but we shall soon know, for here is Mrs Saville ready for her walk."

The cottage was but a short distance from the parsonage, and on the road
to Emmerton, and the carriage was ordered to meet them there, that Mrs
Herbert might be spared any unnecessary fatigue. Cottage it could not
well be called, for it was little more than a hovel, divided into two
parts; but it was the only one vacant in the neighbourhood, and the poor
woman had gladly availed herself of any shelter when she became so ill;
and though Mrs Saville's kindness had made it assume a more comfortable
appearance than it had done at first, it was still very destitute of
furniture, and, to Amy's eyes, looked the picture of wretchedness.
The eldest girl was attending to her mother, and the five younger ones
playing before the door. At the appearance of the strangers, they all
rushed into the house; but Mrs Saville was an old friend, and, at her
order, Amy's former acquaintance, Susan Reynolds, was called in. At
first, Amy thought she should scarcely have known her again,--she
was looking so much neater than when she had seen her that evening at
Emmerton; but she soon remembered her face, and the frightened manner
which she still retained.

Mrs Herbert made many inquiries as to the state of the family,--who were
their relations, what they intended to do, and whether any of them had
ever been to school; and the girl showed by her answers that she had no
idea of her mother's danger. When she got well, she said, they should
all go home, and live with grandmother, and go to school. She had
learned to read and write herself; but the little ones never had, only
sometimes she had tried to teach them; but now her whole time was taken
up in nursing, and it was all she could do to keep them out of mischief,
and mend their clothes.

Amy looked with a wondering eye upon the poor girl, as she gave this
account of herself, and thought how impossible it would be for her to
do as much; and yet there seemed to be but a slight difference in their
ages, and the advantages of health and strength were all on her side.
Mrs Herbert also remarked Susan's sickly countenance, and asked some
questions as to her general health, but she could get very little
information. Susan's care was entirely given to others, and she thought
but little of her own feelings. At times, she said, she was very tired,
and she did not sleep well at night; but then the baby often cried, and
she was anxious about her mother, and so it was very natural. Again
Amy felt surprised as she remembered her comfortable bed, and her quiet
sleep, and her mamma's watchfulness on the slightest appearance of
illness.

"Does it not make you very unhappy," she asked, "to see your mother
suffer so much?"

"Yes, Miss," replied the girl; "but then I think of the time when she
will get well."

"But supposing she should never get well?" continued Amy.

Poor Susan started, as if the idea had never entered her head before;
her eyes filled with tears; and, after a great struggle, she said, in a
broken voice: "Mother hopes to go to heaven." As she spoke, Mrs Herbert
looked at her child, and Amy knew what the look meant; for it reminded
her of the conversation at Emmerton, and she understood how true her
mamma's words on that evening had been; for her uncle Harrington, with
all his riches, could not expect a greater comfort than this for his
death-bed. Conscious, however, that she had been the cause of a great
deal of pain, her chief desire now was to make some amends; and, as they
were about to go away, she whispered to her mamma, "I should like so
much to do something for her."

"I will ask what would be most useful," replied Mrs Herbert. "This young
lady," she added, turning to Susan, "wishes to make something which may
be of service to you. Should you like it to be a frock for yourself, or
for one of the children?"

"For Bessy, ma'am, if you please," said Susan; "her frock is all in
rags, and it was quite old when she first had it." Bessy, who had run
into the road to avoid the strangers, was summoned, and her measure
properly taken; and Mrs Herbert, slipping a shilling into Susan's
hand, and telling her she should have the frock in a few days, left the
cottage, followed by Mrs Saville and Amy. Mrs Saville promised to send
word if any plan were proposed which could be a comfort to the poor
woman, or an assistance to her children; and then, wishing her good
morning, Mrs Herbert and Amy stepped into the carriage, and were once
more on the way to Emmerton.

"My dear child," said Mrs Herbert, finding that Amy made no observation
on what had passed, "are you sorry that you went with me?"

"Oh no! mamma," exclaimed Amy; "but I am sorry that I said anything to
Susan about her mother not getting well. I am afraid I made her very
miserable."

"It was thoughtless, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert; "not but what it is
quite necessary that Susan should be prepared, but then it would have
been better for Mrs Saville to have broken it to her gently. These
things happen to us all, from our not remembering, when we talk to
people, to put ourselves in their situation. You would not have said it,
if you had called to mind what your own feelings would have been in a
similar case."

"But, mamma, it is impossible to be always on the watch."

"It is very difficult, but not impossible," said Mrs Herbert; "habit
will do wonders; and the earlier we begin thinking about other persons'
feelings, the more easy it will be to us to do so always; and I wish you
particularly to be careful now, my love, because you will probably be
thrown much more amongst strangers than you have been; and half the
quarrels and uncomfortable feelings that we witness in society, arise
from some little awkwardness or thoughtlessness in speech without any
offence being intended. Though you are so young, Amy, you may soon
learn, by a little observation, what things are likely to pain people,
and what are not."

"But," said Amy, "I thought it was always necessary to speak the truth."

"Yes," replied her mother, "it certainly is quite necessary whenever you
are called upon to do it; for instance, if you had been asked whether
you thought it likely that Mrs Reynolds would get well, it would have
been quite right in you to say, no, because you had heard so from Mrs
Saville; but there was no occasion for you to make the observation of
your own accord."

"I think I know what you mean, mamma," said Amy; "but will you tell me
one thing more? Why did you say it would do me no good to see the poor
woman, if I did not mean to help her? I am sure, whether I could have
done anything or not, I should have been very sorry for her."

"I should like to give a long answer to your question, my dear,"
answered Mrs Herbert; "but here we are at the lodge gate, and there is
Stephen ready to welcome us, so we must leave it till another time."

"How quickly we have come!" exclaimed Amy. "Do, mamma, let me get out,
and walk up to the house with Stephen; I want to hear what he says, and
whether he is as impatient as I am."

But it was only the quick glance of the eye that betrayed Stephen's
impatience, as he turned to look up the road by which Mr Harrington's
carriage was expected to arrive. He seemed even little inclined for
conversation, though Amy did her best to draw him out, as she one moment
walked quietly by his side, then ran joyously before him, and then
suddenly stopped to ask him some questions about the preparations that
had been made. His dress, too, was different from what it usually had
been, excepting when he appeared at church on a Sunday; and Amy saw the
black crape round his hat, which told that he, like her mamma, could
not feel unmixed pleasure in the return of his master's family to their
former home.




CHAPTER IV.


As they entered the house, Amy's quick eye soon discovered the changes
that had taken place since she was last there. A detachment of servants
and a large quantity of furniture had arrived three days before; and
Mrs Bridget was now in all her glory, putting the finishing stroke to
everything, moving tables and chairs to suit her own taste, carefully
effacing every symptom of dust, and ordering servants in all directions,
partly because she thought they might as well be actively employed, and
partly because she felt it was so grand to command tall men in livery.
Her smart silk gown seemed to Amy's ears to rustle more audibly than
ever as she met her in the hall, and there was a greater profusion
of frills and ribbons about her wide-spreading cap, and, above all, a
mixture of importance and bustle in her step, which, with the shrill
voice and up-turned nose and chin, showed that she felt herself, for
the time being, the superior of every one about her. Nevertheless,
she received Amy most graciously, told her that she had persuaded Mrs
Herbert to rest in the great drawing-room, and endeavoured to induce her
to do the same; but this was quite contrary to Amy's inclinations, and
the moment she could escape from Mrs Bridget's fine words, she ran off
to see that her mamma was comfortable, and the next minute her light
step was heard as she danced along the galleries exploring every room,
new and old, to see what alterations were made in them. This was not
quite according to Bridget's notions of propriety, and she muttered to
herself that it would not do by and by,--Miss Amy would soon find out
that the house was not hers; but her partiality got the better of
her dignity, and Amy continued the search, till, having satisfied her
curiosity, she stationed herself half way between the lodge and the
house to watch for the carriage. Every moment seemed now an age; but she
was not long kept in suspense; after about ten minutes, the rumbling of
wheels was distinctly heard, and almost immediately afterwards the gates
were thrown open, and a carriage and four drove rapidly down the avenue.
Amy's heart beat quickly; she stood for a few moments looking at it,
and then, half frightened as it came nearer and nearer, she ran at full
speed towards the house that she might be the first to give the joyful
intelligence to her mother. But Mrs Herbert's anxious ear had already
caught the sound, and she was standing on the steps when her child flew
to her almost breathless. Even in that moment of excitement, Amy could
not help noticing the deadly paleness of her mother's face; but there
was now no time for words, the carriage stopped at the door, and Mrs
Herbert making a great effort to command her feelings, with a firm voice
welcomed her brother and his family to Emmerton. Amy shrank behind
her mamma, with but one wish, to avoid being observed by the tall
grave-looking gentleman, whom she thought she never could call uncle;
and Mrs Herbert, considering only her brother's painful feelings,
suffered him to pass with but very few words. Mrs Harrington followed,
and Amy scarcely remarked what her aunt was like, her whole mind being
occupied with wondering whether the two fashionable-looking young
ladies, who remained in the carriage searching for their baskets and
books, could possibly be her own cousins.

"Which is Dora, mamma?" she whispered.

But Mrs Herbert moved forward, as her nieces ran up the steps, saying,
"Your mamma has left me to introduce myself, my dear girls. I can hardly
imagine you have any remembrance of your aunt Herbert and your cousin
Amy. I suppose I shall not be mistaken in calling you Dora," she added,
as she kissed the one who, from her height and general appearance, was
evidently the eldest.

Amy's first curiosity was thus set at rest, but in its stead she was
seized with an overpowering feeling of shyness. Dora looked almost as
awful a person as her papa, whom she very much resembled. There was the
same high forehead, dark eye, rather large nose, and haughty curl of the
lip; and her height, which was unusual at her age, gave the idea of her
being at least two years older than she really was; and Amy turned to
Margaret in despair of finding anything like a companion; but Margaret
had a much younger face, and slighter figure, though she also was tall;
and if her dress and manner had been less like those of a grown-up
person, Amy might, perhaps, have felt more comfortable.

"You are quite right, aunt," said Dora, in a sharp, loud voice, which
sounded disagreeably in Amy's ears, after the gentle tones to which she
had listened from her infancy; "I am Dora, and this is Margaret, and
there is little Rose behind."

"I begin to think," said Mrs Herbert, "that, after all, Rose will be
Amy's best playfellow; we were neither of us quite prepared for anything
so tall and womanly, and Amy is such a tiny child, you will think her
more fit for the nursery than the school-room, I suspect."

"Is this Amy?" said Dora, giving her first a patronising tap on the
shoulder, and then a hasty kiss; "I dare say we shall be very good
friends." And without another word she ran into the house.

"I am sure we shall," said Margaret, in a more affectionate tone, and
Amy, who had been chilled by Dora's manner, returned her embrace most
cordially.

"I must give little Rose a kiss before we go into the drawing-room,"
said Mrs Herbert, "and perhaps, Margaret, you will introduce me to Miss
Morton."

Margaret stared, as if she did not quite understand her aunt's meaning.
"Oh!" she said, "there is no occasion for that, we never do it with her;
but, to be sure," she continued, seeing that Mrs Herbert looked grave,
"if you like it. Simmons, help Miss Morton down."

The footman moved forward a few steps, lifted little Rose from the
carriage, and then held out his hand to Miss Morton, who was seated by
the side of the lady's maid.

"Which is Miss Morton?" asked Mrs Herbert, in a low voice, much puzzled
between two silk gowns, two silk bonnets, and two lace veils.

"Well, that is amusing!" exclaimed Margaret, pertly, and bursting into
a short, conceited laugh. "Certainly Morris is the nicest-looking of the
two. Morris, my aunt did not know you and Emily Morton apart."

Amy felt very uncomfortable at this speech, though she scarcely knew
why; and even Margaret, when the words were uttered, seemed conscious
they were wrong; for, with a heightened colour, and without waiting to
introduce Mrs Herbert, she seized Amy's hand, and turned quickly away.

"Miss Morton will, I am sure, willingly pardon a mistake which only
distance could have caused," said Mrs Herbert, as she looked with
interest at the delicate features and sweet expression of the peculiarly
lady-like young girl, whose face had become like crimson on hearing
Margaret's thoughtless speech. "I ought to know you; for I well remember
seeing you some years ago, when I was staying with my brother at
Wayland Court; but you were then such a child, that I confess I find a
considerable alteration."

The answer to this was given in a low, hurried tone, for Emily Morton
had lately been so little accustomed to civility, that it confused
her almost as much as neglect. She seemed only anxious to divert Mrs
Herbert's attention from herself to little Rose as soon as possible; and
whispering to the child to go with her aunt into the drawing-room, she
herself followed the lady's-maid in a different direction. Amy was by
this time rather more at her ease; and when Mrs Herbert entered, she
was standing by her uncle, and had found courage to say a few words.
Mrs Harrington was leaning back on the sofa, taking but slight notice of
anything; and Dora and Margaret were examining the furniture, and making
remarks which were far from pleasing to Amy's ears. The room was so
dark, and the windows were so deep, and the furniture was so very
old-fashioned, they were quite sure they never could be happy in such a
strange place; and after the first observations about the journey were
over, Amy began to feel still more uncomfortable; for she fancied that
her mamma wished her to be away, that she might talk to her uncle and
aunt, and yet her cousins showed no intention of leaving the room. At
last, surprised at her own boldness, she whispered to Dora, who was
standing next her, "Should you not like to see the house up-stairs?"

Dora turned sharply round, and Amy could not quite understand the tone
of her voice, as she said, "I suppose you wish to do the honours."

"Amy, my love," said Mrs Herbert, who had overheard the question and
answer, "you must recollect that your cousins are at home; they will go
up-stairs when they please."

Poor Amy felt puzzled and vexed; she had meant no harm, and yet both
her mamma and Dora seemed annoyed. She did not, however, venture to say
anything further, and was quite relieved when Mr Harrington remarked
that it was a good notion, the girls had better go and choose their
rooms at once, and settle themselves a little; and by that time they
would be ready, perhaps, for their tea, as they had all dined on the
road quite early.

Amy hung back, afraid of again doing something which her cousin might
not like; but Margaret called to her to follow them, and in a few
moments she had forgotten her discomfort in the pleasure of showing the
different apartments, and pointing out all their several advantages. But
Dora and Margaret were very difficult to please: one room was too small,
another too large; one looked out at the back, and another at the side;
one was too near the drawing-room, and another too far off. Still Amy
did not care; for she had determined in her own mind that they would
decide upon the bedroom oriel, which was just over the old schoolroom.

"Well! this really does seem as if it would do," said Margaret, as they
entered. "Do look, Dora; it is the prettiest room in the whole house,
and has the prettiest view, too; and the dressing-room is so large and
nice."

"I care very little which room I have," said Dora, who was looking grave
and unhappy. "The house is so sad and melancholy, it is all much the
same; we shall never be happy here."

"Not happy!" said Amy. "Oh yes! by and by you will; it never seems
gloomy to me."

"That is because you have always been accustomed to it," replied Dora.
"If you had seen Wayland Court, you would think nothing of this."

"Dora is determined not to be happy," said Margaret; and then she added,
in a whisper to Amy, "She was so very fond of poor Edward."

Dora evidently heard the words; for the tears rushed to her eyes, and
she bit her lip and began walking about examining the pictures; but the
painting which hung over the mantel-piece quite overcame all attempt at
composure. It was the picture of Mr Harrington's grandfather, taken when
a boy. He was represented riding in the park, on a spirited pony; and
both Dora and Margaret saw in a moment the likeness to their brother. It
was not natural for Dora to give way to any display of feeling; but she
had suffered very much during her brother's illness,--and this, with
her regret at leaving Wayland, the fatigue of the journey, and what she
considered to be the gloom of the house, entirely overpowered her; and
Amy, who had never been accustomed to the sight of any grief, except
her mamma's quiet tears, became frightened. Margaret, too, looked
astonished, but neither said nor did anything to assist or comfort her
sister; and Amy, having exhausted all the kind expressions she could
think of, at last remembered Mrs Herbert's infallible remedy of a glass
of water, which soon enabled Dora, in some degree, to recover herself.
At first she took but little notice of Amy, who stood by her side,
begging her to try and be happy; in fact, like many other proud persons,
she felt annoyed that she had given way so much before a mere child,
as she considered her cousin to be; but there was no withstanding the
winning tones of Amy's voice, and the perfect sincerity of her manner;
and when, at last, she became silent, and looked almost as unhappy as
herself, Dora's haughtiness was quite subdued, and she exclaimed, "I
must love you, Amy; for no one else would care whether I were miserable
or not."

Amy was surprised at the idea of any person's seeing others suffer and
not feeling for them; but, rejoicing in the success of her efforts, she
now tried to divert Dora's attention, by talking of the conveniences of
the room, and the view from the window. It was, at length, quite decided
that they should occupy it, and the bell was forthwith rung to summon
Morris. But the summons was given in vain; no Morris appeared. Again and
again the rope was pulled, but no footsteps were heard in answer. Dora
became irritated and Margaret fretful; and, after a considerable delay,
Amy proposed that, as she knew the way to the housekeeper's room, she
should try and find out Morris, who was very probably there. The thought
of the strange servants was certainly alarming; but then her cousins
were in distress, and she could help them; and, overcoming her timidity,
she set off on what appeared to her quite an expedition. Boldly and
quickly she threaded her way through the dark, winding passages, every
turn of which had been familiar to her from her childhood. But when she
stopped at the head of the back staircase, and listened to the hubbub of
voices in the servants' hall, her first fears returned. Even Bridget's
shrill tones were drowned in the medley of sound, and Amy looked in
vain, in the hope of seeing her cross the passage. After a few moments,
however, she felt inclined to laugh at her own shyness, and ran quickly
down, determining to inquire for Morris of the first person she met.
The servants were rushing to and fro in every direction, in all the
important bustle of a first arrival, and one or two pushed by without
taking any notice of her; but Amy, having resolved not to be daunted,
still went on; and, as a door suddenly opened immediately at her side,
and a tall female servant (as she imagined), dressed in deep mourning,
entered the passage, she turned eagerly to her, pulled her gown,
and begged to know where Morris was to be found. To her extreme
consternation, her aunt's voice answered quickly and angrily--"Who is
this? Amy here! how very improper, amongst all the servants! Why did you
not ring the bell, child? Go away, this moment."

Amy's first impulse was to obey as fast as possible; but she knew she
was doing no harm; and a few words, which her fright, however, made it
difficult to utter, soon explained to Mrs Harrington the cause of her
appearance there. Morris was instantly summoned, and Amy returned to her
cousins to recount her adventure.

"You don't mean to say mamma saw you amongst all the servants?"
exclaimed Margaret. "Well! I would not have been you for something; it
is just the very thing she most objects to. I have heard her lecture by
the hour about it; we have never been allowed to go within a mile of the
kitchen; and even little Rose, though she is such a baby, is kept just
as strict."

"Well, but," said Amy, "why did you let me go, if you knew my aunt would
object?"

"Oh!" said Margaret, "you offered, and I thought mamma was safe in the
drawing-room."

"And we wanted Morris," interrupted Dora, "I hate false excuses."

Amy felt rather angry, and thought she should not have done the same by
them; but everything this evening was so very new and strange, that she
kept all her feelings to herself for the present, to be talked over with
her mamma when they got home.

"But were you not very much frightened?" continued Margaret. "What did
you say when mamma spoke to you?"

"I was frightened just at first," replied Amy; "but then I knew I was
not doing anything wrong, and so I did not really care."

"Well, if you are not the boldest little thing I ever met with," said
Margaret; "even Dora would have cared, if she had been you."

"It is no use to say any more," exclaimed Dora, in rather an irritated
voice, for she prided herself upon caring for nobody; "we must leave off
talking now, and proceed to work. I am resolved to have all my things
unpacked, and settled to-night; so I shall choose my drawers and
closets, and say where I will have them put, and then Morris may as well
begin."

"But it is so late. Miss," said poor Morris, who was quite exhausted
with the packing of the previous night, and the fatigue of the long
day's journey; "and yours and Miss Margaret's things are mixed, many of
them."

Dora coloured, and said angrily, "You forget yourself, Morris; I have
told you that I choose to have my boxes unpacked to-night."

Amy longed to petition for a little mercy; but she was beginning to
learn not to interfere where she had no power, and Dora immediately
walked round the room to examine drawers and closets, and to give
directions, while Morris stood by, the picture of despairing fatigue.
Margaret was too indolent to give herself much trouble about the matter,
and Amy was rather astonished to see that Dora did not consult her in
the least. She chose the best of everything for herself; and when Morris
inquired what Miss Margaret wished to have done, the only answer she
could get was, that it did not signify; at any rate, to-morrow would be
quite soon enough to settle, for she was far too tired to think about it
now; and Morris, thankful for even a partial respite, asked for no more
orders, but hastened away to make the proper selection of trunks
and imperials. Dora and Margaret then arranged their dress and went
down-stairs to tea, followed by Amy, who felt alarmed as she thought
of encountering her aunt's eye after her misdemeanour. Mrs Harrington,
however, took but little notice of her; she had in some degree recovered
her energy, and was able to exert herself at the tea-table: and as
whatever she did always occupied her whole attention, she seemed to
be quite engrossed in cups and saucers, milk and cream; and Amy placed
herself at the farthest distance from her, taking care to have the urn
between them, and reserving a place at her side for her mamma, who was
standing at the window, talking in a low voice to Mr Harrington. But
when the labour of tea-making was over, Mrs Harrington was able to think
of other things, and her first inquiry was, what the girls thought
of their rooms, and why they had been obliged to send Amy into the
servants' hall.

"I suppose there is no bell, mamma," said Dora; "for we rang a great
many times, but no one came."

"Where was Miss Morton?" said Mrs Harrington; "she ought to have been
with you; it would not signify her going amongst the servants, but it
was highly improper for your cousin."

"Emily Morton always thinks she has enough to do to take care of
herself," said Margaret; "she is not over-fond of helping any one."

This struck Amy as very unjust; for Miss Morton had not been told where
they were, and, of course, was not to blame. She was not aware that it
was usual with Mrs Harrington to put upon Miss Morton everything that
went wrong; and that she was expected to be at hand to assist Dora and
Margaret on all occasions, no one considering for an instant whether the
expectation were reasonable or unreasonable.

"But, mamma," said Dora, "I must tell you that Emily did not know we
were gone to our rooms, so we ought not to find fault with her."

"But I do find fault with her, Dora," replied Mrs Harrington; "she
knows very well what is expected of her, and she ought to have inquired
whether she could be of any use to you."

"But, mamma,"--persisted Dora.

"I will not hear any buts, Dora; I must be the best judge of what Miss
Morton's duties are; you are not generally so apt to take her part."

"Only I hate injustice," muttered Dora, in a sulky tone.

"And I can't bear Emily Morton," whispered Margaret, who was sitting
next Amy.

"Can't bear her!" exclaimed Amy.

"Hush! hush!" said Margaret; "I don't want every one to hear."

Amy would have repeated her exclamation in a lower voice, but Mrs
Herbert now approached the tea-table, and began asking questions of
her nieces, and trying as much as possible to make herself at home with
them. Dora's answers were rather pert, and Margaret's rather affected;
but neither Mr nor Mrs Harrington checked them in the least, and Amy
felt annoyed at hearing them speak to her mamma almost as familiarly as
if she had been of their own age. She herself sat perfectly silent, too
much in awe of her aunt's grave looks to venture an observation, and
quite amused with watching what passed, and remarking to herself upon
the magnificence of the silver tea-urn and its appendages, and the
profusion of things with which the table was covered, so different
from what she was accustomed to see at the cottage. She was not sorry,
however, when her mamma proposed ordering the carriage; for the novelty
of everything did not quite make up for the restraint she was under. She
was afraid not only of her uncle and aunt, but even of the footmen when
they came near, and she anxiously observed Dora and Margaret, thinking
she could not do wrong in imitating them.

"We shall see you to-morrow at the cottage, I hope," said Mrs Herbert to
her brother, when the carriage was announced.

Mrs Harrington answered for him in a short, ungracious manner--"I don't
know, indeed, there will be so much to arrange; perhaps the girls
may manage it; but Mr Harrington's time and mine will be completely
occupied."

"I shall come and see you as soon as possible, you may be quite sure,"
said Mr Harrington; "it is too great a pleasure to talk over everything
with you, for me not to seize all opportunities of doing so; though
perhaps to-morrow, as Charlotte says, I may be very busy."

"Then we will expect the girls alone," replied Mrs Herbert. "Amy is
longing to do the honours of the cottage; and, if they come about one
o'clock, they can have their luncheon with us."

Amy added her entreaties, and Margaret, with a great many kisses,
declared it would be the thing of all others she should most enjoy:
while Dora simply said, "Good night," and expressed no pleasure about
the matter. When Amy found herself alone with her mamma, her first wish
was to talk over all that had passed, but Mrs Herbert was looking very
pale and exhausted, and her child had lately learned to watch every
change in her countenance, and to understand in a moment when it was
necessary for her to be silent; she therefore said but little during
their drive home; and it was not till Mrs Herbert was seated in the
arm-chair in her own room, that Amy ventured to express her feelings. "I
may talk to you now, mamma," she said, "for there is no rumbling of the
carriage to worry you; but you did look so ill when we left Emmerton,
that I did not like to do it."

"Yes, my dear," said Mrs Herbert, "it has been a very trying day; but
you shall ease your mind before you go to sleep, and tell me how you
like your cousins, and everything you have been doing, and saying, and
feeling."

"The doing and saying will be easy enough," replied Amy; "but, dear
mamma, it was all so strange, I cannot tell at all what I have been
feeling; and then I cannot make up my mind about anything, and that
puzzles me. I always fancied I should be able to tell at once what I
liked and disliked; but all the way home I have been trying to find out
which of my cousins is the nicest; and one moment I think one thing, and
the next another. And then the house was so changed with the different
furniture, that it seemed quite like another place; only not quite
another either, more like what the cottage seems to me in my dreams; and
then I am so afraid of my aunt, and I think I made her angry--but I must
tell you about that presently. I was so frightened at the men-servants
too, there were such a number; and that one with the black hair, who
was not in livery, is so like Mr Saville of Colworth, that I thought at
first he was going to speak to me."

Mrs Herbert smiled. "You have certainly contrived to get a curious
medley in your head, Amy; but you will never be able to talk over all
these things to-night, it is getting so late."

"No, mamma," said Amy, "I feel as if there would be something to say if
I were to go on till to-morrow; but I should care for nothing else if I
could only make out which of my cousins I like best."

"But," said Mrs Herbert, "it is hardly possible to settle such a
weighty matter, on so short an acquaintance; probably if you decided it
to-night, you would change again to-morrow. I dare say it will take some
time before you can know them sufficiently well, really to make up your
mind."

"Well," sighed Amy, "I suppose I must leave it. I think, though, I like
Margaret, because she is affectionate; and Dora, because she seems to
speak just what she means; but I liked Margaret much better when we were
alone, than when she was talking to you, mamma; her voice and all seemed
quite different."

"And what did you think of Rose?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"Oh! I only saw her for a moment; she looked as if she must be a darling
little thing, she is so very pretty; but, mamma, I cannot understand
about Miss Morton. Is she a lady?"

"Yes, my dear, certainly; she is the daughter of a clergyman."

"But, then, where was she all the evening? She did not come in at
tea-time."

"I believe she generally spends the evenings alone," replied Mrs
Herbert, "as I told you the other day."

"It seems so strange," said Amy; "and Margaret told me she could not
bear her, so I suppose she must be very disagreeable."

"You must not judge of people merely from what you hear, but from what
you see of them too," said Mrs Herbert; "so don't determine upon poor
Miss Morton's being disagreeable till you are more acquainted with her;
she seemed to me to be very gentle and ladylike."

"I feel as if I never should be able to decide about any one now,"
sighed Amy, "I am so very puzzled; and I am not quite sure whether I
have been happy to-night."

"My dear child," said Mrs Herbert, "I must send you to bed, for I am
sure if you sit up thinking and talking any more you will be unfit for
everything to-morrow. I only wish you to tell me what you could have
done to make your aunt angry with you."

Amy repeated the history of her adventure, but Mrs Herbert made no
observation upon it; and she was then sent to her room to prepare for
bed.

"You will come back to me when you are ready to read," said Mrs Herbert.
And in about half an hour's time Amy reappeared with her Bible.

"It seems so nice and quiet," she said, "to be able to sit down with you
quite alone, mamma, after seeing so many people; and I think I shall go
to sleep better when I have read my psalm as usual."

"I hope you will always find it a blessing to read your Bible, my
dear; and I know myself that it is peculiarly so when we have been much
excited; there is something so calm and soothing in it."

Amy read her psalm, and did not attempt to say anything more about
Emmerton, for she had always been taught that her last thoughts, before
she slept, should be of God and heaven rather than of the things of
earth; only, as Mrs Herbert bent over her, to give her the last kiss,
she said, "Mamma, may I tell you one thing which came into my head
to-night? You know I have read in the Bible, and have heard people talk
about the world, and that there are temptations in it, and that we ought
to avoid it; and I never could quite understand this, because it seemed
that I had no world, for you always do what is right, and there is no
evil in the trees and flowers; and one day you said that the world was
different to everybody, and that it meant the things which tempted us to
do wrong; and to-night, when I was saying my prayers, I recollected that
I had felt angry with my cousins, and that you had said, 'that perhaps
being with them would make me envious;' and then it came into my head,
that perhaps Emmerton will be my world--do you think it will?"

"Most probably it may be," said Mrs Herbert.

"But then, mamma, will it be right to go there?"

"It is not right to shut ourselves up from our relations, and so
lose opportunities of learning good from them, or setting them a good
example," replied her mother. "If your cousins are better than yourself,
they will, I hope, be of great use to you; and if they are not, you may
try and benefit them. Your being envious and angry is your fault, not
theirs; and if you were never to see them again, you would still have
the same bad feelings in your mind. Renouncing the world does not mean
shutting ourselves up and never seeing any one, but it does mean trying
to avoid unnecessary occasions of temptation, as well as to overcome
sin; and you will avoid the world, not by keeping away from your
cousins, but by striving against evil feelings and actions when you
are with them, and not allowing yourself to envy them because they are
richer, and live in a larger house."

"I should like to talk a great deal more, mamma," said Amy, "only I am
so sleepy."

"We must have some more conversation to-morrow," said Mrs Herbert,
as she left the room. And in two minutes Amy had forgotten all her
difficulties and all her pleasures, in the deep, calm repose which few
but children can enjoy.




CHAPTER V.


The first impression on Amy's mind, after her introduction to her
cousins, on their arrival at Emmerton, was that of disappointment. The
long-looked-for event had come and passed, but it had not brought with
it the pleasure that had been anticipated. Her cousins were not at all
what she had expected to see; and she felt as if they were more like
strangers now than when she had only pictured them to herself such
as she desired. And yet it was so strange to her to be unhappy or
discontented, that she did not long dwell upon the things which had
annoyed her in them, but turned with pleasure to the hope that it was
her own fault they did not seem more kind and agreeable, and that when
she knew them better she should find them all she could wish. There
was great enjoyment, too, in talking over everything with her mamma at
breakfast, which she could easily do now that the fatigue and excitement
were gone; and so fully did Emmerton engross her thoughts that she
entirely forgot Susan Reynolds, and the promised frock, till Mrs Herbert
produced it, ready prepared, after the lessons were finished, and begged
her to do as much as she could before her cousins' arrival.

"It will not be much, I am afraid, mamma," said Amy, "for it is getting
late, and they agreed to be here by one; but I must do more this
evening."

"Yes," said Mrs Herbert, "I should be sorry if the poor child were
disappointed."

"So should I too, mamma. Now I have seen her, I really do feel it will
be a pleasure to help her. And will you tell me, whilst I am working,
what you had not time to speak about yesterday? I mean, why it never
does people any good to go and see others suffer merely from curiosity."

"It not only does them no good, but it does them harm," replied Mrs
Herbert, "and for this reason: God gives to almost every one, and
especially to young people, many kind, amiable feelings, as a sort of
treasure which they are carefully to keep. Now, these kind feelings,
as people grow older, gradually die away as they get accustomed to the
sight of suffering, and so at last they are likely to become cold and
hard-hearted; and there is only one sure way of preventing this,--by
doing kind actions whenever we are blessed with kind feelings. Perhaps
you would rather I should explain myself more clearly," added Mrs
Herbert, as Amy laid down her work, and looked thoughtfully in her
mother's face. "When you saw Susan Reynolds yesterday you had compassion
for her, and a great wish to help her: this was the good feeling given
you by God. But supposing you had thought that, after all, it was too
much trouble to work for her, you would soon have forgotten her, and the
next time you saw her you would probably have pitied her less, and the
next time less still; and if you had gone on so, you might have ended in
becoming perfectly cold and selfish. But by determining to do something,
you have kept up your interest; and you will find that your kind feeling
will continue and increase, not only for her, but for other persons you
may see in distress."

"But, then, I have heard you say, mamma, that we ought not to follow our
feelings entirely."

"No," replied Mrs Herbert; "because very often our feelings are wrong,
and therefore we must have some other rule to go by, or we shall
continually mistake our duties; but when they are right they are given
us by God to make those duties easy and pleasant; and if we do not
encourage them, we shall find when we grow old that it will be very
difficult, if not almost impossible, to do right, however we may wish
it."

"Then, mamma, if we had always good feelings there would be no occasion
to do anything but just what we felt inclined; how very nice that would
be!"

"There is but one way of getting these good feelings," said Mrs Herbert,
"and that is by doing what we know we ought, whether we like it or not;
and only one way of keeping them when we have got them, by taking
care always to act upon them; and if we begin when we are young, it
is astonishing how easy it will soon become. I know you like an
illustration, Amy, to make you remember things; so now I will give you
one, to teach you the difference between feelings and duty. Feelings are
like the horses which carry us quickly and easily along the road, only
sometimes they stumble, and sometimes they go wrong, and now and then
they will not move at all; but duty is like the coachman who guides
them, and spurs them up when they are too slow, and brings them back
when they go out of the way."

"Thank you, mamma," said Amy, as she ran to the window at the sound of
approaching wheels; "I think I shall always remember now. And here come
my uncle's feelings down the lane,--beautiful gray ones; and there is
duty on the coach-box driving them."

"Well," observed Mrs Herbert, smiling, "I hope duty will guide the
feelings properly round the corner, for it is a very awkward turn."

Amy looked anxiously into the carriage as it drove up, and with great
delight saw that it contained only her two cousins, for her aunt's stern
look was sufficiently impressed upon her recollection to make the idea
of meeting her again disagreeable. "I am so glad you are come!" she
exclaimed to Margaret, who was the first to alight; "I have finished all
my lessons, and dinner will very soon be ready, and afterwards, if you
like, we can go all over the garden."

"I should not think that would take very long," said Dora, casting a
contemptuous glance around.

Amy, for a moment, felt almost ashamed, as if there were something
disgraceful in not having a large garden; but she did not make any
reply, and led her cousins into the house, with a secret dislike of
their seeing how different it was from Emmerton, and a dread lest Dora
should make some more observations. In her aunt's presence, however,
Dora was rather subdued, and did not venture to remark upon anything,
though Amy, who watched her carefully, noticed the inquisitive look she
gave to the furniture, as if she were determined to know exactly what
everything was made of; and when Mrs Herbert left them, her first
question was, "So this is your largest room, Amy, is it?"

"Yes," said Amy; "and we have a dining-room and study besides."

"And is that all?" added Margaret.

"All but the bedrooms," replied Amy.

"Well! how odd it must be to live in such a tiny house!" continued
Margaret. "I should get so tired of it. To have lived all one's life in
three rooms! Fancy, Dora, how strange it must be!"

"But," said Amy, "it does very well for mamma and me. You know many poor
people have only one."

"That may be all right for poor people; but _you_ are a lady--you are
our cousin."

"Oh!" said Dora, "it does not signify when people are accustomed to it.
And now Amy will be able to come and see us at Emmerton; and she can
walk about the grounds; and sometimes, I daresay, mamma will let her
have a drive in the carriage, which will make a nice change."

Amy was extremely inclined to say that she never wished to do anything
of the kind, for she remembered that only a week before she was able
to walk all over Emmerton, both in the house and the park, without any
person's permission being required but her mamma's.

"You will like that very much, shan't you, dear?" said Margaret, giving
her a kiss.

The kiss was not returned; but Amy coloured, and only replied, that she
did not want any change.

"I declare you look quite offended," exclaimed Margaret; "doesn't she,
Dora? Well! I would not be so touchy for a great deal."

"I don't wish to be offended, and I am sure I could not bear to be
touchy," said Amy, with tears in her eyes; "only I am very happy with
mamma."

"Of course," said Margaret; "but then you need not be angry with us
merely because we wish to give you a little pleasure; besides, it is so
unkind. I thought you would be fond of us, instead of getting so cross
in a minute."

This was rather more than poor Amy could bear, for she had never been
blamed unjustly in her life, and believed that she must be in the wrong
whenever any fault was found with her. She was conscious, too, of having
felt angry; and sorrow for this, added to a slight remaining irritation
against her cousins, made her tears flow fast.

"How silly!" exclaimed Dora. "We never meant to vex you; you will get us
all into a scrape if you cry, for my aunt will be back in a moment."

"No one gets into a scrape with mamma," said Amy; "but I am sure it
would be me she would blame now; and I am so sorry I was cross."

"Never mind anything more about it," said Margaret; "just look natural
again, and then we shall not care."

Amy did her best to look natural, but her mamma's quick eye soon
perceived on her return that there had been something amiss; however,
she asked no questions, knowing that she should hear everything when
they were alone; and both Dora and Margaret were considerably relieved
when they found themselves seated at the dining-table, with Amy looking
as bright and happy as usual.

"You must make a good luncheon, my dears," said Mrs Herbert; "for I
suppose you dine very late."

"Oh no!" replied Dora, "this will be our dinner; mamma always dislikes
our being late."

"She says it makes us ill, and spoils our complexions," added Margaret,
casting, at the same time, a glance at her white neck in the glass which
hung opposite to her; "so we always dine about two with Emily Morton and
Rose in the schoolroom."

"Is Miss Morton very strict?" asked Amy.

"Strict!" answered Dora, with a toss of her head, "Who should she be
strict with? She is not our governess."

"But then she teaches you some things," said Amy.

"Oh yes, music and drawing; but that any one can do. I should just as
soon think of attending to Morris as to her."

"Only," said Mrs Herbert, in a quiet, grave tone, "that she is older
than you are, and is a lady by birth and education."

Dora pouted and bit her lip, but she did not dare to make any pert
reply, and only showed her displeasure by the sulky way in which she
answered her aunt's further questions. Margaret was more communicative;
and Amy soon became amused with her account of Wayland, and all they
had been accustomed to do: but there was no interest shown for her in
return, for Margaret seemed to find every subject dull which did not
immediately relate to herself. She appeared unwilling, also, to mention
Miss Morton again, though Amy wished more to hear of her than of any
other person or thing; and when, after the dinner was ended, Mrs Herbert
suggested they should go into the garden, she determined to ask them why
they disliked her.

"Do let me know," she said to Margaret, as they seated themselves in
the arbour, after exploring the not very spacious domain, "why you don't
like Miss Morton. I told mamma, last night, that you said you could not
bear her."

"How ill-natured!" exclaimed Margaret; "I declare I never will tell you
anything again. Unless you promise not to repeat to aunt Herbert what we
say, I can assure you we shall take special care not to talk to you."

"Oh Margaret!" said Amy, looking very much distressed; "indeed I meant
no harm. But I cannot make such a promise; for I always do tell mamma
everything, and she is never angry."

"That won't do," replied Margaret: "you must, or we shall not talk to
you."

"But if there is no harm in what you say," asked Amy, "why must I not
repeat it?"

"It is no use arguing," replied Margaret. "I never could bear the notion
that every word I said would be told over again; and therefore, if you
will not promise, I will not talk, that is all." And she threw herself
back, and began picking flowers to pieces. Then, alter a few moments'
pause, she turned to Dora, and said, "That was a very ill-natured trick
she played on papa's birthday,--was it not?"

Dora nodded assent; and Margaret looked at Amy, hoping to excite her
curiosity, for she was longing above all things to find some excuse
for breaking her resolution. But Amy sat immovable, only appearing
thoughtful and unhappy. A second silence ensued, which was broken again
by Margaret, who exclaimed, in a pettish tone, that the sun was so hot
it was not to be borne; she wondered how any one could have built an
arbour in such a position.

Dora, though screened by the projecting branch of a tree, immediately
took up the parasol at her side; and Margaret began lamenting that she
had left hers in the house.

"Can't you spare me yours, Dora?" she said; "you never remembered you
had it till I complained of the heat."

"You always leave everything behind you," was Dora's answer; "and I am
sure I shall be burnt as brown as a berry if I don't shade myself. You
had better go in and fetch your own parasol, and that will make you
recollect it another time."

"I know who left their handkerchief behind them only this morning,"
retorted Margaret; "and I know who sent Emily Morton all over the house
to look for it."

"That was only once in a way," said Dora. And here a long bickering
dialogue was carried on between the sisters, at the commencement of
which Amy disappeared; and before it had been decided which possessed
most disagreeable qualities, a subject that was discussed with great
warmth and earnestness, Margaret found herself sheltered from the sun by
the intervention of a parasol.

"Where did you get it?" she exclaimed to Amy: "you did not bring it with
you."

"No," replied Amy; "I got it from the house just now."

"And did you really go in on purpose! Well, that was very good-natured,
I must say; and now I do think, as a reward, I will tell you about Emily
Morton."

"A reward to herself, not to you, Amy," said Dora; "she has been dying
to tell you all the time. I would have done it, only I knew it would
come out if you had patience to wait."

"But," replied Amy, in rather a timid voice, "I hope you understand,
Margaret, that I cannot make any promise about mamma."

"Why don't you hear what she has to say first," said Dora, "and then
talk about the promise afterwards?"

"I would rather settle it first," answered Amy, firmly; "I should not
have any pleasure in knowing it if I thought Margaret were mistaken
about me."

"Well I never mind now," said Margaret, "I am not going to speak
treason; and you are so good-natured, Amy, I am sure you will never
repeat anything to get us into a scrape."

"Perhaps I am not good-natured," persisted Amy; "so pray don't tell me
unless you quite like it."

"But I do quite like it, now; and I am sure you are good-natured, and
so you shall hear. I want to tell you what Emily Morton did last year on
papa's birthday, and then I know you will hate her as much as we do. We
have always had quite a _fete_ given then; for papa says it was begun
when he came of age, and he does not like to give it up."

"Oh!" said Amy, "that must have been what mamma was telling me about the
other day; she gave me a long account of it."

"And did not aunt Herbert think it very delightful?" asked Dora. "Papa
always speaks of it with such pleasure."

"Yes," answered Amy; "she says it was one of the happiest days of her
life."

"It must be very nice," continued Dora, "to have every one looking up to
one and envying one. I dare say aunt Herbert wished she had been papa."

"She said she wished it then," replied Amy; "but I am sure she does not
now."

"What!--not to have two great houses, and heaps of servants, and plenty
of money?" said Margaret.

"But," replied Amy, "mamma, when she told me the story, said that we all
had the promise of much greater things given us at our baptism, and so
it did not signify."

"What do you mean, Amy?" asked Dora, in a tone of extreme surprise.
"Great things promised us at our baptism! I never knew anything I had
either given or promised me then, excepting my name, and my old purple
Bible and Prayer-book."

"Oh Dora!" exclaimed Amy, "pray do not talk so; I am sure it must be
very wrong; for mamma says that it has been the greatest thing in all my
life, and that if I do as I promised I would then, I shall be quite sure
of being happy when I die: and every year, on the day of my baptism, she
makes me read over the service, and talks to me about it."

"Then it is very strange, that is all I can say," replied Dora, "I never
in my life before heard any one say that baptism was any good besides
giving a child a name."

Amy looked still more shocked. "Oh! but Dora," she said, very gravely,
"indeed, it must be a great good; for you know when we were baptized,
God gave us His Holy Spirit, that we might be able to do our duty."

"I don't understand what you mean, Amy," said Dora, hastily, "and I
don't think you understand yourself, so we will not talk any more about
it. Do, Margaret, go on about Emily Morton."

"I will," said Margaret, "if you will not interrupt me so. It was
last year, Amy, on the day of the _fete;_ and two of my aunts, mamma's
sisters, and my uncle, Sir Henry Charlton, came to Wayland to keep it.
Uncle Henry knows a great deal about drawing, and he always likes to see
ours; and he had promised us a long time before, that if we could
show him six good drawings on papa's birthday, he would give us each a
beautiful picture done by one of the first artists in London. I worked
very hard at first, and then I got a little tired, but I made sure I
should be able to finish them in time; only, somehow or other, I was so
hurried at last, for we had some new dresses to be tried on, and there
were some songs to be practised, and there were a good many people
staying in the house, that I had only five finished. I was in a great
fright, and my only hope was that uncle Henry would not count them;
but, in the morning, after he had looked at Dora's, I watched him count
_them,_ and then I thought I had no chance; but when I came to show
mine, I found that by mistake one of Emily Morton's had got amongst
them, which made them just right, and she was not in the room, so I had
no fear of anything being said; and it was such a beauty I was sure my
uncle would be pleased. Well! he looked at them all, and said they were
very good, and was admiring Emily Morton's especially, when, to my great
horror, in she came, and he immediately called out to her to look at the
drawings with him. I could not imagine what to do; and at last I thought
perhaps she would be good-natured for once in her life, so I went to her
directly, and whispered all about it, and asked her to let it pass, or I
should lose my beautiful picture; and really, Amy, it was worth a great
deal of money; and, do you know, she actually declared she would not do
it. I know I looked miserable, and I never begged so hard for anything
in my life; and at last I was obliged to give it up, for uncle Henry
began to wonder what we were talking about, and so I ran out of the
room, and then it all came out. And there was such a great fuss; uncle
Henry preached me a sermon, and papa and mamma were so cross; in fact, I
never got into such a scrape in my life before, and all because of Emily
Morton. Now, shouldn't you hate her, Amy, if you were me?"

Amy was silent.

"Oh!" continued Margaret, "you could not be so unkind as to take her
part."

"But," said Amy, "it seems as if she were right."

"How can that be? I am sure no one can be right who is unkind."

"No," said Amy, looking a little perplexed; "but then it would have been
deceit."

"Deceit! what deceit?" asked Margaret; "she had nothing to do with it;
all I wanted was for her to hold her tongue."

"But your uncle would have thought the drawing was yours, when it was
not."

"And what harm would that have done? I will venture to say I could have
finished just as good a one if I had tried; it was only a sketch. No,
no, it was mere ill-nature--she wished for the picture herself."

"I tell you what, Margaret," said Dora, "she did not wish any such
thing, because uncle Henry pressed her to have it, and she refused, and
made him put it by till this year, that you might try again."

"I hate such hypocrites," said Margaret, "and she is so cold-hearted
too. I used to kiss her and love her when first she came, but she never
seemed to care a bit about it; and now I never go near her, if I can
help it."

"I should not mind anything," said Dora, "if she did not put one down
so; but she has such a way of saying things are right, I can't bear
it--as if we did not know what was right as well as she does. I shall
teach her the difference between Miss Harrington and Miss Morton, I can
tell her, when I come out."

"And then, people call her pretty," interrupted Margaret. "It makes me
so angry, sometimes, to hear them go on about her beautiful eyes, and
her black hair. She need have some beauty, for she spends quite enough
time in dressing herself, I know."

Amy listened to these remarks in silent astonishment, and with an
increasing feeling of dislike to Miss Morton. Not that she agreed with
Margaret as to her unkindness in the affair of the picture, for her
strict sense of what was right and sincere told her, in a moment, that
she could not have acted otherwise; but it was impossible to hear so
much said against a perfect stranger, without thinking that there must
be some foundation for it, especially as Amy was accustomed to be very
particular herself in everything she said, and had not yet learned to
suspect her cousins of exaggeration.

"How very sorry you must be," she exclaimed, at length, "that Miss
Morton ever came to you!"

"Sorry!" repeated Margaret. "Yes, I think we are sorry; but one thing I
can tell you, Amy, she will not stay with us long. I resolved, directly
after that business of the picture, that I would never rest till I got
her out of the house; and Dora feels the same."

"I beg your pardon," replied Dora; "I do not care enough about her;
as long as she keeps to her own room, and does not plague me with
constantly ringing in my ears that things are right, she may stay or
not, as she likes."

"But," said Amy, "you cannot send her away; it must be your mamma."

"What a simpleton you are!" exclaimed Margaret, laughing. "There are a
hundred ways of getting rid of a person you don't like; and I tell you
I should have done it long ago, if it had not been for Rose, who is
so fond of her, and such a pet of mamma's, that she is humoured in
everything. Why, how surprised you look, and frightened too."

"Only," said Amy, "I thought that my aunt would do just as she pleased,
without asking any one."

"I can't explain," said Margaret, "if you cannot understand; but you
will learn all about it when you have been a little at Emmerton with us;
and you will see, too, how she spoils Rose; she makes her so foolish,
that she cannot bear to go to any one else, except mamma, when she is in
the room."

"Then Miss Morton must be very kind to her," said Amy.

"Kind! Yes, to be sure, she is; she knows quite well that if it were not
for Rose, she would not stay long in our family."

"And does she teach Rose entirely?" asked Amy.

"Yes, now she does, though, I believe, mamma never intended it at first.
But there was so much to be done with us, that it was very inconvenient
having so young a child at the same time; and so Emily Morton offered to
take the charge of her, and she has gone on ever since. It is very odd
of mamma allowing it, when she dislikes governesses so; but I think it
would break Rose's heart if there were to be any alteration."

"And what have you to do with her, then?"

"Oh! we have regular music and drawing lessons twice a-week, and she
attends to us, at other times, besides; and then we breakfast, and dine,
and drink tea with her, and make her useful when we want her. She does
everything almost for Rose; but that is her own choice. But I daresay
you will know all about her ways soon; for when papa and mamma were
talking of coming to Emmerton, I heard them say it would be a great
advantage for you to learn of her; and I daresay they will arrange for
you to have music and drawing lessons with us. It will be so nice being
together often."

And Margaret gave Amy a kiss, which was very heartily returned. Amy
looked at Dora, expecting something of the same kind from her; but Dora
was playing with her watch-chain, and appeared to be taking no notice.

"I shall like being with you," replied Amy, "but I shall not like to
learn of Miss Morton. Mamma is so kind, I don't know what I should do if
any one were cross to me."

"But is your mamma quite regular with you?" asked Margaret.

"She used to be," said Amy; "but lately she has been very often ill--she
gets so unhappy about papa."

"Oh!" observed Margaret, "I heard papa and mamma talking about her last
night, after you were gone, and they said----"

"Hush, Margaret!" said Dora, turning suddenly round; "it does not
signify what they said. How can you be so thoughtless!" she added, in a
lower tone.

Margaret was about to make an angry reply, but she was prevented by Amy,
who anxiously begged to be told everything. Again Margaret would have
spoken, but Dora a second time interposed; and at the same moment Mrs
Herbert appeared, and the conversation was interrupted. As they returned
to the house, however, Amy remarked that Dora contrived to speak a
few words to her sister alone; and, when she afterwards repeated her
entreaty, Margaret's reply was, that Dora and she thought it better not
to tell. This did not satisfy Amy; but she could not urge Margaret to
do anything she felt was wrong; and, after pondering in her own mind
for some minutes what Mrs Harrington could possibly have said, she, as
usual, quieted her uneasiness by determining to talk to her mamma in the
evening.

"The carriage is waiting for you, my dears," said Mrs Herbert, as they
walked towards the house; "and, if you could find room in it for Amy and
me, I should like to go with you as far as the rectory; for Mrs Walton
has asked us to spend the evening with her, and I am always glad to be
saved a walk."

Amy looked delighted, and ran up-stairs with great glee to get ready;
and Margaret followed, offering to help her.

"Whom shall you see at the rectory?" she said, as Amy was expressing
her happiness in rather ecstatic terms. "Are there children of your own
age?"

"No," replied Amy; "no one but Mr and Mrs Walton; they had one child,
but it died."

"But what shall you do? It must be so dreadfully dull with only old
people."

"Oh no! it is never dull,--they are so kind, and the place is so pretty;
and sometimes Mrs Walton tells me stories about what she did when she
was a little girl; or, if they talk about things I don't care for,
there is a beautiful large book of fairy tales, and I sit up in a little
window, away by myself, and fancy that all the things I read about
happened in the forest. I sometimes make out all the places just as if
they were real. You know one can fancy almost anything in a wood; there
are so many little winding walks and odd places, and there are some
green spots of turf, with large trees all round, which look just like
the fairies' homes. I have named them all after the stories, and when I
read I can see them quite plainly in my mind."

"Well! that is a strange way of amusing yourself," exclaimed Margaret,
in a tone of astonishment; "though, to be sure, I can understand
the pleasure of reading a story, but then it must be about real
people,--lords and ladies, I like! I never cared in the least about
fairies and such unnatural things; and I quite wonder to see Rose so
pleased with a little book she has about them."

Amy was in too great a hurry to reply, but dressed herself as quickly as
possible, and in a few minutes was ready for her visit. The old rector
was standing at the door as Mr Harrington's carriage drove up, and
looked rather alarmed at the sight of such an unexpected number of
visitors; but Mrs Herbert soon relieved his mind by introducing her
nieces to him; and, if Dora had not been occupied with the contrast
between the simplicity of the rectory and the grandeur of Emmerton, and
Margaret with ridiculing the curiously-cut coat, brown wig, and gold
shoe-buckles, which had been Mr Walton's constant style of dress for
the last forty years, both might have been pleased with the affectionate
interest expressed for them, and the many inquiries which were made for
every member of the family. As it was, Mrs Herbert was hurt at their
careless replies, and felt as angry as was possible for one so gentle,
when she heard Margaret's loud whisper to her sister, "Did you ever see
such a quiz?"

Apparently Mr Walton did not observe this, for he still continued
entreating them to come in, and assuring them that Mrs Walton would
never forgive him if he allowed them to depart without her seeing them.
Dora, who was always an inch taller and several years older, in her own
estimation, whenever she found herself mistress of her father's handsome
carriage, drew herself up with a consequential air, and regretted that
it would not be in their power to stop, for they wished to be home by a
certain hour.

"Is that really the case, my love?" said Mrs Herbert. "Could you not
spare one moment for Mrs Walton? She knew your mother when she was a
child, and she has been longing to see you."

"I dare say mamma will call in a day or two," said Dora; "we really are
in a hurry now."

"I will undertake to make your peace with your mamma," said Mrs Herbert.
"You would not be detained five minutes."

"I really am sorry," persisted Dora, quite proud of the power of saying
"No" to persons older than herself; "but I am afraid we must go home."

Mr Walton, who had been listening to the debate with a mixed expression
of amusement and regret in his countenance, now came forward, and,
laying his hand on Dora's arm, said, "My dear young lady, you are not
accustomed to have a will of your own, I can quite see, because you are
so glad to exercise it. Now, I never like to prevent young people from
pleasing themselves, so you shall follow your inclination, and go home;
but whenever this same inclination shall take another turn and bring
you to the rectory, I will promise you a sincere welcome for the sake of
your father and mother, and auld lang syne; and, now, good-bye."

Dora felt abashed by the kindness with which this was said, as well
as by the reproof which she knew was intended; but she put on an
indifferent air, and, giving a hasty nod to Amy, and a few parting words
to her aunt, reassured her offended dignity by calling out "home," in
a loud voice, to the footman, who was standing at the door, and the
carriage drove off. For a moment a slight pang of envy crossed
Amy's mind, as her cousins' grandeur was contrasted with her own
insignificance; but it was soon forgotten when she found herself seated,
as usual, on a low stool by the side of Mrs Walton, who, with one hand
placed upon hers, and the other fondly smoothing her dark hair, heard
with real pleasure her description of all she had been doing since her
last visit; and, as Amy became more and more animated, the old rector
himself was attracted to the window, and for a few moments, while
watching the bright eyes and sweet smile of his young favourite, could
almost have imagined he was again listening to the voice of his own
child. Mrs Walton was several years younger than her husband, but
rheumatic attacks of a very painful kind had rendered her nearly
helpless, so that the difference between them appeared much less than
it really was. Age and infirmity had subdued her naturally quick, eager
disposition, into a calm and almost heavenly peace, without in the least
diminishing her interest in everything that was passing around her. Her
mind, like her dress, seemed to be totally different from that of the
everyday world; the dress--was fashioned according to the custom of
years gone by; the mind--of those which were to come; and few could
converse with her without feelings of respect, almost amounting to
awe, for her goodness, her patience, her meekness, her charity,
her abstraction from all earthly cares. Amy could not as yet fully
appreciate all her excellence, though she could understand it in some
degree. She had never heard Mrs Walton spoken of but with reverence;
and, perhaps, half the pleasure she felt in talking so freely to her
arose from the consciousness of being petted and loved by one to whom
persons so much older than herself agreed in looking up. There was
an additional reason for Amy's enjoyment on this evening; she had,
willingly and unknown to her mother, resolved to give up her favourite
volume of fairy tales, that she might go on with the frock for Susan
Reynolds; and even before the tea-things were brought in, she produced
her basket, and began working industriously; and from having thus denied
her own inclination in one instance, everything else appeared doubly
delightful.

"Why, my little woman," said the rector, as he remarked her unusual
occupation, "what makes your fingers so busy to-night? I thought you
always studied the lives of the fairies whenever you came here."

Mrs Herbert, who had been talking at the other end of the room, turned
to see what Amy was about; and her smile was quite a sufficient reward
for the sacrifice which had been made. "I did not think of reminding you
of your work, my darling," she said; "but you will not regret giving up
your pleasure for one evening for the sake of another."

"And who is this other?" asked the rector.

Mrs Herbert told the story; and spoke highly in praise of Susan, and her
attention to her mother.

"She is in good hands," said Mr Walton, "I never knew either Mr or
Mrs Saville take up a case of the kind without managing to be of great
service; and whether the poor woman should live or die, you may depend
upon the children having found a friend for life."

"And, my dear child," added Mrs Walton, "you will not forget you have a
second purse at Emmerton rectory if it should be needed."

"I should be very ungrateful if I were to forget it," replied Mrs
Herbert, as she pressed the worn but delicate hand which was held out
to her; "though, now that my brother is at the Hall, I think my first
appeal must be to him."

"I suspect I shall have a regular jubilee celebrated in the parish,"
said the rector. "Do you remember the first we ever had, some twenty
years ago, when your brother came of age? We have not had such another
since."

"There was one other great day, surely," said Mrs Walton. "My memory
sometimes seems to get sadly confused even about things which passed
years ago, and which, they say, are always remembered the best; but,
surely, there was one other _fete_--what was it for?"

Amy looked up from her work, and whispered in Mrs Walton's ear--"Mamma
and aunt Edith's wedding-day."

Mrs Herbert caught the words, and the tears started to her eyes. She
turned away, and, taking up a newspaper which lay upon the table, began
looking over the contents.

"Ah! yes, my love, you are right," said Mrs Walton, in a low tone. And
Mr Walton, anxious to change the subject, made some remarks upon a great
fire which had taken place in a neighbouring village, and the account of
which was in that day's paper.

"Amy," said Mrs Herbert, "there is a very interesting story of the
conduct of a little girl during the fire; you may read it if you like."

Amy took the paper and read what her mother pointed out; and as she came
to the end her eye caught the first words of another paragraph, and she
exclaimed, "Dear mamma, here is something about India."

Mr Walton looked very grave. "It is nothing good I am afraid," he said;
"I was in hopes you would have heard it before you came here: they say
the war has broken out again."

"The war!" repeated Mrs Herbert, in a suppressed tone of deep anxiety,
as she seized the paper; "but it may be nothing to me."

The paragraph was short, but decisive. There was no doubt the war had
recommenced, and that the chance of obtaining tidings of Colonel Herbert
was less than ever,--at least such was Mrs Herbert's fear, though Mr
Walton did his utmost to convince her it could make no difference; but
whilst she listened to his words, they did not sink into her heart;
and she turned from the thought of her increased anxiety if her husband
continued silent, to the danger of the war should he return into it,
till it seemed impossible to find comfort in anything. Amy stood by her
mother in silent suffering; she felt as if she had been the cause of
inflicting the pain by calling her attention to the paper; but she could
do nothing to relieve her, and was obliged to wait patiently, though
sorrowfully, till her usual self-command was restored. After some time,
Mrs Herbert was again able to allude to the subject of the war, and she
then spoke of the probabilities and dangers which it involved, without
hesitation; but she was so much shaken by the unexpected news, that,
notwithstanding the disappointment to all parties, no objection was
made when she proposed returning home much earlier than usual. It was
a melancholy conclusion to Amy's evening; but Mr Walton endeavoured to
comfort her by promising, if possible, to call very early the next day
to see her; and Mrs Walton held out the hope of another visit very soon.
Amy's chief thought, however, was for her mamma; and a wish arose in her
mind, which she had often felt before, that she were a few years older,
and could be of greater service; and it was not till she had again
received the often-repeated assurance of being now Mrs Herbert's
greatest earthly treasure, and a real comfort to her in her distress,
that she could lie down happily to sleep, even though she had unburdened
her mind of the chief events of the day, and of the secret between her
cousins. Amy was not aware that, by doing this, she added to her mamma's
anxiety, for everything convinced Mrs Herbert, more and more, that Dora
and Margaret were very different companions from those she would have
chosen for her child. But there was little to be feared while Amy
continued so perfectly open; and at any rate, it was better that she
should be with them, whilst her mother was near to warn her against
evil, than become acquainted with them, for the first time, when she
might be obliged to live with them entirely. The secret, too, gave Mrs
Herbert a pang, though she tried to persuade herself of what, in fact,
was nearly the truth, that Dora had heard of the renewal of the war, and
of the increased anxiety which it would bring; happily she did not know
that Mr Harrington had also expressed his opinion, that it would have
been useless to expect any further tidings of Colonel Herbert, even if
the peace had continued; for he firmly believed that nothing but some
dreadful event could have occasioned their total ignorance of his
movements. Mrs Herbert, indeed, could hardly give Dora credit for so
much thoughtfulness; but in this she did her injustice. Dora could often
be thoughtful and kind when her pride did not stand in the way; and she
could be sorry for the sufferings of others, when they were forced upon
her notice, though she had never been taught to be upon the watch for
them; whilst even her haughtiness did not prevent her from feeling an
interest in the quiet grief which was expressed in every feature of her
aunt's countenance, and which seemed constantly to check every happier
feeling.




CHAPTER VI.


Several days passed before Amy again saw her cousins--there were so many
arrangements to be made in their new home, that no convenient moment
could be found for paying a visit to the cottage; and during this time
Mrs Herbert had very much recovered her tranquillity, and began even
to hope that the war, terrible though it seemed, might be the means of
bringing her some tidings of Colonel Herbert.

The last letter she had received from him had mentioned his intention of
making an expedition into the interior of the country; and a friend,
who had returned to England soon afterwards, confirmed the fact of his
departure. His silence might be accounted for, by his having entrusted
letters to private hands, and by the difficulty of communication in the
distant province to which he had gone; but now that the war had again
broken out, she could not avoid hoping that he would make every effort
to return, and that she should see his name in the public despatches,
if anything should occur to prevent his writing. The dangers to which he
might be exposed, and which had at first so startled her, seemed nothing
to the wearying anxiety she had lately suffered; and even the mention of
him in the list of the wounded, she felt, would be a relief.

Amy could not entirely enter into all her mother's solicitude, but she
loved to hear her talk of Colonel Herbert, and to fancy what he must be
like from the miniature which had been taken before he left England; and
she remarked, also, that it was a relief to her mamma to speak of him;
and she seldom appeared so cheerful as when she had been either spending
half an hour alone in her own chamber, or answering the questions which
Amy was never tired of asking. An accidental allusion, indeed, would
often bring the tears into Mrs Herbert's eyes, but a lengthened
conversation had a very different effect, for the thought of her husband
was associated with all that was excellent and noble; and as she dwelt
upon his high character, and the principles with which all the actions
of his life were imbued, she could not doubt that the blessing of Heaven
would attend him wherever he might be.

The constant pressure of anxiety rendered the presence of strangers
in general very painful to Mrs Herbert; and the only person who was
admitted to see her at all times was Mr Walton. Whatever, therefore,
might be the interest felt in her brother's family, she did not regret
that the distance from the Hall was likely to prevent anything like
daily intercourse; and Amy, too, was not sorry, for her cousins did not
quite please her; and, though she had been very much amused by them,
she was conscious that only with her mamma could she feel perfectly safe
from harm. There was, in consequence, a mixture of alarm and pleasure
in her mind upon being told, about three days after her visit to the
rectory, that she was to spend the next day at the Hall, going quite
early and returning late; and the alarm was not a little increased
when her mamma read the postscript of the note:--"I am anxious that
Amy should become acquainted with Miss Morton, and get rid of her fears
before she begins taking lessons."

"What do you say to that, Amy?" asked Mrs Herbert. "Do you think you
shall be able to go twice a week, sometimes, perhaps, without me, to
learn music and drawing of a stranger?"

"Oh mamma! indeed I don't know. But when did you settle it? You never
told me. Is it really to be so? I don't think I can go without you."

"And I think," said Mrs Herbert, "that you can and will do everything
that is thought right. Is not that the proper way of looking at it?
It does not sound very agreeable at first, but, by and by, you will be
sorry when the day comes to stay at home."

"Oh no, mamma! never. I shall always dislike learning of Miss Morton; my
cousins have said so much against her."

"It is rather hard to make up your mind beforehand," said Mrs Herbert;
"you must try and judge for yourself whether she is really everything
they represent; you know it is possible they may be in the wrong."

Amy recollected Margaret's complaint about the picture, and felt that
this was quite true, but her prejudice still remained; and when, on
their arrival at the Hall, she was told to find her way by herself to
the oriel-room, which was now converted into a schoolroom, she hung back
in some fear; and though at length obliged to go, it was with reluctant
steps; and for several moments she stood with the handle of the door in
her hand, unable to summon courage to enter the room alone.

"Who can that be fidgeting at the door?" was exclaimed by some one
inside; and Amy in despair opened it.

Dora was seated at the window reading, Margaret was drawing, and Miss
Morton writing, with little Rose on a high stool by her side, intently
occupied with a sum in subtraction.

The appearance of the room was totally changed since Amy had last seen
it. Books, music, drawings, prints, and work, were to be seen in every
direction; the old damask chairs had been removed, and lighter ones
introduced; the table had been covered with a handsome cloth, and the
floor with a new carpet; a cabinet piano had taken the place of the
oak chiffonier; and the only thing that Amy fully recognised as an old
acquaintance was her aunt Edith's picture, which still hung over the
mantel-shelf. Miss Morton came forward to meet her, and shook hand;
so kindly that Amy's prejudice was for the instant shaken. Margaret
overpowered her with kisses; and Dora, in her usual indifferent manner,
just spoke, and then again took up her book; while little Rose quite
forgot the difficult sum, as she sat with her eyes fixed upon her new
cousin.

Amy felt very awkward, and as if she had intruded where she had no
business; but Miss Morton soon relieved her embarrassment by giving her
a portfolio of drawings to look at, and asking some questions about her
own occupations, in a voice which sounded more like her mamma's than any
she had yet heard at Emmerton.

"You must not mind our being rather silent now," she said, at length,
when Amy seemed more comfortable, "for Miss Harrington is reading for
her mamma, and talking interrupts her."

"Come and sit by me, Amy," said Margaret; "and see how I am getting on
with my drawing."

"It would be better not," observed Miss Morton; "whispering is quite as
likely to distract your sister's attention as talking out loud."

Margaret did not take any notice of this advice, but made a sign to her
cousin to come to the table.

"Not now, Margaret," said Amy; "I shall be quite well amused with these
drawings."

A cloud passed over Margaret's very pretty face, and, for the moment,
she looked positively ugly, while she muttered, "How unkind! cross
thing! I knew she would always interfere."

Amy was vexed, but did not move, and soon became interested in watching
Miss Morton's manner to little Rose. It was very quiet and very gentle,
but it was quite clear that her will was law; for Rose, whose thoughts
had been diverted by the unusual visitor, found great difficulty in
finishing her task, and was turned back several times without daring to
make a complaint, though a few tears filled her bright hazel eyes, when,
after three attempts, the sum was again pronounced incorrect. Margaret,
forgetting that she had accused Miss Morton of spoiling Rose, and
only anxious to prove her in the wrong, cast a look of triumph at Amy,
certain that she would agree with her in thinking it very harsh. But
Amy, though so young, was quite capable of discovering the difference
between firmness and severity, and did not at all dislike Miss Morton
for being particular.

"Indeed, you must be quick, Rose," said Miss Morton, as Dora closed her
book, and Margaret prepared to put up her drawing; "you see your sisters
are ready for dinner, and we are to have it to-day half an hour earlier
than usual, that we may walk to Colworth; you would not like to stay at
home."

Poor little Rose looked very unhappy, and began counting the figures
again; but her haste only made her the more confused.

"It is very hard," she said, as she offered the slate again to Miss
Morton, "and Amy is here."

Miss Morton smiled, and so sweetly, that it seemed impossible to be
afraid of her.

"Well! that is an excuse, I will allow, only it must not be made often;
but come and stand by me, and we will do it together."

Rose dried her eyes; and in a very short time the sum was finished, and
she went with Miss Morton to get ready for dinner.

"What do you think of her?" asked Dora and Margaret in one breath,
almost before Miss Morton was out of the room.

"She seems rather strict," replied Amy; "but I don't think I should be
very much afraid of her."

"But do you think she is pretty?" inquired Margaret, eagerly.

"Oh yes!" answered Amy, "very pretty; prettier than almost any person I
ever saw before."

Margaret's lip curled, and, in a short, contemptuous tone, she said,
"There is no accounting for taste. To be sure, you have not seen many
people in your life; but, for my part, I can't say I like such black
beauties."

"Nor white ones either," said Dora. "I never heard you praise a pretty
person yet. I don't think Emily Morton such an angel as most people do;
but she is twenty times prettier than you are, Margaret, or ever will
be."

"That is as others think," said Margaret, casting a self-satisfied look
at herself in the glass. "We must go and prepare for dinner now." And
she ran out of the room.

Dora was about to follow, but, recollecting her cousin, she stopped,
and said, "You will not mind staying here for a few minutes by yourself,
shall you, dear, while the servants are bringing the dinner?"

Amy thought she should have preferred going with her cousins to
being alone in the room with the tall men-servants; but she made no
objections, and Dora left her.

During the short interval that elapsed before their return, she amused
herself by endeavouring to fancy what Emmerton used to be, and comparing
it with its present condition; but she had chosen a difficult task. All
was so changed within a few days, that it seemed as if months had
gone by since her last visit with her mamma; and when at last she had
succeeded in recollecting exactly the position of the chairs and tables,
and the cold, desolate look of the oriel-room, she was startled from her
dream by the voice of the gray-haired butler, who, in a very respectful
manner, begged pardon for disturbing her, but wished to know if Miss
Harrington were ready for dinner; and, after such an interruption, a
further effort was useless.

Dora sat at the head of the table, though she could not carve, which
appeared very strange to Amy; and she remarked, too, that her cousins
addressed Miss Morton by her Christian name, but that she in reply
always spoke of Miss Harrington and Miss Margaret; indeed, in every
possible way, there seemed to be a determination to show her that she
was considered quite an inferior person.

"Will you all walk to Colworth this afternoon?" asked Miss Morton. "Rose
and I are going on a little business to Mrs Saville."

"I thought it was settled," replied Dora; "we said we would at
breakfast-time."

"Yes," answered Miss Morton; "but I fancied I had heard something about
a wish of your mamma's, that you should go in the carriage with her."

"Oh! for a stupid drive. I believe there was something said; but I had
much rather go to Colworth."

"But what will your mamma wish?" inquired Miss Morton, very gently.

"I can arrange with mamma myself, I hope," was the reply; "I prefer
going to Colworth."

"You must allow me to beg that you will mention it to Mrs Harrington
first," said Miss Morton; "she was very much annoyed with me for walking
with you yesterday, when she wanted you."

Dora's only answer was, what she considered a very dignified look; and
at this moment a servant entered with a message, desiring that Miss
Harrington would be ready to go out with her mamma at three o'clock.

"I know what it is for!" exclaimed Dora; "we are to call at Rochford
Park. Mamma wants me to gel acquainted with Miss Cunningham, and I am
sure I don't want to know her."

"Is not Lady Rochford a great invalid?" asked Miss Morton, anxious to
divert Dora's attention.

"Yes, and that is the reason mamma is going to see her. I believe they
were at school together, or something of that kind."

"I have heard it is such a beautiful place," said Amy; "I should so like
to see it."

"Then I wish you would go instead of me," replied Dora; "I am sick of
beautiful places. What is the use of going six miles to see what you
have just as well at home! It is all very natural for people who live in
cottages to wish to look at fine houses; but really it is far too much
trouble for me."

"It is not merely the seeing fine houses," said Miss Morton, "but the
grounds and the scenery may be very different. I should soon get tired
of looking at large rooms and gilt furniture; but trees and flowers must
always give one pleasure."

"There cannot be any better flowers at Rochford Park than we had at
Wayland," persisted Dora; "every one said the conservatory was the
finest in the county."

"Yes," replied Miss Morton; "but now you are at Emmerton, it may be
different."

"I never could see any great pleasure in looking at other persons'
beautiful things," continued Dora; "and really I don't know what right
Lord Rochford has to have anything better than papa. I heard mamma say
yesterday, that our family was much older than his, and yet people make
such a fuss about him; and he is going to be an earl soon, and then Miss
Cunningham will be lady something."

"Lady Lucy Cunningham," said Margaret. "Morris told me about it this
morning, and Bridget told her. I must say I should like to be called
'lady' of all things; should not you, Amy?"

"Yes," answered Amy, "I think,--I am sure I should."

Miss Morton smiled. "It would not make you at all happier, my dear,"
she said; "because, if you cared about it, you would be proud and
disagreeable, and few persons would love you; and if you did not, you
might just as well be Miss Herbert."

"But is there any harm in wishing it?" asked Amy.

"We can scarcely help wishing for things," replied Miss Morton; "I mean
we can scarcely help the wish coming into our minds; but I think it is
wrong not to try and get rid of it, and be contented with the situation
in which we are placed."

Amy felt that this was exactly what her mamma would have said, and she
began to forget all that had been told her against Miss Morton, and to
wish she would go on talking; but it seemed quite an effort to her to
say so much, for she spoke in a very low, timid voice, and when she had
finished, looked at Dora, as if expecting that something impertinent
would follow.

Dora, however, took no notice of her observation, but declared she would
rather be Miss Harrington than anything else. "I heard papa talking to
some people the other day," she said; "and he told them he would much
prefer being an old country gentleman to a new-made nobleman. And I am
sure I agree with him; it must be all pride and nonsense to wish for a
title."

Miss Morton roused herself again to speak. "I am afraid," she said,
"there is just as much pride, my dear Miss Harrington, in your caring
about belonging to an old family, and living in a large house, and
having money, and servants, and carriages, as in considering it a great
thing to have a title. Everything of the kind tempts us to be proud."

"Then it is happy for those who have no such temptation," said Dora,
scornfully.

"Yes, indeed, it is," replied Miss Morton, so meekly, and yet so
earnestly, that any one less haughty than Dora must have been touched.
But Dora was perfectly insensible; she did not, however, continue the
subject; and finishing her dinner quickly, saying she had several things
to do before three o'clock, without making any apology to Miss Morton,
left the room directly the dessert was placed on the table.

Margaret expressed satisfaction at her sister's absence, as she declared
it was much more agreeable to her to have her cousin all to herself
during their walk; but Amy would willingly have lingered by Miss
Morton's side, to hear something of her conversation with Rose.

Margaret, however, insisted upon her keeping at a considerable distance,
whilst she again repeated the history of all she had been accustomed to
do at Wayland, adding to it a description of her last new dresses, and
the beautiful presents she had received on her birthday, until Amy's
curiosity was greatly excited, and once more a feeling of envy arose as
she thought of the difference between herself and her cousin. But she
was just beginning to be aware of this fault; and although the wish to
have similar presents returned again and again, as Margaret eagerly told
over all her treasures, it was accompanied each time by the knowledge
that it was wrong; and she felt sorry and vexed with herself, as she
remembered how little her mamma would approve of what was passing in her
mind. Still the conversation was very amusing, and the time passed so
quickly that Amy was quite surprised when she found herself at the lane
leading to Colworth parsonage. A girl, whom she immediately recognised
as Susan Reynolds, was standing by the shrubbery gate; and Amy's first
impulse was to speak to her: but she was crying bitterly; and Amy,
though longing to know the cause of her tears, was too timid to
interrupt her, and, without making any remark, followed Miss Morton and
her cousins into the house. When, however, the first restraint of
the visit had a little diminished, and Mrs Saville began asking some
questions about her mamma, she ventured to inquire whether Susan's
mother was worse, and whether this had occasioned her distress.

"Poor Susan has enough to make her unhappy," said Mrs Saville. "Her
mother died last night; and though there is in fact nothing to grieve
for, as she was a truly religious person, yet it is a dreadful trial
to her children; and Susan is left with the sole charge of her little
brothers and sisters; but she is an extremely well-disposed girl, and I
hope we shall manage to do something for her by and by."

"I believe you have a very good school in the village," said Miss
Morton. "Mrs Harrington is anxious to take a young girl into her
service, to be under the lady's maid; and she thought you would excuse
her troubling you with asking whether you could recommend one. I rather
think several of her best servants were educated at Colworth."

"I am afraid," said Mrs Saville, "that it will be rather a difficult
thing to find one suited to the situation. The girl I should have chosen
has just left us, and the others are all too young."

Amy thought of Susan Reynolds, but she did not like to name her. Mrs
Saville, however, did, to her great satisfaction. "I can answer," she
said, "for her good principles, cleverness, and sweet temper, though
I know nothing of her capabilities in other ways; of course, she would
have everything to learn--but I think you would find her very docile.
It would be an admirable thing if you can answer for her being kept
strictly under the eye of the lady's maid; for she must do something for
herself, as the grandmother, who will take care of the younger children,
will find them quite a sufficient charge; and if she should not suit Mrs
Harrington, she can return to me at any moment. What she will say to the
notion herself, I cannot tell, for just now she is so overpowered with
grief, that she can think of nothing but her mother. But I will take her
to Emmerton in about a week, or ten days' time, if Mrs Harrington would
like to see her."

"Do have her," whispered Amy to Miss Morton, feeling extremely anxious
that the affair should be settled at once, and, in her eagerness,
forgetting her shyness.

"It is not for me to decide, my dear," said Miss Morton. "I am afraid
your aunt will hardly be inclined to have a stranger."

"But she is so good," continued Amy; "and she has such a nice manner."

Miss Morton smiled, and said, that "even these qualifications might not
be all that would be required." And then, turning to Mrs Saville, she
added, "If you could bring the little girl to Emmerton, you would, I am
sure, confer a favour on Mrs Harrington, for her time, at present, is
very much occupied."

Mrs Saville willingly agreed to this; and Amy left the parsonage in
great delight, having fully settled in her own mind, that Susan Reynolds
would soon be established at Emmerton, and fancying what a happy change
it would be, from the miserable hovel in which she had last seen her.
She did not know that no earthly comforts could make amends for the
loss of her home; and no earthly friend, even if she should find one at
Emmerton, could be to her as her mother; for no one can fully understand
the blessing of a mother's love, till it is taken away for ever.

As they passed the shrubbery gate, they perceived Susan standing in the
same position in which they had left her, and still crying, as if her
heart would break.

"Do you think I might speak to her?" asked Amy of Miss Morton. "I should
like to tell her how sorry I am about her mother."

Miss Morton hesitated. "Perhaps," she said, "the poor girl would rather
not be noticed; but, if you wish it very much, you may just speak, and
pass on."

"I should like to do it, if you would go with me," replied Amy. "But I
never saw any one so unhappy before."

Emily Morton sighed as she thought of Mrs Herbert's pale face, and how
soon poor Amy might be called to grieve from the same cause; and then,
in an instant, a scene which was never entirely banished from her mind,
came vividly before her,--the darkened chamber, the anxious faces, the
tears of overpowering sorrow, which were ever associated in her mind,
with the recollection of her own mother's deathbed; and, without making
any further objection, she followed Amy to the spot where Susan was
standing, with a feeling of sympathy, which can only be experienced by
those who have shared the same grief. Susan was too much absorbed to
notice their approach, and Amy scarcely knew what to say; she could only
repeat,--"Don't cry so, Susan, I am very sorry for you," besides asking
a few questions about the other children, which Susan was quite unable
to answer. But Miss Morton understood better what was to be done. She
took the poor girl's hand in hers, and spoke so kindly, that Susan
forgot that she was listening to the voice of a stranger; and she said
what Amy could not say. She told her that she had suffered the same
loss, and therefore knew well how great it was, and that it must seem
now, as if she never could be happy again; and then she reminded her of
her mother's goodness, and that, if she endeavoured to exert herself,
and do her duty, she would live with her for ever, in a world, where
there was no more sorrow. And, as she went on, Susan's sobs became
fainter and fainter; and at last she was able to thank Miss Morton and
Amy for their kindness, and to say that she would try to do what was
right--she would do anything to be with her mother again. Amy listened,
with the hope that she should, one day, be able to talk in the same
way, and with an increased feeling of respect for Miss Morton, which
she could not avoid expressing to Margaret when she returned to her. But
Margaret was not willing to agree in any praise of which Emily was
the object; and only expressed her wonder, that Amy could take so much
interest in a girl whom she had hardly ever seen before. "As for her
being unhappy, she was sorry for it, but she could not help it; and
there were a great many people in the world in the same situation. She
was not worse off than others; and in a short time, there was no doubt,
she would get comfortable again, especially if she went to the Hall
to live." And so Margaret remained in contented indifference; and
Amy wondered how her cousin could have learned such a strange way of
thinking, and determined that she would be the last person to whom she
herself would go for comfort in suffering.

Dora returned from her drive soon after they reached home, and was
immediately assailed by a host of questions as to what she had done,
and whom she had seen, and whether Rochford Park was more beautiful
than Wayland, But Dora was not in a communicative mood; she could make
herself very agreeable when she chose, and could describe things in a
very amusing manner; but this day her whim was to be silent; and all
the information obtained was, that Rochford Park was a very good sort of
place, that Miss Cunningham was like the rest of the world, only not so
tall as she was, and that Lord Rochford talked of bringing her over to
Emmerton soon, to spend the day, and then they would be able to judge
for themselves.

"How stupid you are, Dora!" said Margaret, when this most unsatisfactory
account had been given. "I thought you would entertain us all by telling
us what you had seen; but you might just as well have stayed at home."

"I am sure I wish I had," replied Dora. "It was very hot and very
dusty, and I am very tired; so, now, I hope we shall have tea as soon as
possible. Do, Emily, look into Morris's room, when you go up-stairs, and
tell her I am waiting to be dressed."

"Can't I go?" asked Amy, feeling instantly that the request was not a
proper one.

Dora stared. She was not accustomed to see any one put themselves out
of their way to help another, and she was conscious that Amy's offer was
almost a reproach to her, for there were times when she was aware of
her want of consideration for Miss Morton. "It will be no trouble," she
said; "Emily has done it a hundred times before."

"I would rather go," persisted Amy; "I know very well where the room
is." And without waiting for an answer, she ran upstairs.

"It may be very good-natured," muttered Dora to Margaret; "but I don't
see why she should interfere." And, with a pouting lip and her usual
scornful toss of the head, she followed her cousin.

The rest of the evening was not agreeable to Amy, for Dora's ill-humour
exhibited itself very plainly; and neither Emily Morton's kindness
nor Margaret's kisses could make her forget that one of the party was
discontented; and she was not sorry when her mamma appeared in the
schoolroom, prepared to return home. Mrs Harrington accompanied her in
a more gracious mood than ordinary; she even patted Amy on the shoulder,
and called her "dear;" but the next moment the harshness of her voice,
as she remarked something that was amiss in Margaret's manner, recalled
all Amy's fears, and she shrank away from her aunt with a feeling of
even greater awe than at their first meeting.




CHAPTER VII.


After this visit Amy's prejudice against Miss Morton considerably
decreased; and she made no objection, when the arrangement was finally
made, that she should go to Emmerton twice a week to receive drawing
and music lessons. For many reasons it was a great pleasure, as she was
amused by her cousins when they were in good humour, and the novelty
and variety had always charms; besides which, Mr Harrington made her a
present of a donkey, to carry her backwards and forwards when it was not
convenient for the carriage to be sent; and a ride through the forest,
with the man servant walking by her, in the lovely summer mornings,
compensated for any disagreeables in the remainder of the day. She
usually returned to the cottage soon after the early dinner in the
schoolroom, and some of the party often walked back part of the way
with her; or if she were quite alone, old Stephen generally contrived to
hobble for about a mile by her side, giving her the history of all the
cows, horses, dogs, and sheep about the place, almost all of whom were
Amy's old acquaintances, though she saw little of them now that her time
at the Hall was so differently occupied. And so the bright months of
summer passed away, and Amy became accustomed to the great change in
her life, and began to wonder how she could have liked the house in its
former desolate state, and to associate with the old trees in the
park and the lovely walks over the downs, thoughts of rambles with her
cousins, or conversations with Emily Morton (whom she soon felt inclined
to love as she became more acquainted with her character), instead of
the old-fashioned ladies and gentlemen with whom she had formerly been
accustomed to people the Hall and every place about it.

In one thing alone there was no change. The chapel still remained
unopened from week to week, apparently forgotten, except when visitors
were in the house, and it was exhibited as a show, for the purpose of
passing away a few idle moments. The rich light streamed through the
painted glass of the east window, and chequered the marble floor and
shone upon the grotesque oak carving; but there was no one to admire its
radiance. The splendidly-bound Bible lay uncared for upon the desk; the
family-prayer books, moth-eaten and decayed, were piled upon the seats;
and the only thing which bore the semblance of devotion in the place,
once hallowed by daily prayer, was the marble figure of the first lord
of Emmerton, who, stretched upon his tomb, with his clasped hands
raised to heaven, seemed silently to reproach all who entered with their
forgetfulness of the privilege he had so highly valued. Amy could not
feel this neglect of the chapel as keenly as her mother, for she could
not remember the time when it was otherwise; but she could feel the
disappointment of her curiosity to see it as it had been described to
her; and something told her that it must be wrong to think so lightly
of it, and entirely to omit the practice of daily family prayer, even if
circumstances interfered with the performance of the regularly-appointed
service; and at last she became quite shy of talking about it; and when
she knew the chapel was open, she would steal into it by herself, and
indulge some of her former reveries, and then return to the schoolroom
without venturing to mention what she had been doing.

This was one among many instances in which the difference of education
between Amy and her cousins was easily to be discovered. With all Amy's
occupations, and all her pleasures, her mother had carefully endeavoured
to blend ideas which might improve and raise her mind. She had taught
her that the days of her childhood were the most important of her life,
for they were those in which habits must be formed either for good or
evil, which would be her blessing or her curse for ever. She had told
her of the first sinful nature which she brought with her into the world
at her birth, and of the second holy nature which had been given her
at baptism, and had warned her that the whole of her life would be a
struggle between the two--a struggle which was begun from the very first
moment of her becoming sensible of the difference between right and
wrong. And thus Amy had learned to look upon what are often considered
trifling faults in a child--ill-temper, indolence, vanity, greediness,
and similar evil dispositions--as real sins in the eye of God, which
must be checked at the very beginning by all who wish to continue what
they were made at their baptism--His children. She did not think, with
her cousins, that it signified little what she did as a child, for that
the time would, of course, arrive when she should be able at once to
become good; but in the little everyday trials, to which she was now
exposed more frequently than ever, she endeavoured to conquer any
irritation of temper, or inclination to indolence, or envy; and every
day the task became less difficult. Perhaps this kind of education had
caused her to be more thoughtful than is usual at her age, and made her
pleasures of a graver and quieter cast; but in reality it added to her
happiness far more than it apparently took away. It made her love the
blue sky, and the trees and flowers, not merely for their beauty, but
because she knew they were especial blessings sent to her; and that
every day's enjoyment of them was provided for her by God, in the same
way as her mother provided for her pleasure in other things. It made her
sensible of the holiness of those places which were especially dedicated
to the worship of God; and the silence of the beautiful chapel at
Emmerton had as great a charm for her as the gay scenes which her
cousins often described had for them; and, above all, it gave her that
quietness and cheerfulness of mind which only those can possess who
really try in everything to do what they know to be their duty. But the
same education which had made Amy think so differently from her cousins,
made her also feel that they could not sympathise with her; and thus,
though Emmerton was a source of constant amusement, it was principally
because at the time she was enjoying it she could look forward to the
evening, when she should return to her mother, and give her an account
of what she had been doing. Her walks, her books, her music, her
drawing,--all would have ceased to charm without this; but with it,
even Dora's petulance and Margaret's selfishness caused only a momentary
annoyance. Whatever discomfort she might find at the Hall, there was
always a bright smile and a fond kiss awaiting her at the cottage; and
the enjoyment of her mother's love there was nothing to mar. For Amy did
not notice what a stranger would have looked on with fear; she did not
see the increasing paleness of Mrs Herbert's complexion, the hectic
flush upon her cheek, the transparency of her delicate hands; the change
was so gradual as to be in general unobserved, or, if remarked by other
persons, there was always some reason to be given for it, either
the heat, or a bad night, or the disappointment of not hearing from
India--the last being, in fact, the real cause of the evil.

During this time Mrs Herbert watched her child most anxiously, to
discover the effect which the intimacy with her cousins might produce
upon her mind, but she saw little to make her uneasy; for, however Amy
might enjoy the grandeur of Emmerton, she seldom expressed any wish to
possess it; and day after day, and week after week, she returned to her
quiet home with the same gentle, humble, open spirit with which she had
left it. But still her mother was not quite satisfied. She knew that
while Amy had no rivals, the strength of the temptation was but slight.
She went as a visitor, and, to a certain degree, a stranger, and
her cousins were pleased to see her, and in general her wishes were
consulted; but Mrs Herbert looked forward to the time when she might
be obliged to live at Emmerton altogether, perhaps as a dependent,
certainly as a person quite inferior to Mr Harrington's daughters; and
she could not but fear lest Amy might then be sensible of a false
pride of which she was now unconscious. Yet, although the constant
communication between the Hall and the cottage had had little effect
upon Amy, it was not entirely so with her cousins. Margaret's character,
indeed, was not one to be easily improved, for her extreme vanity
prevented her being in the least alive to her own faults or to the
virtues of others. She remarked that Amy was seldom or never selfish;
but she only liked her for it because it gratified her own indolence
and self-will; it never entered her head that in this her cousin was her
superior, and that therefore she ought to imitate her; and as for her
sincerity and humility, it required a much purer mind than Margaret's to
understand why such qualities were good. If Amy's praises were sounded
by Emily Morton, Margaret would seize upon some trifling occasion in
which they might have differed, or some passing hasty expression, to
prove that every one was mistaken in their opinion of her, and that
she was no better than others; whilst the next moment, if her cousin
entered, she would try her patience and her good-nature, perhaps, by
sending her to a distant part of the house for a book, or begging her
to finish some tiresome piece of work, and then think she had made quite
sufficient amends for the trouble by covering her with kisses, asking
her if she did not love her dearly, and declaring she was the most
good-natured little thing in the world. At first Amy did not understand
this; she thought Margaret affectionate and Dora cold; and she turned
from the one and clung to the other; but this could not last long, for
Margaret's selfishness was too great to be concealed by any show of
warmth, and after a little time she wondered why she should be so
uncomfortable when Margaret put her arm so kindly round her neck, and
asked her to do the very thing that she knew was most disagreeable to
her, and why she should be annoyed when she chose the most beautiful
flowers or the finest fruit for herself, and then said, "You won't mind,
will you, darling?" It seemed almost wrong, yet Amy could not help the
feeling. With Dora, however, it was very different; she had serious
faults, and they were so evident as to be perceived even upon a first
acquaintance; but she had also qualities upon which a very superior
character might be formed, and amongst them, perhaps, the most valuable
was sincerity. Whatever she said was strictly true; there was no
pretence of affection which was not felt, no affectation of virtues
which were not possessed; she was too reserved to express all her
feelings, but those she did express were perfectly real; she was too
proud to confess herself in the wrong of her own accord, but she would
never for a moment stoop to the slightest meanness to screen herself;
and this it was which formed the connecting link between her and Amy,
for it was the one thing to which Dora was peculiarly alive, and half
her quarrels with Margaret, when they were not caused by opposition
to her will, arose from her perceiving some little cunning or paltry
motive, which her sister tried to conceal but could not. If Amy had
not been true and candid, Dora would have cared little for her other
qualities; but when once she discovered that her cousin's lightest word
was to be depended on, and that she never hesitated to acknowledge an
error, whatever might be the consequence, she began to respect her, and
to remark the other points in which she was superior; and though she
would hardly have borne a rebuke for her ill-temper or her pride, even
from her father, she would think over some instance in which Amy had
shown self-command or humility, with a feeling of self-reproach she had
seldom known before. And thus quite unconsciously, Amy was exercising
an influence for good, over the mind of a person older and cleverer than
herself, merely by the quiet, unobtrusive manner in which she performed
her daily duties. But as yet this made no difference in Dora's manner;
she was still proud and irritable, and often most unkind at the very
moment she was feeling the greatest respect, and Amy's chief pleasure at
Emmerton soon arose from being with Emily Morton and little Rose. Rose,
indeed, was not much of a companion; but she was a very interesting and
beautiful child, and Emily Morton's great love for her was in itself
quite sufficient to make her a source of pleasure to Amy. At first,
when the music and drawing lessons began, Amy's hand shook and her voice
almost trembled whenever Miss Morton found fault with her; but she soon
discovered there was not the slightest occasion for fear, since even
Margaret's inattention only gave rise to a serious look, and a hope,
expressed in a grave tone, that, to please her mamma, she would be more
careful for the future. And when the awe had subsided, Amy began to look
forward to Miss Morton's approbation, and to wish she would notice her
as she did Rose; and when vexed at her cousins' neglect, she endeavoured
to make some amends by bringing her the prettiest flowers from her own
garden, or working some little thing which she thought might gratify
her, till Emily, touched by attentions she had lately been so little
accustomed to receive, anticipated Amy's visits as one of the chief
enjoyments of her lonely life, and bestowed upon her a considerable
portion of the affection which had once been exclusively given, to
little Rose.

It was some time, however, before Amy discovered that Miss Morton was
indeed fond of her; she was very gentle and very kind, but this she
was to every one, and her extreme reserve and shyness prevented the
expression of her real feeling; besides, they were very seldom alone;
and when Dora and Margaret were in the room, Emily seemed to shrink into
herself, and never to speak except when absolutely obliged. From her
childhood Emily Morton had had a peculiar dread of anything like scorn
or ridicule, a dread which her friends had often vainly endeavoured to
overcome, until her sense of religion had taught her how wrong it was
to indulge it, and even then something of the feeling remained. The
careless jest upon any little awkwardness, or the thought that she was
forgotten when others were noticed, which had brought the tears into her
eyes when a child, caused as keen a pang as she grew older, though
her self-command prevented its being shown; and the suffering she had
undergone from the moment of her entrance into Mr Harrington's family,
it would be difficult to describe. At school she had always felt herself
on an equality with her young companions, and in general, from her
accomplishments, their superior; but at Wayland Court every one looked
down upon her. Mr Harrington scarcely thought of her at all; and Mrs
Harrington considered her as little above the level of an upper servant,
useful in a party to sing and play, and useful in teaching Dora and
Margaret to do the same, but in other respects very slightly differing
from Morris. Dora scorned her as inferior in rank and wealth, and
disliked her because on certain occasions she was bound to obey her;
and Margaret envied her beauty, and was angry with her straightforward
simplicity; and when all this was gradually discovered, the feeling that
arose in Emily Morton's mind was most bitter. Every trifling neglect,
every proud look, every taunting word, brought the colour to her cheek,
and a host of painful recollections to her mind; and though too gentle
to retaliate, she thought over them in private till they seemed almost
unendurable, and she was often on the point of leaving Mr Harrington's
house and seeking for another situation. But there was a principle
within that soon brought her to a more patient spirit. She had been
placed at Wayland by the only friend on whom she could depend, and to
leave it would be, she knew, a cause of great anxiety, and the "charity
which beareth all things" at length enabled her to submit to the trial
without a murmur. She learned not only to listen without reply to
undeserved reproofs, but to ask herself whether there might not even be
some ground for them. She learned to return the greatest neglect with
the most thoughtful attention, the harshest speeches with the most
considerate kindness, till the calmness of her own mind became a
sufficient recompense for all her difficulties; and the person most
to be envied in the family of a man who had thousands at his disposal,
worldly rank, the respect of his friends, and the applause of his
dependents, was the young girl whom even the very servants considered
themselves privileged to mention with contempt.

Emily Morton's situation, however, would have been very different but
for little Rose. She was the one charm of her life, the only thing that
seemed yet left her in which to take a deep and affectionate interest;
and till her arrival at Emmerton, Rose was the one subject of her daily
thoughts. It was long before she could believe that Amy was indeed so
different from her cousins; and still longer ere her habitual shyness
could be so far overcome as to enable her to talk, except at the times
of the regular lessons. The constant impression on her mind was, that
every one was ridiculing her; and this made her so unwilling to speak
unless when obliged, that Amy often feared she never should be at ease
with her. The reserve between them would probably have continued for
even a greater length of time, had it not been for the introduction of
Susan Reynolds into the place of under lady's maid soon after the walk
to Colworth. Mrs Harrington was pleased with her appearance, and still
more with Mrs Saville's recommendation; and although Bridget looked
sulky at first, because she was not consulted on the occasion, and old
Stephen grumbled in private, because his little grand-daughter had
not been chosen, no other person in the house found fault with the
arrangement; and even Morris, the quickest, neatest, and most particular
of her particular race, declared she had never met with so clever and
well-behaved a girl for her age.

This was joyful news to Amy, who, of course, fancied that now all
Susan's troubles were at an end; for every one said it was the most
fortunate thing in the world that she had found so good a situation; but
when several weeks had passed, and her eyes were still often filled with
tears, and her voice had the same melancholy resigned tone as at first,
Amy became half-vexed, and, perhaps, a little impatient. It seemed
almost like ingratitude; and she ventured one day to ask Emily Morton
a few questions on the subject, as Susan's principal employment was to
wait upon her and Rose, and, therefore, she must know more about
her than any one else. Miss Morton spoke so kindly, and took such an
interest in the poor orphan girl, that it was impossible not to be at
ease when talking on this one thing at least; and Amy's heart was at
length completely won, when she met Susan one afternoon on the stairs
leading to Miss Morton's room, which was in a little turret close to the
schoolroom; and on inquiring what made her look so much more cheerful
than usual, found that Emily had made her a present of a new book, and
had promised, if possible, to hear her read three times a week.

"She is so good to me, Miss Herbert," said Susan; "it almost makes me
happy."

"Oh! but, Susan," said Amy; "I wish you could be quite happy. I thought
you would when you came here, and had such a comfortable home."

"It is not my home. Miss," replied Susan; "grandmother's cottage is my
home now."

"And do you want to go back there?" asked Amy, looking very
disappointed.

"Oh no! Miss, I should only be a burden, and I know it would not be
right; but I should like very much to see her and the children."

"But would you rather live there?" repeated Amy.

"I would rather live with my friends anywhere, Miss, than amongst
strangers."

Poor Amy felt heartily vexed. "But you know, Susan," she said, "you
could not expect to have such nice dinners with your grandmother, or
such a comfortable bed, or to wear such good clothes, as you do here."

"Ah! Miss, but it is not the eating and drinking, and the clothes, that
make one happy," replied Susan.

At this moment Margaret called her cousin to the schoolroom, and the
conversation was interrupted; but Amy could not help thinking of it
afterwards, and talking of it to her mamma when she went home.

"It seems very strange, mamma," she said, "that Susan should care so
little for having such a comfortable place to live in."

"Should you be happy, Amy, at Emmerton, without me?"

"Oh no! mamma, never; but then----"

"But what, my dear child?"

"I am afraid it is wrong, mamma; but I think sometimes that it would
be very nice to have a carriage and servants, and a large house; and it
must be almost as great a change to Susan to have so many comforts as
she has now."

"The reason why you think so differently, my love, is, that you have
never known yet what real unhappiness means. When that time comes, you
will feel with Susan, that all such things are of no consequence. I
believe God often sends afflictions to teach us this."

"And do you think He will send them to me, mamma?" said Amy, anxiously.

"I believe He will send you whatever is necessary to make you good, my
dear, and will give you strength to bear it; but it will be better and
happier for you if you endeavour to overcome this longing for riches and
grandeur now, and so, perhaps, the trial may not be required."

Amy did not quite understand all that her mother meant, or why she
should look so sad; but she went to rest that night with a heavier heart
than usual, even though she had made it an especial part of her evening
prayers that God would grant her a humble spirit, and teach her not
to desire anything beyond what He had given; and when she next went to
Emmerton she looked upon Susan as much better than herself, and took
even a greater interest in her; and finding that Miss Morton did the
same, and studied in many little ways to make the poor girl feel less
friendless and lonely, it seemed as if the barrier between herself
and Emily was in a measure done away; and she began from this time
to experience a pleasure in being with her, which once she would have
imagined impossible.




CHAPTER VIII.


"Mamma," said Amy, as she returned from Emmerton one bright afternoon in
the beginning of September, "Aunt Harrington hopes that when I go to the
Hall on Thursday, you will go with me; for Lord Rochford is coming over
with Miss Cunningham, and she thinks you would like to see them. The
carriage will be sent for you whenever you wish it."

"Has not Miss Cunningham been at the Hall before?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"No," replied Amy; "she was to have gone there just after my aunt came,
but one of her uncles was taken ill and died, and then she went away
somewhere on a visit. I want to see her very much, for I am sure my aunt
is very anxious that Dora should be with her a great deal."

"How did you guess that?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"Oh, by the way in which she talked of her, and said she hoped Dora
would make herself agreeable, and that there were very few young people
of the same age here, and that the acquaintance was very desirable. But,
mamma," continued Amy, looking up archly in her mother's face, "I think
Dora is determined not to like her."

"And why should you think so?"

"Because I am sure Dora never does like any one she is told to like. She
always has a fancy for things which no one else can endure, and she will
pet that ugly tabby cat which you saw in the schoolroom the other day,
and that great fierce dog which growls whenever any one goes near it,
though I think she is a little afraid of it."

"And does her love for human beings go by contraries too?"

"I don't know quite, because I have never seen her with strangers," said
Amy; "but I am sure it is her way in other things, for even in her dress
I can see it. She generally chooses to wear whatever Margaret or I think
ugly. But, mamma, have you ever seen Miss Cunningham, and do you think I
shall like her?"

"I saw her frequently when she was a very little child," replied Mrs
Herbert; "for before your uncle went to Wayland, Lady Rochford was very
intimate with your aunt; but after that she became ill, and I had no
carriage, and the distance between us is so great, that we have very
seldom met, though I have been asked occasionally to stay there; and
once, when your dear papa was here, I went."

"Then you will like to go with me on Thursday, mamma," said Amy; "you
know it will make me so happy, and you never go now, as you used to do
in the summer. You always say it is such a fatigue; but I did so enjoy
the nice long days, when you were with me."

"I must wait till Thursday comes before I decide," answered her mother.
"The postman shall take a note for me to Emmerton early, to say whether
we shall want the carriage."

Amy watched her mamma more anxiously than usual the next day, and
was not quite satisfied with her pale and languid looks; and when she
appeared at breakfast the following morning, evidently suffering from
the effects of a sleepless night, it was clear that she was more fit
to stay at home than to spend the day at Emmerton; and, much to Amy's
disappointment, the donkey was ordered at eleven o'clock, and she was
obliged to set off for her ride by herself.

There were preparations in the schoolroom for a day of idleness. Rose
was playing with her doll, Margaret engaged with some fancy work for
herself, and Dora deep in the contents of an amusing book, while Miss
Morton, relieved from her usual duties, had gone to her own room to
enjoy quietness and solitude.

"I don't think I like coming here on a holiday," observed Amy, when she
entered the room; "it does not seem natural."

"I like it, though," said Rose, as she tied a pink ribbon round her
doll's waist, in a firm, hard knot, and then held it up to be admired.
"I never have my doll's new frock except on holidays; and Emily is
coming presently to have a good game of play."

"You won't play here," exclaimed Margaret, sharply; "we can have no
litter made."

"I don't want to make a litter," said Rose; "and I had much rather go
and play in Emily's room; she is never cross."

"Oh Rose!" said a gentle voice behind her; and Rose was immediately
sensible that she had been wrong; and turning round to Emily, who
had just come into the room, she jumped upon a chair to kiss her, and
whispered, "I won't be naughty; but no one is kind except you."

"You must not speak so," replied Emily; "and your sister is quite right
in saying it will not do to make a litter here; but there is plenty
of space in my bedroom, and we will go there and play when I have just
spoken to your cousin."

"And won't Amy come too?" said Rose.

Amy looked half inclined; but Margaret vehemently asserted that such a
thing had never been heard of before; and Dora raised her head from her
book, begging more earnestly than was her wont that Amy would stay
with them; and so Miss Morton and Rose departed with the doll and her
treasures, and Amy remained to while away the time as she best could
till Miss Cunningham arrived. Not that this was a difficult task, for
there were many books at hand which were quite new to her; and she was
so unwearied a reader, that, although her cousins did not take the least
trouble to entertain her, the time seemed very short till the sound
of carriage wheels and the loud ringing of the door-bell announced the
arrival of a visitor. Margaret hastily gathered up her fragments of silk
and beads, and thrust them into the first open drawer she could find (a
proceeding which Amy did not fail to remark, as she knew that the task
of finding Margaret's missing treasures always devolved upon her);
but Dora did not appear to observe what was passing till her sister
stealthily opened the door and peeped into the passage, and then she
called out to her to shut it, and wondered she was not ashamed of being
so unladylike. Margaret was not at all inclined to obey, and a dispute
would probably have been the consequence but for the entrance of the
footman, who came with Mrs Harrington's orders that the young ladies
should go immediately to the drawing-room. Margaret ran to the glass
to arrange her curls; and Dora, lingering over her book, reluctantly
prepared to do as she was told, always a difficult task with her, and
particularly so at that moment.

"I suppose my aunt wishes me to go, too?" said Amy.

"My mistress only mentioned Miss Harrington and Miss Margaret," replied
the man, very respectfully but decidedly; for he well knew that Mrs
Harrington always required her commands to be taken literally.

Amy shrunk back, vexed with herself for having offered to go, and more
vexed with her aunt for having omitted to send for her. It would have
made her feel shy to be obliged to encounter strangers; but it was not
pleasant to be left behind.

"Never mind, dear," said Dora, kindly, seeing her blank face of
disappointment; "we shall be back again presently, and then you shall
see Miss Cunningham; but I tell you she is just like the rest of the
world."

"I don't know why I should care," replied Amy, recovering herself; "it
will be much more agreeable to stay here and read, for I am not used to
strangers as you are, Dora."

And yet, though it was more agreeable, Amy was not contented; and when
Margaret, having arranged her longest ringlet to her satisfaction, and
set her dress to rights, and drawn up her head so as to show off her
long neck to advantage, pronounced herself quite ready, and left Amy
to the quiet enjoyment of her book, she could not manage to fix her
attention upon it. For the first time since her uncle's arrival at
Emmerton she felt neglected; it had often happened before that Dora or
Margaret had been sent for on some little business with their mamma, but
then it did not signify; and the few visitors who called seldom inquired
for them; or, if they saw them accidentally, there was always as much
notice taken of Amy as of her cousins, so that she had not fancied
there could be any distinction between them; and even now she hardly
acknowledged to herself the cause of her uncomfortable feelings, but
sat with the open book before her, trying to find out why her aunt had
wished her to be left behind; and then looking at the loveliness of the
grounds and the signs of wealth and luxury in the room, and contrasting
them with the plainly-furnished drawing-room and the little garden
at the cottage, "I should be very happy if mamma had such beautiful
things," was the thought that arose in her mind, but there was something
within that checked it. They only who have tried earnestly to do right
can tell how quickly conscience whispers when we are wrong; and Amy,
young as she was, had too often heard her mother's warnings against envy
and covetousness, not to be aware that she was at that moment tempted by
them; and half-repeating to herself, "how wrong it is in me!" she turned
to her book with the resolution of not thinking anything more about the
matter. She had read but a few pages when the sound of voices in
the passage interrupted her. Dora's constrained tone, and Margaret's
affected laugh, told directly there was a stranger with them, and
immediately afterwards they entered with Miss Cunningham, and the first
glance showed Amy that Dora's description had been very correct. She
was neither tall nor short, neither stout nor thin; she had grayish blue
eyes, without any particular expression in them; sandy-coloured hair,
a fair, freckled complexion, and rather pretty mouth, and certainly
was very unlike what Amy had fancied in all but her dress, which was
peculiarly handsome.

"This is our schoolroom," said Dora, when Miss Cunningham, upon being
told who Amy was, had shaken hands with her, and scanned her from head
to foot.

"Is it?" was the reply. "It is a nice little place; I think it must be
just the size of my governess's sitting-room."

"It does very well," said Dora; "but it is nothing like the room we had
to ourselves at Wayland, which was twice as large."

"My governess's room," continued Miss Cunningham, "used to be my
nursery; and then, when I grew too old for it, of course papa gave up
another to me; in fact, I have two I may call my own now--a little room
where I keep all my books, and a large one where I do my lessons."

"There was a whole set of rooms which was to have been ours," said Dora,
"if we had remained at Wayland; and here, I suppose, something of the
kind will be arranged for us soon, but everything is so unsettled yet
that papa has not had time to think about it."

"My little room," observed Miss Cunningham, "looks out upon the finest
view in the whole estate. I can see a distance of twenty miles from the
window."

"The tower on Thorwood Hill was thirty miles off, I think. Margaret,"
said Dora, turning to her sister.

"Yes," she replied; "but then it could only be seen as a little speck on
a clear day."

Miss Cunningham went to the window. "You have no view here," she said.

"No," answered Dora; "it is much pleasanter having it shut in in this
way, because it makes it so private."

"But when a house stands high, it is very easy to be private, and yet to
have beautiful views between the trees."

"I suppose," said Dora, "that when this house was built, several hundred
years ago, people did not think so much about scenery, though, indeed,
there is a very nice view from the front. I have heard papa say that it
is only modern places which stand high. Rochford Park, I think, is about
fifty years old."

"Only the new part; there is one wing which is much older."

"But the new part was built when your family first went there, was it
not?"

"Yes; it was built by my grandfather, when he returned from being
ambassador to Turkey."

"I think the newest part of Emmerton has been built at least a hundred
and fifty years," said Dora; "and the old part--I really cannot say
exactly what the age of it is; but the first baron who is buried in the
chapel died somewhere about 1470, and his was the elder branch of our
family."

"But there is no title in your family now," observed Miss Cunningham.

"Indeed there is," replied Dora; "Lord Doringford is a cousin of ours."

"Oh! a hundredth cousin, I suppose. Any one may be that; for you know we
are all descended from Adam."

"Yes; and of course, that is the reason why people think so much more of
a family being an old one, than of a mere title."

Miss Cunningham turned sharply round to Amy.

"Do you live here?" she asked; and at being addressed so
unceremoniously, Amy's colour rose, but she tried to answer gently,
though she felt a little unwilling to acknowledge that her home was
neither a park nor a hall.

"I live about two miles off," she said, "at Emmerton Cottage; but I am
here a great deal."

"Oh!" was all the reply; and Amy took up a book, and wished the new
visitor had remained at Rochford Park.

"Is not that a very pretty drawing?" said Margaret, finding Dora
unwilling to speak again, and feeling very awkward. It was a drawing of
Miss Morton's, which she was going to copy.

"Very," replied Miss Cunningham, shortly. "My style is flowers; I
learned when I was in Paris, and----"

"But that does not make this drawing pretty or ugly, does it?"
interrupted Dora, with a curl of the lip which portended a storm.

Miss Cunningham stared at her, and then went on with her sentence: "And
my master told papa that my copies were almost equal to the original."

"I should like to see them very much," said Margaret, wishing as usual
to conciliate her last acquaintance. "Will you bring them over to show
us some day?"

Dora held up a lovely rose, almost the last of the season. "Look," she
said; "who would not rather have that than the most beautiful drawing
that ever could be made of it?"

No notice was taken of the question; for by this time Miss Cunningham
felt that she was no match for Dora in anything but pretension; and
her only resource was indifference. She therefore went on talking
to Margaret, who proved herself a willing listener. Drawings, music,
lessons, dress, all were mentioned in turn; and Margaret patiently bore
the perpetual repetition of "I think this," and "I do that," as she
looked at Miss Cunningham's sandy hair and freckled complexion, and felt
that in one thing, at least, there could be no comparison between them.
Amy for some time stood by, one moment casting a wistful look at her
book, and wishing that it were not rude to read, or that she might carry
it off to Miss Morton's room, and the next feeling a strong inclination
to laugh, as she listened to what was passing. She had never heard
anything of the kind before; for Dora did not boast except when she
wished to rival some one, and Amy was far too humble to enter into
competition with her in anything.

At length, even the delightful subject of self seemed to be exhausted.
The visitor paused; and Margaret looking at the time-piece, and
remarking that it wanted nearly an hour to dinner, proposed that they
should go into the garden.

"Is there anything to be seen there?" asked Miss Cunningham.

"Nothing that _you_ will admire," replied Dora, sarcastically.

But the emphasis on the _you_ was quite lost. From her childhood, Miss
Cunningham could never be made to understand what was not expressed in
plain words.

"I suppose," she said, rather condescendingly, "you think we have such a
beautiful place at the Park, that I shall not care about this."

"Oh no!" answered Dora, "such an idea never entered my head; for it
struck me when I was there the other day, that it was so like all the
other gentlemen's seats I have ever seen, that you would be quite glad
to look at something different. There is hardly such another place as
Emmerton, I believe, in England."

The meaning of this was certainly quite evident, but Miss Cunningham was
not quick at a retort; she could only stare, as she usually did when she
had not words at command, and ask Margaret to show her the way into
the garden. Dora begged to be excused accompanying them, and Amy would
willingly have done the same, but for the fear of appearing rude; and
even in such trifles she had learned already to consult the feelings of
others.

The morning was so lovely, uniting almost the warmth of summer with the
freshness of autumn, that the mere sensation of being in the open air
was enjoyable; and it was fortunate for Amy that it was so, as neither
of her companions paid any attention to her. Margaret led the way
through the winding walks in the shrubbery, and along the terrace, and
by the side of the lake; pointing out the different objects which
were to be seen, expressing herself extremely delighted at having Miss
Cunningham with her, and hoping that they should meet very often, for
really there were no people living near Emmerton, and it was dreadfully
dull after Wayland; forgetting that only the day before, in one of her
fits of extreme affection, she had told Amy they did not regret Wayland
in the least, for that being with her made up for everything. Amy,
however, did not forget; and it made her doubt, as she had often been
inclined to do before, whether her cousin was not sometimes insincere.
It was quite possible that Margaret might find Emmerton dull, and there
was no harm in her saying so, but there was no occasion to make kind
speeches if she did not mean them; and almost involuntarily she turned
away, and walked a few paces behind by herself. Miss Cunningham looked
at everything that was pointed out, and once or twice said it was
pretty; but the chief charm of all consisted in its being like something
else which was more beautiful at Rochford Park. The trees were taller,
the lake was clearer, the walks were broader, and Amy, as she listened,
sometimes forgot her annoyance in amusement, though Margaret's words
continually reminded her of it again; and by the time they had gone over
the pleasure-grounds, she thought that her society would not have been
missed if she had remained in the house. Suddenly, however, as they
seated themselves on a bench by the side of the lake, Margaret seemed to
recollect that her cousin was present; and, with a half-suppressed
yawn, asked her if she could think of anything else they could do
before dinner. It was evident that she was tired of her company, and Amy
ransacked her brain to discover something else which might be seen.

"I think we have gone over everything except the chapel," she said.

"Oh yes! the chapel," exclaimed Margaret, "that will just do, I am sure
Miss Cunningham would like to see it."

"I don't know, indeed," was the reply. "Is it far? I am dreadfully
tired."

"It is a part of the house," said Amy, "and you know we must get home.
This is the shortest way to it, Margaret," she continued, pointing to
a dark overgrown walk; "you know it leads over the wooden bridge to
the private garden, without our being obliged to go to the front of the
house."

"The shortest way is the best," muttered Miss Cunningham; "I hate being
walked to death."

Amy thought it would have been more civil to have kept her remarks to
herself; but she supposed the observation was not intended to be heard,
and they went on, Miss Cunningham complaining the whole way either of
the narrowness of the path, or the inconvenience of the briars, or
the heat of the sun, and making both Margaret and Amy very much repent
having her with them.

The walk, however, did at last come to an end; and as they turned a
sharp angle of the building, and came suddenly upon the chapel, with its
gray buttresses half covered with ivy, standing out upon a smooth
square of velvet turf, and concealed from the pleasure-ground by a thick
shrubbery and one or two splendid chestnut trees, Amy forgot how unlike
her companions were to herself, and involuntarily exclaimed, "Is it not
beautiful!"

"How odd!" said Miss Cunningham; "why, it is a church."

"It is very gloomy," observed Margaret; "I don't often come here."

"Not gloomy," said Amy, "only grave."

"Well! grave or gloomy, it is all the same. I wish, Amy, you would learn
not to take up one's words so. And now we are come here, I don't think
we can get in. You should have remembered that this door is always
locked; do run into the house, and ask Bridget for the key, and we will
wait here."

Amy instantly did as she was desired, but had not gone ten yards
before she returned. "You know, Margaret," she said, "that I cannot see
Bridget, because I must not go amongst the servants. I never have been
since the first night you came, when my aunt was so angry with me."

"But," replied Margaret, "mamma is engaged with Lord Rochford now; you
will be sure not to meet her."

"It is not the meeting her, but the doing what she would not like,
that I am afraid of; but it will do, perhaps, if I ring the bell in the
schoolroom, and then I can ask for it."

"Yes; only run off and be quick, for we have not much time to spare."

And in a moment Amy disappeared; and with the best speed she could make,
found her way to the schoolroom, and seizing the bell-rope, without
remembering how easily it rang, gave it such a pull that the sound was
heard through the whole house. The last tone had but just died away when
another was heard, to Amy's ear much more awful. It was her aunt's harsh
voice in the passage, exclaiming against such a noise being made, and
declaring that Dora or Margaret, whichever it was, should be severely
reprimanded. Poor Amy actually trembled, and stood with the bell-rope in
her hand, unable to move, when Mrs Harrington entered.

"What, Amy! Amy Herbert! A most extraordinary liberty, I must say! I
must beg you to recollect that you are not at home. Pray, did any one
give you permission to ring?"

Amy could hardly say "yes," because it was her own proposition; but she
stammered out "that Margaret wanted the key of the chapel, and she did
not like to go amongst the servants, for fear of displeasing her aunt."

"Then Margaret should have come herself to ask for what she wants; I
will have no one but my own family ringing the bell and giving orders
in my house. And such a noise!" continued Mrs Harrington, her anger
increasing as she remembered how her nerves had been affected by the
loud peal.

Amy could only look humble and distressed; and, forgetting the key and
everything but her desire to escape from her aunt, she moved as quickly
towards the door as she dared. But she had scarcely reached it when a
second fright awaited her--a grasp, which seemed almost like that of
a giant, stopped her, and the quick, good-humoured voice of a stranger
exclaimed, "Why, what's the matter? Who have we got here--a third
daughter, Mrs Harrington?"

Amy ventured to look in the face of the speaker, and felt reassured by
the kind, open countenance that met her view. She guessed in an instant
it must be Lord Rochford.

"Not a daughter," replied Mrs Harrington, in a constrained voice; "Mr
Harrington's niece, Amy Herbert."

"Ah! well," said Lord Rochford, "it is very nearly a daughter, though.
Then this must be the child of my friend Harrington's second sister,
Ellen. I could almost have guessed it from the likeness; those black
eyes are the very image of her mother's. And what has become of the
colonel? any news of him lately?"

Mrs Harrington shook her head.

"Sad, sad, very sad," muttered Lord Rochford to himself; "and the
mother, too, so ill, I hear." Then, seeing a tear glistening in Amy's
eye, he paused, patted her kindly on the shoulder, and told her he was
sure she was a great pet at home, and he should be glad to see her at
Rochford Park; "and Lucy will like to see you, too," he continued. "She
never meets any one but grown-up people from year's end to year's end.
By the by, Mrs Harrington, I dare say Mrs Herbert would be very willing
to enter into the plan you and I were talking of just now. I wish some
day you would mention it."

"You forget," replied Mrs Harrington, trying to look gracious, "that I
said it was quite out of the question at present."

"Oh no! not at all. But, begging your pardon, I never knew a lady yet
who was not willing to change her mind when she had a fair excuse given
her."

"You may not have met with any one before," said Mrs Harrington, in
her haughtiest manner, "but I must assure you, you have met with one
now.--What do you want?" she added, for the first time perceiving the
footman, who had answered the bell. "Amy, you rang; Jolliffe waits for
your orders."

Amy's neck and cheeks in an instant became crimson; but she managed to
say, though in a voice scarcely audible, that she wanted the key of the
chapel.

"Tell Bridget to send it instantly," said Mrs Harrington; and she did
not notice Amy again till the key was brought, when, putting it into her
hands without a word, she motioned her to the door. And Amy, enchanted
at having at last escaped, returned to her cousin even more quickly than
she had left her. "Oh Margaret!" was her exclamation, as she ran up,
holding the key in her hand, "here it is; but I have got into a dreadful
scrape by ringing the bell, and I don't know what I shall do; my aunt
will never forgive me."

"Nonsense," replied Margaret, in a really kind manner; "it is only just
for the moment; mamma will soon forget it. You have nothing to do but to
keep out of her way for some time."

"I am sure she won't," replied Amy; "she looked so angry, and called me
Amy Herbert."

"But your name is Herbert, is it not?" said Miss Cunningham, with a
stare.

"Don't you know what Amy means?" asked Margaret, laughing; "people never
tack on surnames to Christian names till they are so angry they don't
know what else to do. But don't make yourself unhappy, Amy; I know mamma
better than you do; she soon forgets--just let me know what she said."

The story was soon told, and Amy's mind considerably eased by her
cousin's assurance that she had got into a hundred such scrapes in her
life; though there still remained such a recollection of her alarm, that
even the quiet beauty of the chapel could not entirely soothe her.
Miss Cunningham looked round with curiosity, but with a total want of
interest; and Margaret laughed, and said it was a gloomy old place,
and then called to her companions to observe the strange little figures
which were carved on an ancient monument near the altar, declaring they
were the most absurd things she had ever seen. But she could only induce
Miss Cunningham to join in the merriment; Amy just smiled, and said, in
rather a subdued voice, that they were odd, and she had often wondered
at them before.

"What is the matter, Amy?" asked Margaret. "Why don't you speak out; and
why are you so grave!"

"I don't quite know," answered Amy, trying to raise her voice; "but I
never can laugh or speak loud in a church."

"And why not?" said Miss Cunningham, who had been patting one of the
figures with her parasol, and calling it a "little wretch."

"Because," replied Amy, "it is a place where people come to say their
prayers and read their Bibles."

"Well! and so they say their prayers and read their Bibles in their
bedrooms," observed Margaret; "and yet you would not mind laughing
there."

Amy thought for a moment, and then said, "You know bedrooms are never
consecrated."

"Consecrated!" repeated Miss Cunningham, her eyes opening to their
fullest extent; "What has that to do with it?"

"I don't know that I can quite tell," replied Amy; "but I believe it
means making places like Sundays."

"I wish you would talk sense," said Miss Cunningham, sharply; "I can't
understand a word you say."

"I know what I mean myself, though I cannot explain it. On Sunday people
never work, or ride about, or read the same books as they do on other
days--at least mamma never lets me do it; and she makes me say my
Catechism, and other things like it--hymns, I mean, and collects."

"That may be your fashion on a Sunday, but it is not mine," said Miss
Cunningham. "I used to say my Catechism once a month before I was
confirmed, to get it perfect; but since then I have never thought about
it."

"Have you been confirmed?" asked Margaret and Amy, in one breath.

"Yes, to be sure. I am quite old enough; I was fifteen last month."

"Then you must feel quite grown up now," said Amy.

"Grown up! why should I? I shall not do that till I come out in London."

"Shall you not?" said Amy, gravely. "I think I should feel quite grown
up if I were confirmed."

"I never heard any one yet call a girl only just fifteen grown up,"
observed Margaret.

"It is not what I should be called, but what I should feel," replied
Amy. "People, when they are confirmed, are allowed to do things that
they must not before." And as she said this, she walked away, as if
afraid of being obliged to explain herself more, and went to the lower
end of the chapel to look at her favourite monument of the first baron
of Emmerton.

"I never knew any one with such odd notions as Amy," said Margaret, when
her cousin was gone. "I never can make out how old she is. Sometimes she
seems so much younger than we are, and then again she gets into a grave
mood, and talks just as if she were twenty."

"But it is very easy to ask her her age, is it not?" asked the
matter-of-fact Miss Cunningham.

"Do you always think persons just the age they call themselves?" said
Margaret, laughing.

"Yes, of course, I do, every one, that is except one of my aunts,
who always tells me she is seven-and-twenty, when mamma knows she is
five-and-thirty."

"What I mean," said Margaret, "is, that all persons appear different at
different times."

"They don't to me," answered Miss Cunningham, shortly. "If I am told a
girl is fourteen, I believe her to be fourteen; and if I am told she is
twelve, I believe she is twelve. Your cousin is twelve, is she not?"

Margaret saw it was useless to discuss the subject any more; and,
calling to Amy that they should be late for dinner if they stayed
any longer, hastened out of the chapel. Amy lingered behind, with the
uncomfortable feeling of having something disagreeable associated with a
place which once had brought before her nothing but what was delightful.
Margaret and Miss Cunningham had seemed perfectly indifferent to what
she thought so solemn; and although quite aware that their carelessness
did not at all take away from the real sacredness of the chapel, yet it
was something new and startling to find that it was possible for persons
to enter a place peculiarly dedicated to the service of God without any
greater awe than they would have felt in their own homes.

If Amy had lived longer and seen more of the world, she would have
known that, unhappily, such thoughtlessness is so common as not to be
remarkable; but she had passed her life with those who thought very
differently; and the first appearance of irreverence was as painful as
it was unexpected.




CHAPTER IX.


The thought of being probably obliged again to meet Mrs Harrington, soon
made Amy forget her painful feelings in the chapel; and during the whole
of dinner her eye turned anxiously to the door, and her ear caught every
sound in the passage, in the dread lest her aunt should enter; and she
ate what was placed before her almost unconsciously, without attending
to anything that was said.

Miss Morton was the only person who remarked this; and she had a
sufficient opportunity, for no notice was taken of her. She was not
introduced to Miss Cunningham; but the young lady cast many curious
glances at her as she came into the room, and then a whispered
conversation followed between her and Margaret, quite loud enough to
be heard. She was described as "the person who teaches us music and
drawing," and her birth, parentage, and education were given. And when
Miss Cunningham's curiosity was satisfied, she condescended to look
at her attentively for nearly a minute, and then appeared entirely to
forget that such a being was in existence. Miss Morton bore this gaze
without shrinking. There was not a flush on her delicate cheek, or the
slightest curl of anger about her gentle mouth; and all that showed she
was aware of what was said was the momentary glistening of her eye
as she caught the words--"Oh! she is an orphan, is she?" and then
Margaret's reply--"Yes; she lost her father and mother both in one
month." Amy would have felt very indignant, if she had remarked it, but
at that moment she could attend to nothing but the door; and Dora, whose
proud, sulky mood had not yet passed away, sat by the window, and did
not speak.

The dinner was very dull. Miss Cunningham professed herself so tired
with her walk that she could not eat; and looking at everything that was
offered her, said "she would try it, but really she had such a delicate
appetite she could seldom touch anything;" helping herself, at the same
time, to two very good-sized cutlets as a commencement, and finishing
with the last piece of apple-tart in the dish near her. Rose fixed her
eyes steadily upon her, as she transferred the remains of the tart to
her plate; and then turning to Miss Morton, whose seat was always next
to hers, said almost aloud, "Why does she not ask first!" Miss Morton
looked as grave as she could, and tried to stop her; but although Miss
Cunningham heard, it did not at all follow that she understood; and the
child's question had no more effect upon her than if it had been put in
private.

"Would you let me go with you to your room?" said Amy to Miss Morton,
as soon as dinner was over. "I am afraid aunt Harrington will be here
presently; and I have got into such a scrape with her."

"But supposing," replied Emily, "that I should think it best for you to
stay, what will you do then?"

"Oh! of course," said Amy, "I should do as you thought right; but if you
would let me go and tell you all about it, I should be so glad; and I
will promise to come back again if you say I ought."

"Well!" replied Emily, "if we make that agreement I shall not care; and
we will let Rose and her doll stay behind."

Miss Morton's room was becoming to Amy's feelings almost as delightful
as the chapel. It was not often that she was admitted there, but
whenever she was, her curiosity and interest were greatly excited. There
were, in fact, two rooms, a small ante-room and a rather large bedroom;
and they would probably have been considered too good to be appropriated
to Miss Morton's use, if it had not been that Rose always shared the
same apartment. Emily's taste was so good, that wherever she went, some
traces of it appeared; and when Amy first saw these rooms after her
uncle's arrival, she scarcely recognised them to be the same which she
had before known only as desolate lumber-rooms. Not that there were any
symptoms of luxury about them, for there was no furniture beyond what
was absolutely required; but there were books and work on the table,
pictures on the walls, and flowers in the windows; and to all these Amy
guessed some history was attached, for the pictures she had been told
were of Emily's friends and relations, and the books had been given her
by those she was now parted from, perhaps for ever in this world; and
the flowers seemed to possess a value beyond anything they could derive
from their own beauty, for they were cherished almost as living beings.
Once or twice lately Miss Morton had related to Amy some of the stories
relating to these things, and this naturally increased her desire to
hear more; but on the present occasion she thought of nothing but the
relief of escaping from her aunt; and telling Emily, in a few words,
what had occurred, she begged not to be sent back again.

Miss Morton thought for a moment, and then replied, "I am afraid, my
dear, that I must be very hard-hearted and say, no. Mrs Harrington
is much more likely to be displeased, if she thinks you have hidden
yourself. You know you must see her again, and then you will still have
the same fear, and you will not be comfortable even at home, unless the
meeting is over, but if you face it now, and tell her, if she should
say anything, that you are sorry she has been displeased, and ask her
to forgive you, you will return home happy. We never lessen our
difficulties by putting off the evil day."

"But," replied Amy, "Margaret says she will forget."

"I think your cousin is wrong," answered Miss Morton. "Some things Mrs
Harrington does forget, but not what she considers liberties; besides,
is it not much better to have our faults forgiven and forgotten?"

"But I don't think I did anything wrong," said Amy.

"No," replied Miss Morton, "it was not wrong in itself; it was only
wrong because it was against your aunt's wishes. She is very particular
indeed about some things; and this, of ringing the bell and giving
orders, is one."

"I can't say I am sorry if I am not," said Amy; "and if I have not done
anything wrong, how can I be so?"

"You may be sorry for having vexed your aunt, though it was
unintentionally; and this is all I wish you to say."

Amy looked very unhappy. "I wish I had not gone away," she said; "it
will be much worse going back again if she is there."

"Yes," replied Miss Morton, "I can quite understand that; but whether it
be easy or difficult it does not make any difference in its being right;
and I think," she added, as she put her arm affectionately round Amy's
waist and kissed her for the first time, "I think there is some one you
love very dearly who would say the same."

Perhaps no kiss that Amy had ever before received had been so valuable
as this. At the moment it seemed as if she had power to do anything that
Miss Morton thought right, and she walked to the door with a firm step.
Then once more her resolution failed, and as she stood with the handle
in her hand she said, "Do you think my aunt will be there?"

"I do not think about it," replied Miss Morton; "but if you delay,
your courage will be quite gone. You will not shrink from doing what is
right, will you?"

Amy waited no longer, but with a desperate effort ran down the turret
stairs and along the passage, and opened the school-room door without
giving herself time to remember what she was about to encounter.

The dessert still remained, but Dora and Margaret were standing at
the round table in the oriel window, exhibiting their drawings to Lord
Rochford, and Mr and Mrs Harrington were talking together apart. Amy's
first impulse was to screen herself from sight; but she remembered Miss
Morton's words, and resolving to meet the trial, at once walked up to
the table.

"Ah!" said Lord Rochford, as he perceived her, "here is my little
runaway friend, whom I have been looking for for some minutes. I am sure
there must be some drawings of hers to be seen too."

Mrs Harrington turned round. "Get your drawings, Amy," she said in her
coldest manner. Amy willingly obeyed, thinking anything preferable to
standing still and doing nothing.

"Very pretty, very pretty, indeed!" exclaimed Lord Rochford, looking at
them; "artist-like decidedly; very good that is." And he pointed to
one which Amy knew was the worst of all, and which only struck his eye
because the shadows were darker and the lights brighter than the rest.

"Has Amy been doing anything wrong?" said Mr Harrington, in a low voice
to his wife. "She seems so frightened, yet she always strikes me as
being very obedient; and those drawings of hers are admirable."

"She would do very well." answered Mrs Harrington, "if she would but be
as attentive to her general conduct as she is to her accomplishments."

"Oh! careless, I suppose," said Mr Harrington. "It is not to be wondered
at in such a young thing."

"I can never think any age an excuse for an impertinent liberty," was
her reply.

"Amy impertinent! it is quite impossible. Come here, my dear, and tell
me what you have been doing."

A cloud gathered on Mrs Harrington's brow; but Amy felt reassured by her
uncle's kind manner, and answered as audibly as she could, "I rang the
bell, uncle."

Mr Harrington laughed heartily, and Mrs Harrington looked still more
annoyed.

"This is not the place to talk about it," she said, quickly. "Amy knows
very well that I had full reason to be displeased, but of course she is
too proud to own it."

"Oh no, indeed I am not!" exclaimed Amy. "I did not know I was wrong,
aunt; but I am very sorry for having vexed you."

"There," said Mr Harrington, "you cannot wish for anything more; she is
very sorry, and will not do it again. And now, Charlotte, you must be
very sorry and forgive."

Amy felt as if she hardly liked to be forgiven, when she did not
think she was in fault; but again she recollected what Miss Morton had
said,--that she was to be sorry, not for having been guilty of a fault,
but for having annoyed her aunt; and she checked the feeling of pride,
and listened patiently and humbly, while Mrs Harrington gave her a
tolerably long lecture on the impropriety of taking the same liberties
at Emmerton that she would at the cottage, and ended by saying that
she hoped, as she grew older, she would know her position better. After
which, bestowing upon her a cold, unwilling kiss, she promised that she
would try and forget what had passed.

Mr Harrington walked away as the lecture began; disliking so much being
said before his visitor, who, he saw, observed what was going on.

Lord Rochford's pity had, indeed, been somewhat excited, and he said
good-naturedly, as Amy came up to the table again--"Well! I hope it is
right now. I suspected you were not in such a hurry for nothing; but
'all's well that ends well,' you know. I hate scrapes, and always
did,--never let Lucy get into any, do I, darling?"

Miss Cunningham either did not hear, or did not think it worth while to
answer; taking advantage of her father's principle that she was never
to get into scrapes, she always treated him in the most unceremonious
manner possible.

"I don't think you and Mrs Harrington would quite agree upon that
subject," observed Mr Harrington; "her principle is that storms bring
peace."

"Not mine, not mine," said Lord Rochford. "There is nothing in the world
that I love like peace; so now, Mrs Harrington, we will be of the same
mind about your visit to the Park. You shall come next week, and bring
all the young ones, my little friend here included."

"You must excuse my deciding immediately," replied Mrs Harrington; "and
I have great doubts whether going about and seeing people is at all good
for my niece; even being here upsets her mind."

Poor Amy looked very blank, for it had long been one of her chief wishes
to see Rochford Park.

"You must not be out of temper about it," said Mrs Harrington, as she
remarked her disappointed countenance; "only try and be more attentive,
and then you will be sure to be rewarded."

"I shall not let you off, though, so easily," continued Lord Rochford.
"I have set my heart upon your coming, and I must have you all; no
exception for good temper or bad. Come, Harrington, interpose your
authority."

"I will promise to use my influence," answered Mr Harrington; "and with
that you must be satisfied."

Lord Rochford declared he was not at all, but that he had no time to
argue the matter, for the carriage had been at the door at least a
quarter of an hour, so he should consider the thing as settled.

The parting between Margaret and Miss Cunningham was very affectionate;
and Amy, as she looked on, wondered how so much love could have been
inspired in so short a time, and felt it quite a relief that Dora was
contented with a cold shake of the hand, since it allowed her to follow
her example without being particular. To have kissed Miss Cunningham
would have been almost as disagreeable as to be kissed by her aunt when
she was angry.

"That is the most unpleasant girl I ever saw," exclaimed Dora, when she
was left alone with Amy, Margaret having followed Miss Cunningham to the
carriage. "A proud, conceited, forward thing, who thinks she may give
herself any airs she pleases. Now, Amy, don't look grave; I know you
can't endure her."

"I don't like her," said Amy.

"Not like her! You hate her, I am sure you do,--you must."

"I hope not," replied Amy, laughing. "I never hated any one yet."

"Then I am sorry for you," said Dora. "No one can be a good lover who is
not a good hater. I would rather have any thing than lukewarmness."

"So would I," replied Amy. "I hope I am not lukewarm; and I am sure I
can love some people very dearly,--yes, more than I could ever tell,"
she added, as she thought of her mamma. "But I don't know whether I
could hate; I never met with any one yet to try upon."

"You can't have a better subject than that odious Miss Cunningham. I
could not think of her sandy hair, and her ugly unmeaning eyes, for two
minutes, without feeling that I hated her."

"Please don't say so, Dora," said Amy, earnestly, "it makes me so
sorry."

"Does it? I don't see why you should care what I say; it can make no
difference to you."

"Oh yes, but indeed it does, for I think it is not right. I don't
mean to vex you," continued Amy, seeing the expression of her cousin's
countenance change. "I know you are older than I am, and perhaps I ought
not to say it, only I could not help being sorry."

"I am not vexed," said Dora; "but it cannot signify to you whether I am
right or wrong. It would be different if it were yourself."

"If it were myself," replied Amy, "I could be sorry for myself, and try
not to do wrong any more; but I cannot make you sorry, and so it seems
almost worse."

"Make me sorry!" exclaimed Dora, in a tone of surprise. "Of course you
can't; but why should you wish it?"

"I always wish every one to be sorry when they do wrong, because, you
know, no one is forgiven till they are."

"But supposing they don't think it wrong, you would not have them be
sorry then, would you? I see no harm in hating Miss Cunningham."

"It may be wrong," replied Amy, "though you don't think so,"

"Who is to judge?" asked Dora.

Amy was silent for a moment, and then said. "Would you let me show you a
verse in the Bible, Dora, about it? Mamma made me read it one day when I
said I hated some one, though I know I did not really do it, and I have
never forgotten it."

"Well, let me see it," said Dora, almost sulkily. Amy took a Bible from
the book-case, and pointed to the fifteenth verse of the third chapter
of St John's first epistle:--"Whosoever hateth his brother is a
murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in
him." "Oh!" exclaimed Dora, when she had read it, "that is so shocking.
Of course, when I talk about hating, I don't mean such hatred as that."

"So I said," replied Amy; "and then mamma told me that if I did not
mean it, I ought not to say it; and that the very fact of my using such
expressions showed that I had a great dislike, which I ought not to
indulge; and then she made me read a great many more verses in this
epistle, about its being our duty to love people. But, Dora, I don't
mean to teach you anything, for I am sure you must know it all a great
deal better than I do; only I wanted to tell you what mamma said to me."

Amy would probably have been very much surprised if she had known the
feelings which passed through her cousin's mind as she spoke. It had
never entered her head that she could give advice or instruction; and
yet, perhaps, no words from an older person could have had half the
effect of hers. Dora, however, was not in the habit of showing what
she felt, and Amy was too simple to guess it, even when the exclamation
escaped her, "I would give all I am worth to have lived with Aunt
Herbert and you all my life, Amy."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy, "you cannot be serious. Think of this house, and
the beautiful grounds, and Wayland too, where you used to be so happy;
you never would bear to live in a cottage."

"I think sometimes it makes no difference where people live," answered
Dora. "I don't think I am at all happier for papa's having a fine
house."

Amy thought of what Susan Reynolds had said, "that eating, and drinking,
and fine clothes, did not make people happy;" and it seemed strange that
two persons so differently situated should have thought so much alike;
but she had not time to talk any longer to Dora, for the evening was
closing in, and she was obliged to return home, and, as she thought,
without any attendant except the man servant who usually took charge
of her. But just as she was settling herself upon her donkey, Bridget
appeared at the hall door with a request that Miss Herbert would be so
very kind as to wait one moment longer, for Stephen had been in just
before, to know if any of the ladies were going back with her, for he
wished very much to walk a little way if he might be allowed. "He is
only gone up to the stable, Miss," added Bridget, "if it is not too much
trouble for you to stop. I can't think what made him go away."

"Never mind," said Amy, "it is never any trouble to wait for Stephen;
but it will not be long now--that must be he coming down the chestnut
walk."

Stephen's hobbling pace was exchanged for a species of trot, as he
perceived Amy already mounted; and he came up to her with a thousand
apologies for the delay. "But you know, Miss Amy, 'tis not very often I
can see you now, so I thought I would make bold for once. And please to
tell me now how your mamma is, for she doesn't come here as she used;
and the folks in the village say she's getting as white as a sheet."

"I don't think mamma is as well or as strong as she used to be,
Stephen," replied Amy; "but she does not complain much, only she soon
gets tired."

"Oh!" said Stephen, shaking his head, "India, India,--'tis all India,
Miss Amy. Why English people shouldn't be contented to stay on English
ground is more than I can guess. A nice, comfortable cottage in a good
pasture country, such as this, with a few ups and downs in it to make a
variety, is all I should ever wish to have. I want nothing that's to be
got from foreign parts; for it's always been my maxim that one penny in
England is worth twenty out of it."

"But," replied Amy, "some people are obliged to go, Stephen. I am sure
papa would not have done it if he could have helped it."

"Help or no help, 'tis what I can't understand," said Stephen. "Not that
I mean any disrespect to the colonel, Miss Amy, but it grieves me to
hear the people talk about your poor mamma's pale face."

"I don't think she looks so very pale," said Amy, feeling uncomfortable,
and yet hardly owning it to herself.

"The dwellers in the same house are not those to see the change,"
replied the old man; "but I don't mean to be vexing your young heart
before its time. Sorrow comes soon enough to all; and," he added,
reverently, "He who sends it will send His strength with it."

"That is what mamma says," answered Amy. "She is always begging me not
to look forward; but I do long to do it very often; and she would be so
happy if she could be sure when papa would come back."

"Look, Miss Amy," said Stephen, gathering a daisy from the grass, "do
you see that? Now, you might try, and so might I, and so might all the
great folks that ever lived,--we might all try all our lives, and we
never could make such a thing as that; and yet, you know, 'tis but a
tiny flower that nobody thinks about; and sometimes, when I get wishing
that things were different, I take up a daisy and look at it, till it
seems most wonderful how it should be made, and how it should live; and
then it comes into my head how many millions there are like it, and how
many plants, and trees, and insects, and animals, and living souls too,
and that God made them all,--all that are here, and all that are up
above (for I suppose there is no harm in thinking that there may be
such); and so at last, do you see, I don't only _know_, but I can
_feel_, that He is wise; and my heart gets quite light again, for I am
sure that He knows what is best; and as He has not told us what is to
come, 'tis but folly to wish about it."

"Well! Stephen," said Amy, "I really will try; but it is very hard
sometimes."

"Ah! yes," replied Stephen, "we all have something hard, Miss Amy; young
or old, there is always something. 'Twas hard for me when the master
went away and left the old house to itself, as you may say; and there
are some things that are hard now."

"What things?" asked Amy, as she almost stopped her donkey, and looked
eagerly into the old steward's face. "I thought you never would be
unhappy again when uncle Harrington came back."

"'Tis he, and 'tisn't he, that's come," replied Stephen. "There's a
change; but 'twas the foolishness of an old man's heart to think that it
wouldn't be so."

"But what is changed?" said Amy,

"Everything!" exclaimed Stephen; "the master, and madam, and the young
ladies, and all; only Mrs Bridget isn't a bit different."

"Oh, but Stephen, you know my cousins were so young when they went
away--of course they are altered."

"To be sure, Miss Amy, I wasn't so foolish as not to expect that; but I
did hope that the young ladies wouldn't be above coming to see one, and
talking a bit; and that the young gentleman (God bless him and keep him,
for he's the only one) would have been here, and that, perhaps, they
would have wanted a little teaching about the ponies. I had two of
the little Welsh ones brought in from the hills on purpose, and took a
pleasure in training them, but no one comes near me to look at them."

"If you would only mention it," said Amy, "I am sure my cousins would be
delighted."

"No," replied Stephen, "it's not in my way to put myself forward so,
for those who don't care to ask after me. If they had come down to the
cottage, and said a word to me or little Nelly, and then noticed that
the ponies were about there (for I keep them in the field), 'twould have
been all very well, and natural like; but I shall say nothing about
it now; only if master should inquire after any, he can have them. And
master Frank, too--'twill never be like the old times till there is a
young gentleman about the place."

"Frank is expected at Christmas," said Amy; "he went to stay with his
uncle, Sir Henry Charlton, after poor Edward died, because it was a
change for him; and he was so wretched; and since then he has been at
school."

"I'm growing old, Miss Amy," answered Stephen, "and Christmas is a long
time to look forward to. I don't mean to complain, only 'twould have
been a comfort to have seen him here with the rest, and perhaps have
kept me from thinking so much about him that's gone: but it's all right;
and," he added, more earnestly, as he brushed his hand hastily across
his eyes, "I would not have him back again,--no, not if I could see him
a king upon his throne."

"And does no one ever go to visit you, Stephen?" asked Amy, rather
sadly.

"Yes," he replied, "the young lady, Miss Morton, comes very often; and
though she is not one of the family, yet it does one good to see her,
and talk to her; and then, too, she brings the little one with her; and
sure enough she's the sweetest little cherub that ever was born."

"What, Rose?" said Amy. "Is she not a darling little thing?"

"I never saw but one before that I thought I could like better," said
Stephen, laying his hard sun-burnt hand on Amy's tiny fingers; "and that
one, I hope, God will bless, and keep for many a long day. But I must
not go on farther, for you don't get on so fast when I am walking with
you."

Amy pressed the old man's hand affectionately, begging him to come on
only a little way, for she hardly ever saw him now.

But Stephen was firm. He had gone to his usual point, a splendid oak,
commonly called the Baron's tree, from a tradition that it had been
planted when Emmerton was built; and it seemed almost as if a charm
would be broken if he went further. Amy stopped, and watched him till
he was out of sight, and then pursued her ride through the forest with a
sadder heart than she had begun it.

"You are late to-night, my love," said Mrs Herbert, as her little girl
dismounted from her donkey; "you forget that the days are beginning to
close in; and what makes you look so unhappy?"

"Oh! not much, mamma; only please don't stand here in the cold."

"You are so very suddenly careful of me," replied Mrs Herbert, smiling;
"is this the last thing you learned at the Hall?"

"No," answered Amy; "only Stephen says you look pale, and all the
village people say so too; but I don't think you are so now."

"I am much better to-night, my dear child," said Mrs Herbert. "You must
not listen to what every one says, and get frightened without reason."

Amy's spirits were revived in a moment, and she ran gaily into the
cottage, and in a very short time was seated by the fireside with her
mamma, recounting the incidents of the day; Miss Cunningham, and her
behaviour, her aunt's anger, and her own conversations with Dora and old
Stephen, furnishing quite sufficient materials for a long story. "There
were one or two things that my aunt told me, which I could not quite
understand," she said, after having repeated a great portion of the
lecture she had received. "What did she mean, mamma, by my knowing my
position, and speaking of me as if I were not one of the family? I am
her niece."

"Yes," replied Mrs Herbert; "but people think differently about their
families. Some persons consider that every one who is any relation at
all forms one of the family, and others only call those so who are their
own children."

"But my position," repeated Amy; "why is my position different from my
cousins? You are a lady, and papa is a gentleman."

"Compare this cottage with Emmerton," replied Mrs Herbert, "and then you
will see the difference, and why people in general would think more of
your cousins than of you."

A sudden pang shot through Amy's heart. "Dear mamma!" she exclaimed, "I
wish you would not say so."

"Why not, my dear? why must not that be said which is true?"

"It makes me uncomfortable," said Amy, "and wicked too, I am afraid. If
papa were to come home, should we be able to live in a larger house?"

"I do not know," answered her mother; "but if we could, I do not think
we should wish it."

"Ah! mamma, that is because you are so much better than I am. I never
used to think so till I saw my cousins at Emmerton; but I should like
very much to live in a place like that."

Mrs Herbert looked grave, yet she felt thankful that her child spoke
openly of her feelings, as it enabled her so much better to guide them.

"It is not only the house that I should enjoy," continued Amy, "but
I think people would love me better. Margaret did not seem to think
anything of me when Miss Cunningham was by; and when Lord Rochford and
my uncle came in, I thought every one had more business there than I
had. It was very kind in him to look at my drawings, but still I felt
nobody by the side of Dora and Margaret."

The conversation was here stopped by the entrance of Mr Walton, who
often came in at this time of the evening, on his return from his visits
in the parish. Amy was only half pleased to see him, for she would
willingly have talked much longer to her mamma alone; but her mind was
partly relieved by the confession she had made of her foolish wishes;
and Mrs Herbert's countenance brightened so much at the sight of him,
that she was soon reconciled to the interruption.

Mr Walton brought as usual several tales of distress and difficulty,
which Mrs Herbert, notwithstanding her limited income, was always the
first to relieve; and Amy, as she listened to the account of a widow
with six children, unable to pay her rent, a father on his sick bed,
totally unable to provide for his family, and other cases of a similar
kind, and then looked round upon the comfortable room in which she was
silting, with its bright curtains and carpet, its easy sofas and chairs,
and the preparations for tea upon the table, felt grieved and ashamed
that she should have allowed a pang of envy to render her for a single
moment insensible to her many blessings; and perhaps Mr Walton's parish
tales produced a greater effect than even her mother's words could have
done, for she went to bed that night far more contented than she had
been on her return from the Hall.




CHAPTER X.


Nothing more was said about the proposed visit to Rochford Park on Amy's
two following visits to Emmerton; and though her anxiety was great to
know if she were to be included in the party, she only ventured once to
ask Margaret two or three questions, and then received a short, abrupt
answer, that nothing was settled, and that it could not be any concern
of hers. The fact was, that Margaret disliked the notice which Lord
Rochford had taken of Amy, on the day he had spent at Emmerton; for she
had resolved in her own mind that she would be Miss Cunningham's friend
and companion, and her fears of a rival were considerably excited. Of
this, however, there was no occasion to be afraid. Amy felt not the
smallest inclination to be intimate with her new acquaintance; and her
only wish for being of the party was, that she might see Rochford Park,
which had always been described to her as one of the finest places in
England. Mrs Harrington did not appear at all likely to give her any
information, for whenever they met, which was but seldom, she only said
a few words more hastily and sharply than she had done before, in order
to show that she had not quite forgotten Amy's offence; and it was not
till the evening previous to the day which was at last fixed for going,
that any hope was given her of accompanying them.

"Take this note to your mamma," said Mrs Harrington, coming to the
hall-door just as Amy was about to set off; "and if she should say yes
to what I have asked, the carriage shall call for you at eleven; if not,
you had better come here by yourself, as usual; and you shall go with us
to Lord Rochford's; and we will take you home at night, though it will
be considerably out of our way."

Amy's gratitude even was subdued in her aunt's presence; but she did
manage to say something about being delighted; and then, carefully
depositing the precious note in the pocket of her saddle, she made her
donkey move at its quickest pace down the road.


Mrs Harrington turned away with the consciousness of having done a
disagreeable thing in a disagreeable manner. She had fully determined
upon not taking Amy, it would only crowd the carriage; and she did not
wish it to be considered a necessary thing, that where her daughters
went, her niece should go too; but a note, which she had that morning
received from Lord Rochford, expressly mentioning Amy, and adding a hope
that Mrs Herbert would be prevailed on to comply with Lady Rochford's
wishes, and join the party, left her no choice; and it was happy for Amy
that she did not know how very little her aunt desired her presence.

Mrs Harrington's note enclosed Lady Rochford's invitation, which Mrs
Herbert decided at once it would be better not to accept for herself;
but she did not object to Amy's going, though she feared that if
Emmerton in its quietness, and almost solemnity, excited her longings
after riches and grandeur, Rochford Park would probably have a still
greater effect. Yet, even if this were the case, she trusted that
she should be able to check the feeling; and she knew that the same
temptations were nearly certain to arise in after-years, when she would
not be at hand to put Amy on her guard against them.

Amy's delight was unmeasured. Her aunt's harsh looks, and Miss
Cunningham's disagreeable manners, were quite forgotten in the pleasure
she anticipated in going to a new place; and long before her usual hour
of rising she had been to the window several times to see if the weather
promised to be fine. The calm, gray mist of the morning was hardly what
she would have desired; but there was a joyousness in her own spirit
which made almost everything appear bright, and when at length the sun
broke slowly through its veil of clouds, shedding a clear line of light
over the distant hills, and then bursting forth in full radiance over
the richly-wooded country, and the cheerful village, Amy's heart bounded
within her, and again, as she recollected her feelings of envy on her
return from Emmerton, she sighed to think that she should have been so
ungrateful as to wish for anything beyond the enjoyments which God had
given her.

Punctuality was one of the virtues which Mrs Harrington strictly
enforced; and Amy almost trembled when she heard the clock strike eleven
as she rode up to the lodge. She knew also, that on this point her mamma
and aunt entirely agreed; and she had received many injunctions on
no account to delay on the road, and so be the means of keeping the
carriage waiting--and to have vexed her mother would have been even
worse than to have excited Mrs Harrington's anger. Happily, however,
there were some last orders to be given, which caused a delay of about
five minutes, and Amy had time to dismount, and join her cousins in the
schoolroom, before her aunt appeared.

She seemed more inclined to be kind than before; and Amy felt so much
reassured by her change of manner, that, although placed in the middle
of the back seat, between Dora and Margaret, and having Mrs Harrington's
face nearly opposite, she contrived to be extremely happy. It was only
necessary to be quite still and silent, to avoid giving offence; and
this to her was no punishment.

From being so much alone, she had learned the secret of amusing herself
with her own thoughts, and found them far more agreeable than the
effort of talking in a constrained way to her cousins. Dora and Margaret
willingly followed her example; the former from being rather in a sulky
mood, and the latter from finding her attempts at conversation useless.
The drive was consequently a quiet, but not a dull one; and the distance
appeared very short to Amy, though Dora had yawned at least four times,
and at last muttered that she could never think Miss Cunningham was
worth coming so far to see.

"I cannot say I want very much to see her either," replied Amy; "only
the place,--I would give anything to see that."

"Then look," said Dora, pointing to a long white building on the nearest
hill, "there it is, just to your right."

Amy looked eagerly, and fancied she saw something very grand, though
only the general outline could be discovered; but as she came nearer,
still keeping her eyes fixed upon it, she was quite satisfied that it
must be what it had been described--the most splendid nobleman's seat
in the county. "Oh!" she exclaimed, jumping up in the carriage; "it is,
yes, it really is more beautiful than Emmerton."

"Sit still, pray," said Dora; "you nearly trod upon my foot."

Amy reseated herself, and felt rebuked; but the next moment, as she
caught the full front of the house through an opening in the trees, she
forgot everything but her admiration, and again began expatiating upon
its beauty.

"Look, Dora! is it not lovely? it is so large, so much larger than
Emmerton, and then those beautiful pillars, and the broad steps with the
figures in front; it is just like a palace."

"A palace!" replied Dora; "what nonsense you talk, only because you have
never seen anything else like it. It is a very good gentleman's house;
but there are hundreds in England just as fine."

"I beg your pardon," said Mr Harrington; "there are very few places
which can in any degree compare with it."

"Wayland was nearly as large, papa," answered Dora, more gently than
usual; for her father's mildness had a much greater effect upon her than
her mother's sharpness.

Mr Harrington smiled. "Your affection for Wayland," he said, "causes you
to magnify it in a strange manner. I suppose it is scarcely more than
half the size."

Amy felt rather triumphant, and a little inclined to show it, but she
checked herself; and as they had now reached the park gate, a fresh
interest was excited in her mind, and she had no inclination to continue
the discussion.

If the exterior of the house had appeared imposing at a distance, it
lost none of its effect upon a nearer approach; and when, after driving
a considerable way through the park, the carriage at length stopped at
the side front, Amy's expectations were raised to the highest pitch,
though something of fear mingled with her pleasure as she thought of the
strangers she should probably see, and wondered whether she knew exactly
how it would be proper to behave.

Lord Rochford met them at the door, and expressed great pleasure at
their arrival; but Amy felt a little disappointed that he did not say
anything in particular to her, as her mamma had told her that he had
sent her a special invitation; but Lord Rochford was at that moment
too much occupied in doing the honours of his house to Mr and Mrs
Harrington, and too anxious to point out the improvements he had made,
and hear them pronounced perfect, to think of her.

Poor Amy felt lost and bewildered as they entered the splendid hall,
with its painted ceiling, and pillars of Italian marble, and then passed
on through long suites of rooms furnished in the most sumptuous manner,
some hung with delicate silk, and glittering with gilded cornices and
costly ornaments, and others crowded with rare pictures and richly-bound
books, while sofas, ottomans, cabinets, and tables of the most exquisite
workmanship gave an air of comfort to what would otherwise have appeared
only desolate grandeur. It seemed to her like fairyland. Emmerton, and
its deep windows, and handsome but sombre furniture, at once sank into
insignificance; and she no longer wondered that Miss Cunningham had been
little inclined to admire anything there, when she could compare with it
the gorgeousness of her own home.

It seemed strange, too, that her uncle and aunt could see it all without
apparently noticing it. They walked quickly on, as if only wishing
that there were fewer rooms to go through; Dora followed, looking round
certainly, but not giving any symptoms of admiration; and Amy found that
her feelings were shared by no one excepting Margaret, who, however,
was more engaged in spying out what she called "odd things," and peeping
into the books which lay on the table, than in anything else.

"I think I must leave you young ones here," said Lord Rochford, opening
a door which led into a small hall with French windows fronting the
pleasure-ground. "These are Lucy's own rooms; and she and madame will
take great care of you, while Mrs Harrington pays a visit to Lady
Rochford. I am afraid she is not well enough this morning to receive you
all."

Amy wondered for an instant who madame could be; but she was not left
long in doubt: for immediately behind Miss Cunningham, who came
forward to receive them, appeared her French governess, a tall, thin,
inelegant-looking person, with a good-natured, merry face, a dress made
in the newest Parisian fashion, and a cap which seemed formed rather
for the purpose of receiving a certain quantity of ribbon and artificial
flowers, than as any covering to the black wig which it only half
concealed. Amy felt very much amused, and would perhaps have smiled, had
she not remembered that there was something unfeeling, independent
of its being unladylike, in turning a foreigner into ridicule; but
Margaret's merriment was almost audible, as madame placed chairs for
them, hoped in broken English they were not fatigued with their drive,
and then, with a swimming French curtsey, vanished from the room.

"That is your governess, is it?" said Dora, almost before the door was
closed, in a tone which plainly spoke her opinion of her.

"Yes," replied Miss Cunningham, "she is the most good-natured creature
in the world; and I am so fond of her. She speaks French beautifully."

"Not a first-rate qualification for a native," said Dora.

"Oh! but she paints flowers, too, and sings."

"Sings!" repeated Margaret; "but she is so old."

"Indeed! no, she is not. She sings and plays the guitar; and she is
teaching me--papa has just bought me a new one." And Miss Cunningham
took up a richly-inlaid instrument, with a long blue ribbon attached to
it, and began striking some false notes which she called chords.

"I don't like the guitar," said Dora, "unless it is played beautifully."

"Oh! but madame is quite a superior performer; and she says I have made
a wonderful proficiency, considering the few lessons I have had. She
practises a great deal, not in this room, for I can't bear the twang,
but in the next, which is her own. This is my study, and the little one
within I call my boudoir." Here Miss Cunningham looked round, apparently
expecting some flattering observation to be made; and of course all eyes
were immediately directed to the room and its furniture. Dora's gaze was
the most fixed and earnest, and when it was ended, she played with her
parasol, and was silent; but Margaret declared that everything she saw
was delightful--the chintz furniture such an extremely pretty pattern,
the tables so well placed, the piano so very handsome, and the view from
the window so lovely--that Amy found there was nothing left for her to
say; and feeling a great dislike to merely echoing Margaret's words,
she contented herself with expressing what she really thought--"that
it looked very pretty and comfortable"--and then amused herself with
Margaret's panegyrics. Miss Cunningham probably would have talked long
without weariness on this favourite topic; but Dora's patience was soon
exhausted; and she at last interrupted a question of Margaret's, which
she foresaw would lead to one of Miss Cunningham's long dissertations
upon herself and the splendour of her family mansion, by asking whether
they were to go out before dinner.

"We dine at four, altogether," replied Miss Cunningham; "so we had
better, I suppose." And then, turning to Margaret, she began, as Dora
had feared, not merely an answer, but a history. There was no resource
but to sit still and endure it; and when at length it ended, to Dora's
great relief, Miss Cunningham prepared to show them through the grounds.

Amy soon found that the uncomfortable feelings she had experienced at
Emmerton were beginning to return. She almost envied Dora her proud
indifference; for though Miss Cunningham took little notice of her, it
was quite evident that she did not wish for attention; but Amy could not
be happy as one of the party, when no one spoke to her, or even appeared
to recollect that she was present. The grounds were very extensive, and
something lovely opened at every turn; but she felt neglected, and not
all the costly flowers and shrubs in the garden, or the beautiful birds
in the aviary, nor even the bright sunshine itself, could make her
forget that she was with persons who did not think it worth while to
interest themselves about her.

Perhaps the very charm of the place only increased her uneasiness. It
was so rich and brilliant, that it seemed more than to realise all she
could possibly desire; but there was no hope that her father would
ever possess anything like it--it was to be looked upon, but not to be
enjoyed; and as she remembered the tale of Aladdin's lamp, she longed
that it could be hers but for one moment, that she might raise a palace,
not for herself but her mamma, which should be in every respect like
Rochford Park. These dreams so absorbed Amy's mind that she paid but
little attention to what passed between Margaret and Miss Cunningham;
for they were the only two who conversed, Dora being too grand to make
any remarks beyond what were absolutely necessary. At length, however,
she was struck by Miss Cunningham's exclaiming, in rather a more
energetic tone than usual, "Pray, has your mamma mentioned anything to
you about the new plan?"

"Plan," repeated Margaret. "No. What do you mean?"

"Oh! the plan about our going to London."

"We can have nothing to do with that," said Margaret.

"Yes, you have; it is your plan as well as ours."

"But what do you mean," continued Margaret; "I never heard a word about
it before."

"Why, you know," said Miss Cunningham, "that papa and my brother
generally go to town in the spring, and leave mamma, and me, and madame,
here, because there is some fancy about its suiting mamma better; and
dreadfully dull it is. But now I am growing so old, they think it quite
right that I should have some one better to teach me than poor madame;
and mamma has promised to let me go to London after Easter, and one of
my aunts is to be with me, and I am to see everything, and have lessons
in everything."

"But that is no concern of ours," said Margaret; "and Easter is so far
off."

"It does concern you, though," replied Miss Cunningham, "for papa has
got it into his head that I shall learn much better if I can get some
other girls to have lessons with me. He says it will be much more
amusing, and I shall like it better; and so be has been trying to
persuade your mamma to let you go up too, and then the same masters will
do for all."

"Then that is what Lord Rochford meant the other day," said Amy, "when
he talked about a plan, and begged aunt Harrington to mention it to
mamma."

"Did he wish you to go too?" asked Miss Cunningham.

The words of this question were very simple; but the tone of it showed
plainly that the idea was not agreeable; and Amy felt quite abashed, and
answered hurriedly, that she did not know what was wished, for that no
more had been said upon the subject.

"Won't it be delightful?" said Miss Cunningham to Margaret; "We shall be
together so much, and shall go to the theatre; and, perhaps there will
be some parties for girls of our age; you know there are such things."

"It would be all very nice if there were any chance of it," replied
Margaret.

"And why should there not be?" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, who had never
dreamt of any obstacle to a wish of her father's.

"Because," said Margaret, "mamma will not allow it."

"And why not? what objection can she have?"

"She will not let us go while Emily Morton is with us," said Margaret,
"because she does not think it necessary. Before she came, I often used
to hear her talk of taking us to London for masters, but now she never
mentions it; and it was only yesterday I heard her say that we had
greater advantages at present than we possibly could have by any other
means."

"Oh! but that is all nonsense," said Miss Cunningham, "Just let papa
talk to her for ten minutes, and she will soon come round."

"You don't know mamma," replied Dora, who, being very firm and decided
herself, particularly admired decision in others. "If she does not
approve of the plan, all the world might talk to her, and it would have
no effect."

"But why does Miss Morton stay with you?" asked Miss Cunningham. "Are
you very fond of her?"

"Fond of her!" exclaimed Margaret. "No, indeed; it would rejoice my
heart to see her fairly out of the house."

"It would not mine," said Amy, whose spirit was roused at hearing a
person she loved so mentioned.

A moment before Dora would have taken Miss Morton's part, but she
could not bear Amy to interfere as if it were her business; and, in an
irritated voice, she asked, what it could possibly signify whether she
liked Miss Morton or not.

"Nothing," replied Amy, gently; "only I am very fond of her?"

"Then I wish you would keep her," said Margaret. "I shall dislike her
more than ever, now; for I shall always think she is preventing us from
going to London."

"But why don't you persuade your mamma to get rid of her?" exclaimed
Miss Cunningham. "Madame would not stay an hour in the house if I did
not like her."

"Ah, but it is very different with us," replied Margaret. "Mamma will
have her own way about it; she knows very well that we dislike Emily,
and she is always finding fault with her, herself; but when it came to
the point I am certain she would say no. And then, too, both papa and
mamma hate London, and would be very glad of an excuse for not going."

"But do you really think," asked Miss Cunningham, "that if it were not
for Miss Morton they would be obliged to do it?"

"Yes; at least they always said so before Emily came."

"Well! if you are quite sure of that, I can see no reason why we should
not try and manage the matter between us."

"Hush!" exclaimed Margaret, who observed that Amy seemed quite aghast at
the cool way in which this was said; "there is no use in speaking about
it now. Is that your dinner-bell?"

"Yes; but there is no hurry; do promise to talk to your mamma. I am sure
papa will do all he can--we should be so happy together in London."

"Without Emily Morton," said Margaret; "it would drive me wild to feel
she was always tacked on to me."

"Oh Margaret! how unkind you are!" exclaimed Amy. "You know Miss Morton
is always trying to please every one, and she never gets out of temper."

"Miss Morton pets you till she makes you as disagreeable as she is
herself," said Margaret, angrily.

Amy for an instant was strongly inclined to retort; but she did not give
way to the feeling, and, preferring to walk behind with Dora, did not
speak again till they reached the house. Margaret and Miss Cunningham
immediately began a low, and apparently a very interesting conversation;
for it was continued at intervals even when they were dressing for
dinner, though, whenever Dora or Amy approached them, they broke off
abruptly, looking very mysterious, as if the fate of the world depended
on no person's knowing what they were talking of. But Amy thought little
about them, being entirely engrossed with the dread of dining for the
first time at what appeared to her a regular party. The feeling had been
lurking in her mind during the whole day, but the novelty of all she had
seen had distracted her attention. Now, however, the awful moment was
drawing near; and even her desire to see everything, and her admiration
of the house and furniture, could not prevent her from wishing that she
could transport herself back to the cottage just till dinner was over.
She felt also quite overpowered by Miss Cunningham's dress, and the
profusion of brooches and chains, with which she adorned herself,
turning them over one by one, with an air of the utmost indifference;
and then, finding that her visitors did not make any observation,
calling to them to ask their opinion as to which suited her best. Dora
took care to object to almost all, or to compare them with something
more splendid belonging to other people; but Amy, who had never yet
seen such beautiful things worn by a person so young, expressed her
admiration very openly; and then, as she caught sight of her plain silk
frock in the large looking-glass, wondered whether Lady Rochford would
think it very strange that she was not dressed equally well.

"May I sit by you, Dora?" she whispered, as they went down-stairs.

"I can't tell," replied Dora; "it will depend upon how we go in to
dinner."

"But what shall I do?" asked Amy. "Do you think any one will speak to
me?" Dora laughed; but when she looked at her cousin, she saw that her
eyes were almost filled with tears. "I am so frightened," continued Amy,
"I know I shall do something very wrong, and then every one will stare
at me. If I might only stay in the drawing-room----"

"Every one would stare at you a great deal more then," replied Dora;
"besides, there is no party; there will be only Lord and Lady Rochford,
and Mr Cunningham and ourselves."

"Mr Cunningham!" said Amy. "Is he very old?"

"Oh yes, quite grown up," replied Dora. "But you need not trouble
yourself about him, for I daresay he will not speak to you; and, if he
does, you won't understand him."

Amy recollected having heard Dora mention Mr Cunningham's peculiar voice
before; and she was on the point of asking her to explain what was the
matter with it, but they were standing at the drawing-room door, and
there was no time.

Lady Rochford was seated on the sofa, talking to Mrs Harrington; and
Amy was instantly struck with the likeness between her and her daughter.
There was the same sandy hair, the same dull eye, the same fair
complexion, the only difference being in the greater softness of
expression, and the lines which continual illness and additional years
had worn in her face. Her dress, too, was very youthful; and it was
difficult for a stranger to believe that she could possibly be the
mother of the tall, gentlemanly young man, who stood by her side,
apparently intent upon examining the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Lady
Rochford's manner, however, had none of Miss Cunningham's scornfulness;
her temper was very sweet, and it was her wish to make everyone
about her happy; and if she did sometimes fail, it was more from over
attention, and insisting upon their enjoying themselves in her way
rather than in their own, than from any other cause. Amy felt relieved
by the kindness with which she spoke to her, and almost happy when she
had contrived to hide herself behind Dora, and could look at what was
going on without being observed; and dinner being announced almost
immediately, she kept close by her side, hoping that, after all, she
might not find it as terrible as she had expected. But her hope was soon
crushed. There was a slight confusion as they went into the dining-room;
no one seemed to know exactly where to place themselves; and Amy
was obliged to leave Dora, and take the vacant seat between her aunt
Harrington and Mr Cunningham.

"George, you will take care of your little neighbour," said Lord
Rochford; "do find out what she would like to have."

The silent Mr Cunningham turned to Amy, and spoke; but whether his words
were English, French, or German, it would have been impossible for her
in her fright to have told. By persons who were well acquainted with
him, he was very easily understood; but, in consequence of a defect in
the formation of his mouth, his articulation was so indistinct, as to be
almost unintelligible to strangers; and Amy looked at him, with mingled
fear and surprise. Again he endeavoured to render his meaning clear; but
not a word could Amy comprehend, though, guessing what he would say,
she faltered, "Chicken, if you please," and then looked at her aunt,
and blushed painfully, from the idea that she had done exactly the
very thing she ought not. Mr Cunningham apparently was very desirous of
seeing her comfortable; for, during dinner, he made a point of offering
her everything on the table which he thought she might like; and each
time he opened his lips Amy's distress revived. But the climax of
misery was, when, after the dessert being placed on the table, he seemed
inclined to enter into conversation with her. Happily she caught the
words, "live at Emmerton," in his first sentence, and contrived
to answer it correctly; but as he went on, the confusion of sound
increased, and, perfectly bewildered between endeavouring to make out
the meaning of the last question and the dread of hearing a new one, she
continued to repeat "Yes" and "No," at regular intervals, resolving
in her own mind that it would be better to live at the cottage all her
life, even if it were twice as small, and she were never to see any one,
than be condemned to the penance of talking to Mr Cunningham.

Her cousins, from the opposite side of the table, watched her with
considerable amusement, though, after a short time, Dora's compassion
was much excited, and once or twice she attempted to help her, by partly
repeating the question when she understood it better than Amy; but
this only served to increase Mr Cunningham's desire to make himself
intelligible, and the eagerness with which he went over the ground
again, rendered the sounds only the more perplexing, so that Dora was
obliged to resign Amy to her fate, and wait with patience till Lady
Rochford should move.

The looked-for moment did at last arrive, and Amy's spirits rose like
those of a prisoner released from captivity; for nearly at the last
moment, having answered "Yes," when she ought to have said "No," she
found a large bunch of grapes placed upon her plate, and, not liking to
confess she had misunderstood, and still less liking to eat them, she
was obliged to leave them, and went out, wondering whether Mr Cunningham
would remark it, and, if he did, what he would think of her.

The evening was but short, and to Amy it was rather stupid. Margaret
and Miss Cunningham left the room together soon after dinner, and only
appeared again when they were summoned to tea. Lady Rochford talked a
good deal to Dora, and asked her to play and sing; but she said very
little to Amy, except that observing her interested in a book of prints,
which Miss Cunningham had brought before dinner for Margaret to see, she
declared that it must be much more agreeable to her to look at a cabinet
of minerals; and, taking the book away, Amy was obliged, for the next
half hour, to turn over a number of drawers filled with odd-shaped
stones, and pieces of iron and copper, about which she knew nothing, and
cared less.

There was some pleasure, notwithstanding, for there was no necessity
to admire them, and she could stand with them in her hand, and amuse
herself with the other things in the room, since no one took any notice
of her; but the marked difference between herself and her cousins, had
never been so observable before. Even the servants overlooked her, and
forgot to offer her any coffee; and her wishes of the morning returned
with redoubled vigour. Not that she would have been Miss Cunningham, for
her own mother was a treasure beyond all price; she would only willingly
have given her an equal share of the world's riches and grandeur. Mr
Cunningham did not come into the drawing-room till tea was nearly over;
but Lord Rochford and Mr Harrington soon joined them, and the former
immediately began urging upon Mrs Harrington the importance of acceding
to the plan he had mentioned at Emmerton.

Amy saw that her aunt was annoyed by the subject being named so openly,
for she remarked immediately that it was time for them to prepare for
returning; and though Dora and Margaret lingered as long as they could
to hear what was said, she preserved perfect silence until they were
gone.

"Mamma will say no," exclaimed Margaret; "I could see it by the way she
bit her lip."

"And papa will make her say yes," replied Miss Cunningham. "He never
gives up anything he has set his heart on."

"Then there is one good thing," said Dora; "they will have a subject of
interest to discuss for the remainder of their lives. You might just as
easily move this wall as mamma."

"I shall never rest till it is settled," continued Miss Cunningham;
"fancy the delight of being in London, and driving about in the parks,
and seeing all the shops, and buying whatever one likes. I shall give
all my old dresses to my maid; for I am determined to have quite a new
set of my own choosing."

"It would be very nice," said Margaret, with a sigh of hopeless regret;
"and to think that that pale-faced, black-haired Emily Morton should be
the only thing to stand in the way."

"Ah!" said Miss Cunningham, significantly, "we will see about that," and
some more whispering went on between her and Margaret.

Amy did not remark this conversation; but she said in a low voice to
Dora, "Does Mr Cunningham go to town with them always?"

"Yes," answered Dora, laughing; "and you must go to town too, to learn
his language. French, Italian, German, and double-Dutch,--what an
accomplished person you will be!"

"I don't mean to be unkind to him," said Amy; "but it would take off a
great deal of my pleasure."

"Oh no, it would not; it is only because you are not accustomed to
him--every one in the house understands him."

"Do they? but then they are older. Oh Dora! you cannot think how
frightened I was. I was so afraid he would think me rude and unfeeling."

"I should have been afraid of laughing," said Dora; "I never heard such
an extraordinary voice in my life."

"Perhaps I might have laughed if he had not been so kind; and then it
vexes mamma so, if I ever ridicule a person's misfortunes; she says that
we never can tell when the same things may be sent to ourselves."

Dora was thoughtful for a minute; at length she said, "You are so
grave about things, Amy; it is not human nature not to laugh at such
oddities."

"But," replied Amy, "mamma says we have two natures, a good one and a
bad one, and that human nature is the bad one."

"Two natures!" exclaimed Dora, "what can you mean?"

"I wish you would ask mamma some day," answered Amy; "she would tell you
so much better than I can."

"She would find it so much trouble," said Dora, sadly; "I have not been
taught like you." And she turned hastily away, and, scolding Margaret
for being so slow in getting ready, declared it would not do to wait any
longer, and ran down-stairs.

It was a happy thing for Amy that her dread of Mr Cunningham prevented
her from indulging to its full extent the wish of accompanying her
cousins to London, if Mr Harrington should consent to their going;
but the incidents of the day had been quite sufficient to excite
her imagination to the utmost. The magnificence of Rochford Park had
realised many of her gayest dreams; and while her uncle and aunt, and
her cousins, giving way to the weariness consequent on a long day,
composed themselves to sleep, she felt quite at liberty to build a
castle in the air, which should have all the splendour of the princely
mansion they had left, without the drawback of its inhabitants. In a few
moments she was living at a park, with her father returned from India,
her mother in perfect health and happiness, and her cousins and Emily
Morton on a visit to them. The house was filled with company; there were
pleasant drives and rides, a pony for herself and a pony-chaise for her
mamma, handsome dinners, and amusements of every kind for her father's
visitors; and the chapel was also thought of, but it seemed inconsistent
with her other dreams, and she could not decide upon its being used
every day--perhaps once a-week would be sufficient. Then again the scene
changed to London--to handsome shops, and beautiful dresses, and rich
ornaments, just like Miss Cunningham's; and the delight of going to a
play when she liked, having constantly new books, and being able to
make presents to all her friends; and in the midst of this vision of
grandeur, the carriage stopped at the little white gate of Emmerton
cottage. Her mother's voice recalled her to herself; but even its
much-loved gentle tone could not at that instant entirely content her.
A feeling of dissatisfaction with everything had taken possession of her
mind, and the gaiety of her spirit was fled.

But few words passed between Mrs Herbert and her brother, Mrs Harrington
complaining of being extremely cold, and objecting to the horses being
kept standing; and Amy was not sorry for this, as she longed to be quiet
with her mamma after the excitement of the day. Her spirits, however,
were too much depressed to be again roused even by the interest of
talking over all she had done and seen; and after a few attempts at
answering her mamma's questions, she gave it up in despair, and burst
into tears. Mrs Herbert guessed directly what was the matter, on finding
that Amy could assign no reason for her distress. Her cousins had not
been unkind, her aunt had not been angry, she had seen everything she
expected; but she was quite tired, and this was the only account she
could give. "I suspect a night's rest will be the most certain means of
making you feel happy again, my love," said Mrs Herbert; "suppose you
prepare to go to bed, and I will hear all you can tell me to-morrow."

"I should like very much to talk to you to-night," replied Amy, almost
sobbing; "I am very unhappy, but I cannot tell why."

"At any rate," continued her mother, "it would be better to wait a
little while, and when you are ready to read, you shall come to my room,
and then you can say all you wish, and go to bed afterwards with your
mind at ease."

"But I would rather say it now," answered Amy, "if I only knew how to
begin. I don't think, mamma, it makes me happy seeing fine places."

"Because you wish they were your own; is that the reason?"

"I long for them very much," replied Amy; "but, mamma, I have told you
all about it before."

"Yes, my dear child, so you have; but knowing that you have told me
before, will not ease your mind now."

"Only that I don't like repeating it all over again," said Amy; "it
seems as if all you had said had done me no good."

"It takes a very long time to make any one good," answered her mother,
"so you must not be disheartened even if you do find the same bad
feelings returning again and again. I daresay you have been dreaming
of having a large house like Rochford Park, and quantities of money to
spend just as you please; and now, when you find you must be contented
with a small house, and very little money, you are unhappy."

"I don't want it all for myself," said Amy.

"But even for others," replied Mrs Herbert; "you desire to give them
something that God has thought fit they should not have; which do you
think knows best what is good?"

"Oh mamma! indeed I am sure that God is wiser than any one; but I cannot
help wishing."

"Do you remember, Amy, the promise you have so often repeated to me; I
mean the promise made for you at your baptism; that you would renounce
'the pomps and vanities of this wicked world?'"

"But, mamma, I do not want any pomp; I should not care to be a queen;
and it would make me miserable to have anything to do with what was
wicked."

"My dear," said Mrs Herbert, "the pomps and vanities of the world are
different to different people. If Susan Reynolds, for instance, were
anxious to live in this cottage, and wear a silk dress like yours, she
would be longing for pomps and vanities, because she would be coveting
something beyond her station; and so, when you are desiring to live at
Emmerton or Rochford Park, you are equally wrong."

"Then why does my uncle live at such a large place, and have so many
servants and carriages, if he has promised to renounce them?" asked Amy.
"Is it wicked?"

"No," answered Mrs Herbert, "it is not wicked in him, because they are
things proper to the station in which God has placed him. A king must
live in grandeur, so must a nobleman,--it is befitting their dignity;
and private gentlemen, when they have large fortunes, are obliged to do
the same, only in a less degree. But such persons have a very difficult
task assigned them, as it is almost incumbent upon them to maintain a
certain degree of splendour in their style of living; and yet God
will assuredly one day call them strictly to account for any wilful
extravagance or self-indulgence."

"But why was the promise made for them, if they never can keep it?" said
Amy.

"Because," replied her mother, "renouncing does not mean that we are to
give up all the blessings which God has bestowed upon us; but it does
mean that we are not to pride ourselves upon them, or rest our happiness
on them, or covet more than we possess. It means that we should use
them entirely for the benefit of our fellow-creatures, that we should
be perfectly willing to part with them if God were to require it, and
should be as happy in a cottage with only bread to eat, as we should be
in a palace."

"Oh mamma! no one can feel so."

"Look, Amy," said Mrs Herbert, taking up the Bible which she had been
reading during her child's absence; "have you never seen this before?
'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!'
and 'It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a
rich man to enter into the kingdom of God' (Luke xviii. 24, 25). These
are our Saviour's words; do you think that any one who really believed
they were true could wish for riches?"

Amy hid her face on her mother's shoulder, and her tears again fell
fast. Mrs Herbert went on. "It is quite necessary, my dear child," she
said, "that you should learn what you wish for, before you indulge in
any dreams of greatness. You are desiring what, our Saviour says, makes
it almost impossible for a person to enter into heaven; and you
yourself have just acknowledged that it must be the case. I told you the
disposition of mind which God requires of us; that, if we have riches,
we should be ready in a moment to part with them, and be quite contented
without them, and you immediately exclaimed that it could not be; and
yet God will not own us as His children unless we have this spirit, or
at least strive very hard to obtain it."

"Mamma," said Amy, in a low voice, "indeed, I will try not to wish any
more."

"I am sure you will, my love," replied her mother; "and I am sure, also,
that if you pray to God, He will assist you; but it will require very
many attempts before you can succeed. And will you remember, also, how
vain and foolish it is for those who are the children of God, and look
forward to living with Him in heaven, to set their hearts upon anything
this world can give? You would laugh if you saw a person who was one day
to possess a kingdom, sighing for a little cottage, or a small garden;
but the most glorious kingdom that could be given us here, even the
world itself, is nothing when compared with what God has promised us
hereafter."

"If I could but see it for one moment," said Amy, "I should never wish
again."

"Yes," answered her mother, "if we were to see it, our difficulty would
be at an end; but God has placed us here to try us, to prove whether we
will believe that we shall have what He has promised, though whilst
we are on earth it is hidden from us. If I told you that to-morrow you
would have a splendid present made you, but that I could not show it to
you to-day, would you not believe me?"

"Oh yes," replied Amy, "you always keep your word."

"And if I read to you in God's Word, the description of the beautiful
home in which, our Saviour tells us, we shall one day live, will you not
believe Him?" But Amy did not answer, for her heart was full. "I will
not talk any more to you now, my dear child," continued Mrs Herbert:
"but I will read to you presently those two concluding chapters in the
last book in the Bible, which you have only occasionally heard. They
will do far more to calm your mind than anything I can say."

Amy went to her room; and the last sound that mingled with her dreams,
was her mother's gentle voice, as she sat by the bedside, describing to
her, in the words of the Bible, the blessedness of that glorious city,
which shall have no "need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in
it; for the glory of God shall lighten it, and the Lamb shall be the
light thereof."




CHAPTER XI.


The autumn months passed quickly away, and brought but little change in
Amy's life, except that her visits to Emmerton became less frequent,
as the uncertainty of the weather obliged her to depend more upon her
uncle's carriage; but she still practised her music under her mother's
direction, and copied Miss Morton's drawings at home, and made up by
diligence for the superior advantages which her cousins enjoyed. The
London plan had been often mentioned, but, as Margaret foretold, Mrs
Harrington was decidedly opposed to it, and became at last quite annoyed
whenever any reference was made to it; and the idea would probably
have completely died away, had it not been for Miss Cunningham, who,
notwithstanding the distance between Emmerton and the Park, contrived
to be a very constant visitor; and whenever she appeared, London was
invariably the theme of conversation. There needed no description,
however, to excite Margaret's wishes, and Dora would have been equally
anxious, if her dislike to Miss Cunningham had not prevented her from
entering into any scheme of enjoyment in which she was to participate.
But Miss Cunningham's earnestness on the subject did not exhaust itself
in mere words. Her first object had been to induce her papa to urge
the scheme on Mrs Harrington as often as they met, and when, after many
trials, this was found to fail, the only thing that remained was to get
rid of the one great obstacle, Emily Morton. Lord Rochford was persuaded
to criticise her drawings, to find fault with her style of playing, and
to declare that her voice was extremely indifferent, in the hope that
Mrs Harrington might at last yield to the necessity of having better
instruction for her daughters. But Mrs Harrington was not so easily
deceived; she was far too good a judge of both music and drawing, to be
influenced by what Lord Rochford said, and only answered him with cool
indifference in public, and laughed at his ignorance in private. Yet
Margaret and her friend did not despair. There was one resource left;
though Mrs Harrington could not be persuaded to part with Miss Morton,
Miss Morton might be induced to leave Mrs Harrington; and when this
notion entered their heads, a series of petty persecutions commenced
according to a plan that had been determined on at Rochford Park, which,
with any other disposition, could hardly have failed of success. But
Miss Morton was invulnerable; she felt that it was her duty to remain
at Emmerton; and without paying any attention to looks and inuendoes,
or even open words, she pursued her round of daily duties with the same
unruffled temper, the same cheerful smile, as if her life had been one
of uninterrupted happiness. The only difference observable was during
Miss Cunningham's visits, when she generally spent as much of her time
with Rose in her own room as was possible; and this, quite as much on
the little girl's account as on her own; for Miss Cunningham, having
just cleverness sufficient to discover that Rose was Miss Morton's
great interest and anxiety, endeavoured to interfere with her in every
possible way, distracting her attention from anything in which she might
be engaged, and teazing her so much, that even Dora's indignation was
at length roused. Of all this, Amy saw but little. The days were now so
short that she had only time to take her lesson and return home; but
she could not help observing it occasionally, and then longed to be Miss
Morton's friend, and to be a comfort to her; and still more did she wish
that Emily could be often with her mamma, and be enabled to tell her all
she was suffering. But to this there was an obstacle, which Miss Morton
would have felt, though Amy was not sensible of it. To have repeated
all that passed at Emmerton, would have been in her eyes betraying
the secrecy in some degree necessary in private life, and to Mrs
Harrington's sister it would have been quite impossible. If there was a
complaint to be made, Mrs Harrington was the person to whom to apply for
the remedy; and if she did not choose to do this, it could not be right
to seek assistance from any other person; and thus, day after day, Emily
bore silently and meekly the scorn of folly and ignorance, with but one
Friend to guide her, one hope to cheer her, and yet feeling that that
Friend and that hope were sufficient in all things for her comfort.
Mrs Herbert's interest in Miss Morton had been much excited by Amy's
account, and she was induced to think over many plans that might render
her life happier. The undertaking, however, was a difficult one, for
it was impossible to intrude on her confidence; and there were few
opportunities for gaining it, as Mrs Harrington always made some
objection to her going to the cottage. Perhaps she feared that Miss
Morton's history of her life at Emmerton might not sound favourably in
her sister's ears; but, whatever might be the cause, the dislike became
so apparent, that Mrs Herbert gave up all hope of being useful, until
the idea of an introduction to Mrs Walton suggested itself to her mind.
In her Miss Morton would find everything that she could require; warm
affection, superior judgment, and the advice and sympathy which Mrs
Herbert's position rendered it impossible to give; and with such a
friend at hand, there would be comparatively little to fear for Emily's
comfort.

Of Mrs Walton's willingness to cultivate the acquaintance, Mrs Herbert
had no doubt. It seemed impossible, indeed, that any one could look at
Emily Morton without feeling the deepest interest in her; yet the charm
was not that of mere personal beauty; many might have criticised the
colour of her hair and eyes, and found fault with her pale, transparent
complexion, but none could be insensible to the simple grace of her
manner, the musical sweetness of her voice, and, above all, the calm,
soft, expression of countenance, which was but the outward sign of that
"meek and quiet spirit," which, the Bible says, "is in the sight of God
of great price." Without Mrs Herbert's recommendation Emily would
have been a welcome visitor at the rectory; but with it, Mrs Walton's
feelings were so much excited in her favour, that even Amy was quite
satisfied as to her being properly appreciated, though she still longed
that her mamma could know her more intimately.

But Miss Morton was not Amy's only object of compassion at the Hall.
As Christmas approached, Dora's spirits evidently sank; she became more
silent and abstracted, took little interest in what was passing, and,
if any remark was made upon her low spirits, either roused herself to
a forced gaiety, or shut herself up in her own room, and remained there
for a considerable time. Amy longed to ask what was the matter, but she
did not dare; and they now met so seldom, that the hope of discovering
it seemed vain. It was therefore a cause of satisfaction to her,
independent of her own enjoyment, to hear that it was Mr Harrington's
wish, that the week before and the week after Christmas should be spent
by her mamma and herself at Emmerton, as she was certain the arrangement
would give pleasure to Emily Morton, and thought it possible that her
mamma might be some comfort to her cousin. Dora was the first to give
her the intelligence; but although she declared it would be very nice
to have Amy staying there, and expressed a hope that her aunt would be
comfortable, she did not really seem to care much about it.

"It will not be gay as it used to be at Wayland," she said; "there
we always had the house full of people, but now there are only a few
coming, whom I know nothing about. I believe we are to have some boys
and two or three girls, but we have scarcely ever seen them. Two of
the boys are the young Dornfords, and, besides, there will be the Miss
Stanleys, and Mary Warner, and the little Danvers; but I shall hate it,
for I don't know what we shall do with them."

"Frank will amuse Mr Dornford's boys," said Amy, who knew all
their names, though she had never been accustomed to visit in the
neighbourhood.

"Yes! but Frank is not used to it."

"Don't look so very unhappy, dear Dora," replied Amy, "I cannot bear to
see it; you always seem out of spirits now, and I would give anything in
the world if I could help you."

"Would you?" said Dora, looking at her earnestly; "that is more than
half the people I know would say."

"But it is true; only, of course, I cannot be any good to you."

"No one can be any good to me now; I knew I should be wretched when
Christmas came."

"But why?" asked Amy.

"Oh! never mind," said Dora, rather hastily, "I cannot talk about it;
please don't say anything to anybody."

"But if you would talk to some one else, would not that help you?"

"Whom should I talk to?" said Dora.

"Do you never tell your mamma when you are unhappy?" continued Amy,
though she felt that to have asked for sympathy from Mrs Harrington in
her own case would have been impossible.

"Talk to mamma!" exclaimed Dora; "why, I could more easily be miserable
all the days of my life; besides," she added, "I said no one could help
me; no one can bring back----," the sentence remained unfinished, for
her voice was choked, and her eyes were blinded with tears.

Amy had always hitherto felt in a certain degree afraid of showing any
affection to Dora--her manner was in general so cold, that she never
knew how far it would be returned; but the sight of her present distress
was quite sufficient to overcome every feeling of the kind, and, putting
her arm round her cousin's neck, she said very gently, "But he is so
happy now."

Dora hid her face in her hands, and did not answer for several minutes;
at last, rousing herself with a great effort, she said, "Amy, I am very
cross to you sometimes."

"Oh no!" replied Amy, "don't think about that; you know we are all cross
occasionally."

"He was never cross to any one," said Dora, in a voice so low, that it
sounded as if she were speaking to herself.

"Miss Morton told me how good and kind he was," replied Amy, "and how
miserable you were when he was taken ill."

"Did she?" exclaimed Dora, with interest; "I did not know she ever
thought about me."

"Oh Dora! indeed, I am sure she does think about you a great deal, and
would love you very much, if----"

"If what? why should you be afraid of speaking out?"

"If you would love her," continued Amy, hesitatingly.

"It would be no use if I did," replied Dora; "she is as cold as a stone
to every one but Rose and you, and as proud as a queen."

"But she spoke of you so kindly the other day, and said that she could
not bear to see you in such bad spirits, and that she was so sorry about
poor Edward; and then she told me that in some things she thought you
were like him."

"Me! no indeed, nobody could think that; he was like no one else."

"Not Frank?" asked Amy, anxious to make her cousin converse upon the
subject she knew was uppermost in her thoughts.

"No," replied Dora; "Frank is thoughtless and hasty, but he never said a
harsh word to any one, not to me even!"

"It would have been hard to speak crossly to you, when you were so fond
of him," said Amy.

"Ah! you don't know," answered Dora, while a host of recollections
flashed across her mind, of taunting looks, and angry words, and selfish
actions, which at the time were thought of as nothing, but which now
stood forth in their true light. For a short time she was silent;
and then, turning abruptly to Amy, she said, "Then you will come next
Monday--aunt Herbert is to have the green room and the boudoir, and you
are to have the dressing-room."

Amy was vexed; she longed to continue the conversation about Edward,
and she was always pleased and interested when Dora spoke of her own
feelings, for it seemed as if she were then admitted to a secret which
no one else was allowed to share. "I shall like it very much if mamma
will consent, and if you will be happy," she said; "only I wish there
were to be no strangers."

"Don't think about me," replied Dora, "and pray don't say anything about
my being out of spirits; I shall do very well by and by."

"I wish Frank were here," said Amy.

"Frank will do no good, only make a noise; but I shall be happy again
after Christmas. I did not think half so much about it a month ago,
and not even when first I came here, because everything was new; but
he always came home about this time, and I used to look forward to it
so--at last I quite counted the days."

Amy saw how hopeless it was to attempt to comfort her cousin. She could
only show by looks and manner the pain she felt at her unhappiness; and
with this Dora was quite satisfied. Amy's silent sympathy was consoling,
where words would have distressed her; but it was not natural to her to
speak much of her own feelings, and again she turned the conversation to
the intended visit.

"If you come on Monday," she said, "we shall have a few days to
ourselves, for no one is to be here till after Friday, which is
Christmas-day."

"And will they all come together?" asked Amy.

"No; that is what provokes me so. If there were a good many, they would
entertain each other; but I can't imagine what we shall do with two or
three. I think I shall try again to make mamma alter the plan."

"But you will have Margaret to help you."

"She will be worse than nothing; for Lord Rochford and Miss Cunningham
are to come on Saturday, and you know very well that, when they are
here, Margaret will think of nothing else."

"Is Miss Cunningham really coming?" asked Amy, looking very blank.

Dora laughed. "You should not let your face tell such tales, Amy; now I
speak out at once, and say, I can't endure her, and you had much better
do the same."

"No," replied Amy, "I don't like to do it unless I am obliged, and I
dare say a great deal of the fault is my own; but I care much more about
Miss Morton than anything else--Miss Cunningham treats her so ill."

"Yes, she makes even me angry sometimes, and you know I am not in love
with your dear Emily."

"You like her better than you will own, though," said Amy, looking gaily
in her cousin's face, "and a great deal better than you did."

"I don't know; I don't dislike her always; and I cannot bear to see that
Lucy Cunningham tormenting her so."

"And to-morrow you will not dislike her at all," continued Amy; "and the
next day you will take her part, and the day after you will quite love
her."

"No, I shall never love her. I am sure I am much more given to hating
than loving. I am not like you, Amy, who seem to care for everything,
and everybody."

"Not everything," said Amy, laughing; "your ugly tabby cat, for
instance, Dora, I never could love that."

"Oh! that is compassion; I only pet her because all the rest abuse her."

"And Miss Morton, it is just the same with her."

Dora shook her head. "It is no use, Amy," she answered. "You know very
well, that if I were to begin loving Emily Morton now, and to go on for
the rest of my life, she never could like me in return."

"And why not?"

"Because--because--I cannot tell why; but I am sure she could not."

"Oh Dora!" said Amy, "I do not think you can guess how good Miss Morton
is, or how easily she would forgive."

"Forgive!" exclaimed Dora, quickly, "what should she forgive?"

Amy blushed deeply; "I beg your pardon, Dora, only I thought you
meant----"

"Well! go on; meant what?"

"Don't be angry with me, dear Dora, only I thought, perhaps, you fancied
that Miss Morton would not like you, because sometimes, you know, you
show that you do not like her."

"You had better say it in plain words," exclaimed Dora, whilst the
working of her forehead showed the storm that was gathering; "because
sometimes--no--very often, you know you are very cross."

"No, Dora," replied Amy, gently; "I do not wish to say it in any other
words; it would be wrong in me, for you know it is not my place to tell
you you are cross; and, besides, I am often cross myself."

"But you meant it, I know you meant it; just say now whether you did."

"I wish you would not ask me anything about it; I did not mean to vex
you, and I was careless when I spoke."

"You were, indeed," said Dora; "and, perhaps, the next time, you will
think twice before you accuse persons who are older than yourself."

Amy was about to vindicate herself, but she had learned from Miss Morton
to bear an unjust accusation patiently, when she knew that excuses would
only increase anger; and again begging Dora's pardon, and saying she
was very sorry for having annoyed her, she began putting her drawing
materials together, and preparing to return home. Dora's first impulse
was to leave the room; but she was so well aware of having been harsh,
that she could not quite make up her mind to go, and she lingered about,
first taking up a book, and then looking out of the window, and longing
for Amy to say something, though it was too great an effort to do so
herself. Amy, however, still continued silent; and at length, when
everything was collected, went up-stairs to put on her bonnet and cloak.
Dora, lately, had been in the habit of assisting her; but now, instead
of accompanying her, she seated herself by the fire, and tried to read,
though without being able to fix her attention. In a few minutes Amy
reappeared, and holding out her hand to her cousin, told her that her
donkey was at the door, and she must go directly.

"Good-bye," said Dora, in a cold, constrained voice, which gave no
symptom of the struggle within.

Amy looked distressed. "Are you angry with me, still?" she asked.

"Angry! why should I be angry?"

"Because I spoke so thoughtlessly."

"Oh!" said Dora, "it is not worth while to be angry at such a trifle.
Good-bye."

"I cannot go in this way; it makes me so unhappy not to be forgiven,"
said Amy.

"Well!" replied Dora, "I forgive you; are you satisfied now?"

"No," said Amy, sadly, "because I don't think it is real forgiveness; I
wish I could do anything to show you that I am sorry."

"Will you kiss me?" asked Dora, whose proud spirit was almost entirely
subdued by her cousin's meekness, though she could not yet bring herself
to confess she had been in fault. Amy's answer was a kiss, so hearty,
that Dora's impulse was to return it equally; and then, for almost the
first time in her life, she said voluntarily, "Amy, you were right and I
was wrong."

Amy felt this was true, though she would not say so at such a moment; it
would have seemed too much like a triumph. "We can settle that next time
I come," she answered, smiling; "I care for nothing now, but keeping
Stephen and my donkey waiting in the cold; give me one more kiss." The
kiss was given, and Amy ran off quite happy, whilst Dora, though not
equally light-hearted, felt as if a burden had been taken from her
mind; and after waiting for a few moments enjoying the unusual luxury
of humility, she followed her cousin to see that she was carefully
protected against the cold. Mrs Bridget came forward to offer her
services, but Dora wished to do everything herself; and Amy declared
herself so comfortable, she thought her ride would be really enjoyable,
notwithstanding the north wind. There was one disappointment, however,
awaiting her. Stephen had been attacked by his old enemy, the gout, and
was kept a prisoner to his cottage, so that she had no resource but her
own thoughts, the man servant who attended, keeping at a distance, and
only approaching to open the gates, move away the straggling boughs of
the trees in the forest, or help to wrap the cloak more closely around
her, when the keen blast, which seemed to meet them in every direction,
blew with more than ordinary violence.




CHAPTER XII.


On the day which Dora had named, Mrs Herbert and Amy were established at
the Hall. Amy, in great delight, looked round upon the preparations that
had been made for her mamma's comfort; and could not doubt, as she felt
that some of her first wishes were realised in the prospect of spending
so many days at Emmerton together, that Mrs Herbert would enjoy it
equally with herself. And certainly, if luxury could constitute a
person's happiness, there would have been nothing to desire. "Oh mamma!"
she said, drawing the easy chair close to the fire, "there is everything
we want here, just the same as at the cottage; I can make you so
comfortable when you are tired; and you can lie down, and look out
at that beautiful view. There is the spire of Emmerton church just in
front; it seems almost prettier now, when the snow is on the ground,
than it was in the summer."

"Your aunt has been very thoughtful," replied Mrs Herbert; "but I hope
I shall feel well enough to be much with her; only we can spend the
morning together, just as if we were at home."

"Yes," said Amy; "and you will be able to see Miss Morton whenever
you wish it; and perhaps Margaret and Dora will come and sit with us
sometimes. Oh mamma! it will be so nice!"

"Look, Amy," said Mrs Herbert, pointing to the well-filled book-shelves:
"there will be occupation for us both, when we have nothing else to do."

Amy began examining the books with interest, and suddenly exclaimed,
"Mamma, it must be Dora who has made everything so comfortable for us;
here are all the books that I like best; and I remember the last day I
came to Emmerton she made me tell her the names of a great many, and I
could not imagine why."

"And these flowers, are they the result of Dora's care, do you think?"
said Mrs Herbert; "she must have gathered all there were in the
conservatory; it is quite strange to see them when the snow is on the
ground."

"It must be Dora," replied Amy; "I don't think aunt Harrington or
Margaret ever even look at flowers. I never saw Margaret take one in her
hand, except to pull it to pieces; and there is Dora's own letter case,
and the beautiful inkstand her uncle Henry gave her."

"I wish Dora would come and see the pleasure she has given us," said Mrs
Herbert.

"I think she went away," answered Amy, "because she fancied you were
tired, and would rather be alone with me at first; for she begged I
would come to her in the schoolroom when I left you."

"I should like to rest now," replied Mrs Herbert; "so you may go and
tell her how comfortable I am, and then, by and by, I will thank her
myself."

Amy quitted the room, and Mrs Herbert endeavoured to compose herself to
sleep; but her thoughts were too busy. Whatever might be Amy's pleasure
at coming to Emmerton, she could not, herself, entirely sympathise with
it; and yet, with her perfect freedom from selfishness, she would
have imposed any restraint upon her own feelings rather then mar the
enjoyment of her child. Dora's thoughtfulness brought vividly to her
remembrance the days of her childhood, when she and her sister Edith had
delighted in attending to the comfort of others in a similar manner;
and visions of those sunny days passed before her, one after the other,
recalling forms and faces, even voices and words, which had since been
almost forgotten. A gentle knock at the door interrupted her reverie,
and Mr Harrington begged for admittance. He came to see that everything
had been provided for his sister's comfort, and expressed great
satisfaction at Dora's care; and then seating himself by her side, they
enjoyed for the next half-hour the pleasure of talking together of
their early days; and notwithstanding the melancholy reflections which
naturally arose from the conversation, the relief of his sympathy with
her present feelings was so great, that Mrs Herbert felt more comforted
and refreshed when he left her, than she could have been by any other
means.

Amy, during this time, had found her way to the schoolroom, and
expressed her gratitude to Dora in the warmest terms; but the subject
did not appear quite agreeable to her, for she turned it off quickly,
though a close observer might have discovered, from the expression
of her countenance, that she really felt extreme pleasure. Margaret
welcomed her cousin most affectionately, as she always did when no
one else was near to attract her attention; but, by this time, Amy had
learned the true value of her words and caresses, and withdrew herself
as soon as possible, feeling that Dora's coldness, even if it were real,
was infinitely preferable to Margaret's warmth.

"I have been begging mamma to have all the stupid people together next
week," said Dora, when Amy began inquiring what had been decided on
since she was last there, "and she is almost inclined to do it; if they
would come on Monday, and stay till Thursday, it would not be so bad;
and if she would ask two or three more, I am sure we should get on
better."

"I will tell you who is coming on Saturday," said Margaret; "somebody
you will be delighted to see."

"Me!" exclaimed Amy, in astonishment. "Why, I don't know any one."

"Oh! but you do. What do you say to your friend, Mr Cunningham." Poor
Amy looked very uncomfortable. "Yes," continued Margaret, laughing; "and
you will have to talk to him all day long, for Lucy says he has taken
such a fancy to you; he declares you are the best-mannered little thing
he ever met with; and, you know, it is so rare a thing for him to see
any one who is well mannered to him, that he will be sure to seize upon
you all the time he is here."

"And how long does he stay?" asked Amy.

"As long as Lord Rochford does; it will be a week at least."

"You had better go back to the cottage, Amy," said Dora; "there will be
no comfort for you here. I can just imagine how Mr Cunningham will pet
you, and talk to you, and how frightened you will look. If it were not
for your annoyance, I should quite enjoy the thoughts of seeing you
together."

"One thing I like him for," said Amy, "he has so much good nature."

"Yes," replied Dora; "he seems to have taken so much, that there is none
left for his sister; and now, Amy, she will be worse than ever to you,
for she hates you cordially, because her brother said, after you were
gone, that he thought being with you would do her a great deal of good."

"I don't see what business Mr Cunningham has to think anything of the
kind," said Margaret. "I don't mean to be ill-natured, Amy; but really
the idea of your being of use to Miss Cunningham is rather too absurd."

"I think so, too," replied Amy; "but I dare say he was only in joke."

"Oh no! he was not; he was quite sincere; and he told Lucy that if the
London plan came to anything, he hoped an arrangement would be made for
you to be of the party."

"And so Miss Cunningham is your enemy for life," said Dora; "not that
there is any fear of the London plan, for mamma is more strongly set
against it than ever."

"It is half your fault, Dora," observed Margaret; "I am sure there would
be less difficulty, if you were to say you liked it; but you are always
speaking against it, and lately, too, you have taken to upholding Emily
Morton."

"I don't see," replied Dora, "why I should say what is not true for any
one, least of all for Miss Cunningham, who knows quite well how to do it
for herself." Amy looked vexed, and Dora's conscience immediately told
her she was wrong. "I don't mean to say," she continued, "that Lucy
Cunningham tells stories exactly, but she often twists and turns things
to suit her own purpose, and she can exaggerate without the smallest
difficulty."

"Lucy Cunningham is very much obliged to you for your opinion of her,"
said Margaret, sharply; "and I shall take care to tell her what a friend
she has in you."

"As you please; but she is not worth quarrelling about. I shall be quite
glad when she is gone to London, and then we shall hear no more about
her. I hate having nothing but Lucy Cunningham dinned into my ears from
morning till night."

"It is better than Emily Morton, at any rate," said Margaret, with a
half contemptuous glance at Amy. "_One_ is a lady."

"Oh Margaret!" exclaimed Amy, while the colour rushed to her face; "you
don't mean to say that Miss Morton is not a lady?"

"I mean that she is not half so much of a lady as Lucy Cunningham; of
course she must be something like one, or mamma would not let her be
with us."

"But indeed, Margaret," replied Amy, trying to speak calmly, "I do think
you must be wrong. I am sure if a stranger saw them together, they would
say directly there was no comparison between them."

"But what has that to do with it?" said Margaret, "It cannot alter the
case. Lucy Cunningham is the daughter of a nobleman."

"Yes, but that is not everything."

"And Emily Morton is a governess," continued Margaret, in a decided
tone, as if there could be no arguing against such a truth.

"Yes," again repeated Amy; "and yet, if Miss Cunningham were a princess,
it would make no difference in my feelings."

"Then your feelings must be wrong, and all the world would say the
same."

"I am sure Miss Morton is more of a lady, because she is so gentle and
kind," said Amy; "and she always thinks of other people before herself,
and never gets out of temper, and never boasts of anything."

"Well! but those are virtues; you talk so foolishly, Amy. Susan Reynolds
or Morris may be all that, but they would not be at all the more
ladies."

"No," said Dora, coming to Amy's assistance; "they would not be ladies,
because they would still have clumsy, awkward ways of doing things, and
of speaking."

"Of course, that is just what I was saying!" exclaimed Margaret,
triumphantly.

"No; but Margaret," persisted Amy, "indeed that is not what you were
saying; for I am sure Miss Cunningham is much more awkward than Miss
Morton, and yet you say that all the world would consider her superior."

"So they would," replied Margaret.

Amy was silent for a few minutes; at length she said, "Mamma told me one
day that we ought not to think as the world thinks, because the world
means generally a great many vain, silly persons."

"Then you would set up to be wiser and better than everybody else, I
suppose," said Margaret.

Dora again interposed, for she thought she saw what her cousin meant.
"Amy is right, I am sure; it would be only silly people who would think
so much more of Lucy Cunningham's birth than of other things. Not all
the rank in the world will make persons ladies and gentlemen without
manners."

"But I mean something besides manners," said Amy; "because, what I like
in Miss Morton is not quite manner; it is her being good that helps to
make her a lady, I think."

Dora laughed. "That is one of your strange notions, Amy. I believe
you think, that what you call being good is to make a person
everything--rich, and happy, and ladylike, and beautiful."

"No, not beautiful," replied Amy; "and yet," she added, "I remember
once going with mamma to see a poor woman who was very ill; and she was
almost ugly, till she began to talk, and thank mamma for being kind to
her, and then her face quite changed; and mamma told me it was her being
so grateful and contented that made her look so nice."

"I do think, Amy, you will go out of your senses some day," said
Margaret. "You talk so differently from every one else."

"Do I? That is very strange; for all the persons I care for tell me the
same things."

"Does Emily Morton?" asked Dora.

"Yes, whenever I am quite alone with her, and ask her about
anything--grave things, I mean."

"Well, Amy," said Dora, "I must say that you are the merriest grave girl
I ever met with. I don't think any one who heard you laugh would fancy
you really so demure as you are."

"No one ever said I was grave, except you," answered Amy. "I am sure I
don't know what I am myself; but I must not stay here now, for I want so
much to see Miss Morton, and then I must go back to mamma."

"Always Emily Morton," said Margaret, as Amy ran out of the room.

"Always Lucy Cunningham," retorted Dora.

"No more of that, pray, Dora. You know very well that the reason you
laugh is because you are jealous of her being fonder of me than of you."

"Jealous! Me jealous of her! with her sandy hair and freckled----" but
here Dora stopped.

"Well," exclaimed Margaret, who always felt a secret satisfaction at
Miss Cunningham's plain face, though she would not acknowledge it to
herself; "I thought you professed not to care about beauty--to be sure,
Lucy is not lovely."

"I do not wish to say anything more about her," said Dora; "for I
generally get angry; only I would give something if she were not coming
here on Saturday."

Margaret had not time to reply before Dora was gone, for she had lately
learned to distrust her powers of self-command, and to think silence
preferable to argument. The next few days were spent by Amy in great
enjoyment--everything went smoothly and pleasantly. Dora was thoughtful
and kind, Margaret in good humour, her uncle affectionate, and her aunt
seldom in her way; and, above all, Emily Morton was admitted to her
mamma's room, and from their long conversations, and Emily's expressions
of gratitude and interest, it was quite evident that she began to
consider Mrs Herbert in the light of a real friend. Not that the
conversations which passed between them were at all such as Amy
imagined. There was very little said about Emmerton, still less about
Mrs Harrington; but Mrs Herbert led Emily to talk of her father and
mother, her aunt, her early home, and her childish days; and gave her
some valuable advice as to the manner in which persons in her position
should conduct themselves, without obliging her to make complaints which
considering her own near connection with Mrs Harrington, would have been
awkward and wrong.

Amongst Amy's pleasures during this happy time, one of the greatest
was a visit to the rectory with Miss Morton, on the afternoon preceding
Christmas-day. Their reception was even more affectionate than usual;
and as they walked home, the distance seemed only too short, whilst she
listened to Emily's praises of the persons whom, next to her mamma, she
most loved and venerated.

"To-morrow will be Christmas-day," she said, as she lingered in Miss
Morton's room on her return; "and the next day Miss Cunningham will be
here; so I suppose we shall not be able to get a walk to the rectory
again, yet; but if you would tell me when you go out, that I may be
with you if I can, I should be so very glad. You know I like you so much
better than Miss Cunningham."

"I doubt if Miss Cunningham is a favourite with any one but your cousin
Margaret," was the reply; "but she has so much to spoil her, that I do
not think we ought to be hard upon her."

"It is so odd that you should pity her, as you always do," said Amy.
"Now I should like so much to be her,--that is, not herself, but to
be my own self, with her rank and fortune; and then I would get such a
pretty little room for you, and you should come and live with me, if you
would."

"And do nothing all day but amuse myself?"

"No, not that. I know you never would bear to do nothing; but you should
teach me music and drawing as you do now, and we might have Rose with us
too--it would be so nice."

"And it is so nice to teach you music and drawing, and to have Rose with
me, and to live in a comfortable little room. You see, I have it all."

"Ah, yes!" said Amy; "but then there are some things, now--tiresome,
dreadful things--which you never should have to bear if you lived with
me. And I would love you so dearly, so very dearly."

Miss Morton drew Amy more closely to her, and gave her one of those
kisses which she had lately begun to value far more than words.

"I should grieve very much," she said, "if I did not think you loved me
dearly now--there are but few left in the world who do."

"But you have mamma to love you besides," said Amy; "and Mrs Walton, I
am sure she must be fond of you; and sometimes, perhaps, she will ask
you to stay at the rectory; and mamma and I can go there too, and then
there will be no one to interrupt. I am so glad Miss Cunningham does not
know Mrs Walton."

"Perhaps, so am I too," said Emily, smiling; "but we must try and be
agreeable to her on Saturday."

"Ah! Saturday," repeated Amy, sighing; "all my pleasure will be over
then--real, quiet pleasure, I mean. On Monday the other people come,
and Dora says, that as I am her cousin, I shall be expected to help to
entertain them. But I never did entertain any one in my life; I don't
quite know what it means. I suppose it is talking and showing pictures;
but one can't do that all day."

"Your cousin Frank comes to-night," replied Emily, laughing; "and he is
so merry, that he will take half the trouble off your hands."

Amy's face brightened. "I forgot that; but then they are girls--boys
cannot entertain girls. I do think, if I had but a fairy's wand, I
should strike them all as they came into the house, and change them into
boys, and set them to play at football and leapfrog, and all the trouble
would be over. But I am not Dora; and if they are dull they will not
complain of me."

Susan Reynolds here interrupted them with a message from Mrs Herbert;
and Amy left Miss Morton with her mind in an uncomfortable state, having
forgotten the pleasure of her visit to the rectory, and thinking only of
the difficulties of the next week, and of all the strange faces she was
to see.




CHAPTER XIII.


The morning of Christmas-day was in every respect as bright and
beautiful as Amy could possibly have desired. The clear sky was
unclouded, and its brilliant blue was rendered only the more lovely from
its contrast with the leafless branches which were pencilled against
it. The lawn glittered like a sheet of silver, and the dark hues of the
holly and the laurel exhibited in full perfection the richness of the
crimson berries, and the delicacy of the pure hoar-frost with which they
were covered. There was an elastic feeling in the air, which would have
given strength and refreshment even to the weary watcher by the bed of
sickness. All nature seemed to rejoice, and Amy awoke to rejoice also.
Too young to have anxiety for the future, or sorrow for the past, she
felt only that she was in the place she most delighted in, under the
care of the mother whose only wish was for her happiness, and surrounded
by all the means of enjoyment that wealth could give. True, the wealth
was not her own; but it was, at that moment, entirely devoted to her
comfort, and the present was too full of pleasure to leave any space for
envy and discontent. Even the remembrance of her father could not check
the gaiety of her spirit, for she had not yet learned to feel that
"hope deferred maketh the heart sick." Every day brought with it
the expectation of hearing from him; and when the expectation was
disappointed, there was left in its stead, not the wretchedness of
doubt, but the blessing of hope for the morrow.

Her first thought on that morning was given to her mother; the next to
her cousin Frank. He had arrived late the night before, so late, that
she had been only able to remark the mixture of delight at his return
home, and sad recollection of the one missing, who ought to have
welcomed him, which had been shown by all, and by none more than Dora;
and Mrs Herbert, unwilling to be any restraint upon them, had sent Amy
to bed, and soon after retired herself.

This had been rather disappointing; but Amy had satisfied herself that
he seemed very lively, and was more like Margaret than Dora; and for
any further knowledge she was obliged to wait in patience till the
breakfast-hour. It was usual for her cousins to breakfast in the
schoolroom with Miss Morton; but on Christmas-day there was an exception
to almost every general rule, and they were all to be together, even
Miss Morton being admitted as one of the party, although the little
attention that was shown her, nothing indeed beyond the merest civility,
made it an occasion of far more pain than pleasure.

Frank, when he appeared, was in the highest possible spirit, full of
his school adventures, and the characters of his playfellows, and told
several stories in the regular school-boy slang, which Amy could not
at all understand; but his presence took off much of the stiffness and
restraint which every one else seemed to feel before Mrs Harrington;
and she herself occasionally relaxed into something like a smile as she
listened to his merry laugh. Amy had rather dreaded the society of
a boy--she had never been accustomed to it, and imagined he must be
boisterous and rude; but with all his spirits, Frank Harrington was
still so gentlemanly that she soon felt at ease.

"Will the carriage be wanted to go to church this morning?" said Mr
Harrington. "Amy, my dear, do you think your mamma will venture out this
cold weather?"

Amy was afraid not; she had been to her mamma's room, and had found
her so tired and unwell, that it was most probable she would not come
down-stairs till the middle of the day.

An expression of anxiety and disappointment came over Mr Harrington's
countenance. "That is bad news for Christmas-day," he said. "I would
give a great deal, Amy, to procure your dear mamma such a bright colour
as you have. I well remember the time when she would have walked to
Emmerton church and back twice, and laughed at the notion of being tired
afterwards."

"Every one in these days is grown weak and sickly," said Mrs Harrington,
in her usual severe manner; "that is, if they are not so really, they
fancy it."

Amy thought this might be meant for her mamma: and she would certainly
have said something in reply, but for the fear of being disrespectful.

Mr Harrington, however, had no such fear; and answered, that he should
be very glad to believe Mrs Herbert's illness imaginary, for it would
take a most painful load off his mind.

"But she is better, a great deal, than she was, uncle," said Amy; "she
walked several times round the shrubbery at the cottage, the day before
we came here, and did not seem at all tired afterwards."

"Several times round a shrubbery, Amy!" exclaimed Frank; "why that must
be a walk for a snail. What do you say to a walk of six miles and back
before breakfast? I knew a boy who did it just to buy a new cricket-bat;
and a fine scrape he got into when he was found out."

Amy looked all proper surprise at such a wonderful feat; and Frank,
delighted at finding a new auditor, kept her for the next quarter of
an hour, repeating his most extraordinary adventures, with such spirit,
that Amy at last began to think there would be more amusement in being
a boy, and going to a public school, than even in the possession of all
the splendour which usually formed the subject of her day-dreams. The
church bells prevented any further conversation, and she was glad to
escape from Frank's merriment for the enjoyment of a quiet walk with
Miss Morton, who had more than ordinary pleasure in being with her on
this morning, from having felt so much alone in the midst of a family
party. Christmas-day had never been to her what it is to many, for she
had never known the happiness of having all her relations about her; but
she could recollect the time when it was spent at home, with her father
and mother, and she sighed now to think how little the blessing had then
been valued.

Amy was walking with her cousins in the rectory garden, which adjoined
the churchyard, when Mr Walton came to her, after the conclusion of the
service, to inquire for her mamma.

"And your uncle, too, my dear," he said, "I want very much to see him;
what can have become of him?"

"There he is," said Amy, pointing to a group of persons standing by the
gate; "he is talking to Mr Dornford, and Frank is with him."

"He must introduce Frank to me," said Mr Walton. "Besides, I have
something particular to say to him. How did you tell me your mamma was
to-day?"

"Very weak and poorly," replied Amy; "but she seemed better when I left
her."

"Ah!" said Mr Walton, half muttering to himself; "I doubt if it will be
right; it may only excite a false hope--there will be no harm in delay."

"What?" exclaimed Amy, who just caught the last words, "delay, did you
say?--what delay?"

"Nothing, nothing," answered Mr Walton, hastily. "I wish your uncle
would not make me delay here; he does not generally speak to any
one when he leaves the church, but to-day he is having quite a
conversation."

Amy looked earnestly at Mr Walton, with the conviction that this was
only said to distract her attention; and an indefinable feeling of
mingled dread and curiosity took possession of her mind. But there was
nothing to satisfy her. The expression of Mr Walton's countenance was
cheerful as usual; and Amy, though very quick in perception, was not
quite old enough to perceive a trace of thoughtfulness beneath it. She
did notice, however, the quick, impatient glances which he cast towards
the churchyard gate, and the restlessness of his manner as he paced
up and down the little walk leading to it, venting his uneasiness by
kicking away the leaves and broken sticks lying in his path. In another
person it would not have been remarkable; but she was so accustomed to
see Mr Walton perfectly composed, that in an instant it awakened her
attention. The parting words were at last said; Mr Dornford walked away;
and Amy hoped that in a few minutes her curiosity might be set at rest.
But she was disappointed. Mr Walton eagerly seized her uncle's arm,
and drew him aside. A short conversation ensued; and then Mr Harrington
called out that they had better not wait for him, but walk home alone,
and he would follow. Amy really felt uneasy, and yet she could hardly
tell why, but her mamma's constant anxiety had in some degree infected
her; and anything like mystery immediately made her think of Colonel
Herbert. Miss Morton listened to her fears with interest, and did
her utmost to calm her mind, telling her that, in all probability, Mr
Walton's business was something connected with his parish, and that
it was unlikely, almost impossible, he could have heard anything from
India; but she advised her not to mention her notions to her mamma
till after her uncle's return, as it would only make her needlessly
uncomfortable; and if there were anything to be told, she would not be
kept long in suspense. Amy hearkened, and tried to believe; and had been
so used to depend upon the opinions of others, as to be almost persuaded
she had been fanciful without reason, while she readily promised to
say nothing of her anxiety; but she could not recover her usual happy
spirits; and when they reached Emmerton, instead of going immediately
to Mrs Herbert's room, she petitioned Miss Morton to walk once more with
her to the lodge gate, that they might see when her uncle arrived. He
waited, however, so long, that Amy herself grew weary of watching, and
was the first to propose returning to the house.

"You will be tired," she said to Miss Morton, "and then we shall not be
able to go and see Mrs Walton this afternoon. You know, you promised you
would, if you could manage it, because you did not like to wait behind
after church; and I should be so sorry to miss it, for we always used to
dine with her on Christmas-day; and she will be so vexed if she does not
see either mamma or me."

Miss Morton acknowledged herself cold, though not tired; and, at any
rate, it was useless to stand longer at the gate, for, after all, there
might be nothing to hear; and Amy repeated for the twentieth time,
that she did not really think there was anything, though, at the same
instant, she ran a few steps down the road, just to look once more round
the corner.

Mrs Herbert was dressed, and more comfortable, and had many questions to
ask, as to whether Amy had had a pleasant walk, whether she had spoken
to Mr Walton, and whether Mrs Walton found her rheumatism worse than
usual; and Amy, seated by the window, endeavoured to answer them all,
with her mind wandering to other things, when the sudden appearance of
Mr Walton and her uncle, on the terrace below, made her stop short
and exclaim, "There they are, both of them. I think there must be
something."

The next moment brought her to recollection; but there was no retracting
what had been said,--she was obliged to explain; and the change in her
mother's countenance, and the subdued tremulousness of her voice, soon
gave her reason to repent her incautiousness.

"This will not do," said Mrs Herbert, endeavouring to command
herself. "Amy, my love, tell your uncle I should wish to speak to him
immediately."

The message was, however, unnecessary. Mr Harrington had seen Amy at
the window, and now, pausing in his walk, begged to know if he might be
allowed to come up. "And Mr Walton is with me," he added. "May he come
too?"

"Yes, directly," was Amy's reply. Her mamma was just wishing to see them
both; and in a few minutes their steps were heard along the gallery.

Mrs Herbert turned very pale; and Amy stood by her, kissing her
forehead, and trying to soothe the agitation she had so inconsiderately
excited.

"It is quite unnatural," said Mr Walton, as he entered, "to pay you a
visit on Christmas-day;--a sad falling off from former times. I have
been half quarrelling with Mr Harrington for not allowing you to adhere
to the ancient fashion, and dine with us; but he declares I am very
unreasonable."

Mrs Herbert attempted to smile, but the effort was too great.

"You are feeling ill to-day, my dear Ellen?" said Mr Harrington, kindly,
taking her hand.

"No, not ill," replied Mrs Herbert, faintly; "that is, not worse than
usual, but anxious--very anxious. Oh Charles!" she added, looking
eagerly in her brother's face, as if wishing to read there all she
longed to know, "have you anything to tell me? In pity, do not keep me
in suspense."

The tone in which this was spoken prevented anything like further delay.

"It is nothing bad," replied Mr Harrington; "and yet it is not so
decidedly good as to allow one to build upon it. Mr Walton has had a
letter from a friend in India, in which he says, that the accounts of
the war have been greatly exaggerated; for, in fact, there has been
nothing more than an insurrection in one of the provinces, which is
now quelled; and there was a report that Colonel Herbert had joined his
regiment, which had been sent some way up the country."

Mrs Herbert did not speak in answer; she drew one long breath, as if her
mind had been relieved from a dreadful weight; a calm, sweet smile
of deep happiness passed across her yet beautiful features; and then,
covering her face with her hands, she silently blessed God for His great
mercy. "May I see the letter?" was the first question she asked when the
effect of the intelligence had a little subsided.

Mr Walton produced it instantly, saying that he had brought it for the
express purpose of showing it to her. "Not," he continued, "that there
is anything in it beyond what Mr Harrington has just told you. The
circumstance is mentioned in the light careless way in which we all
speak of things of no importance to ourselves, but which may, perhaps,
affect even the lives of our fellow-creatures. My friend Campbell had no
notion how deeply it would interest me."

Mrs Herbert seized the letter, and read the sentences again and again;
but, as Mr Walton had stated, there was nothing further to be gained
from them, though every word was examined and weighed; as yet, it was
only report; and with this Mrs Herbert was obliged to be contented. "I
see," she said, looking at her brother, who was evidently wishing, yet
afraid to speak, "you are anxious lest I should build too much upon
this; but I hope I shall not. Whatever trial may be in store, it would
be almost cruel to deprive me of a few weeks of hope."

"I am only afraid of the consequences of a disappointment," replied Mr
Harrington; "but I cannot give sermons to any one, especially to you,
so I shall leave you with Mr Walton; his advice will be much more
efficacious than mine."

"Here is a better sermon than any words!" said Mr Walton, as he patted
Amy's head, when her uncle was gone. "For your child's sake, you will
not, I am sure, allow either hope or fear to have too powerful an effect
upon you. I do not think either of you is well fitted to bear any great
excitement."

Amy's countenance certainly showed that Mr Walton's words were true;
every tinge of colour had faded from her cheek, and her bright dark
eyes were dimmed with tears, which she was using her utmost efforts to
repress. She had been silent, for she felt too much for words; her hope
was far more certain than her mother's, since it had not been so often
chilled by disappointment; and the dreams of happiness which filled her
mind were for the present without a cloud.

"Yes," said Mrs Herbert, in reply to Mr Walton's observation, "Amy is
indeed a motive for every exertion; it would be a hard thing to cause
her anxiety for both her parents."

Amy tried to speak; and hardly understanding her own feelings, was
almost ashamed to find that her tears were more ready than her smiles at
this moment of happiness. "Dear, dear mamma," she exclaimed, "we shall
never be anxious now. And you think he will be here soon?"

"We _hope_ everything that is delightful," said Mr Walton, "but we do
not _think certainly_ about anything; so, my dear child, you must be
contented as yet to go on just as you have done for the last twelve
months; and you must let me talk a little to your mamma alone. I am sure
she will never be able to reason calmly while that little earnest face
of yours is before her."

Amy felt slightly inclined to rebel, as it seemed almost wrong that she
should be sent away from her mother at such a time; but she had never
been accustomed to dispute Mr Walton's wishes; and left the room to make
Miss Morton and Dora acquainted with the intelligence her mother had
received.

Miss Morton's room was the first place she sought; and the next quarter
of an hour was spent in telling her of all that was to be done when
Colonel Herbert returned,--how they were to talk, and ride, and walk,
and the alterations that were to be made at the cottage, and the places
he was to take her to see; and Emily, though feeling that the foundation
of all this happiness was insecure, could not make up her mind to check
such simple, innocent hopes. The same things were again repeated to Dora
in the schoolroom; and Margaret would have had her share also, but
the indifferent tone in which she said, "Dear me! how strange!" when
informed of the tidings from India, quite chilled Amy's flow of spirits;
and she hastened away to find a more sympathising listener. Dora's
interest in her cousin, and all that concerned her, had lately so much
increased, that it was no effort to her to listen as long as Amy felt
inclined to talk; and she was sorry when Miss Morton appeared, to remind
her of the intended walk to the rectory, and to ask whether she still
wished to go.

"Oh yes!" said Amy, "if mamma does not care about my leaving her. I
do so long to see Mrs Walton now more than ever; but I will just go to
mamma's room and ask her."

Mrs Herbert's conversation with Mr Walton had been long and engrossing;
and this, added to the previous excitement, had so fatigued her, that
she was looking much worse than in the morning; and Amy resolved at
first not to mention the walk, and took up a book as if not wishing to
go out. But Mrs Herbert never forgot the pleasures of others, and would
not for an instant allow her to think of remaining at home, declaring
that rest and solitude would be better than any society, and that it
would be a much greater pleasure to hear an account of the visit on
their return than to keep her by her side during the whole afternoon.
Amy was only half-satisfied; but it was in vain to say that it was only
the thought of the morning, and she was very much pleased with her book,
and should be quite happy in reading it. Mrs Herbert insisted, and she
went.

Mrs Walton's disposition was more sanguine than her husband's. She
had seen less of the world, and had heard and known less of its
disappointments; and her fondness for Mrs Herbert made her seize upon
every prospect of comfort for her, so eagerly, that there was no fear of
Amy's hopes being again damped by any warning; and, perhaps, that hour's
visit was as full of delight to her as it was to the happy child, who,
seated at her feet, looked up with a face so innocent and gay, that
it seemed impossible to dread lest any evil should be near to mar
her enjoyment. There was also a charm to Mrs Walton in watching Miss
Morton's interest in her little companion. She had a quick perception of
character, and was peculiarly sensible of anything like selfishness of
feeling; and she had often observed that, when persons have suffered
much themselves, they seem unable to enter into the pleasures of others.
But affliction had produced a very different effect upon Emily Morton;
and now, though she had lost both her parents, had been obliged to
leave her home, and had no prospect for the future but one of painful
dependence, she still smiled as cheerfully, and spoke as hopefully to
Amy, as if no thought of the difference in their situations had ever
crossed her mind.

"You must take care of your dear mamma," were Mrs Walton's parting
words. "Colonel Herbert will look very blank if he returns to see the
pale cheek she has now; for his sake, tell her she must endeavour to get
strong."

Amy promised to be very watchful, and had no doubt that everything would
be right. But Mrs Walton was not so well satisfied, and drew Miss
Morton aside, to ask more particularly how Mrs Herbert had borne
the intelligence. Miss Morton could give her little information, but
undertook to send a note to the rectory in the evening to ease her mind;
though at the time the request was made Mrs Walton acknowledged that it
was apparently absurd to be so anxious.

"You would not wonder at it, however," she said, "if you knew all that
Mrs Herbert has been to me for many years; even during the lifetime of
my own child, she was almost equally dear to me, and since that great
loss, I have, felt as if she were left to be my special treasure. I need
not say to _you_ that she is deserving of all, and more than all, the
affection I can give."

"And her child is exactly similar to her," replied Miss Morton.

"Yes," said Mrs Walton; "how could the child of such parents be
different? There is but one thing in which she does not resemble her
mother--her disposition is naturally more lively and hopeful. It would
require, probably, very much affliction to destroy the buoyancy of her
spirits; and I would willingly pray that many years may pass before she
is so tried, unless it should be required for her good, for it would be
a bitter thing to lose the sound of her merry laugh, and the brightness
of her smile."

"It would make Emmerton very different to me," said Miss Morton. "As
I have often told you, I could hardly have supposed before, how much
interest and pleasure may be added to life by one so young;--a mere
child, as she really is, and yet with thoughtfulness and consideration
which make me fancy her much older. My most earnest wish is, that Rose
may one day be like her."

Amy's approach interrupted the conversation; and Mrs Walton parted
from Emily Morton with a warmer feeling of affection, from the entire
correspondence of their feelings towards her.

The happiness of Amy's mind was a peculiar blessing at Emmerton on that
day. It was Christmas-day; and every one knew that it was a time
for especial enjoyment, though, perhaps, few of the party could have
satisfactorily explained the reason why, and fewer still could have
entered into the joy which none but a Christian can feel on the
celebration of the Birth of their Redeemer. It was a duty to be
cheerful, and yet almost every one had a secret grief which prevented
them from being so. Mr and Mrs Harrington could not forget all that had
passed within the last twelvemonth; and Dora and Frank sighed many times
as they missed their favourite companion;--even Margaret, though she
had suffered much less than the others when Edward died, could not be
insensible to the change in the family, and wandered about the house
complaining that it was not at all what Christmas-day used to be; but
Amy had no such recollections to sadden her, and soon enlivened her
cousins by the influence of her own gaiety, notwithstanding the shade
which was occasionally cast over it, when Dora reminded her that by that
time on the following day she would probably be occupied in trying to
understand Mr Cunningham's unintelligible language.




CHAPTER XIV.


Saturday came, and with it the expected guests; and at a very awkward
hour, just about twelve o'clock, when there was a long afternoon before
them, with nothing to be done. Amy had made up her mind that they could
not possibly arrive before four or five. It was some distance from
Rochford Park to Emmerton; and she was sure there must be a great deal
to do before they set off, and, in consequence, she had calculated upon
seeing very little of either Mr or Miss Cunningham on that day. Her
dismay, therefore, was extreme, as she watched from the gallery window,
and saw the carriage slowly driving down the avenue. She was not,
however, required to entertain them, for it was her duty to attend upon
her mamma; and in the afternoon there was an engagement to walk with
Miss Morton and Rose to Stephen's cottage, to inquire how he was getting
on after his attack of gout, and carry him a new flannel-waistcoat,
which Rose had taken great delight in helping to make. There was,
therefore, no fear, she thought, of seeing much of Miss Cunningham,
except at dinner-time; and as for her brother, he would probably not
come in the way at all. And having thus relieved her mind, Amy returned
to her mamma's room, delighting more than ever in its quietness and
privacy.

Mrs Herbert was still very unwell; she had passed a sleepless, anxious
night, at one moment anticipating Colonel Herbert's return with the
utmost confidence, and the next picturing to herself all the bitterness
of disappointment; but she made many efforts against this distrust, and
tried to feel, what she knew to be true, that whatever might happen, it
would be for her good, and that she should be supported under it.

Miss Cunningham appeared in the schoolroom in all the splendour of her
new winter dress, made after the last Parisian fashion, and, for the
first time, regretted that Amy was not present to be overpowered by
such magnificence. Dora was the only person there, and it was useless
attempting to make an impression upon her; she had no eyes for anything
belonging to Miss Cunningham; and her arrival at such an early hour was
so unexpected and disagreeable, that it required some effort to be civil
to her. "We did not expect you till dinner-time," she said, after the
first greeting was over, in a tone which plainly meant, "and we did not
want you."

"Oh!" replied Miss Cunningham, "papa had some business in the
neighbourhood, and so he insisted upon our setting off at eleven; and a
great bore it was. I am sure Warren must have spoiled half my dresses by
packing them in such a hurry. My new-worked muslin, I suspect, will be
quite unwearable, and the French gray silk not much better; and as for
the white silk, and the pink crape, and my morning dresses, I am quite
unhappy about them. The only two which I feel at all sure of are the
figured lilac satinet, and the pale green poplin--those I saw her put in
myself."

The tone of pretended indifference in which this was spoken irritated
Dora almost beyond endurance; perhaps the more so, because she was
sensible of having been at times guilty of the same folly. "I have
no doubt the dresses will do very well," she answered. "A lady's-maid
always understands how to pack; and if they should be injured, it will
not signify, as far as the appearance goes, for there is no one coming
here who will take the smallest notice of what you have on."

Miss Cunningham looked and felt extremely mortified, and evidently
showed it by the tone in which she said, "I thought you were going to
have a large party, and a dance, and all sorts of things."

"What a strange idea!" exclaimed Dora. "What should we have a dance
for?"

"I thought everybody had dances when they asked their friends at
Christmas," said Miss Cunningham; "that is to say, we have been
accustomed to it when we have visited people of our own rank in the
county; but I suppose it is not the custom amongst common people."

"Perhaps not," replied Dora. "Of course, we can tell nothing about them;
but whether it is the custom or not, it would make no difference to us.
Papa and mamma generally do as they choose, without caring about the
rest of the world."

"And will there be nobody, then?" asked Miss Cunningham, with a sudden
pang, as she thought of the green poplin, and the white silk, and the
pink crape, wasting their splendour upon Mr and Mrs Harrington.

"Just a few people," was the reply; "the young Dornfords, and their
papa, and one or two others."

"What, boys! school-boys!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, in horror; and
before Dora could answer, Margaret came into the room in particularly
good spirits, and with a manner which formed a singular contrast to her
sister's. The embraces were so fervent, the expressions of affection so
warm, that a common observer might have supposed, with reason, that this
was the first meeting after an absence of several years, between very
dear friends, while Dora looked on with a curling lip, and a contracted
brow, and a secret rejoicing that she was not in Margaret's place.

"When you have done kissing, Margaret," she said, at length, "perhaps
you will just listen to me. Amy wishes to dine to-day at half-past one;
and mamma has no objection, and so it is to be."

"Really, Dora," replied Margaret, "it is very rude to attend to Amy's
wishes instead of Lucy's. I always thought relations were to be thought
of last."

"Amy wishes to dine at half-past one; and mamma has no objection, and
so it is to be," repeated Dora, with a manner which she intended to be
dignified, though it was only very cross.

"Don't mind her," half whispered Margaret to Miss Cunningham; "it is
only her foolish way; we need not dine earlier than we choose for Amy.
It really is too absurd to think of giving up to her, and I shall speak
to mamma about it."

Dora pretended not to hear this speech, and left the room satisfied with
having exhibited her authority and carelessness of Miss Cunningham's
feelings, and dissatisfied, in her secret heart, by the consciousness
of having been extremely unamiable. She met Amy on the stairs; and the
sight of her gay, innocent face, which seemed quite a reproach, had
seldom been so unwelcome; but it was impossible to vent any anger upon
her, and hastily passing, Dora shut herself up in her own room; while
Amy, who had lately been quite unused to such a manner from her cousin,
could only wonder in silence what had happened to discompose her.

Miss Cunningham, in the meantime, relieved from Dora's presence, felt
no scruple in giving way to her expressions of dislike to Amy; and,
with great earnestness, endeavoured to inspire Margaret with similar
feelings. It was so strange, so unusual--such a very great liberty,
for a cousin to think of choosing what time every one else should dine;
really, she could not have imagined that Mrs Harrington would allow it;
but she had always observed that Amy Herbert was very much at her ease;
in a little time she would have everything her own way. "Of course, I
don't mean to speak against her," she continued; "only I know a family
just like yours, Margaret, where there was a cousin brought up, and at
last her uncle and aunt really became fonder of her than they were of
their own children."

"There is no fear of that with mamma," replied Margaret; "I am sure she
does not care a straw for Amy. Papa is different. I do think, sometimes,
he takes a good deal of notice of her; but then, you know, she is not
brought up with us; she is only here on a visit."

"That does not make any difference; I am quite sure, if you do not take
care she will stand in your way in everything. Papa said, the other
day, that he thought Mrs Harrington would have consented to our going to
London, only she remembered your cousin; and then she declared, as she
should feel obliged to take her, the plan would not do."

Margaret's vexation was very great, yet she could not entirely enter
into her companion's antipathy; she had felt too much the charm of Amy's
sweet temper and obliging disposition to be able cordially to abuse her.
But Miss Cunningham loved the sound of her own voice too well to require
an answer; and the expression of her own likings and dislikings was all
that was important to her. "George provokes me so," she said, "he does
nothing, now, but lecture me from morning till night, and wish I was
like her. Really, I think he might find some one my own equal in rank
for me to imitate, if he is so dissatisfied. I told him, as we were
coming here, that if he said anything about her being with us in London,
I would not go till next year; and I may have quite my own way about it.
So I have put a stop to that."

Margaret was annoyed, though she did not like to appear so. Miss
Cunningham's superior age and rank kept her always considerably in awe;
but she was painfully struck by the want of ladylike feeling, which had
induced her friend to speak in such terms of so near a relation.

Miss Cunningham, however, could never discover when she had said or done
anything amiss. From her childhood her perception on such subjects
had been singularly obtuse; and nothing in her education had served to
quicken her knowledge of character; she went on, therefore, in the
same tone, with the full impression that all her observations must be
agreeable. "Dora tells me that there is no one invited here but a parcel
of school-boys and girls; and really, I must say, it was hardly worth
while to come six miles this cold weather merely for them--of course, I
thought there was to be a dance."

Margaret endeavoured to explain her sister's statement. There were to
be some boys, certainly, as companions for Frank--but there were to
be other people besides; and, indeed, her mamma had sent out some more
notes only this morning, because Dora said that she would rather have a
great many to entertain than a few.

"Then there will be a dance," said Miss Cunningham. "How are you to
amuse yourselves else?"

"It would be very nice," replied Margaret; "but I don't quite think papa
and mamma have any notion of it. You know Christmas is not now what it
was last year, when Edward was alive."

"Oh yes; to be sure--I know all that. Of course, you were all very
miserable, and cried a great deal at the time. I remember I was
dreadfully wretched when my little brother William died. Indeed, mamma
said she never knew any one with such strong feelings in her life. But,
then, it is all past now; and it is right to be cheerful, and try and
forget it."

"I wish you would ask mamma," said Margaret, "She would listen to you,
at any rate; and she could not be angry at any proposal from you. It
certainly would be a good way of amusing them."

"I don't mind, in the least, asking," answered Miss Cunningham. "I never
did mind it, from a child. Mamma says it surprises her to see how little
of the stupid shyness I have, which makes other girls so disagreeable.
Let me see,--I shall wear my white silk, I think; there is a blonde fall
to go with it, which makes it look beautiful. That or the pink crape.
Pink suits my complexion best; but then it is not quite so dressy. There
is a picture of some great lady in the saloon at Rochford, which papa
says is just like me in my pink crape. Mary Queen of Scots, I think it
is, or Queen Elizabeth--I don't know which; only it is a queen of some
kind. What shall you wear?"

"Oh!" said Margaret, sadly, "you know we are not yet out of mourning,
so we can have nothing but white; only I wish mamma would give us new
dresses."

"Of course she will. You can't possibly have a dance without a new
dress; nobody ever heard of such a thing. My white silk is quite new;
and the pink crape I only put on one evening for papa to see. We shall
dance, I suppose, in the hall. And how many persons do you think there
will be?"

Margaret had some difficulty in following the swiftness of her
companion's imagination. It was very delightful to picture the hall,
brilliantly lighted up and filled with company, and herself exciting
every one's admiration by the side of her plain friends But then came
another idea, not quite so agreeable,--Mrs Harrington's stern features
and look of surprise, when the plan should be first proposed.
Margaret trembled as she thought of it; and, but for Miss Cunningham's
unshrinking courage, the wish for the ball would soon have passed away.
When a fancy, however, takes possession of a weak, selfish mind, there
is but little room left for any other consideration. Miss Cunningham's
mind was of this description; it was seldom capable of retaining
more than one idea at a time, and whatever that might be, it was
all-engrossing. A little while ago, the journey to London had occupied
every thought; now, her only wish was, that a dance should be given at
Emmerton; and she was so firmly resolved that it must take place, that
every obstacle, every notion of propriety, sank into nothing.

Margaret listened, and wondered, and wished, and at last ended in
agreeing that a dance was quite necessary for their happiness, and for
the happiness of each of the other members of the family, Mrs Harrington
included; and that the only way to manage it was for Miss Cunningham to
talk to her mamma about it that very day.

The first thing that startled Margaret from her new dream of enjoyment
was Dora's look of astonishment when informed at dinner of their
intentions. "Do you really mean," she said, turning to Miss Cunningham,
"that you are going to tell mamma we ought to have a dance this
Christmas?"

"Yes," was the reply. "I half thought of talking to papa about it first;
but he might make some objection; and George might say no--so it is best
to go at once to Mrs Harrington."

"And do you recommend Miss Cunningham to do it?" asked Dora, looking at
her sister.

"Yes, why should I not?" said Margaret, half frightened. "Do you think
mamma will be angry?"

"Try, that is all," replied Dora.

"Perhaps," said Miss Morton, "Miss Cunningham is not quite aware of the
painful circumstances which might make Mrs Harrington unwilling, at this
time, to give so large a party."

Miss Cunningham looked, in answer, astonished at hearing such an
observation from Emily Morton in her presence. She did not, however,
think the remark worthy of reply in words, and continued her account
of what she thought ought to be done, and then again repeated her
intentions with regard to her dress, ending by saying to Amy, "I suppose
you have a white muslin; that will be well enough, as you are such a
child."

Dora's amazement at Miss Cunningham's boldness was so great that she
made no attempt to prevent her following her own inclinations; besides,
she rather enjoyed the thought of her being put down by Mrs Harrington,
and therefore ate her dinner in dignified silence; whilst Amy, whose
astonishment was not less than her cousin's, felt she had no right to
interfere, though she did hope something would be said to induce Miss
Cunningham to refrain from taking so great a liberty.

But, perhaps, Margaret was the person who felt most uncomfortable. At
first the notion of a dance had been so agreeable that every objection
was overlooked; but Dora's manner had recalled her to herself, and she
began heartily to wish that the thing had never been mentioned; for if
her mamma were spoken to, her name was sure to be brought forward; and
when dinner was over, she endeavoured most anxiously to inspire
her friend with a little awe, by hinting at her own fears, and Mrs
Harrington's particularities. But she hinted in vain. Nothing but the
plainest meaning in the plainest language could ever be understood by
Miss Cunningham; and Margaret was at last obliged to beg that she would
speak to her papa, and get the plan suggested by him.

Dora was in the room whilst this was passing, and still secretly desired
that the original intention might be persisted in; and at first there
appeared every probability of it; for Miss Cunningham stared, pouted,
and seemed quite puzzled at the idea that anything she could say could
be taken amiss. However, if Margaret were really silly enough to be
afraid about such a trifle, she would do as she wished, but merely
to please her; she only rejoiced that she was not kept in such
leading-strings herself.

"It would be a good thing if you were," muttered Dora, as she sat by the
window, looking with a careless eye upon the quiet, wintry beauty of the
garden.

It would have appeared lovely and peaceful had the tone of her mind been
the same; but the contrast was too great to please her. The bright sky
brought no cheerfulness to a heart discontented with itself; it only
caused a sigh for the vanished pleasures of the summer; and the white
frost, which still hung on the evergreens, called forth nothing but
an exclamation against the miserable cold weather, and the desolation,
wretchedness, and dulness of everything and everybody in the month of
December. Amy was gone for her walk with Miss Morton; Frank had set out
for a ramble with his papa; they were stupid and disagreeable, and to be
pardoned for leaving her behind, after she had refused the entreaties
of both to go with them, only when they were compared with Margaret and
Miss Cunningham, who was at that moment more unendurable than ever.
She really could not remain any longer listening to her never-ending
chattering; and in the most desperate fit of ill-humour, with which
she had been afflicted for weeks, Dora put on her bonnet and cloak,
and sallied forth for a solitary walk. In which direction to go she was
undecided; the shrubbery was dull, the hill was cold, the park not
fit for a winter's walk, and the terrace far too near the house to be
agreeable; and, as a last resource, she determined on finding her way
to Stephen's cottage, in the hope of meeting Amy, though she had never
before taken the trouble to visit it.

The path led along the side of the hill, which was covered by the
Emmerton plantations, and then emerged into some open fields, though
one of which flowed the deep, rapid stream, which at Emmerton almost
expanded into a lake. A wooden bridge across the water, and a narrow
lane, then led to Stephen's cottage, which stood alone in its small,
neat garden, showing, even in winter, symptoms of the care and taste
bestowed upon it. The beauty of the walk was, however, wholly lost upon
Dora; she only felt that it was very cold, and would have returned home
could anything have been found within doors at all more alluring than
the severity of the weather without. The sound of approaching voices
first roused her from her discontented reverie; and, as she looked
hastily round, she perceived her papa and Frank coming down the hill.

Mr Harrington expressed surprise at finding her alone so far from the
house, and objected to her proceeding farther, laying some blame on
Miss Morton for not having accompanied her. Dora's ill-humour did not
interfere with her usual quick sense of justice; and lately she had
become peculiarly sensible to the habit which prevailed at Emmerton, of
making Miss Morton bear the burden of other people's faults; perhaps,
too, some compunction for having occasionally been guilty of the same
offence, though not in an equal degree, made her now very desirous of
explaining the truth. Mr Harrington was easily satisfied; he had
rather an interest in Miss Morton; she was so quiet and unobtrusive and
lady-like, and never troubled him with complaints; but he insisted upon
Frank's accompanying his sister, if she still wished to go farther; and
though Dora declared there was no doubt of meeting Miss Morton in a
few minutes, he would not hear of her being left alone--and Frank, much
against his inclination, was obliged to remain.




CHAPTER XV.


"We had better go at once to the cottage, Frank," said Dora, when her
father was gone; "we shall be sure to find them there; and I dare say
they have been kept longer than they intended, talking to old Stephen."

"And who is Stephen?" said Frank.

"Oh! I am sure, I don't know," replied Dora; "only an old sort of
servant of grandpapa's, who always has the gout. He was steward, I
believe, once. I never trouble my head much about him; but Amy talks a
good deal of him."

"And what makes you go and see him, then?" said Frank.

"Nothing at all, but because I wanted something to do, and Amy and
Miss Morton were gone, and I could not bear staying at home with Miss
Cunningham."

"How you sigh! Dora," said Frank; "and how grave you look. I don't think
you have laughed heartily once since I came home."

"There is nothing to make one laugh that I can see," said Dora, "in this
gloomy old place, and the dull, cold weather."

"We were never dull at Wayland," replied Frank; "and the weather was
much worse there last winter than it is now."

"Well, I don't know what it is," said Dora; "but everybody is grown so
cross here, there is no bearing it; and it is not at all like Christmas
time."

"Wait till Monday," answered Frank; "we shall be merry enough then;
the young Dornfords are coming here quite early, that we may have some
skating on the lake."

"Young Dornfords, indeed!" exclaimed Dora; "what good will that be to
me? I shall not skate."

"But you used to like watching us," said Frank, in a disappointed tone.

"Times are changed," answered Dora, shortly; "I shall not like it now."

Frank turned away from his sister, and walked some paces off, thinking
all the time how disagreeable she was, and how much pleasanter the walk
home with his papa would have been. His own disposition was so happy,
that he could neither understand nor endure one which was the reverse,
and Dora's age and character made him always feel rather in awe; so
that he could not tell her, what he saw was the fact, that the fault of
everything lay in herself, and her own discontent. Silently and sulkily
Dora walked on to the cottage; as they passed the window, she had a
full view of what was going on within--and as she looked, her feeling of
dissatisfaction increased. The room was small, but extremely neat, and
ornamented with a few prints and pictures, and some wooden shelves, on
which were ranged all Stephen's most valuable treasures--a large Bible,
in two volumes, which had descended to him from his grandfather, "the
Whole Duty of Man," given him by Mrs Herbert's mother, and several other
books of a similar kind--all presents from different members of the
family; some curious old cups and saucers, presents likewise, a wooden
knife, made from the horn of the first buck which he had seen killed,
the handle of the first whip he had used when he became coachman at
Emmerton, and, above all, the leading rein with which he had taught all
the young gentlemen and ladies to ride. There was a story attached
to each of these relics--and Amy, though she had heard them a hundred
times, still listened with pleasure as they were repeated again and
again; and when Dora looked, she saw her seated on a low stool by
Stephen's side, with her hand resting on his knee, while he was
explaining to Miss Morton how nearly Mr Harrington had met with a
serious accident when he first mounted his Shetland pony. There was
poverty in the cottage (or what at least seemed such to Dora), and
sickness, and pain, for Stephen had been very ill, and was even then
suffering considerably; and yet she could not look upon it without
something like a feeling of envy. Stephen was resigned to his illness,
and grateful for its alleviation. Amy had forgotten herself entirely,
and was watching with delight the interest Emily Morton took in hearing
her old friend talk; and Emily was thinking of the many blessings which
God has granted to soften the trials of life, and was learning a lesson
of cheerful resignation, which none but herself would have imagined she
required. Dora was young, and she had never been taught to think; but
there was something in the general appearance of the cottage, and in the
expression of the old man's countenance, which spoke more forcibly than
any words. She had youth, health, and riches; he had age, sickness, and
poverty--how was it that he could smile while she sighed, that he could
be grateful when she was discontented? She did not put the question into
words, but the feeling was so painful that she could not wait to think
about it, and hastily knocking at the door, hardly awaited for an answer
before she entered. Amy uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure,
and Stephen half rose from his seat to do honour to his unexpected
visitor.

"I hardly thought ever to have seen you here, Miss Harrington," he said,
trying to be cordial, and yet not able entirely to conceal his sense
of the neglect which he had experienced. "'Tis so long since the master
came back to the Hall, and none of you young ladies have found your way
here before, that I began to think it wasn't the fashion now to go about
as it used to be."

"Oh! I don't know," replied Dora, who would willingly have been
indifferent to the reproof which she felt was implied; "your cottage is
so far off, Stephen, and the days are getting so short."

"So they are, so they are," answered Stephen; "'tis all very true, Miss
Harrington; but somehow in the old times people did not think about far
off and short days;--not that I mean to complain; for you know the
Bible tells us we are not to ask 'why the former days were better than
these.'"

"Here is my brother come to see you, too," said Dora, turning to the
door to look for Frank, who had lingered on the outside. "You cannot
find fault with him, for he only arrived on Thursday."

"Master Frank!" exclaimed the old man, while his clear, gray eyes were
lighted up with an unusual expression of pleasure; "but you don't mean
he is here, only coming?"

"No, not coming," said Amy; "really here; I saw him just now."

Stephen tried to move from his chair in his impatience to ascertain if
her words were true; but he was not able to walk without assistance, and
sank back again with a half-uttered expression of regret, which made him
the next instant murmur to himself, "'tis God's will; and 'tis fit we
should learn to bear it."

"Here he is, really!" exclaimed Amy, as Dora re-entered the cottage,
followed by Frank. "I am sure, Stephen, you did not quite believe us."

Stephen only answered by taking Frank's hand in his, while, for a
few moments, he fixed a deep, earnest gaze upon every feature of his
countenance.

"Yes, it's like, very like," at length he said, in a low voice, as if
speaking to himself; "like his mother, like all her family; but I could
have loved it better if it had been different."

"Oh Stephen!" exclaimed Amy, who had caught the words, notwithstanding
the tone in which they were spoken, "if you say so, Frank will think you
are not glad to see him."

"No," replied Stephen, "there was never one of the name of Harrington
that could think that yet, Miss Amy. The young gentleman will learn soon
enough that it does my very heart good to look at him; but 'tis natural
for an old man to think most of them that are gone--and, somehow, 'twas
a foolish fancy, but I thought that maybe he might have his father's
face too; but he hasn't not half so much as the young lady there; and
she must be like Master Edward, for the people at the Hall tell me he
was the very image of the master."

Dora had moved to the window on the first allusion to her brother, but,
struck with Stephen's manner, she now came forward, and said, "Do you
remember what any of us were like, Stephen, when we left Emmerton?"

"Remember!" repeated the old man. "Who wouldn't remember those who
were as his own children? Ah! Miss Harrington, 'twas a sad day when the
master told me he was going; but 'twould have been still more sad if I
had known that there was one who was never to return."

Dora tried to restrain the tears which glistened in her eyes; and again
she would have turned away, but Stephen prevented her. "And did you love
him then so much," he said, earnestly, forgetting, at the sight of her
distress, the neglect and indifference which he had so much felt. "Ah!
'twas right and natural, for he was the flower of all; and bitter it
must have been to lose him, for 'twas your first sorrow; but if God
should spare you to live as many years as I have done, Miss Harrington,
you will learn, when you lay your treasures in the cold earth, to thank
God for taking them out of a sinful world."

"It is hard for Miss Harrington to think so now, Stephen," said Miss
Morton, fearing lest his words and manner might increase Dora's grief.
"At her age there is so much to hope for, that it is impossible to
expect it."

"And I don't expect it," said Stephen; "I only tell her so now, that she
may think of my words when I am gone; and I know that they are true, for
I have felt it. I had four once, and I loved them all as my own life.
The master himself and the family were not nearer to me, nor so near
as they were; and when the first of them was carried to his grave, I
thought that my heart would have broke; but God gave me to think better
afterwards, for He sent me many a hard trial; and so, when my spirit was
turned in a manner from the earth, He called for all the rest, one after
another; and I watched them till the hour of their death, and heard that
their trust was in Him; and then I laid them to their rest, and blessed
Him for His mercy, for I knew that sickness and sorrow might knock at my
door, but they could never knock at theirs."

There was a moment's pause after the old steward had spoken, for none
but Miss Morton entirely understood his meaning--even Amy, though she
had often heard him talk in the same way before, thought it strange;
and she stood looking in his face, and wondering whether it could be
possible for herself or her cousins ever to feel like him. Stephen
smiled as he watched the expression of her countenance. "You don't half
believe me, Miss Amy," he said, "any more than I believed you when you
said the young gentleman was come to see me; and, perhaps, 'tis as well
you don't; only 'tis fit for us all to think betimes that we are not to
stay here for ever, and to expect to find things hard as we grow old;
for so we learn to look above, and then it may be God may see good to
spare us a long trial, and call us early to Himself."

"To die!" exclaimed Amy, in a half-frightened tone.

"It sounds hard," said Stephen; "and yet God only knows how great a
blessing it may be. But you need not look so sad, Miss Amy, the time may
be very far off; and, when it comes, you may have learned to think like
me; and there may be many a happy day in store for you all, only it may
be near too,--aye, near even to that little one there, who looks as if
she had never known what sickness was."

Amy looked at Rose; and certainly it did seem more difficult than ever
to believe the truth of Stephen's words. She had left the rest of the
party, not caring for what was passing, and was standing by the door,
amusing herself with the antics of a young kitten, as it tried to catch
the piece of cork which she held just out of its reach. Her bonnet had
fallen back, and her bright, chestnut hair hung in clustering ringlets
about her neck; the glow of health and happiness was on her cheek, and
her dark eyes sparkled with delight, and her little hands were clapped
in ecstasy at every fresh movement of the kitten; and, as Stephen spoke,
she burst into a merry laugh, when the tiny animal, showing unusual
agility, seized upon the cork, and, to her great surprise, carried it
off in triumph.

"You will make us all melancholy, Stephen," said Miss Morton, as she
watched the thoughtful expression of Dora's face. "My little pet has
never known an hour's real illness from the day of her birth, so we will
not begin fearing for her now."

"No, not fear," replied Stephen; "only," he added, in a lower tone,
"'tis an angel's face; and at times I have thought that it was fitter
for heaven than for earth. But I didn't mean," he continued, aloud, "to
talk about such grave things just the first day of the young gentleman's
visit. It isn't my way, Master Frank, in general, and so you shall know
if you will come and see me again; and please God I get strong upon my
legs, I shall hope to show you a good many things I've got together
down here. There's the goats, that are as tame as children, and the
old hunter that's been turned out to grass for these half-dozen
years,--there isn't such another beauty in all the country round; and
then there are the ponies that I had brought from the hills to train for
the young ladies,--maybe you'd like to see them now; my grand-daughter
will show you where they are."

Frank, who had felt strange and uncomfortable during the last quarter
of an hour, gladly seized upon the idea, and the whole party immediately
proceeded to inspect the ponies, followed by Stephen's lamentations that
he could not exhibit them himself. Frank was just beginning to fancy
he understood the merits and demerits of horses, and therefore examined
them with a critical eye, and with every wish to show his knowledge by
finding fault; but there was very little to be said against them--in
colour and shape, they were almost perfect of their kind; and Frank's
admiration, and Dora's earnest entreaties that they might be sent
immediately to the Hall to be tried, soon recompensed Stephen for the
disappointment he had at first felt respecting them. "To be sure, they
are very well," was his reply to Amy's question, if he did not think
them more beautiful than any he had ever seen before; "but they don't
come up to the old ones, Miss Amy. There was the chestnut, that your
own mamma used to ride when she was no bigger than you; that was worth
looking at; not but what these are very well,--very well, indeed, for
those who never saw any better."

"Ah! Stephen, that is so tiresome of you," exclaimed Amy, half laughing
and half vexed; "you always will bring up something or other to make
one discontented; you never can think that anything now is as good as it
used to be."

"Well, so it is," said Stephen; "and when you come to my age, Miss
Amy, you'll feel the same; not but what there is one thing which I like
better now than all, and that's your own dear little merry face; 'tis
always a comfort to look at it; and in the old times I didn't want
comfort as I do now."

"And Dora, and Frank, and Margaret, will all come and see you now,"
said Amy, "and Miss Morton and Rose too. You will have so many visitors,
Stephen, I am afraid you will get tired of them."

"They'll be welcome--all welcome, at all hours," answered Stephen, "any
of the family; and if, please God, the Colonel should come back, as they
say he will, why I think I shall begin my life over again,--'twill all
seem so old and natural."

Amy's eyes brightened at the idea. "I want some one to tell me how long
it will be before he can be here," she said, "that I may count the days;
but they all say it is uncertain, and I must not think about it; but I
do think about it all day long, and so does mamma, though she does not
say much."

"'Twill be a blessed day," said Stephen, "when it does come; and if it
please God, I pray that I may live to see it. Sometimes I have thought
I could die more happy if I could see young madam smile as she used to
do."

"Well, Stephen," interrupted Frank, who was becoming impatient, "you
will send the ponies up the first thing to-morrow, won't you? No, not
to-morrow though; to-morrow is Sunday; let them come up to-night."

"Why, Frank," said Dora, "what good can that do? Monday morning will be
quite early enough; you cannot possibly try them before."

"But 'tis his wish. Miss Harrington," said Stephen, "and 'tis the first
thing he has asked of me; so, if there's no offence to you, 'twould be
a pleasure to me to have them up at the Hall to-night, and one of the
grooms can quite easily come to fetch them."

Frank's smile spoke his thanks; and Dora, pleased at anything which
made his holidays happier than she had feared they would be, took a most
cordial leave of Stephen, and left his cottage in a much better mood
than she had entered it.

"I think," she said to Amy, as they walked home, "that there must be
something very pleasant in going to visit poor people when they are
comfortably off, like Stephen; they must be so glad to see one, and
there is nothing to make one melancholy; but I can't say I should like
getting into those dirty holes which some people have such a fancy for."

"Oh Dora!" exclaimed Amy, "I can't think any one really likes dirty
holes, as you call them; but, you know, if no one were to look after
them, there would be nothing done for the people who live in them."

"But why do they live there?" said Dora; "why don't they have neat
cottages like Stephen's, and look cheerful and be grateful for what is
given them? I have heard people say that it is all their own fault being
so miserably off, and that there is no good in doing anything for them."

"Only," replied Amy, "a good many people have no work, and then of
course they have nothing to live on."

"How do you know?" asked Dora; "do you ever go and see any of them but
Stephen?"

"Oh dear, yes!" replied Amy, in a tone of surprise; "all the people in
the village I know quite well; mamma always takes me with her to their
cottages."

"And does aunt Herbert like going?" said Dora.

"Yes, very much, except when she is tired and ill; but she goes just the
same; and they are so fond of her."

Dora looked thoughtful, and said that it must be a great deal of
trouble.

"Sometimes it is," said Amy; "but mamma always seems better when she
comes back."

"There is not anything done for rich people when they are unhappy," said
Dora; "no one thinks of trying to give them pleasure."

"Do you think that is quite the case?" asked Miss Morton. "I should have
said that there was care and kindness shown to every one every day of
their lives."

"Not to me," said Dora, "excepting, of course, from papa and mamma."

"I fear," said Miss Morton, "we should be very badly off if our parents'
care were all that we had to depend on."

"I know what you mean." replied Dora, thinking for a moment; "but then
the blessings which God sends are so different from the trouble which
people say rich persons ought to take about the poor. Of course, He can
do everything."

"Yes," said Miss Morton; "and when we think of His infinite power, we
can hardly imagine that His actions can be any example for us; but there
was a time when He condescended to live upon the earth; and we do not
find then that He shrunk from taking trouble, as we call it, to do
good."

Dora was silent and uncomfortable; she was beginning to get a faint
notion of the extent of her duties, and of the care and thought which
she ought to bestow upon her fellow-creatures as well as herself; and
she turned from the idea in something like despair, fearing that it
would be quite useless to attempt fulfilling them.

Amy watched her, and saw that something was amiss; and leaving Miss
Morton, she went to the other side, and put her hand within her cousin's
without speaking.

The action was understood; and again Dora felt self-reproach, as she
noticed the gentle consideration of one so young, and thought of her
own pride and selfishness. "I should like to go with you some day," she
said, "when aunt Herbert takes you amongst the cottagers, just to know
what you say to them, and how you behave."

"I never say anything," replied Amy, "except, perhaps, just to ask them
if they are better; but I like hearing mamma talk to them."

"But there can be nothing said that you can care about," observed Dora.

"Yes, indeed, there is, generally," answered Amy. "I like to hear about
all their children, and I like to hear them tell mamma about their being
ill and poor. I don't mean that I wish them to be ill and poor, but it
is very nice to see how mamma comforts them, and it gives me pleasure to
hear her talk to Mr Walton about them; and when I go home, the cottage
always seems so much larger and more comfortable than it did before. I
never wish then that we had a larger house and more servants."

"And do you ever wish so now?" asked Dora.

Amy blushed, but answered without hesitation: "I am afraid I do wish it
very often; but I know it is so wrong that it makes me very unhappy."

"Wrong!" exclaimed Dora; "how can it be wrong? Every one in the world
wishes for something or another; not that you would be one bit better
off, Amy, if you were to live at Emmerton to-morrow; at least, I think
you are much happier than I am."

"Mamma says the same," replied Amy, "and of course she knows best;
only it does not seem so--but I know it is wicked in me to indulge such
feelings."

"That is so silly," said Dora; "how can it be wicked when everybody has
them? Don't you think now, Emily, that every one wishes for something
better than what they possess?"

"Yes," replied Miss Morton, "but some persons wish for things that are
right and good, and others for those which are wrong, and this makes all
the difference."

"There can be no harm in houses and servants," said Dora.

"Only," said Miss Morton, "that they are apt to make us think proudly
of ourselves, and despise those who are without them; and that at our
baptism we promised to renounce the pomps and vanities of the world."

"Then what would you have people think of and long for?" asked Dora.

Amy looked at her cousin with a slight feeling of surprise at the
question; but Miss Morton did not appear to consider it strange, for she
answered immediately: "I think if persons were quite good as they ought
to be, all their wishes would be for the blessings which are promised us
in the Bible, and that they would care no more for earthly grandeur than
a person who is passing through a foreign country does for what he may
see there, when he has much better things at home."

"What," exclaimed Dora, "not think about having comfortable houses, and
pretty places, and plenty of money! we might just as well all be poor at
once."

"Perhaps," said Miss Morton, "you may remember a verse in the New
Testament, which says that the poor are blessed. It is very hard to
believe, but if the Bible tells us so, it must be true."

"That is just what mamma would say," observed Amy; "but I don't think
I quite like to hear grown-up people talk so, because I am sure it is
right to think it; and yet it seems quite impossible, and as if it would
make one always melancholy; only you are not melancholy," she added,
looking at Miss Morton.

"It would not be possible for any one at your age to feel like a
grown-up person who has had a great many trials," replied Emily; "but
it is quite right for you to try at once to overcome your longing for
grandeur and riches, because it is one of the lessons which we are sent
into the world to learn, and one of the best ways of learning it, is
by doing what Miss Harrington mentioned just now,--going amongst poor
people, I mean."

"I don't see what that has to do with it," said Dora.

"If the poor people we visit are happy," replied Emily, "we shall see
that God has given them pleasures quite independent of those we value so
much, and we shall learn to think them of less importance; and if they
are unhappy, we shall thank God for having placed us in a different
situation; and whatever may be our trials, we shall bear them with far
greater patience, when we see what the poor are forced to endure. A
visit to a sick person, in want, will often do more to make us contented
and grateful than all the sermons that ever were preached."

"Do you really think so?" said Dorn, gravely; "I wonder whether it would
make me happier."

"Will you try?" asked Miss Morton, eagerly. "Will you, if Mrs Harrington
has no objection, go with me some day, and see the poor people? Mr
Walton has often said he wished you would."

"Oh Dora! do go," exclaimed Amy; "I should be so delighted if you knew
them all, as mamma and I do."

"I don't know," answered Dora; "mamma will object, I am sure."

"But just try," persisted Amy; "never mind if she does say No; there is
no harm in asking."

"Ah! but mamma's 'No' is different from aunt Herbert's," replied Dora;
"it always means she is angry."

Amy felt this was true, and could not urge her cousin to do what she
knew would be so alarming to herself; and Miss Morton's experience of
Dora's disposition was sufficient to render her aware, that to urge
anything was the most certain method of making her determine upon not
doing it. She, therefore, was silent, and the conversation dropped, for
they had now nearly reached the Hall; but it did not pass from Dora's
mind. It had given her a new idea of duty, and a hope of increased
pleasure and interest, in a way which was not only innocent but good;
and before she again met Miss Morton she had determined upon making the
request to her mamma, that she might be allowed to go into the village,
even at the risk of encountering her awful frown, and very decided "No."




CHAPTER XVI.


The visit to Stephen's cottage had so engrossed Amy's mind, that she had
for the time entirely forgotten Miss Cunningham and the dance, and even
the dread of Mr Cunningham's conversation; but when the evening came,
and they were to appear in the drawing-room, she felt a considerable
degree of trepidation, and dressed herself much more reluctantly than
usual, lingering in her room, in her anxiety to delay the awful moment,
till she found that her cousins had left her to go down stairs alone.
Mrs Herbert was tired, and proposed remaining by herself all the
evening; and there was, therefore, no alternative for Amy, but to summon
all her courage, and earnestly hope that no one would take any notice
of her. This hope, however, was vain, for Mr Cunningham perceived
her instantly, and seemed as much determined as before to enter into
conversation. Perhaps he might have had more compassion, had he known
what was passing in Amy's mind, and how anxiously she longed to be
seated by Dora, at the other end of the room; but he was so accustomed
to be understood by his own family, that he was not aware of the pain
he inflicted upon strangers, especially upon a shy, timid child, and
his only wish was to take notice of one whom he fancied others, and
especially his sister, were inclined to neglect. Amy stood by his side,
blushing and trembling, and trying to understand, and feeling really
grateful for his kindness in troubling himself about her, but, at
the same time, strongly inclined to laugh, as she watched his strange
grimaces. Once, however, she caught Margaret's eye, and saw her slily
attempting to imitate him, and in an instant she recovered herself, and
making a greater effort to comprehend what he was saying, soon found it
comparatively easy. After a few observations on indifferent subjects,
Mr Cunningham made some inquiries about Colonel Herbert; and Amy's heart
was quite won when he told her that he recollected him before he went
to India, and that every one loved and esteemed him, and that he looked
forward now with much pleasure to his return; and she then ventured to
ask the question to which she had not been able hitherto to obtain
an answer--how long it would be before her papa could arrive. Mr
Cunningham, with great good-nature, began calculating probabilities; and
Amy was more than recompensed for her previous attention, when he said
that, now the insurrection was over, there was no doubt Colonel Herbert
would be able to leave India immediately, and that, probably, he would
be with them almost as soon as a letter could reach them to announce his
return; he might even be in England before they heard from him; and as
he spoke, Amy turned to the door on the entrance of a servant, with
a vague fancy that even then her father might be near. Her cousins
observed, with surprise, the notice that was taken of her; Dora felt
pleasure, and Margaret envy; for she recollected her conversation in the
morning, and already began to imagine that Amy would be put before her
in everything; but Miss Cunningham would have disliked it more than
any one, if she had not been occupied in watching for an opportunity to
speak to her papa upon the subject of the dance. Margaret had suggested
that it would be an inconvenient moment; but Miss Cunningham never
allowed time or propriety to interfere with her wishes, and eagerly
seizing Lord Rochford's arm as he finished his conversation with Mr
Harrington, she drew him aside, and in an audible whisper commenced her
entreaties. Lord Rochford listened, and smiled, and patted her shoulder,
and called her his pet and his darling, but at first did not seem
quite inclined to agree with her, and all that she could obtain was the
promise that he would think about it. This, however, did not satisfy her
impatience, and she declared she would not let him go till he had really
promised to mention it. Lord Rochford saw the impropriety of the idea,
and the objections which Mr and Mrs Harrington might very naturally
make to it; but his daughter's will was all-powerful with him, and he
hesitated, and half consented, and then looked at Mrs Harrington, and
retracted, till Miss Cunningham, seeing her advantage, became so
very urgent that the attention of every one was directed to her. Mrs
Harrington could not help perceiving that the subject under discussion
was one in which she was interested, yet she sat immovable, with her
eyes fixed upon her work, thinking it contrary to all the rules of
propriety to interfere; but Mr Harrington was not so particular.

"You have a most indefatigable petitioner there," he said, as he caught
Lord Rochford's eye. "I wonder you have not yielded long ago, from mere
weariness."

"Clever girl, clever girl," said Lord Rochford; "knows her own power;
but it is not my affair, or she would have had her own way before this,
I am afraid."

"Miss Cunningham looks as if it were something in which I am concerned,"
said Mr Harrington. "I should be most happy to give her pleasure."

"Yes, now, did I not say so, papa?" exclaimed Miss Cunningham. "I knew
Mr Harrington could have no objection. It is only that we all want a
dance this Christmas, like every one else. There is the hall, which will
do so beautifully for it, and every one will enjoy it so much; and I
brought a dress here on purpose."

Dora's countenance betrayed her vexation, when she found herself
included in the general "we," and she turned with anxiety to her
mother's, when the proposition was made. Mrs Harrington still kept her
eyes on her embroidery, and appeared not to remark what was passing;
but Dora saw that she bit her lip, and contracted her brow, and she
well knew that a storm was at hand. Mr Harrington only looked grave and
pained.

"I do not think," he said, "this is quite the time for such an
entertainment; and I should have hoped that Dora and Margaret's feelings
would have prevented their wishing it. It is a different thing having
a few friends in the house, to whom we are desirous of showing a little
attention, and giving such a party as you mention. Even if we felt the
inclination, which we are very far from doing, common propriety would be
against it."

This was rather too long a speech for Miss Cunningham to listen to
attentively; but she discovered that it meant "_no;_" and, unmindful of
the annoyance expressed in Lord Rochford's face, and his muttered "Yes,
yes, to be sure, I told her so--girls are so obstinate," she hardly
waited till it was ended, before she was at Mrs Harrington's side,
asking her most earnestly to consent.

Mrs Harrington slowly raised her eyes from her work, and, in a voice
which sounded in Dora's ears like the murmuring roll of distant thunder,
begged to be informed what it was she wished her to do.

"To have a dance," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, even then feeling but
little doubt of her success: "a delightful dance in the hall; just such
a one as Sir Francis Egerton gave at Tweeddale Park last year."

"And may I ask," inquired Mrs Harrington, calmly, "who Sir Francis
Egerton is, and why his actions are to be an example to me?"

"Oh, he is a cousin of ours," replied Miss Cunningham. "Mary Egerton is
just my age; and she opened the ball."

"Indeed! then, in my opinion, she would have been much better employed
with her studies in the schoolroom."

"You cannot really be in earnest," persisted Miss Cunningham; "it was
the most charming thing in the world; and every one was so happy."

"Very probably," replied Mrs Harrington, again returning to her work.

"That is so kind of you," said Miss Cunningham; "then you will have no
objection. When shall it be?"

"Never, with my consent," answered Mrs Harrington, rising in extreme
indignation at what she considered impertinence and want of feeling.
"My daughters have been strangely forgetful to allow such a thing to be
mentioned. Dora, at your age, I should have thought you would have known
better."

Dora instantly commenced an excuse, but stopped short in the middle,
feeling the awkwardness of laying all the blame upon her sister, and her
visitor; and Mrs Harrington, who had at first listened with the quiet
determined air of a person resolved beforehand to accept no apology,
turned from her, and began assuring Lord Rochford that she was
quite aware that Miss Cunningham had nothing really to do with the
business--she merely acted as spokeswoman for the rest. Of course, no
young lady of her age would venture to make suggestions of the kind
without being supported by others; adding, "I blame my own children, not
her."

This was more than Amy could endure. She had been standing by Mr
Cunningham's side during the discussion, with all the unpleasant
sensations of being herself guilty; and her colour went and came, in
the dread every moment that her aunt would include her in the reprimand.
Margaret had quitted the room upon the first symptom of a storm; and
there was no one but herself to vindicate Dora. It was a great effort,
but she felt that it must be made; and, walking up to Mrs Harrington,
she said, in a low frightened voice, "Indeed, aunt, I heard Dora, at
dinner-time, telling them you would not like it."

"That is right," said Mr Harrington; "never let anyone be accused
unjustly. I was sure Dora could not wish it. As for Margaret, she is so
young and thoughtless, that it is not to be wondered at."

"It is all very well," said Mrs Harrington, who was far too angry to
allow of any justification; "but Dora should have prevented its being
named. She is the eldest; and Amy, too, though so much younger, is quite
old enough to know better."

Poor Amy, for the moment, heartily repented having spoken, and returned
to her former position with the thought that she had only made matters
worse by interfering; but she remembered afterwards that she meant to do
rightly, and that it was better to be blamed wrongly than really to be
in fault. Miss Cunningham, in the meanwhile, satisfied with finding
that she had escaped censure, cared little what any one else might be
feeling, and carelessly taking up a book of prints which lay upon the
table, began turning over the leaves with an indifferent air, much to
the increase of Mrs Harrington's anger, which was in reality as much
directed against her as against her own daughters, though politeness had
induced her to conceal it.

The pause that ensued was felt by every one to be extremely awkward. Mr
Cunningham wished to make some excuse for his sister; but his nervous
anxiety rendered his articulation more difficult than usual, and after
several efforts he coloured deeply, and gave up the attempt.

Lord Rochford fidgeted, first on one foot and then on the other, and at
last walked across the room to get out of the reach of Mrs Harrington,
who still stood looking as if she considered some one ought to make
apologies; and seeing that something was expected from him, returned
again to say that it was a thoughtless thing, perhaps, of the young
people, but it would not do to be too hard upon them; they meant no
harm.

"The excuse for everything," was all Mrs Harrington's reply; and Lord
Rochford moved away with thoughts which it would have been uncivil to
utter.

"Come," exclaimed Mr Harrington, feeling rather ashamed that so much had
been said; "I quite agree with Lord Rochford, that no harm was intended.
You know, Charlotte, they could not be expected to feel as you and I do;
and besides, after all, we had thought of giving them something like
an evening's amusement, though not quite what Miss Cunningham proposed.
There is a celebrated conjurer just arrived in the neighbourhood, and
we had settled that he should come here on Wednesday to exhibit, if the
young people fancied it; and then afterwards, if they choose to get up
a quadrille just among themselves, I daresay Miss Morton will play to
them."

Amy felt very much relieved at the turn which this was likely to give to
the conversation, though she little cared what amusement was proposed,
if she could only see her aunt resume her seat and her work; but Mrs
Harrington appeared to be struck by the idea of a fresh person with whom
to find fault, for she repeated quickly to herself "Emily Morton! yes,
she ought to have prevented it," and immediately left the room.
Her absence at once caused a sensation of freedom and relief. Miss
Cunningham, though inclined to imagine that conjuring tricks were rather
vulgar, still felt sufficient curiosity to make some inquiries about
them; and Amy, to whom all things of the kind were entirely new, began
expressing her pleasure to Dora, and when Mrs Harrington returned,
followed by Miss Morton, the storm had apparently passed away. Miss
Morton's countenance was as gentle and calm as usual; but there was a
slight nervous agitation in her manner, which Amy had learned to notice
as the consequence of one of Mrs Harrington's lectures; and, when at
Lord Rochford's request, she sat down to the piano, to perform her
thankless task of playing and singing for the general amusement, her
voice trembled so much as to oblige her to give up the song which had
been asked for, and only attempt an instrumental piece.

Amy stole quietly to her side, and, with a look and voice which were
fully understood, asked if she might be allowed to stand by her and
turn over the leaves. There was a tear in Miss Morton's eye, though she
smiled and thanked her, but Amy's attention gave her at that moment all
that she required--the consciousness that some one was near who could
feel for her; and in a short time she had recovered her self-command.

"Who was it I heard playing the airs in the last new opera, this
morning?" said Mr Harrington, when Miss Morton had finished her piece.
"Whoever it was seemed to me to be getting on extremely well."

Amy was going to answer, but Miss Cunningham prevented her. "I was
trying them over after dinner," she said; "but I had never seen them
before, and therefore, of course, I made one or two false notes."

"Oh!" exclaimed Dora, "there must be some mistake; for if you remember,
you were at the piano just before I went out for my walk, and I heard
you say you found them so difficult, you wondered any one could take
the trouble to learn them. It must have been Amy--she has been regularly
practising them."

"I don't know, indeed," replied Miss Cunningham, angrily; "I never heard
her."

"I dare say Dora may be wrong," said Mr Harrington; "suppose you were to
favour us now."

Miss Cunningham hesitated a little; but her self-confidence induced her
to make the attempt, though it did not prevent her from blundering
so sadly, that Mr Cunningham, in despair at the discordant sounds, at
length walked to the piano, closed the book, and said in a low, stern
voice, "Pray, Lucy, spare us any more; you must have known you could not
play it in the least." There was no reply; for Miss Cunningham feared
and respected her brother more than any one in the world, and saw that
he was very much annoyed. Mr Harrington began to make excuses for her,
and was unwilling that Amy should play instead; but he was forced to
yield to Mr Cunningham's wish, and she was sent to the instrument; and,
notwithstanding her alarm, satisfied every one that her talent for music
was of a very superior kind. Even Lord Rochford, though vexed at his
daughter's failure, could not help exclaiming, "Very good, very good,
indeed--very correct time--who taught her, Harrington?"

"Her mamma was her only instructress for several years," replied Mr
Harrington; "but latterly Miss Morton has taken her in hand, and I must
say she does her infinite credit."

"Yes, certainly," said Lord Rochford, "very great credit indeed. What
should you say, Lucy, to persuading Mrs Harrington to let you benefit
a little by Miss Morton now, as a preparation for London? She would
improve you, I dare say, even in these few days, and then when we were
in London she might give you some hints as she saw you wanted them."

"Really," said Mrs Harrington, who thought this a very strange mode of
appropriating the time and talents which were intended for the benefit
of her own children, "it is quite useless to form any plans for London;
I have every reason to be satisfied with the progress my children are
making in the country, and shall not think of London masters at present;
I have expressed my determination to your lordship in a very decided way
from the first."

"True, quite true," replied Lord Rochford, feeling that the refusal had
been very decided; "only people change; but we won't talk of London,
you don't wish it, I see; but I should like this young lady to hear Lucy
play over a piece or two while we are here."

Miss Cunningham's countenance expressed anything but amiability; and
she gave her father a look which had often been found efficacious in
preventing disagreeable plans, but his head was turned away, and she
looked in vain; and the next moment he was at Miss Morton's side,
praising her music, and begging, as a great favour, that she would take
a little pains with Lucy, and hear her play occasionally; in fact, as Mr
Harrington had said, take her in hand for a few days.

Dora could scarcely forbear smiling, as she observed the expression of
Miss Cunningham's face--it told of pride, mortification, and anger;
and Amy noticed it also, but she was not amused; she was sorry for
both parties; for whatever might be Lucy Cunningham's disinclination to
become Miss Morton's pupil, it certainly could not exceed Emily Morton's
unwillingness to become her instructress. Lord Rochford shared his
daughter's dulness of perception; and to complete the unpleasantness of
the proposition, he spoke to Amy, hoping that she and Miss Cunningham
would learn a few duets together. Poor Amy blushed, and tried, though
with difficulty, to express acquiescence; and Mrs Harrington, observing
her hesitation, reproved her for her rudeness, and assured Lord Rochford
that Dora and Margaret would practise with Miss Cunningham whenever she
wished it. It would be a more convenient arrangement, as Amy was only an
occasional visitor; and though she had played tolerably well once, she
had not received by any means the same advantages as her cousins. Amy
could almost have cried with annoyance, but painful as it was to be
so undervalued and misunderstood on every occasion, it was, in this
instance, a very useful lesson to her, for it prevented the indulgence
of vanity at being brought forward in so unusual a manner; and when
she saw how Emily Morton was slighted, and remembered her meek,
uncomplaining temper, she could only feel vexed with herself for caring
so much about it, and long to possess a spirit as humble as hers. The
events of the evening, though trifling in themselves, were not so in
their consequence. Miss Cunningham went to bed angry with her father,
angry with herself, and, above all, angry with Emily Morton and Amy. Of
the affair of the dance, she thought but little, for she was not aware
that any blame had been attached to her; but she had been foolish
in attempting to play, and her father still more so, she decided, in
teasing her with lessons, and making a fuss about Miss Morton, instead
of depreciating her, and so increasing the difficulties in the way
of the London expedition. Amy had been made her rival, and had gained
approbation which might have been hers, and, above all, had been noticed
by Mr Cunningham, whose last words, as he wished his sister good-night,
were, that it would make him entirely contented to see her as
sweet-tempered, humble, and unaffected as Amy Herbert. With these
feelings the idea of their both going with the rest of the family to
London, in case Lord Rochford gained his point, was most provoking;
and very earnestly did Miss Cunningham hope that something might occur
within the next two months to remove Emily Morton from Emmerton. In her
absence, Amy was too much of a child to be cared for, but together they
would form a very considerable drawback to the pleasure she expected;
and she thought it would be preferable to give up the journey at once,
than to be continually troubled with Miss Morton as an instructress, and
Amy Herbert as an example. Amy went to her mother as usual, not quite
satisfied with herself. The first elation had subsided, and she was
aware of the evil feeling that had arisen in her mind, and at once
acknowledged it to Mrs Herbert; and then, referring to the dance,
she wondered that Miss Cunningham could have been so blind to the
impropriety of the suggestion.

"I should have thought, mamma," she said, "that Dora's face would have
shown her she was wrong."

"It does not surprise me," replied Mrs Herbert, "because the same thing
happens continually with every one. Whatever we wish for we easily
persuade ourselves is allowable."

"But there cannot really be any harm in wishing, can there?" said Amy.

"Only so far harm as it is the seed of all evil," answered her mother.
"If our wishes were good, our actions would be good also."

"But there are a great many wishes which are neither good nor bad,
mamma--wishes, I mean, that are of no consequence."

"I think that is a mistake, my dear; we are so ignorant that we never
can tell whether even a passing thought may not be of consequence;
and, with regard to our wishes, the moment we see that we shall not be
permitted to indulge them, we must try and get rid of them."

"I do not quite see why it is necessary," said Amy.

"Because," replied her mother, "our will ceases then to be the same as
the will of God. There is a very fearful lesson given us in the Bible on
this subject in the history of Balaam. He wished to go with the prince
of Moab in the expectation of receiving a great reward, and God forbade
him. His duty then was to conquer his inclination; but, instead of this,
he only obeyed outwardly and still continued to wish, and at last he was
permitted to follow his own way; but we are told that the anger of God
was kindled against him."

"I see that he was wrong," said Amy, "but must we not wish for little
things?"

"If we were quite good, we should never do so, my love; we should see
plainly that even the smallest events of our lives are ordered for our
good; and it is better to begin with controlling our wishes in trifles,
and then we shall not be led astray by them in great things. Of course
there is no harm in wishing for innocent things, as long as it is
permitted us to enjoy them; but when they are put beyond our reach our
wishes must cease."

Amy was too tired to converse more; but, although she felt that the idea
was a difficult one to realise, she did not the less resolve on putting
it in practice.




CHAPTER XVII.


"I wish Frank would not make such a fuss about those stupid boys who are
coming to-day," said Dora, as he left the room when breakfast was ended,
expressing his great delight that Monday morning was at length arrived,
and begging them all to make a point of coming down to the lake in the
afternoon to see the skating; "it is bad enough to have a number of
strange girls here, but really to be worried with rude boys is more than
any one can bear."

"Perhaps they are not rude," said Amy.

"Yes, but they are," replied Dora. "I am sure they must be rude and
awkward; I cannot bear them."

"But Frank, you can bear him."

"Oh, that is quite a different thing--not but what he is a torment
sometimes; but I do not want to talk about them now. Margaret, please,
don't go away; just help me to settle how we are to amuse ourselves when
the people come. I have had such a lecture from mamma this morning about
making ourselves agreeable."

"Dear me, I don't know," said Margaret; "let them take care of
themselves; I daresay they will find something to do."

"There is the conjurer for Wednesday," observed Dora, thoughtfully; "but
there are two days to that, and what shall we do with them till then?"

"Really," said Miss Cunningham, "I should think there would be quite
sufficient amusement in being here and seeing the house; for you told me
the other day they none of them lived in such a large place."

"Yes," said Margaret, "to be sure they can go over the house, and round
the grounds."

"Round the grounds!" exclaimed Dora; "why it is going to snow hard."

"Well," replied Margaret, "I should never trouble myself about it
beforehand; when they come they will amuse themselves, and if they do
not like it they need not come again."

"That is not my way," continued Dora; "it would not be very agreeable to
be told they had had a stupid visit at the house of the first gentleman
in the county. We must have more ways of entertaining them than they can
have at home."

"I can't think, though, what they are," said Amy; "but I daresay you
will recollect something when the time comes; and you know, Dora, though
I could not talk to any one of them as you can, I could play with the
little ones."

"Ah! but I do not mind the little ones," said Dora; "they will be very
happy with a doll, and Emily Morton will take care of them; but there
are two or three great ones, the Miss Stanleys and Miss Warner, who have
always been at school; I have not seen them, and I know they are coming
early; people always do come early when one does not want them;"
and Dora looked at Miss Cunningham, and thought of the last Saturday
morning.

"We might talk for ever," said Margaret, "and it would be no good, and
really I have no time to think about it now. Do, Lucy, come to my room,
and look at that dress which you said could be altered like yours.
Morris will have no time if it is not given her this morning, and I must
go and talk to mamma before it is begun."

"That is just like you, Margaret," said Dora, "you never will help me;
but mamma says you must try this afternoon, so it will be no use for you
and Lucy to shut yourselves up in your room; you must come down, or she
will be very angry."

Amy saw that Dora was gradually becoming extremely annoyed, and
earnestly longed to soothe her, but she was rather afraid to interfere;
she did, however, venture to say, that perhaps some of them might be
fond of reading, and then there would be less trouble.

"Oh yes!" exclaimed Margaret, who did not quite like to go and yet was
very unwilling to stay, "that will just do, Amy; they shall read, and
then they will all be quite comfortable, and we may go our own way; I am
so glad that matter is settled, I do so hate trouble and fuss."

"So we do all," said Dora, angrily, as Margaret hastily ran out of the
room; "only some people are forced to take it. That plan of yours will
not do at all, Amy, and I cannot think how you could be so silly as to
propose it. School-girls never like reading, and if they do, they
can have enough of it at home. What they ought to have here should be
something to mark the place, something they should remember, something,
in short, quite different from what they could find anywhere else."

Amy did her best to think, but it was all to no purpose; and Dora at
last could only sigh and moan, and walk to the window and watch the
weather, and wish that the snow would come down and keep them all at
home.

"And snow Miss Cunningham in," said Amy, laughing.

"To be sure," answered Dora, "that would be rather odious. What a goose
she made of herself last night, Amy, and how delighted I was when you
had all the praise."

"So was I too," said Amy; "but I don't think I was right. I am sure,
indeed, I was not; for I spoke to mamma about it afterwards, and she
told me it was vanity."

"As for that," said Dora, "every one is vain."

"But then," said Amy, "we promised at our baptism that we would not be
so; and mamma says that persons who are vain soon become envious, and
that envy leads to very great crimes, and that if we indulge in vanity,
we can never tell how wicked we shall become by and by."

"I cannot understand why you are always talking of baptism, Amy," said
Dora; "it seems as if it had something to do with everything, according
to your notions."

"According to mamma's notions, you mean; she reminds me of it so often
that I cannot possibly forget it."

"But there is no one in the world who has kept the promise," said Dora;
"and then they say we have such a wicked nature; what is the use of
thinking about being good when we have no power to be so?"

"I do not think I understand it quite," replied Amy, "and I am sure,
Dora, I cannot teach you, but I could tell you what mamma tells me."

"And what is that?" asked Dora.

"Mamma says," answered Amy, "that when we are born we all have very
wicked natures; but that, when we are baptized, God gives us a new
nature which is good; and that, when we grow up, we can do right if we
really wish to do it, because we have the Holy Spirit always to help
us; and once, when I made an excuse for something I had done wrong, by
saying that it was natural, and I could not help it, she told me that
it might have been an excuse if I had not been baptized, but that now it
was no excuse at all."

"Then what are we to do?" said Dora; "no person really keeps their
promise. How wicked we must all be!"

"Mamma says we are," replied Amy; "and that we ought to be so very
careful about our smallest actions, and our words and thoughts, because
it is so dangerous to do wrong now."

"But," said Dora, "I cannot see why people should be baptized, if it
only makes them worse off than they were before."

"Oh! but indeed, Dora," exclaimed Amy, looking rather shocked, "it makes
us better off than we were before,--a great deal better off; for you
know the service about baptism says that we are made God's children,
really His children; and that, when we die, we shall go to heaven, if
we try and do right now, and beg Him to forgive us when we do wrong, for
our Saviour's sake."

"I do not understand it," said Dora; "and I never heard any one talk
about it till I came to Emmerton."

"I did not understand it half as well," replied Amy, "till mamma told me
a story about uncle Harrington's birthday, and said that, when we were
baptized, we were made heirs of heaven, just as he was heir to this
place and all the property; and even now it puzzles me very much, and
very often I cannot believe that it is all true; but I try to do so,
because mamma says it is, and shows me where it is written in the
Bible."

"But how can we tell that we have a good nature given us at our
baptism?" said Dora; "I never feel it; I don't think I do anything that
is right all day long; you may have a good nature, Amy, and I think you
have, but I know I have not."

"Mamma says," answered Amy, "that being sorry for our faults and wishing
to do better is a sign of it; and you know, Dora, you often tell me how
much you wish to do right, and sometimes, when I have had a great many
wrong feelings--vain feelings, I mean, and angry and envious ones--the
only thing that makes me at all happy again, is because I feel sorry for
it."

Dora sighed deeply. "I wish," she said, "that the bad nature would
go all at once, I am so tired of wishing to do good, and always doing
wrong, and then I begin to think there is no use in trying. It would be
easier if I could believe that it was true about baptism, because then
it would appear as if there was something to help me; but I have always
heard people talk about having such a very wicked nature, till at last
it seemed foolish to hope to be good, as if it were impossible; not but
what I do try sometimes, Amy," she continued, with a sudden impulse
to be unreserved, which she had occasionally felt when talking to her
cousin since their little disagreement; "I do try sometimes, though I
daresay you will not believe it, because I am so cross. I meant to have
tried this morning, only Lucy Cunningham made me so angry by the way she
twisted her head about, and the nonsense she talked at breakfast, that I
could not help becoming out of humour with every one; and when once I
am annoyed in the morning, I go on so all day; but you cannot understand
that, it is so unlike you."

"I can, though," replied Amy, "for I very often am provoked when I watch
Miss Cunningham, and hear her talk; but I try not to look at her, and to
think of something else."

"I cannot do that," said Dora; "when she is in the room, I find myself
watching her and listening to her, though I would give the world not to
do it; for I am always longing to stop her, or say something sharp; and
yet, when I do, I am so vexed with myself for it. I know nothing will
ever go right while she is with us."

"Then you will not be uncomfortable long," replied Amy.

"But," said Dora, "I know very well that it is no use feeling properly
only when everything goes as you like; what I wish is to have the power
of being good always. There are some people who are never put out of
humour--aunt Herbert for one; I long to be like her."

"So do I," exclaimed Amy, eagerly; "but then she is so very, very good;
I don't think it is possible to be what she is; Mrs Walton says she
never met with any one like her."

"That is what disheartens me; good people are so up in the clouds, where
one can never get at them."

"I suppose, though," answered Amy, "they were not always so good. Mamma
often says she did a great many naughty things when she was my age."

"I wish she would tell me what made her better, then," said Dora. "Did
she ever tell you?"

"No," replied Amy; "all that she ever told me was what I ought to do
myself to cure my faults; and she said that she would pray to God to
help me."

"No one will ever promise that for me," observed Dora, sighing.

"But mamma will, I am sure," exclaimed Amy, eagerly; "and I----"

"Why do you stop?" said Dora.

"Mamma tells me to mention all your names in my prayers," replied Amy;
"but I don't mean that that would be the same as her doing so, because
she is so much better."

"I cannot see what difference that can make. I should like very much
to think you did it always for me; but it must be such a trouble to
remember."

"Oh no, Dora, it would seem so unkind not to do it; and if I thought
you cared, I never could forget; but some day or other, when I am quite
good, it will be of much more use."

"Does aunt Herbert think that no one must pray for others but those who
never do anything wrong?" asked Dora, in a tone of surprise.

"No; she says we all ought to pray for each other, and that it is quite
our duty. But we are told in the Bible that very good persons' prayers
are heard particularly; and so mamma says that is one reason for trying
to conquer our faults; because God will be more likely to attend to us
then."

"I cannot think you ever had any faults to cure; you never could have
been ill-tempered."

"Oh Dora! pray don't say so; it makes me think I must be so deceitful,
for I am often ill-tempered, and I used to be so every day at my
lessons."

"Then," said Dora, "you can tell me just what I want to know. What did
you do to make yourself better?"

"I used to talk about it to mamma," replied Amy; "and one day
particularly, I remember, I was very unhappy, and thought I should be
cross all my life; and then she showed me a prayer which she had written
out for me. It was taken from the Collects and the Psalms; and she
begged me to repeat it every morning and evening, and once in the middle
of the day, too, and try to think about it; and she marked some verses
in the Bible, and gave me a short prayer besides--just a few words to
say to myself when I felt that I was becoming out of temper; and she
advised me, when I knew I had been doing wrong, in that or anything
else, to go to my room instantly, and pray to God to forgive me; and
after I had done as she desired for some time, and really tried very
hard not to speak when I was angry, and to give up to whatever mamma
wished, I found it much easier to be good-tempered."

"But," said Dora, "that is so much to do. I never heard before of any
one saying their prayers in the middle of the day. Why should it be
necessary?"

"Oh!" replied Amy, "if people do not pray, they never can have any help
from God; and the Holy Spirit, which was given them at their baptism,
will go away from them, and they will become dreadfully wicked."

"It is right for people to say their prayers every morning and evening,
of course," said Dora; "but I must say again, I never heard of any
persons doing it in the middle of the day."

"I thought a great many people did; at least I know I have read in the
old times of some who said them seven times, and in the Bible it is
mentioned. Don't you remember one of the lessons they read in the church
about Daniel, and how he prayed three times every day?"

"Ah, yes! in the Bible; but then in the Bible every one does what is
right. I never think the persons we read of there could be like us."

"They did not always do right, though," answered Amy, "because it very
often says that God was displeased with them. You know how angry Moses
was once, and how he was not allowed to go with the Israelites. Whenever
I read that, I always think that I should have felt exactly like him."

"I cannot say I ever thought much about it," said Dora. "One hears it
all in church; but I always am so sleepy on a Sunday, that I cannot
attend."

"But I suppose you are not always sleepy when you read at home."

"I never do read at home now; we used to do it when we were children,
for mamma taught us to read like every one else out of the Bible, but I
thought of nothing but the hard words, and it always appeared a lesson
book, and so I never looked at it afterwards. I forgot, though, on a
Sunday we were accustomed to read a chapter, but we have left off that
lately--I don't quite know why, except that we are too old."

"Too old to read the Bible!" repeated Amy, with a feeling of painful
surprise that her cousin should have such ideas.

"I don't mean too old to read it at all," replied Dora, "but too old to
be forced to do it."

"Mamma does not force me to do it," said Amy; "but it seems to come
naturally; the day would be quite strange if we missed it."

"Do you mean to say that you read it every day, or only on Sundays?"

"Every day," replied Amy. "We always read the psalms and lessons the
first thing after breakfast, except on Wednesdays and Fridays, and
Saints' days, when we go to church."

"Go to church on the week-days!" exclaimed Dora; "who ever heard of such
a thing?"

"I thought it was what almost every one did," replied Amy; "and I always
fancied you would if you were not so far from the church."

"I cannot imagine what the good of it all is," said Dora.

"But it is ordered," replied Amy, "in the Prayer Book."

"I do not see that is any reason for it; its being ordered does not make
it good."

"I once asked mamma some questions about it," said Amy, "and she told me
that the Prayer Book was put together by very good men, who know a great
deal better than we do what was right; and that it was composed from the
prayers which were used a great, great many years before, just in the
time after our Saviour died, and that they had made all the rules about
the service and the Saints' days, according to the old customs; and so
now, it was the law of the Church in England, and every one ought to
attend to it."

"Every one does not attend to it, though," replied Dora; "at Wayland, no
person ever thought of going to church except on Sundays."

"I believe," said Amy, "the Prayer Book says there ought to be service
every day; and there are regular psalms and lessons marked in the
calendar."

"Perhaps so; but I am sure if people were to go to church as often as
you say, there would be no time for anything else."

"We generally manage to do very much the same on Wednesdays and Fridays
as on other days; it is merely doing things at different hours."

"If I could only see the good of it, I should not care," said Dora; "but
it is so strange to be always thinking so much of one thing; prayers at
home, and reading the Bible, and going to church every day--I should get
so tired of it."

"You would not be tired if you were accustomed to it, because it would
come to you naturally, like eating, and drinking, and sleeping; and,
besides, it prevents one from going on wrong all day."

"How do you mean?" asked Dora.

"Don't you know," replied Amy, "that when things are disagreeable in the
morning, and one is put out of temper, it seems as if nothing would put
one right again?"

"Well, yes!" said Dora, rather impatiently; "go on."

"Then," continued Amy, "if I am cross, and the time comes for reading
the psalms and lessons, or going to church, or saying the prayer mamma
gave me for the middle of the day, it stops me; because it seems so much
more wicked to be cross in church, or when one is reading the Bible,
than at any other time; and then I get better, and set off again fresh."

"That is the reason, I suppose," said Dora, "that you are never angry a
whole day together, as a great many people are; but I cannot understand
where you get the time for it all; does it never interfere with your
walking or your lessons?"

"No," replied Amy, "because we reckon upon it beforehand; and when we
are thinking of what is to be done in the day, we always remember that
we shall be sometime in church or reading the psalms and lessons; and
mamma arranges so as not to let it interfere."

"But still you must be tired of it," persisted Dora; "it is quite
impossible that you should go on, day after day, and not wish for a
change. I am sure I get quite tired of going to church on Sundays; and I
do not know what I should do if I were obliged to go every day."

"I don't like it always," replied Amy, while the colour mounted to her
cheek; "and I know I do not attend half as I ought; but I am sure it
makes the day go right, and mamma tells me it will be pleasanter to me
every year; besides, I know that if it were not for going to church and
reading with mamma, and all that sort of thing, I should be so much more
ill-tempered, and envious, and vain, than I am now, and then I should
be wretched; for you don't know, Dora, what very bad feelings I have
sometimes;" and the tears started into Amy's eyes as she spoke, at the
recollection of the last Saturday evening.

Dora was silent; her own faults were so much greater than her cousin's,
that Amy's self-reproach was more bitter than any reproof could possibly
have been. If Amy were so grieved at the remembrance of an impatient
word, or a passing thought of vanity, what ought she to feel whose whole
life had been one of pride and self-will? She felt, too, as if she had
no right to attempt to comfort one who was so much better than herself;
and stood for several moments looking at Amy with wonder and interest,
till the striking of the clock recalled her to herself, and, starting
at the time they had spent together, she declared the day was half gone
already, and there were a hundred things to be done before the people
came.

"I had quite forgotten them," said Amy; "I think, Dora, I forget a great
many things when I am talking to you."

"Do you?" said Dora, turning suddenly round to kiss her; "it cannot be
any use to you to talk to me, because you have aunt Herbert to go to."

"I do like it, though, so very much," answered Amy, "and I think about
it afterwards; but I wish I could help you in amusing every one."

"I must leave them to their fate," said Dora, preparing to leave the
room, "for mamma wants me, I know; but Amy," she added, stopping, and
apparently desirous, yet unwilling to say more; "I wish----no, never
mind now."

"Oh! do tell it me," said Amy; "is it anything I can do for you? I
should be so glad."

"No, nothing, nothing," hastily repeated Dora, though her manner was at
variance with her words.

"But you must tell me," said Amy, seizing her dress to prevent her
going; "I am sure you mean something; can I look out some books, or put
the room in order, or get anything for you?"

"No, nothing of that kind; but, Amy, should you--should you very much
mind letting me see the prayer aunt Herbert gave you?"

"Oh! if you would but let me give it you," exclaimed Amy, "for it is in
mamma's handwriting; and I think you would like it all the better for
that, and it is such a nice one; shall I go and fetch it?"

"I must not wait now," said Dora, "for I am after my time with mamma;
but if you will put it in my room by and by, I should thank you so very
much; and I shall always think of you when I look at it."

"And of mamma," said Amy; "and some day, perhaps, Dora, you will be able
to talk to her as I do, and ask her anything you want to know."

Dora shook her head, for she believed she never could be unreserved with
any one but her cousin, and hastened to her mamma's room, with a longing
desire that she could go to her for advice as Amy did to Mrs Herbert.




CHAPTER XVIII.


Dora's time was so fully occupied for the rest of the morning that she
was quite unable to form any scheme of amusement; and three o'clock
arrived, and with it carriage after carriage, each bringing an
importation of visitors, before she had at all decided upon what was to
be done with them. Frank had gone out with the young Dornfords, who came
early, according to their engagement; and the three boys who arrived
afterwards were immediately despatched to the lake to find him, and
amuse themselves with skating.

"Boys are no trouble," thought Dora; "they always go out of doors, and
take care of themselves; but girls----" and she sighed as she looked
upon the five young ladies who, dressed in their best silks and gayest
bonnets, stood each by the side of her mamma, very silent, very shy, and
very uncomfortable.

"You will take your young friends into the schoolroom, Dora," said Mrs
Harrington, in her most gentle tone. "I suppose none of them will like
walking such a cold afternoon as this; but you will find plenty of
entertainment for them there; and with Margaret, and Miss Cunningham,
and Amy, you will make quite a pleasant little party."

"There can be no doubt of that," said a tall, good-natured looking lady,
who had brought her two little girls to pay their first visit from home.
"In a house like this there is always something agreeable to be done;
and then it is so pleasant for young people to be together. My children
live in such retirement that it is an especial treat to them to have
companions."

The two little girls clung more closely to their mother's side as she
spoke, apparently thinking that the greatest treat at that moment would
be to remain under her protection; but Dora led the way to the door, and
they were obliged to follow, hand in hand, and casting imploring looks
upon their mamma to persuade her to go with them. She half rose from
her seat, but Mrs Harrington stopped her. "You need not be uneasy, Mrs
Danvers," she said; "Dora will take care of them."

"Oh yes! of course, of course," repeated Mrs Danvers; "but they are so
shy, poor children; I should just like to see how they manage to go on
amongst so many strangers."

"Certainly," replied Mrs Harrington; "we will look in upon them by and
by. Would you like to take a little walk before dinner, or should you
prefer remaining in the house, as it is so cold?"

"I should be glad to know what the children will do," said poor Mrs
Danvers, in a fever of anxiety for their enjoyment, the moment they were
out of her sight.

"We will inquire presently," persisted Mrs Harrington, who was always
firm, even in trifling matters; and had made up her mind they should be
left to themselves at first, to become acquainted with the rest of the
party.

"If I could just ask them," said Mrs Danvers; "I dare say I could easily
find my way to the schoolroom--where is it?"

"At the other end of the house," replied Mrs Harrington.

"Oh, just along the passages that we passed as we came in, I dare say."

"No, quite in a contrary direction. If you wish to know what your
children prefer doing, Thomson shall ask for you."

Mrs Harrington rang the bell, and Thomson was sent to the schoolroom,
while Mrs Danvers sat pondering upon the extreme unpleasantness of being
a visitor in the house of any lady who was determined to have her own
way.

Amy was in the schoolroom, waiting for her cousins, and a little time
was spent in introductions, and in discussing whether it was a pleasant
afternoon, and whether the snow would be disagreeable if they went out
on the terrace; and when at last it was decided to be very cold, and
that they had thin shoes on, and that one was rather liable to cold,
and another to cough, &c., Dora found they were resolutely bent on an
afternoon in the house, and all that was to be done was to show them to
their respective apartments to take off their bonnets and shawls, and
to wish heartily that they would remain there till summoned to the
drawing-room for the evening. Quickly, much more quickly than Dora
had supposed possible, they appeared again, full of expectation that
something was to happen which was to give them very great pleasure. The
visit to Emmerton had been talked of for weeks before; it had been the
subject of their thoughts by day and their dreams by night; and the
three school-girls (Dora's particular dread) had exulted when they
announced to their companions that a portion of the Christmas holidays
was to be passed at Emmerton Hall. In former days Mr Harrington's family
had been not only the richest, but the gayest in the county, and every
one associated with the name of Emmerton visions of breakfast-parties,
dinner-parties, riding-parties, music, balls, and every kind of
festivity; and though too young to be admitted to all these pleasures,
the young ladies had still a bright, but somewhat indistinct notion,
that a visit at Emmerton must be the height of human enjoyment; whilst
poor Dora was expected to realise all these gay expectations when she
was dissatisfied with herself, unhappy at the recollection of Wayland
and her brother Edward, and with no one but Amy to assist in making
every one comfortable.

A faint, despairing smile passed over her face as they entered, one
after the other; and she cast a hopeless glance at Amy. Margaret had
promised to appear, but Miss Cunningham considered it necessary to
make some change in her dress, and her inseparable companion could not
possibly leave her.

"You must have had a very cold drive," said Dora to the eldest Miss
Stanley, a girl about her own age,--quiet, timid, and awed by the
strangeness of everything about her. It was the fourth time the
observation had been made; and for the fourth time the same low,
half-hesitating "Yes," was given in reply; and there the conversation
ended, and Dora turned to her other visitors, hoping to find them more
communicative. Unhappily her manner was such as to repel instead of
encouraging them; she really wished to be kind and agreeable, but she
did not for a moment forget that she was Miss Harrington of Emmerton
Hall; and her efforts to be polite were so evident, and she was so very
condescending in everything she did and said, that it was impossible for
the poor girls to be at ease.

Amy saw that her cousin was very different from what she usually was,
but could not comprehend in what the change consisted, and only longed
for her to leave off asking them if they liked music and drawing, and
whether they preferred home or school, and how many brothers and sisters
they had, and talk of something more interesting. Anything would have
been preferable to the formality of asking a string of questions; even
she herself was a little chilled by Dora's manner, and only ventured to
say a few words in an undertone to a rather pretty, delicate girl, who
stood by the fire near her. This most disagreeable constraint had lasted
about ten minutes, when, to Amy's extreme satisfaction, Miss Morton's
voice was heard in the passage, and almost immediately afterwards she
entered, followed by Rose, laden with a doll nearly as large as herself,
which she was only allowed to play with occasionally. She ran into the
room with great glee, to exhibit her treasure to Amy, but shrank away
on seeing so many strange faces; every one, however, seemed to feel her
appearance an indescribable relief; the shy Miss Stanley stooped to kiss
her, and ask how old she was; her sister begged to know the name of the
doll; and Amy's friend was delighted to find in her a resemblance to a
sister of about the same age; while the two younger children looked with
envy and admiration upon the handsome pink frock and bright blue bonnet,
which was always the holiday dress of the beautiful doll. But a greater
charm than Rose and her doll was soon found in Emily Morton's manner.
She went from one to the other, saying something kind to each, in a
voice so sweet that it would have made even a commonplace expression
agreeable; and after a few trifling questions, which gave her some
idea of their peculiar tastes and dispositions, she managed, by making
observations of her own, to induce them to do the same; and listening
with real and not forced interest to whatever was said, she led them on
to describe their companions and their school life, till Dora found, to
her surprise, that Hester Stanley, whom she had decided in her own mind
to be almost devoid of intellect, and certainly unutterably dull, was
a good French and Italian scholar, very fond of drawing, and farther
advanced than herself in her acquaintance with books in general; that
her sister was extremely amusing; and that Mary Warner had travelled
on the Continent, and had many stories to tell of the peculiarities of
foreign manners and customs. The younger children looked at Rose for a
few minutes without speaking, then ventured to touch the doll, and at
last, with one consent, seemed to resolve on being sociable, and retired
into a corner of the room to enact the parts of mamma, nurse, and doctor
to the poor doll, who, in spite of her brilliant colour, was pronounced
to be in a most dangerous state of health, and to require instant
advice; while the party collected round the fire, growing bolder and
bolder as the noise in the room increased, began at last so entirely to
enjoy themselves, that when the dusk of the evening had stolen on them,
and a proposition was made by the children for candles, there was a
general petition for a few moments' respite, that they might have the
luxury and freedom of talking by firelight prolonged. It was a strange
contrast to the stiffness of the first half-hour; and Dora hardly knew
whether she quite approved of it; it seemed to throw her so completely
in the background; but to Amy it was delightful. It was so new, and so
interesting to hear a description of a school life, that she thought she
could have listened forever; and even Margaret and Miss Cunningham, who
came into the room in the middle of one of Julia Stanley's most amusing
stories, appeared to take some pleasure in what was passing. Margaret's
interest was real; but Miss Cunningham's satisfaction arose from the
comparison which she could make in her own mind between the splendour
of Rochford Park and the very ordinary style of living to which her new
acquaintances had been accustomed; and at every possible opportunity she
broke out into exclamations of "Dear me! how strange! how very shabby!
what a wretched place your school must be!" till she hoped she had
fully convinced them of the fact, that the habits in which she had been
brought up were immeasurably superior to theirs. Julia Stanley, however,
was not at all awed by Miss Cunningham's grandeur; she continued her
stories, talking very fast, and laughing heartily, and caring little
what was thought as long as she could make others laugh also; but
her sister was not equally insensible; and every now and then she
endeavoured to check the flow of Julia's spirits, and to suggest that
the customs of their school were not entirely as she had represented.

"You must not believe everything Julia tells you exactly," she said,
turning to Miss Cunningham, who seemed quite unable to comprehend the
fact of any young ladies being so ill-treated as to have no second
course at dinner, no curtains to their beds, nor fires in their rooms.
"She runs on so fast that she forgets. We always have puddings on
Saturdays; and we have fires when we are ill; and there are curtains in
the largest room, only we have never slept there."

"Well, then, bad is the best, is all that I can say for your school,"
said Miss Cunningham; "and as for ladies being brought up in such a way,
how is it possible for them ever to know how to behave, if they are not
taken more care of?"

"It must be very uncomfortable," said Dora; "but really I cannot see
what a second course, and curtains, and fires, have to do with manners."

"To be sure not," exclaimed Julia; "what does it signify? It is very
hard and disagreeable sometimes, and we cry a good deal when first we go
there--that is, some of the little ones do; but after a few weeks it is
all right, and we eat our cold rice pudding, and think it delicious."

"Cold rice pudding!" repeated Amy, who had a peculiar dislike to it; "do
you never have anything but cold rice pudding?"

"Not very often," replied Julia; "but, as I said before, it really does
not signify. I assure you, if you were up at six o'clock every day, as
we are, and had nothing but hard lessons from morning till night, you
would think cold rice pudding one of the nicest things you had ever
tasted. I don't think I ever like anything we have at home half as
well."

"Well!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, "I never heard of such a school
before; all my notions were, that young ladies lived together, and
learned a few lessons, and had French and drawing masters, and ladies'
maids, and carriages--that would be agreeable enough; but you might
just as well be cottagers' children, if you live so shabbily; and what a
difference it must make after your home! How you must miss your carriage
and servants!"

"I do not," said Mary Warner; "we have no carriage."

"Not keep a carriage!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham; "then how do you
manage to get from one place to another?"

"Really," interrupted Dora, "I do not think you should cross-question
any one in that way. Of course, there are carriages to be had, even if
people do not choose to keep them."

"There are coaches always passing near us," said Mary; "and so it is
very convenient."

"Coaches!--you mean stage coaches, I suppose," said Miss Cunningham.

"Yes," replied Mary; "one of them goes to Sandham, where our school is;
so there is no difficulty about my travelling."

"That is the strangest thing of all," said Miss Cunningham. "Do you mean
really that your papa and mamma allow you to travel about the country in
a stage coach?"

The tone in which this was said sounded even more disagreeable than
the words; and Julia Stanley instantly took offence. "And why not!" she
exclaimed; "why should not people ride in stage coaches if they like
it?"

"Of course, if they like it," said Margaret, who was always willing
to side with her friend; "but liking it is a very different thing from
being obliged to do it."

"So it may be," replied Julia; "but almost every one does it now."

"I never do," said Miss Cunningham, pointedly.

"Very likely," answered Julia; "but then you are only one person; and
almost all those I know go in stage coaches constantly; so you need not
be so much surprised at Mary Warner."

Miss Cunningham pouted and drew up her head, and thought Julia one of
the most forward, impertinent girls she had ever met with; and Hester
began to fear there must be something very derogatory to the dignity of
a lady in travelling by a public conveyance; and yet remembering that
once, when their own horses were lame, she had been obliged to
avail herself of it, she could not with a clear conscience deny her
acquaintance with them; she could, however, abuse them heartily, and
lament the necessity which had induced their papa to allow it--quite
agreeing with Margaret and Miss Cunningham, that it was not a common
thing for people to do.

"Nonsense, Hester," exclaimed Julia; "you know as well as I do, that it
is the most probable thing in the world that we shall go back to school
by the coach; and what will your pride say to that?"

"Oh, papa mentioned something about it one day," replied Hester; "but of
course he was not in earnest."

"But he was," answered Julia. "He said that now our cousins had left
school, it would be a great expense for us to travel by ourselves, and
that he should certainly put us into the stage coach, and let William
take care of us, and then there would be no trouble about the matter. I
wish," she added, turning to Amy, who stood next her, "that Hester would
not try, as she always does, to make herself as grand and as fine as the
people she is with."

Amy felt a slight pang of self-reproach as Julia spoke this; for when
the conversation had first begun, she felt she should not like to
say, as Mary Warner had done, that her papa and mamma did not keep a
carriage; and it appeared almost like deception to blame another for
a fault she was conscious of herself. "I think," she said, in reply to
Julia's observation, "that it is not right to wish to be just the
same as other people; but I am afraid I should like it; and I am sure,
indeed," she added, with an effort, "that I should be glad to have a
carriage to take me wherever I wanted to go."

"Then you have not one," said Julia; "that seems strange, being Mr
Harrington's niece."

"My uncle's being rich does not make any difference to us," was the
answer, "except when we are staying here, and have the use of his
things; but I think I should almost prefer being without them, because
then I should not miss them."

"I used to think," said Julia, still speaking in a tone only to be heard
by Amy, "that it signified a great deal about the way in which people
lived till I knew Mary Warner; but she had such different notions that
she made me think differently too."

"What notions?" asked Amy.

"Oh, I cannot tell you all now; but her papa was very rich--very rich
indeed, and lived in a beautiful place; but in some way--I cannot quite
understand how--he lost all his money, and was obliged to sell his
property, and live in a much smaller house. If he had chosen, he might
have had it all back again; but he is a very good man, and would not
do something which he thought was not quite honourable; and so they
continue living in the same inferior way, though no one, of course,
thinks the worse of him for it, because every one says he has acted so
nobly. This makes Mary care little for the change. She says her papa
is so respected, and she is so fond of him, that it seems better to her
than if they had all the fine places in the world."

Amy looked with interest at Mary as she heard this; but she was not able
to continue the conversation, for the servant entered with candles, and
tea immediately followed; and after tea they were all to dress for the
evening.

To Dora's satisfaction, it had been decided that the boys were to dine
late, so she was spared the task of keeping them in order; and, finding
that every one was beginning to feel comfortable and at home, her own
dignity a little relaxed, and she began to think that, after all, the
infliction of a three days' visit from the school-girls might not be so
very unendurable.

Amy hastened to her mother's room as soon as tea was over, in the
hope of finding her there; for she had intended dining by herself, and
appearing in the drawing-room only in the evening. "I must talk to you
one minute, dear mamma," she said, as she entered. "We have been getting
on so nicely in the schoolroom--so much better than I expected, only it
was dreadful just at first. They were so silent, and Dora looked like
a duchess. If I had not been her cousin I should have laughed; but I
fancied they would think I ought to entertain them, and that made me
feel more shy than ever; and then they all spoke in such a low voice
that every word I said was heard."

"Well!" answered Mrs Herbert; "but who broke the spell?"

"Miss Morton, mamma," replied Amy; "and I should like to understand what
made her so different from Dora."

"She is much older," said Mrs Herbert; "naturally that would make a
difference."

"It was not quite that," continued Amy; "for if it had been my aunt
Harrington, I don't think we should have ventured to speak a word; but
there was something in Miss Morton's manner that made every one appear
at ease. Can you tell me what it was?"

"You must imagine me to be a fairy. How can I possibly judge of what
Miss Morton did when I was not present?"

"But can you not guess from her character?" asked Amy. "You have seen so
much more of her lately, that I think you must know."

"At least, you are determined, as usual," said Mrs Herbert, smiling,
"that I shall give you a reason for everything which you cannot quite
comprehend. I suspect, in the present instance, the secret consisted
in Dora's thinking of herself all the time she was talking, and Miss
Morton's thinking of others."

"That is not quite clear, mamma," replied Amy. "Does thinking of one's
self make one stiff and formal?"

"Generally, either stiff or affected," replied Mrs Herbert; "yet it is
very difficult to avoid doing it. You will often hear persons speaking
of what are sometimes called 'company manners,'--not meaning exactly
affectation, but a manner approaching to it, which is not quite natural;
and it almost always arises from this same cause. It is, in fact, very
nearly allied to selfishness; for we care so much more for ourselves
than others, that we take a greater interest in thinking of ourselves
than of them, and so we become disagreeable."

"But how can we help it?" asked Amy.

"By trying, every day of our lives, to consult the happiness of those we
live with," answered Mrs Herbert. "I mean, in the merest trifles, such
as giving up a pleasant seat, or an amusing book, or fetching things for
them to save them trouble, or listening to them when they wish to talk
to us. By these means we can acquire a habit of forgetting ourselves
which will remain with us whether we are in company, or only with our
own family."

Amy listened to her mother with an earnest wish to follow her advice;
and when she joined the party in the drawing-room she found immediate
opportunities of putting it in practice.

The evening was a cheerful one, for Mr Harrington proposed some
Christmas games, and insisted upon every one's joining them; and
although Dora and Miss Cunningham held back, and thought themselves too
old, and too dignified, they were at length obliged to yield; and the
rest of the party were so merry that they did not notice their grave
looks and slow movements. Amy enjoyed herself thoroughly; and when her
gay laugh caught Mrs Herbert's ear, it gave her more happiness than she
had felt for many months, since she could now venture to dwell on the
delight which Colonel Herbert would experience on seeing her so entirely
what he could most have desired his child to be. Dora was almost jealous
as she noticed the regard which Amy attracted, and wondered what the
secret could be. Perhaps, if she had followed her cousin's example, and
given up a seat to Mary Warner when she was tired, and assisted Hester
Stanley when her sandal broke, and soothed one of the children when she
fell down and was frightened, she too might have been a favourite;
but without intending to be unkind, she managed so openly to show her
dislike to what was going on, that every one endeavoured to keep aloof
from her; and if they did speak, the answer was so cold, and the manner
so proud, that the wish to make another attempt was impossible.




CHAPTER XIX.


When Amy met her new acquaintance the next morning, after having thought
them over attentively while she was dressing, she had quite decided on
the one she liked best. Julia Stanley had at first amused her so much,
and was so very lively and good-tempered, that it seemed impossible not
to give the preference to her; but even then there was something in her
quick manner and hasty expressions which rather annoyed Amy's feelings,
when contrasted with Miss Morton's gentleness and refinement; and in the
course of the evening, as she observed her more narrowly, her conduct to
Miss Cunningham had struck her as peculiarly disagreeable. It required
but very little time to perceive Miss Cunningham's deficiencies; and
Julia, who was remarkably quick and clever, had not been in her company
for half an hour before she had discovered them; and her great amusement
was to turn everything she said into ridicule. For the first few minutes
Amy had been amused; but afterwards an endeavour of Emily Morton's to
check some satirical observations, had shown her that she was wrong; and
a sense of politeness soon made her aware that Julia allowed cleverness
and high spirits to carry her beyond the bounds of propriety. When Dora
gave Miss Cunningham what Frank would have called "a set down," it was
done in a lady-like way, as far as manner was concerned. She delighted
in saying the most pointed things in the most pointed tone, yet she
would on no account have neglected the little attentions which Miss
Cunningham's position demanded; but Julia Stanley, feeling herself
infinitely superior to Lord Rochford's daughter in intellect and
accomplishments, considered that she was, on this account, freed from
any demands upon her politeness; and had made no scruple of pushing into
a room before her, interrupting her when speaking, and endeavouring
to show that she did not consider her as entitled to any respect or
attention. All this was peculiarly disagreeable to Amy, who, having
always lived with persons who were polite upon Christian principles,
could not in the least comprehend the rudeness of self-conceit; and if
Julia had offended her in one way, her sister's manner had been equally
unpleasant in another. She had been Miss Cunningham's shadow and echo;
she had followed her from place to place, admiring her dress and her
ornaments, and begging her to describe Rochford Park, and hinting how
much she should like to see it; and once or twice she had turned to Amy
to extort her admiration also, when sincerity had obliged her entirely
to differ.

A little of the same flattery had also been bestowed upon Dora, but
it was received so coolly, that there was no temptation to repeat it
a second time; for Dora, though she loved praise and flattery, still
required it to be administered delicately, through the medium of a
third person; and fancied herself insensible to it, because she never
encouraged any one to tell her, in direct terms, that she was beautiful
and clever. Mary Warner's manner resembled neither; it was not quite so
polished as Amy would have liked, but it was simple and straightforward.
She had never seen any place so beautiful as Emmerton, and she said so
plainly; but she also said that she thought there were too many trees
about it, and she should have preferred the house being built higher. It
was the same with everything else--she expressed her opinion when asked
without reserve; but she did not, like Julia, intrude disagreeable
observations uncalled for, nor, like Hester, pretend to see beauties
where there was nothing to admire. The uprightness of her father's
character seemed to have descended to her; and Amy willingly forgave
any little awkwardness of manner when she saw Mary's firmness and
simplicity; while even Dora was rather won by the unconcern with which
she listened to Miss Cunningham's impertinences, and the openness
with which she acknowledged the inferiority of her own home to
Emmerton--apparently thinking it a matter of indifference whether she
lived in a large house or a small one. It was a point of character which
Dora could appreciate and admire, though it was not one she thought it
necessary to imitate. But Miss Cunningham felt very differently; and her
good-humour was not at all increased by the failure of her endeavours to
inspire both Julia and Mary with awe and admiration; and to complete
her discomfort, when breakfast was over, Miss Morton gently proposed
her practising for half-an-hour; adding that Lord Rochford had
again mentioned the subject, and begged that she would assist her in
perfecting the piece she had been trying, so that it might be played in
the evening. Miss Cunningham did not speak, but she looked her thoughts,
and yet she did not venture to rebel; for Lord Rochford, with all his
fondness, had some peculiarities; and the arrangement of his daughter's
studies was his peculiar hobby. It seemed, however, as if she had
secretly resolved that the pleasures of a London journey should not be
marred by any progress she might make under Miss Morton's tuition; and
bad as her performance had been before, it was much worse this morning.
Miss Morton, with unwearied patience, corrected her false notes, asked
her to repeat the difficult passages, and showed her again and again how
they were to be played; but the long, stiff fingers appeared to possess
some innate spirit of obstinacy; they would move exactly in the way in
which they should not have moved; they would play sharps for flats, and
turn crotchets into quavers, and minims into crotchets; until Amy,
who, with the exception of Julia Stanley, was the only person present
besides, wondered how it was possible for Miss Morton to persevere,
and Julia, after a pretended attempt to conceal her amusement, laughed
aloud. Miss Cunningham heard the laugh, and felt it keenly, and
forgetting everything but her annoyance, she jumped up from her seat,
closed the book, and without speaking, rushed out of the room.

"Well! that is delightful," exclaimed Julia; "I would have laughed
before, if I had thought it would bring matters to a conclusion."

Amy wished to say something, but she felt painfully shy, for she had
begun to dread Julia's satire; and, happily for her, Emily Morton spoke
instead.

"I should be very sorry," she said, "to believe you in earnest, you
would hardly acknowledge so openly that you took pleasure in hurting the
feelings of another."

"Only she took pleasure in hurting my ears," replied Julia.

"Not intentionally," said Miss Morton; "but I am sure you cannot really
mean what you say; you must be sorry for having given pain."

"Miss Cunningham is so very silly," persisted Julia, who was never
willing to confess herself in the wrong; "it really is impossible to
help laughing at her. You know there can be no harm in being amused at
people's folly."

"I cannot agree with you at all," said Emily; "and as to Miss
Cunningham's sense, it is not her own choice to be less clever than
others."

"To be sure not," exclaimed Julia, pertly; "who would be stupid if
they could help it? But it does not make people at all the less absurd,
because it is not their own fault."

"There again I must differ from you," replied Emily. "It makes all
the difference possible. Self-conceit, and vanity, and pride may
be ridiculous, but not mere deficiency of understanding; it is the
appointment of God, just as much as poverty or illness may be; and I
think, from something I heard you say yesterday, you would not be at all
inclined to laugh at any one who had less money than yourself."

"Oh no! certainly not," said Julia; "but cleverness is quite a different
thing. I do so like bright, clever people; and I do so delight in
laughing at stupid ones. All the world thinks more of cleverness than of
anything else."

"But it does not follow that all the world are right," replied Emily.

"But a great many strict people that I know think so," said Julia. "I
very often hear some friends of ours say--such a person is not quite
right, but then he is so clever; and it does make up for a great many
things; you must own that."

"Indeed I cannot own it," replied Emily: "I do not see that it makes up
for anything."

"But don't you like it?" asked Julia, in a tone of great surprise.

"Yes, very much--just as I like to see a pretty face, or to listen to
beautiful music; but I do not esteem it. I mean," she added, observing
that Julia continued silent from astonishment, "that I do not think
it forms part of a person's character, any more than his houses or his
clothes do."

"But have you no value at all for it?" said Julia,

"Yes," replied Emily; "and so I have for riches--both may be made the
instruments of good; but I do not value a person who is rich, because
he is rich--neither do I value a person who is clever, because he is
clever. If the rich man turns his riches to good account, I value him
for his generosity and self-denial; and if the clever man uses his
talents well, I value him because I see he is trying to serve God; but
I should have just as much esteem for a poor man, or a man with inferior
understanding, if they were equally good."

"But," said Julia, "all the celebrated people one reads of were not
good, and yet there is just as much fuss made about them now as if they
were angels--every one talks of them and praises them."

"Yes," replied Miss Morton, gravely, and then paused as if lost in her
own thoughts.

"What were you going to say?" asked Amy.

"I did not like to say what was in my mind," replied Emily; "it is so
very painful; but, you know, the opinions of men can be nothing when a
person is dead."

Julia seemed struck with the observation, but did not speak, for she
began to feel ashamed, and was endeavouring to summon courage to confess
herself in the wrong. "I wish you would go on talking," she said, after
the silence had continued for several minutes; "but then you think me so
rude that perhaps you will not take the trouble."

"It is not what I think, but what Miss Cunningham thinks, which is of
importance," replied Miss Morton; "you have not been rude to me."

"Well! I was not quite polite perhaps, only really I could not help it.
Shall I beg her pardon?"

"No!" exclaimed Emily, "pray do not do that; it would only make matters
worse, because you must own then that you thought her ridiculous."

"But what shall I do?" asked Julia.

"Will you let me tell you without thinking I am interfering?" said
Emily.

"Oh yes, pray do. You know, at school every one speaks their mind, so I
am quite accustomed to it."

"Well, then! I should recommend you to begin by keeping a strict guard
over yourself for the rest of the day, that you may not be guilty of the
same fault again, and not to force yourself upon Miss Cunningham, but
to show her quietly a few little attentions; and if she is proud and
annoyed, to try and feel that it is only what you have brought upon
yourself, and therefore not to be angry with her."

"But that is not the least in my way," said Julia; "I could go just at
this minute and say I am sorry, because I am in the humour; and I should
be rather glad to make it up and be friends again, though she is so
silly; but as for going on all day paying little attentions to a person
who has not a single idea in her head, is what I never did and never can
do."

"Never will, you mean," replied Miss Morton. "We often say _can_, when
we ought to say _will_."

"Well! can or will," exclaimed Julia; "it is all the same. Only if I
may beg Miss Cunningham's pardon now, I don't care; but if I must not do
that, she must take her chance; and if she makes herself ridiculous, I
must laugh at her."

"Because you think yourself cleverer," said Miss Morton; "is not that
the reason?"

Julia blushed deeply. She was not accustomed to have her self-conceit
brought before her so plainly, and yet she was too candid not to see the
truth of what was said.

"I do not mean to pain you," continued Miss Morton, very kindly.
"Perhaps it is not my place to interfere; but you promised not to be
annoyed; and you must forgive me if I remind you, that in the sight of
God the most trifling act of self-denial from a really high motive--I
mean, of course, from a wish to please Him--is infinitely more valuable
than the cleverest thing that has ever been said or done since the world
was made."

Still Julia was silent--her cleverness did not at that moment come to
her aid; and after gazing attentively upon the fire, playing with the
ornaments on the mantelpiece, and turning over the leaves of one or two
books, she found herself so very uncomfortable, that, hastily exclaiming
she must go and look for her sister, she left Amy and Miss Morton alone.

"Are you vexed?" asked Amy, as soon as the door was closed. "You look
so."

"I am rather," said Miss Morton, "for I am half afraid I have done more
harm than good; and I am hurt especially about Miss Cunningham, because
I know it was very disagreeable to her to have any lesson at all, and
such a one as this will make her dislike it more than ever."

"But not you," observed Amy; "she cannot blame you for another person's
rudeness."

"Only it is difficult," said Miss Morton, "to feel kindly towards those
who have been the cause of placing us in awkward situations; and I do
not suspect I have ever been a favourite with Miss Cunningham."

"I wish Miss Stanley had kept to her own room this morning," said Amy.
"I am afraid she will spoil our pleasure all day."

"Oh no! she will soon forget it all; and I do not think she will take
Miss Cunningham's anger much to heart; it will rather amuse her than
otherwise."

"I should not like her to be amused at me," said Amy; "she frightens
me dreadfully. I felt just now as if I could not have ventured to speak
before her."

"I must give you a lecture too," said Emily, smiling. "Why should you be
afraid of people merely because they are clever, and say sharp things?
It is making cleverness of as much consequence as Miss Stanley does;
besides being a dangerous feeling, and one which often prevents us from
doing our duty."

"Ah! but," said Amy, "I cannot feel quite as you do. I always have
thought a great deal about it, and longed to be very clever myself, and
for every one to admire me, and look up to me."

"And I have done the same," said Emily. "I will not say that I never do
so now; but it is very contrary to what the Bible commands."

"Do you really think so?" inquired Amy, looking much distressed. "Yet it
seems so natural; and cleverness is different from riches, or rank, or
anything of that kind."

"Can you recollect any part of the Bible in which it is said that God
takes pleasure in it?" asked Emily.

"There is a great deal about wisdom in the Book of Proverbs," answered
Amy; "and it is said to be better than anything else."

"Yes," replied Emily; "but then, you know, we ought to compare different
parts of the Bible together, if we wish to know its real meaning. And
there is a verse at the end of a very beautiful chapter in the Book of
Job, which tells us what wisdom really is. Perhaps you may remember it.
It says, 'The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil
is understanding.' Now, a poor man, who cannot even read, may have just
as much of this wisdom as the most learned man that ever lived."

"Then," said Amy, "there is no use in trying to learn things."

"Indeed," replied Miss Morton, "there is. It is our duty to improve the
understanding God has given us to the utmost, by exercising it in every
right way. Our Saviour's parable of the talents gives a most impressive
warning to us on this point, though talents there mean likewise
advantages of every kind; and besides, the more we know, the more we are
able to teach others."

Amy still looked unconvinced, and Emily continued, "You will see what
I mean, if you will think of being clever in the same way as you do of
being rich. We all know that it is the way of the world to value people
for their money, but common sense tells us that it is very absurd;
and yet no one would deny that riches may be made of great use to our
fellow-creatures, though they do not make us in the smallest degree
more acceptable in the eye of God. I wish I could explain myself more
clearly. Perhaps, if I were very clever, I might be able to do it; and
then, you see, my knowledge would be of use to you, though it would not
make me either better or worse in myself."

"I think that is clever," said Amy, laughing; "for I can understand you
much better now, though I am afraid I shall never learn to think rightly
about everything."

"You must not say that," said Emily. "You know you are not very old yet;
and if we thought about everything rightly at the beginning of our life,
it would not be necessary for us to have so many years to learn in. As
long as we are not standing still, we may be tolerably happy, though we
do happen to blunder in the dark way."

"I think I am always blundering," said Amy; "at least I know I am always
wishing for something which mamma and you tell me I ought not to
wish for. But I think it is because I hear Dora and Margaret and Miss
Cunningham talking so much about such things. You know Dora makes a
great deal of being clever, and Miss Cunningham is always speaking of
rank and riches, and Margaret is so pleased to be pretty. I know it is
really all nothing; but when I hear them I cannot help longing for it
all, and thinking that it must be of consequence."

"Yes," said Miss Morton, "it is very natural. This place is to you just
what the world is to grown-up people."

"I remember," replied Amy, "thinking something just like that the very
first night my cousins came; but I did not imagine," she added, "that
there would be any one in my world like you."

Miss Morton could have answered, with truth, that she had never expected
to meet with any one like Amy at Emmerton; but at that moment Dora and
the rest of the party entered, and Miss Cunningham with them.

"Must you go?" whispered Amy, as Miss Morton prepared to leave the room.

Emily replied that she had letters to write, which would keep her
engaged the whole morning; and Amy scarcely wished her to remain, when
she observed the expression of Miss Cunningham's face, and saw that her
good-humour was by no means restored.

It was not indeed a very easy task at any time; and Julia Stanley seemed
resolved that this morning it should be more difficult than ever.
She had given up the idea of confessing her fault, and trying to make
amends, because she could not have her own way as to the manner in which
it should be done, and had become angry with herself, and, as a natural
consequence, angry with every one else. There was, in fact, a regular
feud between her and Miss Cunningham; and Dora soon saw that to preserve
peace would be a difficult matter. Julia's manner was more sharp and
abrupt than ever, as she took every opportunity of repeating Miss
Cunningham's words, and turning them into ridicule; while Miss
Cunningham, on her part, endeavoured to make sneers and scornful looks
as effective as words. Amy was very uncomfortable, and once or twice
tried to divert their attention by talking to the younger children,
and making them bring their dolls and playthings to the table where the
elder girls were working. But her efforts were in vain; and, as a last
hope, she ventured to suggest to Dora, that perhaps it might be pleasant
if some one were to read out. The idea was the greatest possible relief
to poor Dora, for all her antipathy to strange school-girls, and three
days' visits, was returning in full force; and having asked, as a
matter of form, whether any one would dislike it, she quickly produced
half-a-dozen volumes to choose from.

The choice being settled, the next question to be decided was, who
should read. There was a general burst of excuses as the inquiry
was made. Every one would read, only there was a piece of work to be
finished, or a drawing to be begun, or some beads to be threaded, or
they were so soon tired that it was quite useless to begin, or they were
suffering from a cold and hoarseness, which would make it disagreeable
for the rest to listen. Dora put down the book on the table, considering
it, as a matter of course, that she should not be obliged to do it. She
had seldom been called on to give up her own will for others, but had
always ordered and managed, and told others their duty; and when this
was done, her part was considered finished. So, in the present instance,
she had decided it would be a good thing to read, and had chosen the
book, and supposed that some one would easily be found willing to amuse
the rest. But Dora was mistaken.

The only person who had not excused herself was the only one whose
excuse would have been really a good one. Poor Amy's heart beat fast as
she thought that it might fall to her lot to read. She had never read
aloud to any one but her mamma; and she was the youngest of the party;
and, moreover, she knew that in the book which had been fixed on
there were some long French quotations, which must be pronounced or
translated, either alternative being equally disagreeable. "I wish I
could read," she whispered to Margaret, who was sitting next her; "but I
am so frightened."

"Oh! it does not signify," answered Margaret, aloud; "there is no
occasion for us to trouble ourselves--Emily Morton will come directly; I
have known her go on for hours when mamma has been ill."

"Yes," said Dora, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she spoke, "she is
much more used to it than we are. Rose, go and tell Emily Morton that
we should be very much obliged if she could read out to us this morning
whilst we are working."

The message was more civil than it would have been some months before;
and Dora's conscience was rather relieved; but to Amy it seemed only
selfish and thoughtless.

"Miss Morton told me she had letters to write, Dora," she said, timidly.
"Don't you think reading to us would be an interruption to her?"

"Not more than giving us our usual lessons," observed Margaret; "it is
only occupying the same time in a different way."

"But," replied Amy, "indeed I think the letters are of consequence; and
the post goes out so early."

"Well, then, Amy," said Dora, rather sharply, "if you will insist upon
our not sending for Emily, you must read yourself, for you are the only
one of us all who is not busy."

Amy was busy finishing a purse to be given to Mrs Walton on her
birthday; but anything was better than to allow Miss Morton's time to
be intruded on; and although the slight trembling of her hand, and the
bright crimson spot on her cheek, showed the greatness of the effort,
she did manage to begin, and even to get through the first long French
sentence without breaking down. Dora listened to the words, but they
made very little impression; she was thinking all the time of her own
selfishness, and how easy it was to make good resolutions, and how very
difficult to keep them. It was only on that very day that she had been
reflecting on her conduct to Miss Morton, and had determined to be more
thoughtful for her comfort; and now, on the first temptation, she had
weakly given way, and, but for Amy, would have sacrificed Miss Morton's
whole morning merely to gratify her own fancy for work. Happily, Dora's
was not a mind to be contented with the bare acknowledgment of having
been wrong; it was too active and energetic to rest in fruitless wishes
for amendment; and now, finding that Amy's voice was becoming weak, and
that she read with difficulty, she threw down her work just as she was
about to put the finishing stroke to it, and offered to read instead.
It was but a trifling action, but it made Dora feel happier than she had
been before; it proved to herself that she was in earnest; and when she
had made one endeavour it was much easier to make another. Her manner
grew softer, her thoughtfulness for others increased; and before the
morning was over, she had even taken Miss Cunningham's part against
Julia Stanley, when she had made an observation on the book they were
reading, and had given up her seat near the fire, fearing she might be
cold. The book was so interesting, and the oriel-room so comfortable,
that no one thought of the time or the weather; and when Mrs Harrington
made her appearance with Mrs Danvers, and begged them all to go out
before dinner that they might not lose the best part of the day, there
was a slight murmur of disapprobation. Mrs Danvers sympathised, and
pitied, and declared the room looked so warm and cheerful, it was almost
impossible to leave it; now she had once found her way there, she should
be a frequent visitor.

"I always think young people manage best when left to themselves," said
Mrs Harrington. "Dora, you must be quick, and go out; and as many of
your young friends as choose to go with you had better get ready also."

The sending them out did not seem like leaving them to themselves; but
Mrs Harrington's manner prevented almost every one from differing from
her; and Mrs Danvers, who was rather young, and soon awed, said nothing,
but began fondling her little girls, and proposing to stay and play with
them if they liked it better than going for a walk; whilst Dora, who
knew the exact meaning of every word and tone of her mother's, hastily
put up her work, and prepared to obey.




CHAPTER XX.


"Margaret," said Miss Cunningham, who had joined the walking party
merely from not knowing how to employ her time satisfactorily while they
were away, "I want you to talk to me a little; never mind the rest, they
will manage very well; and really what I have to say is of consequence."

"Is it, indeed?" replied Margaret, who dearly loved a little mystery;
"but you must be quick, for Dora said so much to me, before we came out,
about being attentive to them all."

"It cannot signify what Dora says; she is not to rule every one; at
least I am sure she shall not rule me. But what I wanted to say to you
was about London. I talked to papa this morning; and he says, after all,
he thinks there is a chance of your going."

"Oh no! he cannot really mean it; mamma was so very positive the other
night."

"Yes, I know that; but it is something about Mrs Herbert which makes the
difference. Your papa thinks her very ill, and he wants to have advice
for her; and if Dr Bailey does not give a good report, he will try and
persuade her to go, and then all the family are to go too."

"Well, that would be delightful; but the time would not suit you--it
will be so soon."

"But if you were to go at once, papa would not object to being there
earlier himself, for he is determined that we shall have lessons
together."

"So then it is all settled," said Margaret, her eyes sparkling with
pleasure. "To be sure, I am sorry for poor Amy, but I daresay there is
nothing very much the matter; and with a London physician Aunt Herbert
will soon get well."

"I don't think it is settled at all," answered Miss Cunningham; "for
I can tell you one thing, Margaret,--I never will go to London to be
pestered by Miss Morton; she must stay at home, or I must. If you had
only seen how she behaved this morning; she found as much fault with my
playing as if I had been a mere baby."

"But," said Margaret, looking much perplexed, "there is no help for it;
she must go with us; only it does not follow that you should learn of
her."

"It does follow, though," replied Miss Cunningham, angrily; "how can
you be so stupid, Margaret? I have told you a hundred and fifty times
before, that if papa once has a thing in his head, not all the world can
drive it out; and he said this morning that I should have lessons of her
besides the other masters; but I won't--no, that I won't."

"That is right," said Margaret; "if you make a fuss about it, you will
be sure to have your own way."

"But my way is to stay at home; I can do that if I choose, for mamma
will like it; but I will never go near London to be laughed at by rude,
vulgar people as I was this morning; so you may manage as well as you
can without me."

Miss Cunningham walked on a few steps with her head raised, rapidly
twisting the bag she held in her hand--a sure sign that she was working
herself into a passion. Margaret followed, appearing very downcast, and
feeling that Lucy's determination would prove the destruction of all her
bright castles in the air. London, with only her own family, would
be nearly as bad as Emmerton. "What do you wish me to do?" she said,
anxiously.

"Nothing," was the reply; "but make up your mind to go without me, for I
am quite determined; I can be as obstinate as papa, sometimes."

This could not be doubted; but it was no satisfaction to Margaret. "It
is very unkind of you, Lucy," she said. "You sometimes tell me you love
me; and yet you don't seem inclined to put yourself in the least out of
your way to please me. You know very well that there will be no pleasure
in London if you are away; we shall go nowhere and see nothing."

"Yes, I know it; but it can't be helped."

"That odious Emily Morton!" exclaimed Margaret; "she has been a torment
in one way or another ever since she entered the house."

"And she will never be anything else," said Miss Cunningham; "I wish you
joy of her."

"But is there nothing to be done?" again asked Margaret, whilst several
most impracticable plans passed quickly through her mind, all having for
their object the removal of this serious obstacle to her enjoyment.

"I can see nothing," was the answer; "unless you can make her go and see
her friends whilst you are absent."

"I don't think she has any friends," said Margaret, "except an aunt, who
is abroad; that is, she has never asked to go away, so I suppose she has
no place to go to."

"That makes the case a great deal worse. If she has no friends you may
depend upon it you will be burdened with her for ever."

"I believe, though," said Margaret, "there is a Mrs or Miss Somebody,
who was her governess once, who could keep her for some time; but then,
you know, it is no use talking about it; there is no chance of our being
able to do anything."

"The loss will be more yours than mine," replied Miss Cunningham; "it
will be just the same to me next year; but you will miss everything."

"Yes, everything," sighed Margaret.

"You would have gone to the opera, certainly; papa would have taken you
there, and you would have been out half the day shopping, and driving in
the parks; and you would have seen everything, and bought anything you
wished,--for, of course, your papa would have given you plenty of money
to do as you liked with; and then my aunt would have taken us to some
delightful parties. But it is not worth while to think about it now;
because if you go for your aunt's illness, and have no one to take you
about, you will be at your lessons half the day, and staying at home
with her the other half; and there will be nothing to be seen, because
you must choose such a very quiet part of the town for an invalid."

"Oh Lucy!" said Margaret, "I wish you would not talk so. It is very
unkind; for you know it will be all your doing."

"My doing! No, indeed I can't help it. Get rid of Miss Morton, and I
will go directly. And now I have said all I wished, and so I think I
shall turn back, for you told me you wanted to go to Dora; and really I
have had quite enough of those school-girls this morning."

Margaret did not press her to stay, for she was becoming very indignant;
but neither was she inclined to make any exertions to be agreeable; and,
soon persuading herself that the walking party had advanced too far for
her to overtake them, she rather sulkily turned back and followed Miss
Cunningham, keeping, however, at a convenient distance, that she might
be able to think over the conversation, and find some arguments which
should induce her to break the resolution she had formed.

Amy in the meantime, enjoyed her walk with her companions in perfect
unconsciousness that anything was near to disturb her happiness. She
laughed at Julia Stanley's strange stories, till she forgot by degrees
she had been afraid of her; and although every tree and stone were
familiar, there was a pleasure in pointing out to strangers all the
beauties of the grounds, even in their wintry dress; and good-humour
being proverbially infectious, the whole party returned home in all the
better spirits that they had been spared Miss Cunningham's sulkiness
and pride. The first news, however, that awaited Amy upon entering the
house, was the information from Susan Reynolds that Mr Harrington had
prevailed on her mamma to see Dr Bailey. Amy started and turned pale,
and anxiously asked if her mamma were very ill.

"Oh, dear! no," replied Susan, frightened in her turn; "but I thought
you would be glad to know your mamma was going to see a doctor, because
then, perhaps, she will get strong again."

"Yes; but she must be worse, I am sure," said Amy; "she never would send
for any one unless she were very ill indeed." And without waiting to
hear more, she hastily ran to Mrs Herbert's room. But her fears were
soon calmed. Mrs Herbert was looking much the same as usual, and seemed
in tolerable spirits, and quite laughed at Amy's alarm.

"I have only consented to see Dr Bailey," she said, "just to satisfy
your uncle; and it was very foolish in any one to frighten you, my dear
child, so unnecessarily; so now go to your dinner, and forget me, and be
happy."

"That would not be the way to be happy, mamma. I never enjoy anything
till I have remembered that I can tell you about it. But are you sure
you are not very ill?"

"I am quite sure that I am not feeling worse than I have done for the
last six weeks," replied Mrs Herbert; "and I suspect the sight of your
papa's handwriting would do more towards my cure than all the physicians
in the world. I hoped to have heard from him by the same mail which
brought the news of peace."

"Perhaps," said Amy, "the letter will come to-morrow."

"Oh no!" replied Mrs Herbert; "it is scarcely possible--I must be
contented to wait. But you had better go now, Amy--there is the second
dinner-bell."

Amy left the room much relieved. A natural buoyancy of disposition
seldom allowed her to be unnecessarily anxious. She was too young
to form any judgment of her own respecting the state of her mother's
health; and Mrs Herbert's assurances outweighed the passing influence of
her uncle's misgivings. She did, however, look oftener than ever to the
door during the evening, with a vague expectation that her father would
appear: and she persuaded Mr Cunningham to repeat again to her all he
had before said of the probability of his arrival at any moment; while
Mrs Herbert, also, listened eagerly, and laughed at herself for being as
fanciful as Amy, though her heart beat quickly at the slightest unusual
sound in the house.

"There is the second day happily over, Amy," said Dora, as she bade
her good night: "and now I have no more fears; we shall do very well
to-morrow. Frank has been proposing for us all to assist in ornamenting
the outer saloon for the conjurer, and Mary Warner can show us how to
make artificial flowers--so we shall have plenty of occupation; and in
the evening I really think we may make up a quadrille. You know there
are several people coming besides; and Emily Morton will play as long
as we like. The only thing that worries me is about Julia and Lucy
Cunningham; they are exactly like cat and dog."

"I daresay we can manage to keep them separate," replied Amy. "If
Margaret will take care of Miss Cunningham, there will be no difficulty
at all."

"But they will get together," said Dora. "And really, though I do
cordially dislike--not hate, remember, Amy,--though I do cordially
dislike Lucy Cunningham, yet I must say Julia behaves infamously;
she has been snapping at her the whole evening; and, moreover, almost
laughed at Mr Cunningham to her face."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy, "she could not do that; it would be so
dreadfully unfeeling."

"But she could, though; she could do that or anything else that came to
her head. You know she sets up for being clever, and thinks she may have
everything her own way. I wish you would talk to her, Amy."

"Me!" repeated Amy, in a tone of the utmost surprise; "you are laughing
at me, Dora."

"No, indeed, I never was more in earnest in my life. I heard her say
to-day she thought you knew more of what was right than any one else in
the house, and had more courage too."

Amy was silent from astonishment.

"It is your quiet way, Amy, which strikes her so, I am sure," continued
Dora; "you never make a fuss about being good-natured, and yet you
always do everything for everybody; and I am sure they must all see
it, and love it too--at least if they are like me. There is always a
difficulty when any one else is goodnatured, they seem to have achieved
something."

"You know, Dora," replied Amy, gravely, "that I always ask you not to
say such things to me, but you will forget. I don't mean that I don't
like it, because I do very much; but mamma would rather I should not
hear them, and so it vexes me."

"Vex you!" exclaimed Dora, earnestly; "if you knew half I would do
to please you, Amy, you would not talk of my vexing you, at least not
willingly; I never could have believed, before I came to Emmerton, how
painful I should find it to be unkind to any one; but now I can never
forgive myself when I have been cross to you."

The tears rose to Amy's eyes as she wished her cousin good night and
hastened away; but the expression of Dora's affection amply rewarded her
for any impatience she had repressed, or self-denial she had practised.




CHAPTER XXI.


Dora was quite satisfied the next morning when she saw the whole party
engaged in decorating the saloon for the evening's amusement. Frank
and his companions, indeed, were at times rather more troublesome than
useful, from the very zeal with which they engaged in the work. They
would put up boughs of evergreens where they were not needed, and insist
on driving in a superabundance of nails; and they would also strew the
floor with enormous branches, which only served as stumbling-blocks for
every one who moved. But these were minor evils; all talked fast, and
laughed merrily, and looked happy; and those who have ever had the
responsibility of entertaining others, must be aware that no symptoms
can be so encouraging as these. Miss Cunningham might perhaps have been
considered an exception; for there was something like a sneer on her
lip, as she seated herself by Margaret's side at the table that had been
placed for the flower-makers, and began turning over the collection of
roses, tulips, and lilies of every form and colour, which far out-shone
in variety any that nature has produced. "I should like to know," she
said, "what is the use of your all wasting time in this way? What will
be the good of it when you have done?"

"It is for our pleasure," replied Julia Stanley, sharply; "and as to
wasting time, why it is better than doing nothing."

"Such common, vulgar work, too," continued Miss Cunningham; "and all for
a conjurer."

"Who said we were working for the conjurer?" asked Julia. "I said we
were working to please ourselves."

"Then it seems to me very absurd to find pleasure in such nonsense,"
said Miss Cunningham.

"That is as people think; I see no difference between cutting out
flowers and threading beads, which I think you were doing all yesterday;
and if you do not like the work, you need not look at it."

"I am sure I do not want to look at that or the conjurer, or anything
else," said Miss Cunningham; "tricks are far too vulgar to please me."

"But what do you mean by vulgar?" asked Dora.

"Vulgar?--why vulgar means--every one knows what it means."

"No," said Mary Warner, in her quick, decided tone; "every one does not
know what it means, because no two people in the world think quite alike
about it."

"Dear me! how silly you are!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham;
"vulgar?--vulgar means common, I suppose."

"Then the conjurer is not vulgar, because his tricks are uncommon," said
Julia.

Miss Cunningham bit her lips and was silent; and Amy, who was becoming
interested in the discussion, turned to Miss Morton, who had just
entered the room, and asked her to tell them what things she thought
were vulgar.

"What a request!" said Julia; "Miss Morton might go on all day, and
she would not be able to answer it. You have not been taught to ask
questions, that is quite clear."

Poor Amy looked confused, and said, timidly, that she thought she had
expressed herself badly.

"I know what you mean, though," replied Miss Morton, who had of late
ventured more openly to express her opinions, especially when called
forth by Amy; "I don't think anything vulgar in itself, but only when it
is not befitting the rank and station of the person concerned."

Miss Cunningham opened her eyes widely, and looked as if she would
willingly have understood; and Amy begged Miss Morton to explain herself
more clearly.

"Conjuring tricks," she asked, "are they vulgar?"

Miss Morton smiled. "I hope," she said, "you are not growing too proud
to be amused; why should such a notion enter your head?"

"Miss Cunningham thinks them so," replied Amy.

"If Miss Cunningham were to exhibit them herself to any people that
might choose to come and look at them," answered Miss Morton, "I should
have reason to think her vulgar; but the poor conjurer is a common
person who gains his livelihood by his ingenuity. There can be nothing
more vulgar in his exhibition of tricks (if they are proper ones, I
mean), than in a carpenter's making a table, or a tailor's making a
coat."

"Really," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, "you have most extraordinary ideas.
I exhibit conjuring tricks, indeed? I wonder how the notion could ever
have entered your head."

"It is strange," said Julia Stanley, quietly: "conjurers are generally
clever."

Miss Cunningham did not immediately perceive what was intended, but
Hester did, and in her endeavour to be polite in contrast to her sister,
contrived to make the meaning perfectly clear. "I do not see why
you should think that, Julia," she said, "of course a person of Miss
Cunningham's rank would never do anything of the kind, but it is wrong
to say she could not do it."

"No one said so, of course," exclaimed Miss Cunningham.

"Oh dear! no," replied Julia; "all that I said was, that conjurers were
clever."

Amy looked at Miss Cunningham, and saw that for once in her life she
understood; and anxious if possible to preserve peace, she returned
again to the subject of vulgarity; saying she wished she could
comprehend it better.

"You will comprehend it very well when you are older and have seen
more of the world," replied Emily; "but I think now if you observe what
things strike you as vulgar in persons, you will find they are always
those which arise from a wish to be thought richer or cleverer, or
higher in rank than they really are, or else from their having the
manners and habits of a class who are inferior to themselves. Bad
grammar is very natural in a labouring man, and very vulgar in a
nobleman; a splendid dress is very proper for a queen, and very vulgar
for the wife of a tradesman. All persons who go out of their station,
or pretend to be what they are not, must be vulgar, whether they are
princes or peasants. You often hear of persons of no education, who have
made great fortunes from a very low beginning, trying to vie with those
born to rank and riches, and then they are laughed at as vulgar. If they
had kept to their own station, they might have had precisely the same
manners; but they would have escaped ridicule, because then there would
have been no pretence about them."

"But it is in little things that I am puzzled," said Amy. "Are persons
vulgar who make pies and puddings, and mend their own clothes?"

"To be sure they are, Amy," said Frank, who had great notions of having
every one belonging to him very refined and superior; "I hope you never
intend to do such things, or you had better set up a dame-school at
once."

"But do you think so, too?" asked Amy, looking earnestly at Miss Morton.

"No! indeed, I do not," replied Emily; "I think the more we know of
common, useful things, the better, as long as we are not ashamed of
them. It is the doing them in private, and pretending to be ignorant of
them in public, which constitutes the vulgarity."

"I am always afraid of not knowing what I ought to do when I am with
people," said Amy, "and I should be so sorry to do vulgar things."

Miss Morton smiled, as she looked at Amy's sweet face, and listened to
her peculiarly ladylike pronunciation, and thought how impossible it
would be for her to appear anything but a lady.

"Oh!" said Miss Cunningham, "it is quite out of the question for people
who live always in the country to understand what things are proper and
fashionable, and what are not. I should never have known myself if my
aunt had not told me; and of course she knows, because she goes out
constantly in London."

"Really," said Julia, satirically, "that quite surprises me; but then I
am very ignorant, I have never even been in London."

"Do you think I shall ever learn to be fashionable?" asked Amy of Miss
Morton.

"I hope not," said Emily, regardless of Miss Cunningham's contemptuous
smile.

"Why?" asked Margaret, "do you not wish her to be ladylike?"

"Yes," replied Emily; "but it does not follow that to be ladylike it is
necessary to be fashionable. A fashionable manner is a manner put on;
a really ladylike manner arises from a really ladylike mind--one is
sincere, the other generally is affected; and when persons strive to be
fashionable, they often end in becoming vulgar."

"Then what do you think we should try to be?" asked Mary Warner.

"Nothing," replied Emily; "those who possess a cultivated mind, and a
gentle, humble disposition, need not try to be anything; they may be
quite sure of not being vulgar; and as for being elegant and graceful,
they will never become so by thinking about it; the very endeavour must
make them constrained."

"But I should so like to be elegant," said Margaret.

"So would many others," answered Emily; "and they would like to be
beautiful too, but they cannot make themselves so. Elegance is a gift as
much as beauty."

A conscious smile passed over Margaret's countenance; she felt that one
gift at least she possessed, and the sight of Miss Cunningham's plain
face was more agreeable to her than ever; she was sure it must be such a
contrast to her own.

"Then," said Mary Warner, "you would not advise any person to imitate
the manners of another?"

"No," replied Emily; "because persons' manners ought to suit with their
minds; and as all persons have different minds, so they must, to a
certain degree, have different manners. Manners should be the veil
through which the mind is seen, not the covering by which it is hidden."

"Come, Frank!" exclaimed Henry Dornford, who was tired of having to
labour alone; "do leave all the young ladies to discuss their manners by
themselves; it can be nothing to you, and I want you dreadfully."

"Coming, coming," said Frank, hastily, "only I must say one thing, that
I know I can see some persons' minds in their manners quite plainly.
Yours, Dora, for instance; any one might see you are as proud as a queen
by the way you march into a room."

"Oh Frank!" half whispered Amy, as she saw the angry flush on Dora's
check, "do not say such things as that; you have vexed Dora, I am sure."

"I did not mean any harm," said Frank, "only it is a truth; now I will
just ask every one, don't you all think I am right?"

Poor Dora's dignity was shocked beyond expression at the idea of this
public criticism; but she tried to laugh as her only resource. Every one
looked and felt awkward; and Frank, who had spoken thoughtlessly from
the impulse of the moment, wished his words unsaid. Happily Henry
Dornford broke the silence by calling again to him to leave them; and
Frank this time had no wish for any more last words. Dora strove to
recover her equanimity, but in vain; she fancied every one must be
thinking of and judging her, and she knew that what Frank had said was
true. Perhaps, if he had expressed himself differently, her annoyance
might have been less; for she had always imagined it dignified and
suitable to her position to have rather proud manners--it kept people
at a distance, and made them recollect who she was, and she fancied that
pride and dignity must go together. But to hear her manners discussed
in her presence by school-girls and school-boys, was a very different
thing; and after a few efforts to appear unconcerned, she left the party
to themselves, and retired to her own room. Amy saw by her countenance
what was passing in her mind; but she did not like to follow her,
for she knew there were times when pity and sympathy would be more
distasteful to Dora than anything. When her cousin was unhappy, Amy
had no hesitation in endeavouring to comfort her; but when she had done
wrong, it would have seemed interfering improperly to take any notice of
it, for Amy never forgot that Dora was her superior in age, and in the
knowledge of many things she had acquired by being the eldest of the
family, and by having been brought forward far beyond her years.

Dora's absence was not much regretted, and the work went on so quickly
and merrily, that the sound of the dinner-bell was pronounced by all
to be very unwelcome; but dinner was quickly ended, and Henry Dornford
again summoned them to put the finishing stroke to the whole, and to say
if anything more were needed. The question went round in rotation;
and, being a little tired, they felt no inclination to suggest further
improvements. But Amy, perceiving that Dora was not there, immediately
proposed that her opinion should be asked.

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Margaret. "What will it signify what Dora
says? We cannot all set to work again to please her. Why will you always
interfere, Amy?"

"I did not mean to interfere indeed, Margaret," replied Amy; "but you
know Dora never likes anything to be decided without her, and she has
been the chief manager of this."

"She is the chief manager of everything, I think," said Miss Cunningham;
"at least, she would be if she could."

"But she is the eldest," said Amy.

"She is not so old as I am; and if she were, I do not see why we are all
to give up our taste to hers. If she wants to give an opinion, why does
she go away?"

"She did not know that it would be all finished so soon, perhaps,"
answered Amy. "I wish I might go and tell her."

"There is no reason against it that I can see," said Frank; "only she
must not expect us to begin working again, merely for her pleasure."

"I daresay," replied Amy, "she will think it does very nicely: but I am
sure she would like to be asked, and it would be a pity she should be
vexed twice in the day."

Frank's good-nature immediately took the hint; and without saying
another word, he ran off himself to find Dora, and, if possible to
soothe her feelings by making her the principal person in the business.
A few months before, Dora's irritation would have continued a whole day
after such a severe trial to her temper, and solitude would only have
increased her annoyance, by giving her more time to reflect upon its
cause; but since she had known Amy, and could contrast her gentleness,
meekness, and constant cheerfulness, with things in her own character
so much the reverse, she had for the first time felt her defects, and
longed to correct them; and having earnestly and resolutely determined
to realise those longings by putting in practice the rules she had
laid down to aid her improvement, she was now beginning to feel all the
benefit of them; for she had learned, as the first step, to distrust her
own powers, and to ask for a higher strength. Happily Dora was gifted
with an energy of mind which prevented her from delaying her duty when
once it had been clearly pointed out; and the time spent by herself had
been so well employed, that all traces of irritation had vanished even
before dinner, very much to Frank's and Margaret's astonishment: and
now, with apparently the most perfect good-humour, she gave her opinion
as to what was required to complete the adornment of the saloon; and
then, finding that no one was disposed to agree with her, relinquished
her own idea, and declared herself willing to abide by the decision of
the majority.

Amy noticed the change, and asked herself whether she could have been
equally good-humoured; and Margaret remarked it also, in so loud a
whisper to Miss Cunningham, that it was impossible for Dora not to
overhear it. The heightened colour told in an instant that she did; but
she had conquered her temper once that day, and the second trial was
comparatively easy; it required but one moment of recollection, and a
slight effort at self-control, and to all appearance she was perfectly
unruffled.

The party separated almost immediately afterwards; and Amy went to her
mother's room. Mr Harrington was with her, and they were talking, as
usual, of India, Colonel Herbert, and the probability of hearing from
him. The same things had been repeated again and again; but this subject
was now the only one in which Mrs Herbert could take any real interest,
and her brother's affection prevented him from ever feeling it
wearisome.

"And do you really think, then," were the words Amy heard as she entered
the room, "do you really think that it is possible there may be a letter
by the last mail?"

"Only just possible," replied Mr Harrington, "as this place is so
retired, and my own letters sometimes go astray; but you must feel that
such a hope as that is a mere shadow. I earnestly wish you could make up
your mind not to think about it. The anxiety is doing you more harm than
you can imagine."

"Dr Bailey will be here this evening, I suppose," said Mrs Herbert, with
a smile; "and then he will set your mind at ease about me. I have felt
so much better since I have had something like a certain hope to build
on, that I have very little fear for myself now."

"But the suspense," replied Mr Harrington; "no mind can bear that, and
the constant dwelling upon one subject. If you could only divert your
thoughts, I am sure it will help you."

"I do try, indeed I do," said Mrs Herbert; "for your sake, and for
Amy's, I make the effort continually; but the one idea will remain; and
even when I believe I am interested in what I am doing, I find that the
slightest unusual sound, or the sudden opening of a door, will make my
heart beat violently, and bring on the faintness to which I am subject,
so as completely to take away my strength. But I am not going to
give way to this, you may be quite sure," she added, seeing that Mr
Harrington looked very grave; "and to prove it, I intend to make Amy
tell me all she has been doing this afternoon."

Mr Harrington went away, and Amy did her utmost to amuse her mother, and
found so much to relate, that she had scarcely time to dress before she
was summoned to tea. The conjurer was expected to arrive about seven
o'clock, and Dora had arranged everything satisfactorily to her own
wishes, with Mrs Harrington's consent, for their having a dance when the
exhibition was over; and even Miss Cunningham condescended to say, on
hearing it, that she expected to have a very pleasant evening.

Amy rather shrank from the idea of dancing before strangers, and wished
that the few persons invited for the evening would find some reason for
staying at home; but her anticipations of pleasure were still great, and
when the party adjourned to the saloon to await the conjurer's arrival,
there were few whose eyes sparkled as brightly, or whose laugh was as
joyous as hers.

"Who has ever seen a conjurer?" asked Henry Dornford, as they stood
round the fire.

Mary Warner was the only one who had been so fortunate, and the
exhibition she had witnessed was but an indifferent one.

"Well, then!" exclaimed Henry, proud of his superior knowledge, "I
advise you all to take care of yourselves, or you will lose your
senses."

"Why should we do that?" said Julia. "Is the conjurer going to steal
them? I shall congratulate him on the treasure he will get from some of
us at least;" and she looked round to see if Miss Cunningham were near;
but she had not yet made her appearance, and Julia's satire was lost.

"I really am afraid for the little ones," continued Henry. "Conjurers
do such wonderful things, and they generally dress themselves up in an
outlandish way; and the one I saw talked a sort of double Dutch, just to
make us think that he came from Timbuctoo."

"If that be a qualification for a conjurer," said Julia, "we had better
get poor Mr Cunningham to exhibit. I defy any one to know what part of
the world he comes from."

"So he would make a capital conjurer," said Henry Dornford; "and he
would not want a mask either; for he can twist his face into a hundred
and twenty different shapes in a minute. Just look, I am sure I can do
it exactly like him."

"Ah: but can you talk too?" said Julia: "it is nothing without the
stammering and stuttering."

"But he does not stammer," observed Mary Warner. "Never mind," said
Henry. "Listen--yet wait--I will go out of the room, and come in again
in his blind way, with a glass to my eye, and then speak, and you shall
tell me if you would have known us apart."

Julia laughed heartily at the idea, and Henry was just going when he was
stopped by Amy.

"I wish," she said, timidly, "you would not do it, because"---- and here
she paused.

"Because what?" asked Henry, in great astonishment.

"Because," said Amy, more firmly, "it is not quite right, is it, to
laugh at people and mimic them?"

"Not right to laugh at people!" exclaimed Henry; "what a girl's notion
that is!--why, half the fun in the world would be gone if we were not
allowed to laugh at any one."

"I don't think that makes it right," said Amy.

"Oh nonsense, nonsense!" was the reply. "I will soon teach you to
think differently from that; now, just look at me, and see if it is not
capital sport."

Henry ran to the door, and then re-entered, with a manner and voice so
exactly like Mr Cunningham's, that all burst into aloud laugh;--all,
except Amy, who tried very hard to prevent even a smile; and when
she found this was impossible, began blaming herself, and anxiously
repeating her request that Henry would not do it.

"It is quite Mr Cunningham's misfortune," she said; "and he is so good
and kind--he has been so very kind to me."

The peculiar sound which always preceded Mr Cunningham's sentences was
heard when Amy had spoken, and some one said "Thank you;" but it was not
Henry Dornford, for he looked completely frightened, and fixed his eyes
on the door. No one ventured to utter another word, and in the silence
retreating foot-steps were heard along the passage.

"Do you think he heard all we were saying?" asked Henry.

"Don't say we," replied Hester Stanley; "you know no one had anything to
do with it but yourself. Why did you not take care to shut the door?"

"I daresay he only caught the last words," said Julia; "and if so, there
is no harm done; besides, listeners never hear any good of themselves.
It is his own fault; people who don't know how to talk should stay at
home."

"I think it served us right," said Mary Warner. "I felt it was wrong all
the time, only it amused me so."

"Well! there is no use in troubling ourselves about it," said Julia; "he
is neither father, brother, nor cousin to any of us, and most probably
we shall never see him again after to-morrow; so do let the matter
rest."

Amy thought that the never seeing him again could not make any
difference in the action; but it was not her place to speak. She only
felt glad that Mr Cunningham would not consider her unfeeling and
forgetful of his kindness, and wondered at Julia's appearing so
indifferent to the thought of having given pain, for she continued
laughing and talking as before, and trying to make the others do the
same. Her efforts, however, were not quite successful; the circumstance
had cast a blank over their enjoyment, and many anxious eyes were turned
to the door to see if Mr Cunningham were likely to appear again, and
all felt relieved when the conjurer was announced, and the rest of
the company came into the room. Mr Cunningham was with them, but their
thoughts were now diverted from him, though they all remarked that he
took especial notice of Amy, and placed her by his side in the best
position for seeing everything.

Amy was grateful for his kindness, but wished it had been differently
shown. At first she felt uneasy in her rather elevated situation, and
she dreaded very much lest he should begin talking, and especially lest
he should refer to what had passed; but this evening he was peculiarly
silent; and Amy soon forgot everything but the delight of seeing flowers
grow out of egg-shells, chickens hatched in a gentleman's hat, rings and
brooches found in the possession of every one but their right owners,
and all the other wonders which made the conjurer appear to possess some
unearthly power. She hardly wished for an explanation of them, and felt
quite vexed when she heard Henry Dornford whisper to Frank that some
of the tricks were quite nonsense--things he could do himself; while Mr
Cunningham rose in her favour when he told her that great part of the
exhibition was beyond his comprehension, and that what Henry had said
was merely a school-boy's boast. It seemed now less difficult to believe
the marvellous stones of fairies and genii which she had so often read,
and she was considering in her own mind whether Aladdin's lamp might not
actually be in existence at that moment, when the green curtain fell,
and they were again left to the realities of every-day life. There was
an exclamation of regret from all the party, with the exception of
Miss Cunningham, who said she was tired of sitting in a dark room. Even
little Rose, though she rubbed her eyes, and was almost inclined to cry
from mere weariness, begged that the funny man might come back again, or
that at least she might have one of the eggs with the pretty flowers in
it; and Amy secretly wished the same thing, though she was ashamed to
own it when she found every body laughing at Rose and promising her
sugar plums and sweetmeats to pacify her.

Miss Cunningham was the first to follow Mrs Harrington to the
drawing-room, and to propose that they should begin dancing
immediately--a proceeding which excited considerable surprise in Amy's
mind, and induced Mr Cunningham to take his sister aside, and beg her to
remember that she was not in her own house, and therefore it could not
be her place to make suggestions. Dancing did, however, commence almost
immediately. Emily Morton was placed at the piano, and no one but Amy
appeared to consider that the trouble given required either thanks or
apology. It was her business and her duty; and whether agreeable or
not, it was a subject of trifling moment. Amy indeed had more leisure to
think about it than the rest; for the number of dancers being unequal,
she was the only one left out. Dora and Margaret had been first thought
of by every one, and Mrs Harrington had taken care of the visitors; but
Amy had no claim; she was looked upon as sufficiently at home to be
left to herself, and not of consequence enough to be noticed; and
the quadrille was formed, and the music had begun, before any one
recollected her. Not to dance was rather a relief, but not to be asked
was a neglect to which poor Amy was peculiarly alive. The occupations of
the last few days had been too varied and interesting to leave much
time for her old feelings to return, and she had fancied that they would
never trouble her again; but now, as she stood by Miss Morton's side,
the only one of the young party who was disengaged, they pressed upon
her mind most painfully. Had her mother been in the room, she would have
felt it much less; but Mrs Herbert seldom came down when so many persons
were present, and Amy in consequence was completely alone. It was the
gayest scene she had ever witnessed, and the bright lights and the
joyous music alone, would at another time have given her thorough
enjoyment; but now they were only a source of discontent, for they were
looked upon as intended for others and not for her. She watched Dora,
and thought how delightful it would be to be like her, the object of
general attention, and she listened to the whispered admiration of
Margaret's beauty, till she fancied for the moment that to be beautiful
must constitute happiness. But Amy's delusion did not last long; she
turned from her cousins to Emily Morton, and the sight of her in some
measure recalled better feelings. With beauty, elegance, and goodness,
she was as unnoticed as herself. She had no mother, no friends; her
daily life was one of wearying mortification and self-denial; and yet
Emily Morton had never been heard to utter a single murmur. She had
never been known to compare her lot with others, or to wonder why
she was deprived of the comforts enjoyed by them; and her heart was a
perpetual well-spring of quiet gratitude, which made the heaviest trials
of her life sources of improvement to herself, and of blessing to those
around her. Even at that moment, her sweet smile and cheerful voice,
as she begged to be told whether she was playing to please them, were a
lesson which Amy could not but profit by, for she knew that in Emily's
place she should have felt very differently; and she sighed, as the
thought crossed her mind how difficult it would be to imitate her. She
did, however, make the effort at once, and, when Dora approached, tried
to speak gaily and to overcome her vexation; but a second and a third
quadrille were formed, and still she was not asked to dance; and then
the tears rushed to her eyes, and she longed to steal away unobserved,
and go to her mamma for the remainder of the evening. Yet she was too
shy to venture across the room by herself, and nothing was to be done
but to sit quietly in the corner, watching the others, and trying not to
be envious of them. Mr Cunningham would willingly have done his utmost
to amuse her; but he was obliged to dance himself to make up the set,
and it was not till the termination of the third quadrille that he came
to her and began talking. Amy was getting accustomed to his voice, and
found his conversation such a relief to her loneliness, that it restored
her to a feeling of something like pleasure. She was certain also, from
his manner, that he had overheard what had passed in the saloon; for,
although his behaviour to Henry Dornford, and the rest of the party, was
exactly the same as usual, yet he was evidently more anxious to please
her than he had ever been before, and she felt his kindness peculiarly
after the disappointment she had suffered. She could not, however, quite
recover her accustomed cheerfulness even when at length she did join the
quadrille; and the enjoyment of the evening was almost lost, especially
when she thought how she had looked forward to it, and compared her
brilliant expectations with the unlooked-for reality.




CHAPTER XXII.


But there was a greater trial awaiting poor Amy's feelings, on that
evening, than any she could suffer from neglect. Tired with dancing, she
had seated herself in the most retired part of the room, and was
half hidden by the window-curtain, when Mrs Danvers and another lady
approached, and, without observing who was near, began to remark aloud
upon what was going on. At first Amy was amused; she supposed, from
their speaking so openly, that they had no wish for privacy, and all
they said was of so trifling a nature, and mentioned so good-naturedly,
that no pain could have been excited, even if it had been repeated
publicly.

The conversation continued for some time, and Amy, feeling weary of her
position, was wishing to move, when there was a general press towards
the door near which she was standing, and which led into the library,
where refreshments had been prepared; and as she stepped aside to make
room for others to pass on, it became necessary for her to remain where
she was till they were all gone. Mrs Danvers and her friend were nearly
in the same situation, and still continued talking, as if perfectly
careless whether they were overheard or not.

"Did you see that little girl," said Mrs Danvers, "who danced the last
quadrille with Frank Harrington?"

"Yes," was the reply; "I had not noticed her before all the evening. Who
is she?"

"A niece, I believe, of Mr Harrington's," said Mrs Danvers; "there
is nothing very remarkable about her, only she interests me from
circumstances."

"What circumstances?" inquired her friend.

"Her father is in India," answered Mrs Danvers, "and they have had no
letters for a long time; and though there has been some rumour of him
lately, and he may be returning home, it is very uncertain; and Mrs
Herbert is in such a dreadful state of anxiety in consequence, that she
is extremely ill; and if anything should happen to her, of course the
poor child will live here."

"She will have a comfortable home, at all events," observed her
companion.

Mrs Danvers looked grave, and replied, "It will be a very different
thing from what it is now. Mrs Harrington is so proud, and her
eldest girl so exactly like her, that it will be a state of miserable
dependence."

"But is there no hope for Mrs Herbert?"

"None at all, as far as I can understand. She has been getting worse and
worse for the last six months, and, in fact, I believe myself that she
is dying."

Amy heard the last words, and it seemed as if all power of motion or
utterance had been taken from her. For months she had felt at times a
vague fear that her mother might be worse than she would acknowledge;
but the interest of passing events had quickly dispelled her
apprehension, and she had gone on till that hour without allowing
herself to imagine that it could be actually possible; and now, in one
moment, the dreadful truth had flashed upon her mind--truth at least it
seemed to her, for it had been asserted so confidently, and by persons
so much her superiors, that she could not bring herself to doubt it. Her
mother's pale face, her uncle's anxious looks, his wish that a physician
should be consulted, all returned to her remembrance, and all confirmed
Mrs Danvers' words. Her senses nearly forsook her, her head grew giddy,
the lights, the people, the music, seemed to have passed away, and
the only thing of which she was sensible was a burthen of intolerable
misery. Even tears did not come to her relief; for she was stunned by
the suddenness of the shock, and, silent and motionless, she remained
unnoticed and unthought of till the company had passed into the library;
and then, with a sudden impulse to escape from the brilliant room and
the sound of gaiety, she ran up-stairs towards her mother's chamber.
Still, however, she had sufficient self-possession to feel that she
might be wrong to venture there suddenly; and passing the room, she
continued her way along the gallery, with but one wish--that of finding
some place where she might be undiscovered. The sound of footsteps only
quickened her movements, and, almost unconscious of her actions, she
opened the first door that presented itself, and found herself alone
in the chapel. The cold light of the moon was shining full into the
building, touching with its clear rays the deep moulding of the arches
and the rich tracery of the windows, and bringing out into an unnatural
distinctness the sculptured figure of the old Baron of Emmerton, whose
still features seemed to retain, even in death, the holy, humble spirit
which, it was said, had animated them in life. At another time Amy
might have felt frightened, but the one overpowering idea in her mind
prevented the entrance of every other, and there was a quietness and
holiness in the place, which in some degree restored her to herself, for
it brought vividly before her the remembrance of Him to whom it had been
dedicated, and who at that moment she knew was watching over her. She
had, however, but a few moments for reflection, when the door opened,
and some one entered the private gallery. Amy tried to hide herself, but
Miss Morton's voice in an instant gave her ease and comfort; and, unable
to speak, she threw herself upon her neck, and burst into tears.

"Amy! my dear, dear Amy!" exclaimed Miss Morton, "what can be the
meaning of this? Why are you here?"

Amy only replied by repeating the word "mamma," in a tone of such deep
misery, that Miss Morton's heart for the moment misgave her.

"What of your mamma?" she inquired. "Is she ill?"

The question only seemed to increase Amy's distress, and Emily became
alarmed. "Will you not try to be calm for my sake?" she said; "you
cannot tell how anxious you are making me."

"Is it true?" exclaimed Amy, almost gasping for breath; "why did you not
tell me before?"

"What should I have told you?" said Emily, feeling completely
bewildered. "I have known nothing."

"But mamma," continued Amy, "she is so very ill--they say she is, and
every one knows it but me;" and again her sobs became almost hysterical.

"This is some very great mistake, dearest," said Miss Morton; "you will,
I am sure, try to calm yourself, and listen to me. Mrs Herbert is not at
all worse than usual this evening."

"Ah! but Mrs Danvers said it," replied Amy.

"Said what?" asked Emily.

"She said," answered Amy, forcing herself to an unnatural composure,
"that papa, perhaps, would not come home, and that mamma was so very
ill; and she talked of my living here, and that I should be miserable:
but I should die--oh! I know I should die," she added, with a vehemence
which startled Miss Morton. "God would not let me live without them: do
you think He would?"

The tone in which this was said was almost too much for Emily's
firmness; for the trial which Amy dreaded, she had herself endured, and
she well remembered its bitterness. "My own dear Amy," she said, "you
must listen to me now, as you have often done before: you know that
I shall speak nothing but the truth to you. Your mamma is ill from
anxiety, but there is no reason to apprehend that anything is seriously
the matter with her. Dr Bailey has been here this evening."

"Has he?" exclaimed Amy. "Oh! why did you not tell me?"

"Because you were engaged at the time," replied Emily, "and I had no
idea you would be so anxious. He says that there is nothing really amiss
yet, that all she requires is rest for the spirits; and he has quite
relieved Mr Harrington's mind."

"Are you sure? are you quite sure?" asked Amy, heaving a deep sigh, as
if to free herself from the overwhelming weight which had oppressed her.

"Yes, indeed, I am sure," replied Emily; "of course, it is not for us to
speak positively as to what is to happen--it may be the will of God to
take her, or to take any one, at any moment; but according to our human
judgment there is nothing to fear."

"But you cannot be quite certain," said Amy, whilst the cloud, which had
partly passed away, seemed about to return; "and Mrs Danvers spoke as if
she were."

"Mrs Danvers can know nothing of the matter," answered Emily; "she has
seen very little of your mamma since she has been here; and you must
think of what Dr Bailey says, and try to be happy for the present."

But Amy could not be happy; she could not so easily overcome the shock
she had received; and again anxiously asked Emily whether Dr Bailey
really said that her mamma would get well.

"He thinks and hopes she will," replied Emily; "but no one can be
certain."

"But if she should not," said Amy, as she leant her head on Miss
Morton's shoulder, and her tears flowed afresh.

"If she should not," replied Emily, "would you not try to think of her
happiness, even if it were your sorrow?"

Amy tried to recover herself, but the effort was almost beyond her. "I
could not live without her," she said, in a broken voice.

"Yes," replied Emily, "you can--we all can learn to submit to whatever
is the will of God; and we can learn to think suffering a blessing, and
to thank Him for it even more than for joy; but you will not understand
this now."

"To live here," said Amy, following the course of her own thoughts.

"You must not think of it," replied Emily; "God may in mercy grant you
many years of happiness in your own home; but there is no place where
He is which may not be your home. Will you endeavour to think of this,
dearest? I know it is true," she added, in a low voice, "for I have no
home."

"Oh! if I could be like you," exclaimed Amy, earnestly, recalled for the
moment from the thought of her own sorrow.

"Do not wish that," said Emily; "but there is One whom we must all learn
to be like, and His life was but one continued scene of suffering. We
can never have to bear what He bore."

"I am very wicked," said Amy, "but I will try to think as you do, only
it is so hard."

"You need not make yourself unhappy now," replied Emily, "by dwelling on
a trial which may be far off. I cannot see any great cause for anxiety,
only it is well at times to think of sorrow, even in the midst of
happiness, that we may be the better prepared to meet it."

"I thought," said Amy, "that I should never be unhappy till I grew old."

"And so I thought once," replied Emily. "But, Amy, before we were either
of us conscious of existence, we were both dedicated to the Saviour
who died for us, and the sign of His suffering was marked upon our
foreheads: it would be worse than weakness to shrink from following His
footsteps, because He calls us to it early."

"And must I be miserable?" said Amy.

"No, never," answered Emily, eagerly; "misery is for those who cannot
feel that they have a Father in heaven, and therefore it is that when we
are too happy, and begin to forget Him, He sends us sorrow to recall us
to Himself."

"Mamma told me something like that once," said Amy, with a heavy sigh;
"but I did not think sorrow would come so soon."

"You must not fancy it is come, dearest," replied Emily; "and you must
not think, whatever happens, that you will be miserable. In this place,
least of all, because everything in a church reminds us that we have God
to watch over us, and our Saviour to love us, and holy angels to guard
us."

Amy raised her head, and for a few moments gazed in silence upon the
still solemn beauty of the chapel. "It is better to be here," she said,
at last, "than in the drawing-room with the lights and the music."

"You can feel so now," replied Emily, "because you are unhappy, and
when you have had more trials you will feel so always. When persons
have suffered much, and borne their afflictions with patience and
thankfulness, they become in a degree calm and composed, as that marble
figure beneath us, for their eyes are closed to the sights of the world,
and their hearts are raised continually to heaven. Only think how good
the saints and martyrs were of whom you have often read; it was trial
and suffering which made them so."

"Oh yes!" replied Amy; "but who can be like them?"

"We can," answered Emily, "if we really wish and try to be. When we were
baptized, you know, God gave us His Holy Spirit to enable us to obey
Him; and you know also that He will give it to us more and more every
day, if we only pray to Him. The greatest saint that ever lived could
not have had a higher strength than ours; and therefore, if they bore
their afflictions without murmuring, we can do the same."

Amy was silent, her eyes were fixed upon the marble monument, and she
seemed lost in thought. "May I go to mamma?" she said, at length, in a
calmer tone.

"I think," answered Emily, "that Mrs Herbert is asleep on the sofa in
her bedroom; at least Morris told me so just before I came up-stairs,
and perhaps you may disturb her."

"I must, indeed I must see her!" exclaimed Amy; "I do not want to speak,
only to look at her; and I will try to bear everything," she added,
earnestly, though the tears again filled her eyes as she spoke.

"I wish," said Emily, "you could have listened to Dr Bailey's opinion
yourself: I only heard it accidentally as I met him in the hall. He
seemed to think that if your papa came home soon, Mrs Herbert would get
well almost immediately."

"I do not think he will come now," said Amy; "it seems all changed, and
my uncle wishes us not to think about it."

Emily hardly knew what reply to make; she had so many fears upon the
subject herself, that she dared not give Amy the hope which she desired,
and could only again beg her to try and trust all things to the will of
God, and to feel that He whose child she was, would be her comfort in
every affliction.

"Will they miss me?" said Amy, as they left the gallery; "do you think
my aunt will ask where I am gone?" The question showed that her mind
had returned to something like its natural state, and Emily felt
considerably relieved.

"I will take care to make your excuse," she said, "if any observation
is made; but, dearest, you must promise me not to sit by yourself, and
dwell upon all the possible evils that may happen. I do not think you
will, for your mamma's sake; it will make her worse to see you unhappy."

"I would try for you," said Amy, "I would do anything--yes, anything in
all the world for you."

"Anything but believe that your mamma will get well," said Emily; "and
yet that is what I most wish you to do now."

Amy's only answer was an entreaty that she then would come to her again
as soon as she could, and sadly and noiselessly she stole into her
mother's room.

Mrs Herbert's sleep was calm as the sleep of a weary child; her
breathing was regular and gentle, and her face had lost the painful
expression of anxiety which was seldom absent from it at other times.
There was a slight tinge of colour upon her pale cheek, and almost a
smile upon her lips, and it appeared as if the rest of the mind, which
was denied to her waking life, had been mercifully granted to her in her
dreams. But Amy, as she stood by her side, did not notice this; she
saw only the pale, worn features, and the thin, delicate hand which was
resting on the book her mother had been reading, and every moment seemed
to force upon her more and more the truth of Mrs Danvers' words. Yet her
self-command did not again leave her; and seating herself on a low stool
by the sofa, she continued to watch and listen to every breath with
an intense anxiety, which made her insensible to all but the present
moment. Still Mrs Herbert slept, and still Amy watched, and by degrees
the first overpowering feeling diminished, and her thoughts returned to
the past--to her peaceful home, the cottage, which she had once almost
despised, with its sloping lawn and its beautiful flowers, and the
arbour where her happiest hours had been spent; to the quietness of her
morning lessons, and the enjoyment of her afternoon rambles; and, above
all, to the unwearying care which had guarded her from every evil, and
ministered to her hourly gratification; and as she remembered these
things, and then gazed upon her mother's face, it seemed as if every
feeling of affection which she had hitherto experienced had been but
cold and ungrateful--as if now, for the first time, she had known what
it was really to love her. Of Emmerton, too, she thought, and of her
aunt, and Dora, and Margaret, and the possibility that their home might
be hers for the future; and while pondering upon the idea, the very
comfort of the room in which she was sitting, with its rich crimson
curtains and thick carpet, and luxurious chairs, and the soft, mellow
light of the lamp burning on the table--all became oppressive. They had
made her envious and discontented when she was happy, and now they could
give her no comfort when she was sorrowful. What would all the riches
of the world be to her without her mother? On the possibility of
her father's return she could at first dwell but little; for it was
difficult to believe it very near, and if it were delayed it might be
too late to be of use, and a meeting under such circumstances would
be almost worse than a continued separation. But Amy's spirit was too
buoyant in its nature to remain long depressed by such forebodings;
there was a brighter side to the picture, and Miss Morton had entreated
her to think of it. Colonel Herbert might be on his voyage home, he
might even be in England at that very time, and then every one said her
mamma would recover. For one moment she believed that it might be so,
and her heart bounded with delight, though immediately afterwards
it sunk again into doubt and suspense; and at length, worn out with
anxiety, she laid her head against her mother's pillow, and slept also.
The distant sound of the music, and the hum of voices below, mingled
strangely with her sad thoughts, and her rest was far different from her
mother's. Visions of India, such as it had often been described to her,
of her father in health and happiness, and her mamma on her sick bed,
and of the cottage, and Emmerton, and her cousins, were blended together
in her dreams, now bringing before her scenes of sorrow and trial, and
then changing them suddenly into happiness. Sorrow indeed prevailed; yet
the hope which had cheered her before she slept was associated with it,
and even when her wandering fancy pictured most vividly some painful
trial, her father's image was at hand, to comfort and support her. Half
an hour passed away, and Amy's slumber still continued restless but
unbroken, whilst in her dream she was walking with her father on the
terrace at Emmerton, describing to him her mother's illness, and begging
him to go back with her to the cottage, when a strange, unusual sound
fell upon her ear; and as she turned to inquire from him the cause, she
awoke. The sound was apparently so real, that even when her recollection
was completely recovered, Amy could not entirely believe it was only a
dream, and she listened eagerly to discover what was passing below.
The music had ceased, but there did not seem to be any preparations for
departure, or the carriages would have been heard as they drove up
to the house; and yet there were distant sounds of bustle, doors were
opened and shut hastily, and voices were earnest in conversation,
while servants were moving quickly along the gallery. Amy thought and
wondered, and, without understanding her own ideas, grew excited and
anxious. She longed for her mother to wake, that she might listen also;
and at length, unable to remain quietly in her room, she walked softly
into the ante-room. It looked out upon the front entrance, and the
bright moonlight made everything appear almost as clear as day. Still
unable to comprehend what was going on, she went to the window; there
was a carriage at the door, and she wondered that she had not heard
it approach, but still no one was departing, and bags and luggage were
being removed from it. Amy looked on for a few moments, and then a
thought of unspeakable happiness passed across her mind, a thought so
overpowering that it was gone in the next instant. She felt that it
was only fancy; but it made her run to the door and again listen with
breathless earnestness. Foot-steps were heard upon the stairs; she
knew them well--they were her uncle's, and her spirit sickened with
disappointment; they came nearer--and then she felt sure some one else
was with him. It might be Dr Bailey returned again, or Mr Dornford, or
any one, yet Amy's heart beat till she could scarcely stand. More slowly
(so it appeared to her) than he had ever moved before, Mr Harrington
passed along the gallery, and she was just going to meet him when he
entered the room alone. Amy turned deadly pale, and did not speak;
but when she looked in her uncle's face, her vanished hope revived.
He asked, indeed, only how her mother was; but his voice was quick and
unnatural; there was a bright, restless glance in his eye, and a strange
smile upon his lips.

"Mamma is asleep," said Amy; "she has been asleep very long, and I slept
a little; but such a strange sound wakened me."

"Nonsense, child," said Mr Harrington; "are you sure it was not in your
dreams? What did you hear?"

"I don't know," replied Amy; "only it was so strange, and there is no
music now, and there is a carriage at the door."

"Why, you foolish child," said Mr Harrington, "you are dreaming still.
It is time for every one to go."

"Is there really nothing?" inquired Amy; and her very existence seemed
to depend upon the answer she received.

"What should there be?" said Mr Harrington. "Do you think your mamma
could see Dr Bailey again?"

"Again!" repeated Amy: "oh! then, she must be very ill."

"No, no," exclaimed Mr Harrington, "not ill; only he might as well see
her."

"But is he here?" asked Amy.

Mr Harrington did not answer; but he left the room, and immediately
returned, followed by another gentleman. Amy looked at him as he
entered, and for the first moment believed that he was a perfect
stranger; but, as he stood quietly in the door-way, with the light
of the lamp falling full on his face, she became conscious that every
feature was familiar to her. Again she looked, and then she doubted;
she seemed to know well the high forehead, the dark eye, and the grave
mouth; but the sallow complexion, the deep wrinkles, and the look of
age, completely bewildered her.

"Amy," said Mr Harrington, "why do you not speak?"

Amy's voice was almost choked as she endeavoured to reply.

"Oh uncle!" she exclaimed--"if I could but tell----," and she burst into
tears.

"This must not be," said the deep, rich voice of the stranger.
"Harrington, it is wrong to trifle with her, Amy, my own precious
child!"--and the next moment Amy was clasped in her father's arms.




CHAPTER XXIII.


In her after-life Amy enjoyed many and great blessings; but she could
never recur to any which equalled the pure, intense pleasure of that
moment. Colonel Herbert's return seemed the restoration of both her
parents; and even before she had again looked in her father's face, and
wondered at the strangeness of his sudden arrival, she had thought of
the unspeakable relief her mother would experience, and involuntarily
rushed to the door of her chamber. She was stopped, however, by Mr
Harrington.

"We must be careful," he said; "your mamma is too weak to bear such a
surprise. I will break it to her gently."

"Mamma is moving," said Amy; "she will hear us. May I not go?"

Mrs Herbert had caught the sound of voices, and asked if Amy were there.

"There is nothing to be done, then," said Mr Harrington, in answer to
Amy's imploring look; "but remember you must be cautious."

Colonel Herbert came forward and stationed himself near the door. "I
cannot bear this long," he whispered. "Amy, my darling child, I must go
to her soon," and Amy, unable to restrain her own eagerness, answered
her mothers summons.

"Who is in the ante-room?" said Mrs Herbert. "You were speaking to some
one."

"My uncle was there," answered Amy; "he did not know at first that you
were asleep."

"Is it late?" asked Mrs Herbert. "You look so flushed, my love; have you
been dancing much?"

"No, not much, mamma; there were so many; and I sat still a great while,
and then I came up to you."

"I must have slept very long," said Mrs Herbert; "and I would willingly
sleep for ever, if my dreams could be as happy; but I will not murmur;
it is an infinite blessing to have an hour's rest to the mind, even if
it be unreal."

"It may be real soon, mamma," said Amy, and her voice trembled as she
spoke.

Mrs Herbert looked at her anxiously. "You are worn out with excitement
and fatigue, my dear; that flush on your cheek is very unnatural."

"I don't feel tired at all, mamma," replied Amy; "but my face is rather
burning, I think."

"There is something the matter, I am sure," said her mother; "you never
looked so before. Are you sure you have not been vexed at anything?"

"Vexed! oh no! mamma, anything but that."

"You must go to bed soon," said Mrs Herbert, "or you will certainly be
ill to-morrow."

"I had rather not go to bed," replied Amy; "I could not sleep if I did."

"Not sleep!" repeated Mrs Herbert; "then you must be ill, my dear child,
or," she added, after again gazing upon Amy intently, "there must be
something very unusual to prevent it."

Amy did not reply, her lip quivered, and her self-command almost forsook
her.

"There is something," said Mrs Herbert, starting up, "I am sure there
is. Oh! tell me quickly, is it sorrow!"

"No, no, mamma," exclaimed Amy, as she knelt at her mother's side, and
hid her face in her lap, "it is not sorrow,--it is great, great joy; but
my uncle says you will not be able to bear it."

"Is he come?" asked Mrs Herbert, in a low, half audible voice.

There was no time to answer. Colonel Herbert had heard the question, and
entered the room. For an instant Mrs Herbert fixed her eyes wildly upon
him, doubting the reality of his appearance; and then, as the truth
forced itself upon her mind, she tried to rise from the sofa,
and, unequal to the effort, fell back and fainted. With returning
consciousness came an indistinct sense of great happiness, but it was
some time before she could entirely realise what had happened. She
asked no questions--she did not even seem surprised at her husband's
unexpected arrival; but sat with his hand in her own looking at him
earnestly, as if still fearful that it was but a vision which she saw,
and that it would quickly vanish away.

Colonel Herbert's feelings were not quite of so unmixed a nature. Mr
Harrington had prepared him in some degree for the change which illness
and anxiety had made in his wife's appearance; but he had not pictured
it to himself as great as it really was. He had imagined that he should
yet see the fair, clear complexion, and the bright glow of health which
he had so much delighted in when they parted; and now, when his eye
rested upon her wasted features, the sad foreboding crossed his mind,
that they had met only to endure a more terrible separation. It was not
a time, however, for the indulgence of sorrowful thoughts. Mrs Herbert
gradually recovered from the stunning effect of an overpowering joy,
and was able to inquire into the cause of his strange silence, and his
sudden return.

The story, when told, was very simple. Colonel Herbert had gone on an
expedition into a distant province, as he had stated in the last letter
that had been received from him. The servant who had accompanied him he
had trusted entirely, and had confided to him several packets intended
to be forwarded to England. After the lapse of a considerable time,
complaints of his silence reached him from several quarters; and he
then first discovered the man's negligence, and wrote again to his
wife, hoping that his letter had been secured from all risks, though
the unsettled condition of the country through which he was travelling
rendered it very doubtful. Before an answer could be received, he was
seized with a dangerous illness, and left entirely to the care of the
uncivilised natives, in a state of pain and weakness which prevented him
from making any exertions for himself; and, on his recovery, hearing of
the breaking out of the war, as Mrs Herbert had expected, he hastened
to join his regiment; but the insurrection, for it was scarcely more,
having been quelled before his arrival, he made arrangements for an
immediate return to England, feeling much distressed when he discovered,
from Mrs Herbert's letters, the dreadful anxiety she had undergone, and
the alteration it had effected in her general health.

"You would have heard from me before I reached Emmerton," concluded
Colonel Herbert, "if this place were not so much out of the regular
posting line; but I knew I should be with you before a letter could be
forwarded."

"You went first to the cottage, of course," said Mrs Herbert; "it must
have worn a desolate face, with none to greet you."

"I inquired for you first in the village," he replied, "and learned
there that you were spending your Christmas at the Hall; but they gave
me a sad account of you, my love, and I hardly know that it is worse
than the reality."

"Worse!" repeated Mrs Herbert, with a smile which made Amy's heart bound
in ecstacy; "it would seem worse than the reality now, to say that even
my finger ached. Years of health seem to have been granted me in the
last hour."

"So you say to-night," replied her husband; "but you must look very
different before I shall be quite happy."

"We must not doubt," said Mrs Herbert, gravely, "though I am the last
person to find fault with another on that account: I have had dreadful
forebodings lately; and Amy, I suspect, can tell you of some also, for
my fears were beginning to infect her."

Colonel Herbert drew his child fondly towards him. "She shall tell me
everything to-morrow," he said; "to-night she is over tired."

Amy wished to speak; but her first delight had been succeeded by
something of shyness and restraint: for her father was in many respects
so different from what she had anticipated, that a feeling of awe
was partly mingled with the intense interest excited by every word he
uttered. Amy had seen but few gentlemen in her lifetime, and Colonel
Herbert was unlike them all. She had been accustomed to his picture,
until the alterations occasioned by years and a foreign climate were
quite forgotten; and the many tales she had heard of his kindness
and benevolence had made her unprepared for the firmness and decision
evinced in all he said. Even the tone of his voice so little resembled
any to which she had been in the habit of listening, that it prevented
her from being at ease with him, although this very difference served to
increase her pleasure; for to be loved and caressed by one whose every
word showed that he had been used only to command and be obeyed, was
a happiness she had before been incapable of imagining. To sit by his
side, and look at and hearken to him, was all that she now desired; and
whatever fatigue her countenance might express, she was herself too much
absorbed to think about it; and it was not till some time had passed,
and she found herself alone, after having received her father's blessing
(it seemed to her for the first time), that she began to feel the
effects of the excitement undergone in the space of a few hours. Wearied
and exhausted, she seated herself by the fire, and, unwilling to wait
for the assistance of her mother's maid, was endeavouring to summon
resolution to exert herself, when a gentle tap was heard at the door,
and immediately afterwards Dora entered.

"I could not go to bed, Amy," she said, "without coming to you for one
minute. I wish I could tell you, but you know I can't say things, only I
am sure no one in the house can be as glad as I am, except yourselves."

"Dear Dora," exclaimed Amy, "I thought of you when I began to think of
anything; and there is so much I should like to say to you; but I must
wait till to-morrow, for I am so tired with being happy."

"That was another reason for my coming," replied Dora; "I knew you would
want some one to help you, and that my aunt's maid would be engaged with
her, and perhaps you would not like to ring for Morris; so I thought
perhaps you would let me be with you instead."

"Oh no," replied Amy; "it was very kind in you to remember me, but you
cannot be any better than I am; you have been dancing all the evening."

"But I have set my heart upon it; you would not refuse if you could tell
the pleasure it would be; I don't mean to talk at all, but just to
do everything for you. Perhaps, though, you would rather I came again
presently."

Amy hesitated, but Dora insisted on having her own way; and only left
her on condition of being allowed to return in a quarter of an hour.
When her cousin was gone, Amy tried to collect her thoughts, and
oblige herself to attend to her evening prayers; but at first it seemed
impossible. She longed to be grateful, but fatigue overpowered every
feeling; and when, closing her eyes, and hiding her face in her hands,
she endeavoured to shut out everything that might divert her attention,
the vivid remembrance of all that had passed flashed upon her mind, and
effectually distracted her thoughts. Again and again she repeated the
form of words, but it was merely a form; she could attach no meaning to
it; and once she was tempted to yield entirely, and content herself with
the notion that it was better not to pray at all, than to do so when it
appeared only a mockery. The next instant, however, she was shocked
at her own idea, and, after asking for forgiveness and assistance, at
length in some measure succeeded in fixing her attention. The effort was
great, and Amy's conscience reproached her, when she had ended, for the
manner in which this most solemn of all duties had been performed;
but her endeavours had been sincere, and she knew well that even her
imperfect prayers would be accepted, when they were offered in the name
of her Saviour. She was now also better able to feel grateful to God
for His great mercies; for the name of her father had never sounded so
precious as when she had asked for God's blessing upon him, and had been
able to bring his countenance before her, such as she had that evening
seen it. Dora's knock was heard at the door before Amy had time to read
her accustomed psalm; and, on her entrance, she was looking so tired,
that Amy was vexed at having allowed her to return. She declared,
however, that it was only her cousin's fancy, and immediately began
assisting her with as much energy as if she had borne no previous
exertion. Amy was not very much inclined for conversation; but she
was anxious to learn a few particulars of her father's arrival, and
especially, whether the sound in her dream had been real or imaginary.
"It was so startling," she said, "I should like to be quite certain that
it was real."

"It must have been just when your papa came to the door," replied Dora.
"We heard the carriage drive up, and thought it was one that had been
just ordered, so no one took any notice. I remember I was talking
to Mary Warner, and trying to pacify her, for she has offended Miss
Cunningham; and suddenly there was a great exclamation; and when I
turned round, my uncle was standing in the door-way, and papa was
looking so happy. I knew in an instant who it must be. There was
something said about my aunt, and that she would hear; and then every
one inquired for you, and you could not be found, and Emily Morton said
you were with her."

"Then you did not miss me," observed Amy, rather in a tone of
disappointment.

"I did," replied Dora; "but Emily told me you were unhappy about my
aunt."

"Yes," said Amy, shrinking from the remembrance of what she had
suffered, "I hope I shall never feel again as I did then."

"Do not think about it now," said Dora, kindly: "let me draw the
curtains, and make you quite comfortable, and then you shall go to
sleep."

"Would you do me one more favour?" asked Amy. "Mamma always likes me
to read something in the Bible at night, only a short psalm, or a few
verses that she has chosen for me; but my eyes are so dizzy now, I can
hardly see."

"And you would like me to read to you?" continued Dora, taking the Bible
from the table.

"Just tell me about Miss Cunningham before you begin," said Amy; "but
no," she added, stopping herself, "I will hear it to-morrow. It will be
better than thinking about it just now."

"Oh! it is nothing at all," replied Dorn. "Lucy would play as usual, and
broke down, and when we were talking afterwards, Mary asked her if she
had not some notion of having lessons of Emily Morton, and said what an
advantage it would be, and this put her into a great rage, because she
declared it was laughing and sneering at her--not that it was at all,
for Mary Warner is the last person to sneer, and was quite vexed at
having given offence; but, Amy, why did you say it would be better to
hear it to-morrow?"

"Because you were just going to read the Bible," replied Amy, "and
I thought it might put things into my head, and prevent me from
attending."

"But you could have heard it afterwards."

"No," answered Amy, "I generally read the last thing, and then mamma
tells me to try and not attend to common things; she says our last
thoughts should be of God."

"We should think of Him always," said Dora.

"Yes," replied Amy; "but you know, Dora, sleep is like death, and
perhaps we may never wake again."

"That never entered my head before," said Dora, gravely. "I shall not go
to sleep so comfortably now as I used to do."

"Why not?" asked Amy.

"It is so awful. I should not care if I were you, Amy, and had never
done anything wrong; but I could not bear to die now."

"Oh Dora!" exclaimed Amy, "you know no one could bear to die, if they
thought only of what they had done wrong, and I am sure the idea would
make me miserable if I did not say my prayers every night; but when I
have done that, and remember what mamma has shown me in the Bible about
our Saviour, and that God will love us for His sake, though we are so
wicked, I am quite comfortable; and sometimes, after I have read my
psalm, I can go off to sleep so happily, with the thought that angels
are watching all round my bed."

"Yes," said Dora, earnestly; "if angels watch over any one, they must
over you, Amy."

"The Bible says they are sent to take care of us all," replied Amy.

"I should like to think so," said Dora; "but it is so strange."

"It must be true," answered Amy; "if it is in the Bible, and I like
to think of them so much. It seems as if one could never be alone;
and sometimes I fancy that they are quite near, amongst the trees and
flowers. Will you read the psalm to-night which says 'that God will give
His angels charge over us?' I don't quite know which it is, but I think
I could find it."

Dora read the psalm, but she did not make any more observations; and
having thought of every little trifle that could contribute to Amy's
comfort, she gave her one kiss of the truest affection, and left her to
the enjoyment of a calm and innocent repose. Her own thoughts, when she
retired to rest, were far from being happy: indeed, she seldom now had
any conversation with her cousin, without its being succeeded by a deep
consciousness of her own inferiority in those principles which she was
just beginning to consider of the utmost importance; and to this was now
added a feeling of great loneliness. Colonel Herbert's return would most
probably cause a considerable change in Amy's life. She would be far
less dependent upon Emmerton than formerly, and Dora found that her
cousin was gradually becoming so necessary to her comfort, that the
idea of any arrangement which might prevent her from being with them
constantly was excessively painful. Yet they might be separated at any
moment. Colonel Herbert might leave the cottage: he might choose that
Amy should travel, and then all sympathy and consolation would be taken
away; and while dwelling sadly upon these probabilities, the image of
Emily Morton came before her, and with it the feeling that once she
might have been her friend, but that no present attention could atone
for the neglect and scorn that had so long been shown her. Dora saw
that she had injured her as far as lay in her power, by destroying
her comfort for months, and it was vain to hope that now she would
be willing to forget it. Amy would have thought differently; but she
understood better than Dora what is meant by forgiving our brother
"until seventy times seven," and she knew also that there was no
Christian virtue, however difficult, which Emily Morton did not
endeavour to attain.




CHAPTER XXIV.


The sun was shining brightly into Amy's room when she awoke the next
morning--so brightly, that she started up in alarm at what she knew must
be the lateness of the hour; but the next moment brought the thought of
her father to her mind, and with it a feeling of entire happiness and
peace. Her mother's gentleness seemed frequently overpowered by her
aunt's sternness, but no one would dare to find fault with her in
Colonel Herbert's presence: and for the first time Amy felt sure that
she could be perfectly at her ease even if Mrs Harrington were there.
Yet, on remembering what had passed, and recalling her father's grave,
calm features, she was not entirely free from fear. His height,
his voice, his age, his manner, placed him in her imagination at an
immeasurable distance from her; she could not believe it possible that
he should be satisfied with her; he must expect to see some one taller,
and cleverer, and more accomplished: if she could but sing and play
like Miss Morton, and speak French and Italian like Dora, she should not
care; but as it was, she was convinced he must be disappointed; and
as these thoughts crossed her mind, Amy stopped in the middle of her
toilette, and began repeating French phrases, and reckoning how many
drawings she had to show, and playing over the most difficult passages
in her music with her fingers on the table. A knock at the door
interrupted her. It was Emily Morton, looking so happy, that Amy fancied
for the instant she must have some personal cause for joy. But it had
been long since Emily had known what it was to be light-hearted for
herself. Peaceful and contented she could always be; but when her
countenance was the most brightened by smiles, and her voice sounded
the most cheerfully, the happiness of others rather than her own was
invariably the cause. She had learned to "weep with those that weep,"
and now she was learning to "rejoice with those that rejoiced."

"You would have looked more frightened yesterday, Amy," she said, "if
I had told you breakfast was ready, and every one wondering at your
absence."

"Ah, yes," replied Amy; "but I cannot feel frightened at anything this
morning, excepting--I am afraid perhaps you will think it wrong--but
do you think papa will be pleased with me? I don't mean exactly with my
face, and my manner, because he will not care so much about that, as I
am his child; but will he think me very stupid, and dull, and different
from everybody else?"

"If he should feel as I do," said Emily, as she fastened Amy's dress,
and smoothed her dark ringlets, "he will love you so dearly, that he
will not be inclined to criticise anything; but we must not wait to
talk now--breakfast is really ready, and your uncle asked me to come for
you."

"My uncle!" said Amy; "but shall we not be in the school-room as usual?"

"No," replied Emily; "every one was so late this morning, that Mrs
Harrington thought it better not."

"And will all the company be in the breakfast-room, then?" said Amy, in
great alarm; "and am I the last?"

"Not quite," replied Emily; "Mrs Danvers is not come down yet; and there
is a special place left for you at the bottom of the table, between your
papa and your uncle."

"I do not think I can go," said Amy, stopping as she was about to leave
the room; "there will be so many--and it will be just like seeing papa
quite new--I can hardly recollect now what he was like last night."

"But he asked so often if your cousins had seen you, and was so anxious
about you," replied Emily, "he could scarcely attend to anything else;
and your mamma was obliged to beg him not to have you disturbed, or I am
sure he would have sent for you half an hour ago."

"If I thought he would not be disappointed, I should not care," said
Amy, as she moved slowly along the gallery; "but I know all my ideas
will go when he speaks to me, and then he will think me so dull, and be
so vexed."

"Will you, dearest, try and not think of yourself at all?" replied
Emily. "It is distrusting your papa's affection to have such fancies,
and it will do you harm in every way."

"I would if I could," answered Amy; "but I must wish to please him."

"I do not say there is any harm in it," replied Emily, "only it will
make you awkward and uncomfortable if you dwell upon it; whatever you
feel, however, it will last but a short time; you will be quite at home
with him in a few days."

Amy was very much inclined to pause when they reached the
breakfast-room, and continued talking, but Emily hastily opened the
door, and she was obliged to enter. The room was quite full, and she did
not at first see either her mamma or her cousins; even the persons she
knew the best seemed quite strangers to her; but Emily led her to the
bottom of the room, and Colonel Herbert came eagerly towards her; and as
she seated herself in the vacant chair by his side, looked at her with
an expression of such deep, heartfelt satisfaction and love, that she
would have been quite satisfied and happy, if bashfulness and humility
had not prevented her from understanding its meaning. At first, she was
very silent, feeling rather bewildered by the sound of so many voices,
and the attention which every one was inclined to bestow upon her,
for her father's sudden return had excited a general interest; but by
degrees she summoned courage to make a few voluntary observations; and
the eagerness with which he answered her so increased her confidence,
that before breakfast was ended, she had given him a full description of
her life at the cottage, and her studies and amusements. Colonel Herbert
listened with unwearied pleasure. In many a solitary hour he had solaced
himself by imagining what his child would be like, and now his fondest
expectations were realised. By the side of her cousin Margaret, indeed,
Amy might have been little regarded, at least by those who cared only
for personal beauty; but to this Colonel Herbert was indifferent. One
glance was sufficient to show that Amy was a lady in every word and
movement, and with this he was satisfied; and even had her eyes sparkled
less brightly, and her countenance been less interesting, he would not
have been disappointed; for in the expression of every feature, as
well as in every sentiment and feeling, he could read the gentleness,
meekness, and purity of the spirit within. Once only Amy paused in her
account, when her attention was caught by a sound which she had not
heard before for many months; it was her mother's laugh--so clear, and
sweet, and joyous, that it might almost have been the echo of her own;
and when she turned eagerly to look at her, and saw the change that even
one night had produced, the last remaining shadow which rested on her
mind passed away, and she felt that Dr Bailey's words must be true, and
that now there was little cause for fear.

"You will wish to go to the cottage, I suppose, by and by," said Mrs
Herbert, before they left the breakfast table, "and Amy can go with
you."

"There will be the carriage at your disposal," said Mr Harrington, "if
you are not afraid to venture out."

Mrs Herbert was very much inclined to take advantage of the offer, but
her husband interfered.

"I have a disappointment in store for you both," he said, "not a very
great one, though--so, my darling Amy, you need not look so blank; but
I must ride into the town to-day. I have a message from a very great
friend of mine, to his mother and sisters, and I promised, if possible,
to deliver it personally on my arrival in England; you will not ask me
to delay it, I am sure."

"Oh no, no!" exclaimed Mrs Herbert, recollecting her own feelings a
short time since, and the relief any intelligence would have afforded
her; "but you will pass the cottage--cannot you contrive to take us with
you so far?"

"Not you," replied Colonel Herbert; "it would be too great a risk in
this weather; for if we were once there together, we should spend hours
in wandering about and talking over old times, and I have learned Dr
Bailey's opinion by heart--he says there must be no excitement, and no
exposure to cold."

Mrs Herbert again urged her wishes, but her husband was inexorable. He
prized too dearly his newly-recovered treasure, he said, to allow any
risk to be run, but he should like, if possible, for Amy to be with him.

"I could walk, indeed, I could walk quite well, dear papa," said Amy; "I
have done it before; and it would seem such a short distance with you."

"There will be no occasion for anything of the kind," said Mr
Harrington; "you can easily go with your papa in the carriage, Amy, as
far as the cottage, and one of the grooms shall take a horse to meet him
there, and then he can go on to the town, and you can return here."

Amy thought the plan delightful, though she wished her mamma could go
too, but Colonel Herbert again expressed his fears; and it was agreed
that this day at least should be given to perfect rest and quietness.
The carriage was ordered almost immediately, and Amy ran up-stairs to
prepare, but on her way she was stopped by Mary Warner.

"I am so sorry you are going out this morning, for my own sake," she
said, "as we shall be gone probably before you return, and I have seen
nothing of you; and besides, I wished very much, if I could, to talk to
you about Miss Cunningham. Your cousin tells me that you know how angry
I made her last night."

"Yes," replied Amy, "I wish I could help you, but I am afraid it is
impossible, and papa will be waiting; can you not come to my room whilst
I am dressing?"

"If I may," said Mary, "I should be very glad, for I am not at all happy
about it."

"But, indeed," answered Amy, "you must not think I can do anything; you
know I am so much younger than Miss Cunningham, and she will never bear
my interfering in any way."

"I do not wish you to interfere," said Mary, "only to tell me whether
you think I was very wrong, and if I ought to make any more apologies."

Amy led the way to her room, and endeavoured to give Mary her full
attention, though her thoughts would frequently wander to the cottage,
and the drive with her papa, notwithstanding all her efforts to prevent
it.

"You know the beginning of the affair, I suppose," said Mary. "It was
merely an observation of mine about the advantage it would be to Miss
Cunningham to have music lessons. I know it was foolish in me to say
it, because it was just after she had broken down in a piece she was
playing; but I am in the habit of saying just what I think, so I often
get into scrapes. I cannot tell why she should have been so angry,
though; but she declared every one was trying to be impertinent to her,
and that it was not my place to say what would be an advantage to her,
that I was but a school-girl, and could not possibly know anything about
it; and then she went on muttering something to herself about London,
and that all the world would be mistaken; but I could not in the least
understand what she meant."

"And did you say you were sorry?" asked Amy.

"Yes; I begged her pardon immediately, but that did not satisfy her,
and I saw she wished me to retract, or at least to say something in her
praise; but that I could not do--I could not tell her anything that was
not true, for the world."

"No, of course not," said Amy; "but how can I help you?"

"I don't know," replied Mary, "unless you could make Miss Cunningham
less angry; she will scarcely speak to me now, and your cousin Margaret
has taken her part; and Hester Stanley declares I was very rude, and has
been quite lecturing me this morning, and Julia only laughs, and your
cousin Dora says it does not signify."

"I cannot think there is anything to be done," said Amy, "and I wish you
would ask some one who knows more about such things than I do."

"I have talked to them all, excepting you," replied Mary, "and I did not
come to you for advice exactly, because I do not really think it can be
helped; but I am very unhappy, and wanted some one to talk to. I wonder
if it was very wrong in me to say what I did: I did not mean any harm;
but I always think it right to speak what is strictly the truth. Should
you have done the same if you had been in my place?"

"I daresay I should," replied Amy; "but mamma tells me I ought to be
very careful always, and not to make hasty remarks, because I may vex
people very much without meaning it."

"That is what I do sometimes, I am afraid," said Mary; "and yet I only
mean to be sincere."

"Miss Morton is sincere," replied Amy, thoughtfully; "but I do not
think any one could be vexed with her. I should like to be able to say
straightforward things as she does."

"Miss Morton is so gentle," said Mary; "and once or twice I have noticed
her manner when she has differed from any one, and it appeared as if
she were so afraid of annoying them, I do not think any one could take
offence at her."

"Perhaps," said Amy, hesitatingly, "it is what every one ought to be,
and then----"

"I know what you mean," exclaimed Mary. "I know I am abrupt. Mamma is
often telling me of it, and I daresay I was wrong last night; but what
is to be done now?"

"There is papa calling me," said Amy, "I wish I could stay; but indeed I
must not keep him waiting."

Mary looked heartily vexed. "I do not think I shall go down-stairs
again," she said. "We are to set off very soon, and I cannot meet Miss
Cunningham."

"But she will not think about such a trifle still," said Amy.

"Yes, indeed, she will," replied Mary; "I cannot tell you how she looked
this morning at breakfast. I am sure that piece of music must be a
tender subject with her."

Colonel Herbert's voice was again heard calling for Amy, and she had no
time to attempt comforting poor Mary.

"I must not wait a moment," she said, as she wished her "good-bye,"
"but I daresay I shall see you at Emmerton again, some day or other;
and then, if Miss Cunningham is not here, we shall be able to enjoy
ourselves a great deal more."

Mary could hardly say with truth that she ever wished to come to
Emmerton again, she was feeling so annoyed with herself, and almost
every one about her; but she could and did express a most sincere hope
of meeting Amy at some future time, and they parted with mutual
feelings of kindness and interest. As they passed through the hall, Miss
Cunningham was at the drawing-room door. She did not notice Amy, though
she had not spoken to her before that morning, but her contracted brow
and curling lip portended no common storm. Amy was too happy to think
of her; she was standing by her father's side listening to his parting
words to Mrs Herbert, and caring only for the pleasure before her; and
when he stopped to give the necessary directions to the coachman, she
was still too much occupied to observe the tone in which Miss Cunningham
inquired, "whether anyone had seen Margaret lately, as she must speak to
her directly."

The carriage drove off, and the footman at the door was despatched in
search of Margaret, who soon made her appearance, with a face of eager
curiosity, which was quickly clouded when she saw the expression of her
friend's countenance.

"What do you want with me?" she asked; "I was very busy in the
schoolroom; I hope it is something of consequence."

"Of course it is," was the reply, "or I should not have sent for you.
But it will not do to talk about it here; you must come to my room."

"Tell me whom it concerns," said Margaret. "Is it anything about
London?"

But Miss Cunningham either did not hear or would not answer. She led
the way to her own apartment, and carefully bolting the door, exclaimed,
with a scornful laugh, "Well, Margaret, I wish you joy; it is all
settled, and you are going."

"Going! settled!"--repeated Margaret; "it cannot be true; no, I am sure
it is not; you would not look in that way, if it were."

"Yes, but I should, though," exclaimed Lucy, "for it is quite true you
are going; but you will not have me to go with you; that is all I wished
to say."

"Pray, pray, Lucy," said Margaret, "do not tease me in this way. How do
you know it is settled?"

"Because," replied Miss Cunningham, rising from the seat on which she
had thrown herself, and walking quickly about the room, "because papa,
and Mr Harrington, and Colonel Herbert have been talking of it. Papa
said he must make one more effort before we went home, and he mentioned
the subject directly after breakfast; and when Colonel Herbert heard it,
he said he should be obliged to be in London about Easter; and then Mr
Harrington turned completely round, and declared his being there would
make all the difference in the world, and that he should certainly
consent, and so they said it was settled; but they did not ask me," she
continued, more vehemently, "and they shall find that I can have a will
as well as themselves. I will never, no, never consent to be treated
again as I have been treated here. To be taught by that Miss
Morton--I would rather stay at home all the days of my life; and those
school-girls too--actually Miss Julia Stanley had the impertinence to
say, just now, that she should be glad to hear me play after I had had
lessons, and see if I were improved; not that there is any chance of our
meeting. London is a very different place from the country; and that she
will soon know."

"Oh!" said Margaret, soothingly, "she will never come in your way
there."

"But Miss Morton, that Miss Morton," exclaimed Lucy. "I am quite in
earnest, Margaret; you may talk for ever, you may go down upon your
knees to me, and I will never agree to go if she does."

"Dear Lucy," said Margaret, covering her with kisses, and speaking
in her most persuasive voice, "you know how much I love you, and how
miserable I shall be without you; you are only saying this in joke, I am
sure."

"You may be sure of anything you like, it does not signify to me;
nothing can make me change."

"But you will not care when those girls are gone away," said Margaret;
"you are merely vexed because they are so rude."

"Vexed!" repeated Miss Cunningham; "when did I say I was vexed? who
cares for school-girls? how can they know good music from bad?"

"No, to be sure not," said Margaret; "and Julia Stanley cannot tell a
note."

"I never knew that," exclaimed Lucy, rather pacified. "How foolish she
would have looked, if I had asked her to sit down and play it better."

"I wish you had done it, with all my heart," said Margaret; "but it is
not too late now: they are here still,--let us go into the schoolroom
and say something. I should enjoy making her ashamed of herself, and
we shall not have another opportunity; for, as you observe, there is no
chance of meeting her in London."

Margaret waited anxiously to hear what effect her words would have, and
to remark whether the mention of London would bring back the thought of
Emily Morton. But Miss Cunningham had now seized upon this new idea, and
forgot that her indignation had been excited by any one but Julia. "Are
they all there?" she said; "half the pleasure would be gone, if there
was no one by."

"They were all there when I came to you," replied Margaret; "but we must
make haste, for Dora was wishing to take them round to the farther side
of the lake this morning, because it is the only part of the grounds
they have not seen."

Miss Cunningham hardly waited to hear the end of the sentence; she
hastened down-stairs, and to her great delight found the whole party
lingering round the fire in the schoolroom, wishing to go out, yet
unwilling to brave the cold. If Margaret had been rather quicker in
perception, and not quite so anxious, she might have been amused at this
moment in watching her friend's manner. Evidently she had determined on
saying something very severe, which should put Julia completely to the
blush; but in her great eagerness and her extreme dulness, she failed
entirely, for she merely walked up to the fire-place, stationed herself
immediately in front of Julia, and in a sharp, cross tone, said, "You
found fault with my music just now; I should like to know if you can
play it better."

Julia stared, and answered, "Oh, dear no; who would attempt to vie with
you?"

"You are right, Margaret," exclaimed Miss Cunningham; "she cannot play a
note, Margaret told me so, just now," she added, turning to Julia, "and
so I was resolved I would ask you."

"You are quite welcome to ask anything you like," replied Julia, coolly.
"I am not in the least ashamed of not being able to play at all. Perhaps
I might be, if I pretended to know what I was ignorant of, and then
broke down before a large party."

Miss Cunningham's countenance expressed unutterable feelings of anger
and disgust; and Dora, really alarmed lest a quarrel should ensue,
quickly interposed, and, begging they would prepare for their walk
immediately, hastened Julia out of the room.

"It is your fault, it is all your fault, Margaret," exclaimed Lucy, when
they were again left together; "you are always getting me into scrapes;
and that girl, that odious girl, why did she ever come near the place?"

"Really, Lucy," began Margaret, "I do not see what reason you have to
blame me," and then, recollecting how important it was that her friend
should be soothed, she added more gently, "I could not have supposed any
one would behave so rudely as she has done."

"I shall go home," said Miss Cunningham; "I have had nothing but
vexation ever since I came here, and I will not bear it any longer."

"But Lord Rochford has promised to stay till after New Year's day,"
observed Margaret. "You know we cannot have any one else, because it was
poor Edward's birthday."

"Papa will do as I wish him," said Lucy; "if I want to go home he will
not prevent me."

"And he will do as you wish about London, you may be sure," continued
Margaret, who, in her extreme anxiety, could not avoid recurring to the
subject, even at the risk of again exciting Miss Cunningham's vehemence.

"I have told you a hundred and fifty times before," was the reply, "that
my lessons are quite different from everything else; you do not think I
have been so silly as not to try all I could about it long before this."

"But you will stay over New Year's day," said Margaret, coaxingly: "if
we try hard we may be able to manage something together."

The notion seemed rather plausible, and Miss Cunningham condescended
to say that she would see about it; perhaps she might, if she were not
plagued any more with the school-girls.

"They will be gone soon," said Margaret; "and if you would come with me
now, you might get quite out of their way, and not speak to them again."

"Where are you going, then?" asked Lucy.

"I wished very much to walk to our old steward's cottage. He has had a
pony training for me some time, just like Dora's. I want to see it, and
mamma always scolds us if we go out of the grounds alone; but she will
not mind if you are with me."

Miss Cunningham walked to the window to look at the weather, which
certainly, but for the cold, would have been very inviting, although the
melting of the ice and snow rendered the walks in some places dirty and
disagreeable.

"My pony is much more beautiful than Dora's," said Lucy, "and much
larger too. I wonder she likes riding such a little thing. Is yours the
same size, Margaret?"

"I do not know exactly; but do come and see it, it is not very far. I
don't think Dora will be able to get to the other side of the lake, as
she wished, and if so, we shall have the girls back again in a minute."

"I shall go away, then," said Lucy.

"Oh, do not do that," exclaimed Margaret. "You will be so dull, for I
cannot be with you, because they will all be setting off, and mamma will
find out if I am in the house, and make me stay with them. There is no
way of avoiding it, unless we go out."

"Is it far?" asked Lucy.

"Oh no, only through the plantations, and then across a field. I do not
think we have ever been there with you. The field next to the one we
shall go through is very steep indeed, and the river runs at the bottom
of it, and I daresay it might be muddy and dirty just by the banks, but
our path will not be at all so."

"Well," said Lucy, sulkily, "if we must go, we must; anything is better
than those girls."

Margaret thought the same; of all things she dreaded another quarrel,
and she hoped, by a little quiet flattery, to bring her friend, when
they were alone, into something like good-humour; and without waiting
for Lucy to change her mind, she hurried her up-stairs to prepare for
the walk.

Amy, in the meanwhile, was enjoying herself to the utmost. A very short
time had sufficed to remove almost all dread of her father, and only
enough remained to increase the interest of his conversation. At first
it was entirely about India and his travels; and Amy listened as she
would have done to a romance or a fairy tale, and thought her papa a
greater person than ever, as she discovered how much he knew, and the
wonders he had seen: and then again he recurred to his long silence, and
the uneasiness he knew it must have occasioned them, and spoke of the
eagerness with which he always inquired for letters, and the pleasure it
had been to hear from her of all she had been doing; "though you did not
tell me many of the things you mentioned this morning," he said,--"the
little things, I mean."

"I should write differently now, papa," replied Amy. "I did not quite
know what to say then, and I always fancied you were a great man, and
would not care for little trifles."

"But, Amy," said Colonel Herbert, "if persons are really great, they
can care for, and attend to everything. It is only those who think
themselves great, when they are not, who despise trifles."

"It is very nice," said Amy; "but I cannot think now that you really
like to hear about my donkey, and my flowers, and my lessons."

"I will tell you when I am tired of it all," replied her father; "but
now you must talk to me a little about Emmerton, and your cousins. Do
you like them very much, and is it very pleasant staying there?"

"I like Dora, papa," exclaimed Amy, "so much--so very much. She is so
kind, and so thoughtful; and yet"--she added, pausing--"I do not think
she is kind and thoughtful either, not to every one, at least."

Colonel Herbert smiled. "You seem to have made a new discovery," he
said. "Is Dora's character such a puzzle to every one?"

"I never thought about it before," replied Amy; "and now I do not think
I quite know what she is; but I love her very much, though she is not at
all like Miss Morton."

"Miss Morton is the governess, is she not?" said Colonel Herbert; "I
used to know her very well as a child."

"She is not exactly the governess," replied Amy; "but she teaches my
cousins some things, and she has taught me too. Emmerton would be so
different if she was not there."

"I thought," said Colonel Herbert, "that you were always delighted with
Emmerton before your uncle came."

"Ah! yes," answered Amy; "but that was before I knew any better; when
I only thought about all the old lords and ladies who they said used to
live there. There was nothing real then; but I liked to make them out
very good and beautiful--and sometimes I wished I had lived in those
days, because no one I could ever hear of was quite good, except mamma
and Mrs Walton; now, I never care about such things, for Miss Morton is
better, I think, than I ever imagined, and prettier too; don't you think
she is?"

"She has a very sweet face, certainly," replied Colonel Herbert; "but,
Amy, how good you ought to be after being so much with her."

Amy looked rather grave: "I have thought of that sometimes," she said;
"but I hope you will not be very much vexed with me, dear papa; indeed I
do mean to try so hard."

"You must not think I doubted it, my love," he replied; "but, you know,
we shall be obliged to answer for the use we have made of our friends,
just as much as for the use we have made of our money or talents. I do
not think, though, that Miss Morton has been thrown away upon you."

"It was mamma who made me see Miss Morton's goodness," replied Amy. "I
do not think I should have noticed it half as much if she had not
been so like her; and that was the first thing which made me love her.
Margaret and Dora did not appear to think anything about her for some
time."

"And do they now?" asked Colonel Herbert.

"I am not quite sure as to Margaret," replied Amy; "but I think Dora
does, though she will not acknowledge it; and, by and by, I dare say,
she will love her as I do, and then Miss Morton will be happier; for
it must be very dreadful, papa, to live all by one's self, without any
person to care for one."

"Who does live so, Amy? Not Miss Morton, I am sure, from your account of
her."

"Yes, but indeed she does live alone very much. Rose is a great deal too
young to be a companion to her."

"Does she say herself that she has no one to care for her?" said Colonel
Herbert, looking rather graver than usual.

Amy thought for an instant, and then answered, "I do not think she would
say so, because she told me the other night that wherever God was, was
our home; and she is so good, that I daresay loving Him does instead of
friends; but, papa, I am afraid I shall never feel like that."

"It is a hard lesson," replied Colonel Herbert, as he looked at his
child, and thought what his feelings would be if he were obliged to part
from her. "But here we are at the cottage, Amy," he added, after a few
moments' silence. "I must go over it quickly, for I have but little time
to spare."

Amy eagerly ran into the house, but her father followed more slowly.
Every tree and stone served to recall some vision of the past, some
walk, or book, or conversation, which at the time he had been hardly
conscious of enjoying, but upon which he now looked back with almost
melancholy regret. Amy soon noticed the change in his manner; and
leaving him to his own reflections, wandered about by herself, finding
sufficient occupation in repeating the instructions which Mrs Herbert
had sent to the servants, inquiring for the people in the village, whom
she had seldom before left for so long a time, and visiting her pet
rabbits and her donkey. It was a slight disappointment to see her father
so abstracted; but the feeling quickly passed away, when he made her go
with him into the drawing-room, and began pointing out a few alterations
which he hoped to make in the house, and talking of the new piano he
intended to procure for her when next he went to London; and then showed
her the books he wished her to read, promising that, if possible, some
portion of his time should be given every day solely to her, to perfect
her in the knowledge of history and languages, before he took her
abroad. Every word realised more fully the blessing of her father's
return; and though the time thus spent was but short, it was sufficient
to open many new sources of enjoyment; and when at length Colonel
Herbert placed her in the carriage by herself, she was so occupied with
all he had been saying, that she forgot to give directions for being
driven to the rectory, though at another time a visit there would have
been her greatest delight. The servants, however, had received previous
instructions, and Amy soon found herself in Mrs Walton's drawing-room,
recounting to her all the changes of sorrow and of joy which she had
experienced since last they met.




CHAPTER XXV.


Miss Cunningham's temper was not likely to be improved by the pleasures
of her wintry walk, and this Margaret quickly perceived, for it required
all her powers of flattery and persuasion to prevent her from turning
back at every step; and although perfectly sensible of the importance
of humouring and soothing her, it was impossible to avoid occasionally
showing a dislike to cross looks and harsh words. The walk through the
plantation was tolerably firm, for the heat of the sun had not entirely
penetrated it, but the open field was in many places very unpleasant,
and but for the thought of her pony, Margaret would on no account have
attempted to proceed. Miss Cunningham slowly followed her, sighing and
muttering, and at length, stopping at a gate leading into the adjoining
fields, she protested nothing should induce her to move one step
farther.

"It is but a very little way," said Margaret; "you can see the cottage
just among the trees; I daresay the lane will not be as bad as this."

"You can go by yourself, can't you?" replied Lucy; "there is no good in
both of us getting into a mess."

"But I wanted to know whether you thought the pony as pretty as Dora's.
I am not going to have it, if it is not."

"Then we must come another day," was the reply. "I could as soon wade
through a pond as this field."

"I do think," said Margaret, looking over the gate, "that it is much
drier in this other field, and there is a bridge down at the bottom over
the stream; I should not wonder if we could get to the cottage by going
over it."

As she spoke, Margaret was about to open the gate, when she heard some
one repeating her name, and turning round, saw Rose and Miss Morton, who
were hastening towards her from the bottom of the field.

"I have been trying," said Emily, as she came up, "to find my way to
Stephen's cottage, but the lane is in such a state, that it is almost
impassable--at least for Rose--so I must beg you to take care of her for
a few minutes, while I make another attempt. I shall be within sight,
and almost within hearing the whole way."

"It is very provoking," observed Margaret; "is there no mode of reaching
the cottage by the next field and the bridge? it looks a great deal
drier."

"No," replied Emily, "you would find a hedge in your way, unless you
went a considerable distance round; but can I say anything to Stephen
for you? I must see him to-day, for his daughter is ill; and there are
some directions for her medicine which no one can give but myself."

"You may tell him," said Margaret, "that I want very much to see the
pony; and that I shall not have it, unless it is quite as pretty as
Dora's."

"Shall I say that it is to be sent for?" asked Emily.

"You may if you will--that is, I must speak to papa about it first; but
I suppose there will be no objection to my having it to try."

Miss Morton secretly wished that Margaret would learn to be more
grateful and courteous in her expressions; and then charging Rose to
walk up and down the field in order to keep herself warm, and on no
account to give her sister any trouble, she walked towards the cottage.
She was hardly beyond hearing, when Miss Cunningham began complaining
of the trouble that had been caused, and wishing that they had not met;
declaring, at the same time, that she would not stay in such a bog for
any one; it would be much better in the other field, and she should go
there.

"Come, Rose," said Margaret, opening the gate, "you must go first. I
will lift you over the bad places, and then we can keep to the dry part
of the path."

"I was told to stay here," said Rose, "and, besides, I am never allowed
to walk in that field, it is so steep, and there is water at the
bottom."

"You must do as you are told by us now," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, "so
come directly."

Still Rose resisted. Emily would not like it, she said, and would not be
able to find her.

"It does not signify," observed Margaret, desirous from selfish motives
to please her friend in every fancy.

"She can stay here if she wishes it. It can make no difference which
side of the gate we are. If you are such a naughty child, Rose, you
must remain by yourself, but don't be frightened, we shall not be out of
sight."

Rose was half inclined to follow, but Miss Cunningham shut the gate, and
she was prevented. The path certainly was much drier and more agreeable;
and Margaret and Lucy paced up and down for several minutes, until,
catching sight of some animals in a field adjoining the stream, Margaret
declared they were horses, and she was sure her pony must be amongst
them, and calling to Rose to remain exactly where she was till they came
back, she hastened to satisfy her curiosity. Rose begged her not to go
out of sight; but Margaret did not think it worth while to attend; and
although the distance was not very great, the poor child immediately
began to fancy she was left, and stood looking anxiously through the
gate, and entreating Margaret to return, till she gradually worked
herself into a state of great distress, which was brought to its climax,
when, on turning round to see if Miss Morton were coming, she perceived
that a few cows had been driven into the field, and that one of them
was moving rather quickly in her direction. In an agony of alarm, Rose
attempted to open the gate, but it resisted all her endeavours; and
then, forgetting everything but her desire to escape from the cows, she
made a desperate effort, and succeeded in scrambling over it, and seeing
her sister standing by the bridge at the bottom of the field, ran at
full speed towards her. Margaret saw, and called loudly to her to be
careful, but the poor little girl's fright prevented her from attending,
while the swiftness with which she ran, and the steepness of the hill,
took from her the power of stopping, and in one moment, while yet
unconscious of her danger, her foot slipped; her head struck against the
projecting branch of a tree, and she fell with violence into the
water. Margaret's scream of horror was echoed by Miss Cunningham, who
immediately ran from the spot, calling loudly for assistance, while
Margaret, with greater presence of mind, caught hold of a broken bough
that lay upon the ground, and bent over the stream, in the hope of
reaching her sister's dress, and so being able to save her. But the
rapidity with which it flowed frustrated her hopes, and in another
minute all probability of rescuing the unfortunate child would have been
at an end, when the man whose cows had been the principal cause of the
accident came to her assistance, and by the aid of a longer stick, and
more powerful arm, succeeded in placing Rose once more in safety.

Margaret's first feeling was one of overpowering relief and gratitude;
but when she looked at her sister's face as she lay perfectly senseless
in the labourer's arms, her terror returned; and unable to decide
upon what was next to be done, she stood by her in silent despair,
unconscious of the approach of Miss Morton, who, alarmed by Miss
Cunningham's cries, as she was returning from the cottage, had quickly
guessed the cause, and was hurrying towards them, followed by another
man.

"To the Hall! carry her to the Hall!" were the first words she said;
and they were spoken so calmly, that but for the expression of her
countenance, no one could have guessed the extent of her feeling.

The man in an instant obeyed, and strode rapidly across the field, but
Emily's anxiety gave her for the time a strength far beyond her nature;
and she kept pace with him, and even occasionally outstripped him,
urging him at every instant to hasten, for that life and death depended
on his speed. Margaret and Miss Cunningham were left far behind, and as
they drew near to the house, almost unconsciously, Margaret lingered.
Neither she nor Lucy had spoken during their walk, and ample time had
been given to both for reflection. At first Margaret had felt stunned by
the alarm; but as she thought of meeting her mother, the horrible
idea crossed her mind, that she had not been entirely guiltless of the
accident.

"Oh Lucy!" she exclaimed, when they stopped at the Hall door, "why did
we leave her?"

"She will get well soon," said Miss Cunningham; but her manner was
subdued, and she spoke less confidently than usual.

Margaret did not wait to reply, but hurried to Miss Morton's room.
Rose, however, had not been carried there, and the house was in such
commotion, that it was some time before she could obtain any information
as to what had been done; but at last she was told that Mr Harrington
had ridden off himself for Dr Bailey, and that Mrs Harrington and Miss
Morton were together using every means for restoring the poor child
to life. Morris named the room to which Rose had been taken, but when
Margaret tried the door, it was bolted; and though there were voices
within, no attention was paid to her entreaties for admittance. As she
turned away in disappointed misery, Dora met her.

"Oh Margaret!" she exclaimed, "is it your doing?"

"No, no," replied Margaret; "why are you so cruel as to say it? Do you
know how she is?"

"Better," answered Dora, trying to command herself; "she has shown signs
of life, but they will not let you in."

"Who will not?" inquired Margaret.

"Mamma and Emily Morton; they are talking together, and they have
fastened the door. Hark! you can hear them now."

Mrs Harrington's voice sounded strangely in the chamber of anxiety and
fear. She was evidently in a state of the utmost excitement, and Emily's
gentle answers seemed hardly listened to for an instant. Dora and
Margaret gazed at each other in silent amazement; in a few minutes the
bolt was hastily and angrily withdrawn, and Emily Morton entered the
passage. Dora caught her dress, and was about to speak; but when she
looked in her face, she felt it was impossible. Such intense suffering
was expressed in every feature, in her firmly compressed lip, and the
ghastly paleness of her check, and the contraction of her forehead, that
Dora did not dare inquire the cause. Yet, even then, Emily had a thought
for others. "Rose is better," she said, and pointed to the open door,
and then, turning away, she passed in a moment from their sight.

"What can be the matter?" exclaimed Margaret.

"Mamma is angry that Rose was left, I suppose," replied Dora.

"She would have thought nothing about it, but for the accident," said
Margaret, with a painful consciousness of being infinitely more to blame
than Miss Morton.

"I don't know any of the particulars," observed Dora; "no one has had
any time to ask; but I wish you would tell me now."

Margaret was beginning her account, when the door again opened, and Mrs
Harrington seeing them in the passage, called Dora into the room, and
ordered Margaret to send Morris to her immediately.

Margaret delivered the message, and then went to the school-room, where
she found Miss Cunningham seated by the fire, with a book in her hand,
and not only composed, but cheerful.

"You are not unhappy now, Margaret, are you?" she said; "I dare say
little Rose will be quite well again tomorrow. Susan Reynolds told me
just now that she was a great deal better."

"Yes," replied Margaret; "she is better, certainly, she would not be
alive else; but it is nonsense to talk of happiness. What will mamma say
when she knows how it all occurred?"

"Who is to tell her?" said Lucy. "We need not."

"No," replied Margaret; "but I rather suspect mamma thinks it is owing
to some carelessness of Emily Morton's. She was talking to her very
angrily a little while ago, and when Emily came away she looked like a
frightened ghost."

"But it was careless in her. What business had she to trouble us with
the care of such a child? she might have known that it would be very
inconvenient.

"If mamma has a notion that it was her fault, she will send her away,"
said Margaret, while a feeling of satisfaction dawned upon her mind as
she thought of the London journey.

"Will she, indeed?" exclaimed Lucy; "then we shall enjoy ourselves after
all."

Margaret shrank from having her own idea put into words. "You must not
be too sure of that, Lucy," she replied: "I only said that Emily would
be sent away if mamma considered the accident her fault, but, in fact,
it was no one's fault; and this she will find when inquiries are made."

"Mrs Harrington is coming now," said Lucy: "I am sure that is her voice;
she is speaking to Dora."

Margaret trembled extremely. "I hope mamma is not going to ask about it,
Lucy."

"What are you afraid of?" replied Lucy: "we had nothing to do with it."

Margaret's conscience did not fully acquit her; but her uneasiness was
lessened when her mother entered, still talking to Dora. "I have ordered
the carriage, and she shall go," were her first words. "I shall never
bear the sight of her again, and she wishes it herself. She says Mrs
Walton will receive her."

"But was it really her fault, mamma?" asked Dora.

"Whose could it be?" replied Mrs Harrington. "She left her--left her in
that field, notwithstanding my strict charge to the contrary, for such
a child could never have opened the gate: and she must have known that
there was danger."

"But Margaret and Lucy were near," continued Dora.

"So she says," replied Mrs Harrington; "but they could not have been, or
they would have taken care of her."

"Where were you when poor little Rose fell in?" asked Dora, appealing to
her sister.

Margaret was about to reply, but a glance from Miss Cunningham stopped
her, and she suffered her to speak instead.

"We were standing near the bridge, looking for Margaret's pony; and when
we saw what had happened, we ran directly and tried to save her."

"I told you so, Dora," exclaimed Mrs Harrington, in extreme indignation.
"I knew she equivocated: she shall not remain in my house another hour."

Mrs Harrington rang the bell violently, and Dora felt almost too much
alarmed to speak; she did, however, suggest that Margaret and Miss
Cunningham should tell the whole story, as she felt certain there must
be some mistake. Again Margaret would have replied; but Miss Cunningham,
who was standing at her side, pressed her hand as a signal for silence,
and at that instant the servant entered.

"Let the pony-carriage be ordered directly," said Mrs Harrington: "I
wish it to be at the door in an hour's time. I will not hear another
word, Dora," she added: "the case is quite clear. Go immediately, and
let Miss Morton know when the carriage will be ready."

"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Dora, while tears rushed to her eyes--"if you
would send Morris."

"Dora, I will be obeyed instantly," said Mrs Harrington.

"But Amy is not come home yet, mamma," persisted Dora, seizing eagerly
upon any chance of a respite.

"Did you not hear me order the pony-carriage?" was the answer. "Of
course, I knew that your cousin was not returned."

Mrs Harrington left the room, and Dora was about reluctantly to follow,
when the servant came back to say that the carriage was just coming down
the avenue, and to inquire whether it would make any difference in the
order.

Dora for once in her life heartily wished that Amy had remained longer
away, for she feared that even less time might now be allowed Miss
Morton; and she fancied every delay might be of use. "I will ask mamma
myself," she said, unwilling that anything should be settled without her
knowledge. And after lingering a few minutes longer, she walked slowly
away; and Margaret and Miss Cunningham were again left alone.

"I hope you give me credit for my management, Margaret," said Lucy. "We
have had a happy escape."

"I don't know," replied Margaret; "it must all come out by and by."

"Why, I should like to know? Why should anything more be said if we keep
our own counsel?"

"But Emily Morton," replied Margaret, "she will never allow herself to
be sent away without making some defence."

"If she does," answered Lucy, "what will it signify? You may see your
mamma does not believe her."

"But if mamma should ask us any more questions, we could not tell a
story about it, you know."

"Did I tell one just now?" asked Miss Cunningham. "Was not every word
exactly the truth?"

"Yes," said Margaret; "but I think Dora suspects something."

"Never mind Dora," replied Lucy; "she cannot know what we do not choose
to tell. It is quite silly of you, Margaret, to be so fidgety; this
is just all that we wanted; and if we only take care, we shall go to
London, and enjoy ourselves to our hearts' content. You would have been
delighted at the idea yesterday; and now that everything has fallen out
just as we wished, you look grave."

"It is not just as I wished, though," repeated Margaret, rather angrily;
"it is not at all pleasant to have poor little Rose so ill."

"Certainly that is disagreeable," said Lucy; "but it is a mere trifle;
she will be quite well to-morrow; besides, what would you do? You would
not dare make a great fuss, and complain of yourself to your mamma."

"No, indeed," exclaimed Margaret; "I would suffer anything first. I
should say nothing about it, if Emily Morton were not going."

"But that is the very point," urged Miss Cunningham. "It is the
principal reason we have for being silent. London--think of London,
Margaret;--and nothing would induce me to go if Miss Morton went too.
How much you would miss me if I were not there."

"To be sure," replied Margaret, after a short pause, "we have not said
anything that is not true; and Emily Morton is quite able to defend
herself; and if mamma will not believe her, it is not our fault."

"Certainly not; let us leave her to herself; and when she is once out of
the house everything will go right."

Margaret's conscience told her that all could not be right; that
there was such a thing as a practical falsehood; but she had so long
accustomed herself to trifling prevarications, that her self-reproach
was not very great. Probably she would not have felt any, if the
consequences of her deceit had been less important. Miss Cunningham
perceived that she had gained an advantage by the mention of London,
and, eagerly pursuing the subject, expatiated in glowing terms upon the
amusement they should find there, till Margaret forgot by what means the
pleasure was to be obtained; and by the time the conversation was over,
was so strengthened in her resolution, that Miss Cunningham's fears were
completely at rest.




CHAPTER XXVI.


To Dora's relief--her cousin's return made no difference in Mrs
Harrington's plan--there was still nearly an hour before her; and in
that time it was barely possible that her papa might return and insist
upon Emily's remaining at least another day. It seemed, indeed, the
height of cruelty to insist upon her going at such a time, for the state
in which poor little Rose continued excited the greatest alarm. She had
shown signs of consciousness, but the increasing fever and her continual
moanings added every moment to Mrs Harrington's anxiety. She walked from
room to room, and from window to window, listening for every sound;
now upon the point of setting off herself in search of Dr Bailey; then
seating herself by the side of her child's bed, with the determination
that nothing should induce her to quit it; and again, as she felt the
rapid pulse, and heard the sounds of suffering, starting up with the
intention of seeking for some one who might advise her at once what was
most necessary to be done. Dora, after remaining a short time, anxious
to delay giving the painful information to Emily, went to see her
cousin, in the hope of being the first to break to her, gradually, the
painful news; but Amy had not been two minutes in the house before she
had heard all, and rather more than all, for the news of Miss Morton's
intended departure had spread rapidly, and was of course coupled with
the accident.

Amy's first intelligence was, that Miss Morton had left Rose playing
by the side of the stream; that the child had fallen in, and would have
been lost but for Miss Cunningham's screams; that she was not expected
to live more than an hour; and that Miss Morton was to go away
immediately. The last words were so surprising, that Amy did not at
first entirely comprehend them; she was bewildered between her deep
sorrow for Rose and her dread of Miss Morton's departure; and stood for
a few moments in a state of the most painful indecision, unwilling
even to go to her mamma till she had learned the truth more certainly.
"Going," she repeated; "do you really mean that Miss Morton is going
now?"

"Yes, now, Miss," replied Morris, in a short, pert voice, and rejoicing
secretly in the thought of getting rid of any one that patronised Susan
Reynolds, who had lately become almost her rival. "The carriage is
coming round directly. I think Jolliffe is just gone up to the stable to
put the ponies in."

Amy did not wait to hear more. She flew to Emily's room; but just as she
reached it, Dora stopped her.

"Oh Amy!" she exclaimed, looking earnestly at her, "I see by your face
that you know everything. What is to be done for Emily?"

"I am sure it cannot be true," said Amy. "My aunt would never send her
away now."

"But it is quite true," replied Dora; "nothing will have any effect. I
have said all I could; and papa is not here."

"Where is she going?" said Amy. "I must run directly, and speak to
mamma; she will entreat for her; and my aunt will never be able to
refuse her. Has no one told mamma about it?"

Dora was about to reply, when Emily Morton opened the door, and in a
voice so totally changed that Amy would scarcely have recognised it,
asked them to come in.

The room presented a very different aspect from that which it usually
wore. The pictures from the walls were lying about on the table and in
the chairs; the floor was covered with trunks, band-boxes, and dresses;
and the books had been taken from the shelves, and were piled together
in regular order, preparatory to their being packed.

Amy did not speak; but Dora exclaimed instantly, "Oh Emily! why should
you do this? you cannot manage it yourself."

"I must be alone," replied Emily; and again her voice sounded so
strange, that Amy started. The gentle tone which had once sounded so
sweet to her ear was changed for one that was unnaturally deep and
hollow. There were no traces of agitation in her face--scarcely even in
her manner; but her lips were perfectly colourless, and her eyes were
dimmed and sunken.

"You must not,--oh! you must not go," exclaimed Amy, throwing herself
into her arms, and bursting into tears.

Emily pointed to the floor, and, with a ghastly smile, said, "Will you
help me? The carriage will be here."

Dora knelt down and tried to busy herself with the books, but she could
not conceal her emotion; and Emily Morton, as she witnessed for the
first time the sympathy of one who had hitherto so painfully neglected
her, pressed her lips firmly together, and walked quickly up and down
the room.

"I must go to mamma," exclaimed Amy; "she will see my aunt directly; and
I am sure she will be able to persuade her."

"No," said Emily, forcing herself to speak, as Amy was about to leave
the room; "you must not say anything to Mrs Herbert. I went to her
myself just now, before everything was settled, that she might not be
shocked suddenly; and even then, though I could speak comfortably to
her, I could see how much she suffered. She went immediately to Mrs
Harrington, and would have remained with her but for your aunt's
insisting to the contrary. I would not for the world that she should be
distressed again on my account."

"But she will be so very, very sorry," said Amy: "and I am sure my aunt
will listen to her."

"Indeed, it must not be," replied Emily. "Remember what Dr Bailey said;
and your mamma will not care so much when she knows where I am going. I
have written a note to Mrs Walton, to ask her to receive me for the
next few days. I could not go far away whilst----' The sentence remained
unfinished; but both Dora and Amy knew well what it meant.

"If you would leave these things," said Dora, "Amy and I could take care
of them for you."

"Perhaps it would be best," replied Emily, "I don't think I quite know
why they were taken down, for I could not pack them in so short a time."

"Do you know, then, about the carriage?" asked Dora.

"Yes," replied Emily; "Susan Reynolds told me, and offered to help me;
but I sent her away. I want nothing now, excepting to know----"

"How Rose is," continued Amy. "I will go directly, and ask."

Amy ran out of the room, and Dora followed her. "Stop one moment, Amy,"
she said. "I don't think Emily Morton knows about poor little Rose being
worse; when she left her, she thought she was better. It will half kill
her to go away when she hears it."

"Let us both go to my aunt, and beg," said Amy, "only for one day. If
she would just let her stay to-night, I could be happy."

"You don't know mamma," replied Dora; "she thinks Emily Morton has
equivocated."

"Oh!" exclaimed Amy, "no one could think so."

"Mamma believes it firmly; and so there would be no hoped persuading
her. But, Amy, I think there is something hidden--something which
Margaret and Lucy Cunningham know, only they will not tell. I must go
back to mamma. But, perhaps, if you were to talk to them, you might find
it out; only be quick."

"Will you let Miss Morton know about Rose, then? and I will try; but I
don't know what to say. I wish you could be with me."

"Indeed I must go," replied Dora; "but I will see poor little Rose
myself, and then return to Emily for a minute. You will find Margaret
and Lucy in the schoolroom."

"But what does my aunt say?" continued Amy. "Why does she not ask them
about it?"

"She would not listen to me just now," said Dora; "and when I left her
she was in such an agony about Rose that I did not dare speak to her;
indeed, Amy, you are the only person who can do anything."

Amy did not wait to be again entreated, but went instantly to the
schoolroom. Margaret and Lucy were still there, as Dora had told her;
and neither of them seemed at all pleased at her interruption.

"Have you seen Rose lately?" asked Amy, hardly knowing how to begin, and
yet extremely anxious that no time should be lost.

"No," replied Margaret. "Mamma has sent us word that it is better to
keep her quite quiet; and she begs that no one may go to her room except
Dora, unless she rings. Morris is there with her too, I believe."

"I should so like to see her," said Amy; "I am afraid she is very ill.
Do tell me, Margaret, how it was she fell in."

"She was running fast down the hill," replied Margaret, "and could not
stop herself. I shall never forget what I felt when I saw what was going
to happen."

"But how did you get into that field? Somebody said just now you were
going to Stephen's cottage; that is not the way to it."

"No," interrupted Miss Cunningham, who began to be uneasy at Amy's
questions; "we went down to the water to look at the ponies."

"And I suppose Miss Morton sent Rose to you, then," said Amy.

"No," replied Lucy. "Poor child! she came running to us of her own
accord."

"I do so wonder at Miss Morton's leaving her," observed Amy; "she is so
particular about her in general."

Miss Cunningham made no reply, and Amy felt quite disheartened. In a
few moments, however, she began again-- "I cannot understand it at all,
Margaret. What made Miss Morton and Rose go into that field?"

"You are very stupid this morning, I think," exclaimed Lucy. "How can
we know what reasons Miss Morton has for doing strange things? And why
should you ask so many questions?"

"Because," replied Amy, summoning up all her courage, "I cannot think
that Miss Morton really did leave Rose all by herself in that dangerous
field."

"Then what do you think she did?" asked Lucy.

"I don't know; but it would have been much more like her to have left
Rose with you."

"Then you think," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, indignantly, "that Margaret
and I have been saying what is not true."

"I don't mean to make you angry," replied Amy, whose naturally timid
disposition was for the moment overawed; "but if there is any excuse to
be made, Margaret, it would be very, very kind in you to say something
to my aunt. I am sure you would, if you saw how miserable Miss Morton is
at the idea of going away."

"What do you wish me to do?" asked Margaret. "Mamma will not listen to
me."

"But she would listen to you," continued Amy, "if you had anything real
to tell her,--I mean, not merely an excuse."

"I cannot see," interrupted Miss Cunningham, "why you should interfere
and talk to us in this way; you would make out if you could that we had
been keeping back something. Miss Morton can tell all there is to be
told just as well as we can. Come, Margaret, do let us go up-stairs; I
am quite tired of sitting here in my walking things."

"No, no," exclaimed Amy, seizing her cousin by the dress; "pray,
Margaret, do not go yet."

"What good can I do you by staying?" said Margaret, whose resolution was
somewhat wavering.

"If you would only tell me," persisted Amy, "if there is anything that
will make my aunt pleased with Miss Morton, I should be so glad. I am
sure you never saw any one before look as wretched as she does now."

Margaret seemed inclined to remain; not that she had any intention of
confessing the whole truth, but she was hardly able to resist Amy's
earnest looks.

"Come, come, Margaret," said Lucy; "I cannot wait any longer. If you say
a word more," she added, in a whisper, "it will all come out."

Amy caught the last words, and eagerly repeated them aloud. "Then there
is something. Oh Margaret! you would not be so cruel as to hide it!"

"I think you are very unkind and unjust to suspect me of concealing
anything, Amy," replied Margaret, her pride and her fears being awakened
by the open accusation, "You may find out what you will, but you will
hear nothing from me; I am not going to stay here to be accused of
hiding things."

Margaret and Lucy had left the room before Amy could resolve on what was
next to be said; and when they were gone she felt for some moments
in despair of being able to do anything for Miss Morton. The time was
quickly passing away; she did not dare go to her aunt; and she did not
know what might be the consequence of applying to her mamma. Dora was
not to be seen; and there was but a very slight hope that either her
father or her uncle would return before Emily's departure; and yet she
was fully convinced there was some secret between Margaret and Lucy,
which, for private reasons, they did not choose to confess. At first
she felt inclined to give up all idea of discovering it, and go again
to Miss Morton's room; but the thought of what her distress would be on
learning that poor little Rose was getting worse made it seem cruel to
rest without another effort; and in the hope of possibly seeing Dora,
and obtaining some advice from her, she went up-stairs, and lingered
about in the gallery into which Rose's bedroom opened.

The window at the end fronted the terrace; and when Amy looked out,
she saw Lord Rochford and Mr Cunningham pacing up and down in earnest
conversation. At first she thought very little about them, but after
waiting in vain for Dora, the idea struck her, that if something were
said to Mr Cunningham he might be able to prevail on his sister to tell
the whole truth. With the idea, however, came also the doubt, whether it
would be right in her to mention the subject. She was but a child, and
he might naturally be very much annoyed at her expressing any suspicion
of his sister; and even if Lucy and Margaret had done wrong, it seemed
unkind to be the means of exposing them; perhaps, if she waited, her
uncle might return, and Dora might be able to speak to him;--at any
rate, it would appear presuming and impertinent; and as Miss Morton was
only going to Mrs Walton's, she could return again the next day if Mr
Harrington wished it. Of Mr Cunningham's kind feeling towards herself,
Amy had little doubt; he had shown it in the most marked way, especially
since he had overheard the conversation on the preceding evening; and
but for this it would hardly have been possible to think of taking so
great a liberty; but with the certainty that he would willingly assist
her, if it were in his power, she could not entirely banish from her
mind the thought of applying to him. Again and again she endeavoured to
decide whether it would be right, but still her mind continued in the
same painful state of indecision. The thought of Emily Morton made her
determine to go at once and beg him to interfere; and the remembrance
that it would appear unkind and unsuited to her age, made her shrink
from the idea, and resolve to wait patiently a short time longer in
the hope of seeing Dora. Very earnestly she longed to go at once to her
mamma; but it would vex Emily, and perhaps might make Mrs Herbert ill,
and Lucy and Margaret would consider her very ill-natured. This last
argument, however, did not seem a powerful one. If it were unkind to
them to mention the subject, it would be still more unkind to Emily
Morton to be silent: and again poor Amy began to doubt, and stood at
the window looking at Mr Cunningham, and wishing with all her heart that
some one would appear to tell her what she ought to do. Whilst still
hesitating, Susan Reynolds came into the gallery, followed by Morris,
the only one of the servants who had admission into the chamber of the
sick child. Amy was going to beg that her cousin Dora might be sent to
her, but Morris's movements were too quick; the bedroom door was
opened but for one instant; and when it closed, Amy was so vexed and
disappointed that her fortitude entirely gave way.

"Oh Miss Herbert!" exclaimed Susan, as she noticed her distress, "pray
don't cry so; Miss Rose may get better after all; though, to be sure,
Morris says she never saw a poor child so ill before in all her life."

"Is she so very much worse, then?" said Amy.

"Oh yes, Miss," replied Susan. "Morris says, if the doctor does not soon
come, she thinks it will be no good having sent for him. She is quieter
now; but a little while ago she was moaning, when I passed the door, so
that one might hear her all along the gallery. And, oh! Miss Herbert,
isn't it dreadful about Miss Morton's going away?--she who is so good
and kind to every one. And what shall I do without her?"

"I wonder whether Rose asks for her?" said Amy.

"She did at first, I believe, Miss," answered Susan; "but Morris says
she is all wild and wandering again now, and does not know any one."

"Oh! how I wish I knew what to do," exclaimed Amy, forgetting that Susan
was near.

"Miss Morton will never see Miss Rose again, I should think," said
Susan, "if she goes away now. Mrs Bridget and Morris, and all of them,
think she won't live out the night."

"And does Miss Morton know it?" inquired Amy.

"She does now, Miss," replied Susan. "She asked me herself, and I was
obliged to tell. And it was miserable to see how she looked; I thought
she would have gone off quite."

Amy made no reply, but turned to the window to see if Mr Cunningham were
still below. While Susan was speaking she had made up her mind as
to what was to be done. Emily's wretchedness overcame every other
consideration; and without further delay she hastened to the terrace. Mr
Cunningham paused in his conversation directly he saw her; and when
she came up, breathless and silent from fear and agitation, he inquired
eagerly for Rose.

"May I speak to you?" replied Amy, unheeding his question. "Pray don't
be angry with me."

"What! secrets!" exclaimed Lord Rochford; "then I suppose I had better
go; but you must tell me first how it is all going on with the poor
little darling."

"She is very ill indeed," answered Amy; "and my aunt is very much
frightened about her."

"It is a bad business," said Lord Rochford. "I wonder Mr Harrington ever
trusted such a young creature as Miss Morton."

"Oh! indeed," answered Amy; "Miss Morton did not leave her--at least I
don't think she did. It was that I wanted to speak about," she added,
hardly daring to look in Mr Cunningham's face.

Lord Rochford walked away; and Mr Cunningham, in the kindest manner,
begged her not to be frightened, but to tell him at once if he could be
of any use. "We are old friends now," he said, with a smile; "and if you
take my part, I must take yours in return."

"Miss Morton is going away, said Amy, feeling that her courage would
entirely fail her, if she did not enter upon the subject at once.

"Not now," exclaimed Mr Cunningham, in surprise; "not while little Rose
is so ill."

"Yes," replied Amy; "the carriage has been ordered, and she is to go
this afternoon. My aunt believes," she continued, speaking very quickly,
"that Miss Morton has not told all the truth about having left Rose in
the field alone; and so she says she must go directly. But Margaret and
Miss Cunningham were there too, and I think----"

"What do you think?" said Mr Cunningham. "Had they anything to do with
it?"

"I don't know," replied Amy; "but when I spoke to them just now, they
did not seem quite to like telling me everything; and I thought that
perhaps if you were to ask Miss Cunningham, she would not mind talking
to you, and then you might be able to find out something which might
prevent my aunt from being so displeased, and she might allow Miss
Morton to stay till Rose gets better."

"I am not sure that I entirely understand what you mean," said Mr
Cunningham. "Let me hear again what you wish me to do."

"If you would go to Miss Cunningham," repeated Amy, "and ask her to tell
you the whole story, perhaps you would find out that Miss Morton did not
leave Rose quite alone, as my aunt thinks she did, Margaret says they
were a great way from her when she fell in; but then they might have
been near her before."

"And will they not talk plainly?" said Mr Cunningham, looking very much
annoyed.

"They would only say a little," answered Amy; "and then they went away.
And I do not think they liked me to ask them any questions."

Mr Cunningham was fully aware of Amy's meaning, though she had
endeavoured to express it as gently as possible. He had long and
anxiously watched his sister's disposition, and had noticed too often
the deceit which she did not hesitate to practise when it suited her
purpose, for him to be surprised on the present occasion. If she had had
any share in the accident, she would certainly be desirous of concealing
it: yet the thought was extremely painful; and his countenance, as he
walked with hasty steps towards the door, made Amy fear that she had
offended him deeply. "I am afraid," she said, "that I have done wrong;
but I was very unhappy, and the hour is nearly up, and then Miss Morton
will go, and perhaps she will never see little Rose again."

"You have been right--quite right," replied Mr Cunningham. "But I must
see Lucy directly: where shall I find her?"

"She is in her bedroom, I believe," said Amy. "She will think me very
unkind."

"You need not be afraid," he answered. "No one shall think anything of
you but what is right and good. You must not let Miss Morton go till you
have seen me again."

The words were quite a reprieve to poor Amy, though she knew how great
an offence it would be to keep the carriage waiting; for Mr Cunningham
had been so kind to herself, that even if her suspicions were unfounded,
and Rose had really been left carelessly, he might perhaps speak to Mrs
Harrington, and prevail on her to change her determination. With this
idea she was going immediately to Miss Morton to give her the hope of
remaining, when Dora stopped her. "Well, Amy," she exclaimed, "what have
you done?"


"Nothing," replied Amy; "at least, nothing with Margaret: but I
have done something which I hope will be of use; I have spoken to Mr
Cunningham."

Dora started. "Oh Amy! how could you be so bold? If I had been ever so
great a favourite, I never could have done such a thing as that."

"I could do anything for Miss Morton," replied Amy. "But, Dora, do tell
me how Rose is."

"Very much the same. Mamma is becoming dreadfully anxious; she can think
of nothing else: if she could, I would have made one more effort for
poor Emily. I wished we had asked her just now, when we were with her,
to tell us everything just as she told mamma, for I am sure mamma did
not half understand it. I did not think of it at the time, for it all
seemed to have happened so suddenly, and everything was so confused."

"Supposing we were to go now," said Amy: "I am sure she must wonder what
has become of us."

"I am afraid I cannot," replied Dora; "for mamma begged me to come back
again directly. I was only allowed to leave her because she wished so
much to know if there were any signs of papa or Dr Bailey coming down
the road. I wish I could hear all you said to Mr Cunningham. But we must
not stop now: you had better go to Emily."

"I will beg her to repeat the story, if you think it would be any good,"
said Amy.

"I am afraid that nothing would make mamma listen to anything from us
now," replied Dora: "we must trust to Mr Cunningham. Lucy would hardly
dare be deceitful with him; and I am sure Margaret would not."

"I would give anything to know what he has been saying since we have
been here," observed Amy.

"You will know in a few minutes, if it is anything good," said Dora.
"But I wish you would go now, and give poor Emily a little hope: and you
may tell her that Rose has not been worse within the last quarter of
an hour." And as she said this, Dora walked away, and Amy went to Miss
Morton's room.




CHAPTER XXVII.


Mr Cunningham did not find his sister in her room; she had gone
down-stairs again with Margaret, who could not endure to remain long
stationary in one place, while there was so much cause for anxiety about
her little sister. She fancied that it would be easier to learn what was
going on by remaining in the schoolroom; and though fully resolved to
allow everything to take its course, and not to say anything in Miss
Morton's favour, she was still too uneasy to attend much to her friend's
entreaties, that she would not put herself in the way of being again
questioned by Amy or Dora.

Miss Cunningham was standing with her back to the door when her brother
came into the room, and was much startled when she turned round and
perceived him near her; for she saw immediately from his countenance,
that something disagreeable was coming.

"I have been looking for you, Lucy," he said, in a voice rendered even
more confused than usual by his eagerness, and the irritation of his
feelings. "I wanted to speak to you particularly."

"What about?" replied Lucy, with as indifferent a manner as she could
assume.

"You may easily guess what," he answered; "this sad accident--you were
near the spot; how did it happen?"

"I cannot tell you all," said Lucy. "We were standing near the bridge,
and just saw poor little Rose run from the top of the field, and fall
in; and then we went to help her."

"But it is impossible," observed Mr Cunningham, "that Miss Morton should
have left a child of that age quite alone. Are you sure she did not give
you any charge about taking care of her?"

"I suppose she thought," said Margaret, anxious to evade a reply, "that
as we were in sight it did not signify."

"But," continued Mr Cunningham, "if Miss Morton left Rose at the top of
the field, and you were near the bridge, she could not have considered
your being there as any security: in fact, I doubt if she could have
seen you; you must have been nearer at first."

"How you puzzle one, George!" exclaimed his sister. "How is it possible
to remember everything that happened, when we were all so frightened? I
am sure I have felt bewildered ever since."

"Very possibly," replied Mr Cunningham, coolly. "But you will have the
goodness not to be bewildered now: I must know the whole of this matter.
Miss Morton is going away at a moment when it must be most distressing
to her feelings, upon a charge of great neglect of duty. And I will find
out whether the charge be true or false."

Lucy looked very frightened; she knew her brother's determination of
character, and saw that there was no chance of escape, unless she chose
to tell an actual falsehood; and this, notwithstanding her propensity to
equivocation and deceit, she could not make up her mind to do. Margaret
endeavoured to steal away unobserved: but Mr Cunningham prevented her.
"You will excuse me; but this is a case in which I must be allowed to
have my own way. I must beg you to remain; you may perhaps be able to
assist Lucy's memory."

Margaret's colour went and came very quickly, her knees trembled, and
her hand shook: but she did not dare disobey; and seated herself again,
with her face turned from Mr Cunningham, and with the secret resolution
of not speaking, if there were any possibility of avoiding it.

"Now, Lucy," said Mr Cunningham, again appealing to his sister, "I shall
ask you one simple question, and I expect a decided answer. Did Miss
Morton leave you in charge of Rose?"

"Really," said Lucy, hesitatingly, "I can't--I don't--you are very cross
this afternoon, George, to come and tease us so, when you know how we
have been frightened, and how very unhappy Margaret is."

"No one can be more sorry for the cause of her unhappiness than I am,"
he replied; "and when my question is answered, I will on no account
tease either of you again. Perhaps you did not quite understand what I
said; I will repeat it. Did Miss Morton leave you in charge of Rose?"

"You are vexing Margaret, I can see," replied Lucy. "I never thought you
could be so unkind before. We came here to be quiet and alone."

"This is mere trifling, Lucy," said her brother. "You know full well
that it will not answer with me; nothing will shake my determination of
knowing the truth; and therefore the best thing you can do is, without
any further equivocation, to tell me plainly what I wish to know."

There was a pause when Mr Cunningham had spoken; neither Lucy nor
Margaret saw the least chance of evading the question, yet neither felt
inclined to answer it. Mr Cunningham placed himself in front of his
sister, looking at her calmly and sternly, and patiently waiting till
she chose to reply; whilst she endeavoured to keep her determination of
steadfastly gazing out of the window, and taking no notice of him. But
it would not do; she stood far too much in awe of him to resist long;
and at length, bursting into a fit of angry tears, she exclaimed, "I
wish Miss Morton, and Rose, and all the family, had stayed at Wayland
all their lives, instead of coming here to make me miserable."

"Then it is true," said Mr Cunningham. "You were left in charge of
the poor little girl, and you went away from her; and then, when
the accident occurred, you were too cowardly to take the blame upon
yourselves, but occasioned great unhappiness to an innocent person, by
allowing her to be accused unjustly. Yes, Lucy," he continued, observing
that his sister rose hastily from her seat, and was about to leave the
room, "you may well be anxious to hide yourself; but you will not be
allowed to go till you have made the only reparation in your power.
You will confess your fault to Mrs Harrington; I shall let her know
instantly the mistake under which she has been labouring."

"Pray, pray, don't leave me," cried Lucy, as Margaret tried to escape.
"Why am I to bear it all? you know it was quite as much your doing as
mine."

But Margaret did not choose to attend; she was willing to be Miss
Cunningham's friend when everything went smoothly, but she saw no reason
for putting herself in the way of her mother's anger unnecessarily.
And Mr Cunningham, having gained his point, hardly felt justified in
interfering any farther. Without again speaking to Lucy, he wrote a
note to Mrs Harrington, apologising for intruding upon her distress,
but begging her to allow him a few moments' conversation on a subject
of much consequence. And when the servant returned with the answer, he
merely said to his sister, "Mrs Harrington will be here directly;
you had better make up your mind to tell the truth in as few words as
possible. It will be out of your power to conceal anything, as Miss
Morton's own account will certainly be compared with yours."

Mrs Harrington's mind was now in a very different state from what it had
been when Lucy had last seen her. The moments spent by her little girl's
sick-bed had increased her anxiety, and subdued the irritation of her
temper. Her feeling against Miss Morton was deeper, but less vehement;
and occasionally, as she had listened to the moaning of the suffering
child, and heard her repeat Emily's name with a wandering entreaty that
she would come to her, her heart had relented, as she had felt inclined,
for the sake of poor little Rose, to allow Emily to continue at Emmerton
a few days longer. But on a second consideration the idea vanished; and
her only wish then was, never again to be compelled to see or speak to
a person whose neglect she believed had been the cause of so much
wretchedness. Still Mrs Harrington was outwardly much calmer; and her
harsh tones sounded as coldly as ever when she asked Mr Cunningham to
do her the favour of mentioning his wishes quickly, as she could not be
spared from her child's room.

"It is my sister's business rather than mine," he replied. "She has been
induced, from fear of your displeasure, to conceal her own share in this
most unfortunate accident; and she is now going to confess the truth, in
hopes that you will allow Miss Morton to remain."

"It was Margaret," exclaimed Miss Cunningham; "I never should have moved
from the gate but for her. I only went to the other side, at first,
because it was drier; and then it did not signify; but it was Margaret
who begged me to go down to the bridge, and look at the pony."

"And do you mean then," said Mrs Harrington, "that Miss Morton left Rose
with you, and that you went away from her?"

"We only went into the steep field because it was dry," answered Lucy;
"and Rose was quite in safety."

"I do not entirely understand you," said Mrs Harrington. "Perhaps you
will have the goodness to explain yourself more clearly."

Miss Cunningham complied with evident reluctance, yet she did not
venture to distort any of the facts, knowing that her brother would
easily discover the whole truth upon a reference to Miss Morton. She
only endeavoured to lay as much of the blame as possible upon Margaret,
and to make Mrs Harrington believe that she would have spoken before
if she had understood the cause of Miss Morton's sudden departure. The
excuse, however, was too weak to succeed; a bitter smile curled Mrs
Harrington's lip as she said, "You need not trouble yourself to give
your reasons for what you have done; your brother, I am sure, must be
as fully aware of them as I am. Margaret's conduct I shall inquire into
immediately. I am afraid," she added, turning to Mr Cunningham, "there
is a heavy punishment in store for her thoughtlessness and selfishness.
My poor little girl is very ill."

The real feeling which was expressed in these words, and in the tone
in which they were uttered, touched Mr Cunningham deeply; and his voice
faltered as he replied, "It would be a punishment felt by very many; but
we will hope and pray that it may please God to avert it."

"I will counter-order the carriage," said Mrs Harrington, recovering
herself, and ringing the bell; "and I will inform Miss Morton of the
change."

"Perhaps, at the same time," observed Mr Cunningham, "you would allow
me to order our own. My father was speaking to me, just now, of the wish
you had expressed this morning, that our visit should be prolonged;
and doubting if it would be advisable after what has now transpired. Of
course, we would on no account intrude upon you; my sister's presence, I
fear, will never again be anything but painful."

Mrs Harrington could not contradict his words, and felt at a loss for
a reply, when the entrance of the servant relieved her from the
awkwardness. The carriage, which had just come to the door, was
remanded; and a summons was sent for Miss Morton.

"You had better prepare for going immediately, Lucy," said her brother.
"And if you have anything farther to say to Mrs Harrington, any apology
to make for your conduct, or any message to leave for Miss Morton as a
proof that you are really sorry for the pain your deceit has occasioned
her, you had better speak at once."

Lucy, however, did not speak--at least she did not say what her brother
desired; but, muttering sulkily that it was very hard she should have
all the blame, and Margaret none, without venturing to look at Mrs
Harrington, left the room.

Mr Cunningham quickly followed, in no very enviable state of feeling.
He saw, from Mrs Harrington's manner, that she was seriously alarmed for
Rose; and his sister's indifference was startling to him. He could not
have supposed it possible that she would have been so insensible to the
probable consequence of her neglect; for, with a disposition peculiarly
free from selfishness himself, he did not understand how soon it blinds
us to the sufferings of others, and how quickly it buries, if not
entirely destroys, even in very early life, every better feeling of
human nature. Miss Cunningham was not entirely cold-hearted; it is a
rare thing, indeed, to find any one who is. But she was from nature and
education intensely selfish; and it was this which made her dwell only
upon the blame she had incurred herself, when others might have grieved
for the misery they had caused their friends.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


Mrs Harrington's message was delivered to Miss Morton at the moment when
her uneasiness was becoming extreme; and she was endeavouring to make
up her mind to go, without waiting for the effect of Mr Cunningham's
interview with his sister. The carriage had been announced, and Mr
Harrington's well-known dislike to its being kept waiting made her feel
it wrong to delay; though Amy, whose hopes of Mr Cunningham's success,
and dread lest Emily should never see Rose again, overcame every other
consideration, entreated her to wait, if it were only for five minutes,
in the certainty that they must soon hear something from him.

"It is only deferring the evil moment," said Emily. "I have been trying
to collect resolution to bear it, and I hope I can now. It might be
worse an hour hence. The last accounts were more comfortable; and I know
your mamma will manage that I should hear again to-night. I wish I could
see her; but it will be better not. You must say how I thought of her,
and of the kindness she has shown me."

"It cannot signify for once," observed Amy, "if the carriage is kept
a few minutes. I am almost sure Mr Cunningham will be able to do
something."

"It is not real kindness to tell me so," replied Emily; "I shall only
feel it the more difficult to do what is right. Indeed, I must go."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy, trying to stop her, as she moved towards the
door; and at that moment Susan's knock was heard. "It is all right now,"
said Amy, when the message was repeated; "my aunt never would have sent
for you if she had not changed her mind."

Emily thought the same, though she scarcely ventured to hope it;
and Amy's anxiety was nearly at an end, when Susan, who guessed her
feelings, told her that the carriage had been sent away. Miss Morton did
not hear her exclamation of pleasure, or she would perhaps have trembled
less on entering the school-room; but Mrs Harrington's countenance
very soon reassured her. She was evidently aware of having behaved with
impatience and injustice, and desirous of making amends, though her tone
and manner would have seemed painfully repelling in any other person.
Emily, however, thought of nothing but the purport of her words. They
were few and chilling; but she acknowledged that she had been wrong in
her opinion as to Miss Morton's neglect, and said she was sorry that
Margaret and Miss Cunningham had allowed her to remain so long in error.
Their conduct was highly culpable--in fact, quite unpardonable; and
Margaret should certainly be spoken to most seriously on the subject.
But at that moment it was impossible to think of anything but Rose;
and she should be obliged if Miss Morton would go with her to the
poor child's room, that they might see if it were possible to take any
measure for allaying the fever before Dr Bailey arrived.

Notwithstanding the set, formal style of this speech, it was received
by Emily with the most sincere gratitude, for she knew that it must have
been a great effort for a person of Mrs Harrington's proud temper; and,
considering only the intention, she followed her with a sensation of
indescribable relief, which, on any other occasion, would have appeared
quite incompatible with her great anxiety. Amy was waiting in the
passage, and delayed her for one instant to ask if all were right. The
question was scarcely needed, for Emily's change of countenance was a
sufficient index to her mind; and Amy, as she heard her whisper, "It is
your doing, and I shall never forget it," felt completely satisfied.

She was now at liberty to go to her mother, who, she feared, might be
astonished at her absence. But Mrs Herbert had not long known her return
from the cottage, and was only just beginning to wonder why she did not
come to her.

Amy was full of eagerness to tell all that had passed; but her mother's
first inquiry was for Rose.

"Your aunt particularly begged me to leave her," she said; "and I found
that whilst Miss Morton was there I could not be of any use. But I
really cannot remain here. I can see none of the servants; and I do not
like constantly to ring, because of giving them additional trouble when
there must be so much to be attended to."

"I don't think they are engaged particularly now, mamma," replied Amy.
"Poor little Rose is quieter, and my aunt does not know what more to
do."

"Perhaps, then," said Mrs Herbert, "she would not object to my being
with her. I should have no occasion to exert myself much, and I might be
some comfort to Miss Morton at least."

"A little while since," said Amy, "I am sure Miss Morton would have been
more glad to see you, mamma, than any one else in the world--she was so
very miserable; but she would not let me tell you, because she said it
would worry you and make you ill."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs Herbert; "has anything been going on in
which I could have been of use?"

Amy soon related the whole affair, and concluded by anxiously asking
whether her mamma thought she had done wrong in applying to Mr
Cunningham.

"No," said Mrs Herbert; "I think, considering all the circumstances, you
were quite right. It would have been a cruel thing for Miss Morton to
have been sent away now. But have you seen Mr Cunningham since? and do
you know whether he is going?"

"I rather think he is," replied Amy, "for I heard one of the servants
saying something about Lord Rochford's carriage, as I crossed the hall;
and I hope so, very much, for I should not know what to say if I were
to see him again. I could not thank him for having found out that his
sister had done wrong; and yet it was very kind of him. But, mamma, do
you really think poor little Rose is so ill?"

"I am very much alarmed for her, my dear, she is so young to receive
such a shock; and I have often thought her delicate, myself, though no
one agreed with me."

"What will Miss Morton do?" said Amy.

"She will feel it very bitterly," replied Mrs Herbert. "Rose was her
chief earthly comfort; but she will not murmur."

"And all her long life to come," said Amy, "there will be nothing to
look to--nothing that she will care for."

"Yes," replied Mrs Herbert, "there will be things to care for--and there
must be, while she has duties to perform; and it is distrusting the love
and providence of God to think that He will not give her comfort and
peace again. If her mind were different, it might be feared that she
required years of suffering to perfect her character; but as it is, we
may hope and believe that she will never be entirely destitute even of
earthly happiness."

"I cannot bear to think of her." exclaimed Amy, while the tears rushed
to her eyes. "It seems so hard--so very hard, that she should suffer.
And Rose, too,--Oh mamma! she is so young to die."

"And therefore, my dear, it is the greater mercy that she should be
taken from a sinful world. Do you not remember that beautiful verse in
the Bible?--'The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart:
and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is
taken away from the evil to come.' If death is thus sent as a blessing
to the good, surely we may think that it is sent equally in love to the
innocent."

"Mamma," replied Amy, as she looked in her mother's face, "you say so;
but I am sure it makes you very unhappy."

"I cannot talk about it now," said Mrs Herbert; "it will only unfit me
for doing what I can to comfort your aunt and uncle, and Miss Morton.
When your papa returns, I shall certainly go and beg them to let me be
with them."

"I think," observed Amy, listening at the door, "I can hear a noise
down-stairs as if some one were just come."

"I wish it may be your uncle and Dr Bailey," said Mrs Herbert.

"No," replied Amy; "it is papa; I am sure it is his voice. He is talking
to Bridget; and she will keep him so long."

But Colonel Herbert was not a person to be detained by any one when he
did not choose it. He quickly learned the outline of what had happened,
and then hurried away to learn more of the details from his wife. Mrs
Herbert, however, would not remain long with him. She could not endure
the idea of being away from Rose, when every fresh account served only
to increase her alarm; and, leaving Amy to answer all his questions, she
went to Mrs Harrington with an earnest request to be allowed to stay in
the room, even if it were not in her power to be of use.

Mrs Harrington was by this time in a state of such nervousness and
excitement, that she scarcely comprehended what was said. She knew only
that Mr Harrington ought to have returned long before; and that his
continued delay might be fatal to the life of her child. Miss Morton did
her utmost to soothe her; but her own anxiety was very great. Rose still
continued in the same state, tossing from side to side, and occasionally
fixing her eyes upon Emily, as she bent over her, with the fixed,
unnatural gaze, which told, even more plainly than words, that reason
had fled.

Dora took the opportunity of her aunt's presence to leave the room. She
wished very much to see Margaret, and talk a little to Amy; and felt
oppressed and confused by the sight of an illness which painfully
recalled all she had suffered on her brother's account, only a few
months before. Any active exertion would have been easily borne; but to
sit by the side of a sick-bed, perfectly powerless, required a patient,
trusting spirit, which as yet Dora was far from possessing. And she
watched with astonishment the calm self-composure with which Emily
Morton did all that was necessary for Rose, and then turned to Mrs
Harrington to suggest a reason for Dr Bailey's delay, or give her some
hope that the symptoms were rather more favourable.

Colonel Herbert was listening to Amy with a deep yet painful interest
when Dora knocked at the door. She would have gone away, on seeing him;
but he would not allow it, and, placing an arm-chair by the fireside,
made her sit down, and begged her to stay with Amy, just as long as she
liked; for he was sure she must want some one to talk to when she was in
so much distress. Amy evidently did not quite like her papa to go away;
and Dora, vexed at having interrupted their conversation, entreated him
so earnestly to stay, that he could not refuse, though he determined not
to be a restraint upon them for more than a few minutes.

"Papa knows everything now," said Amy. "I had just finished telling him
when you came in."

"I met Lord Rochford's carriage on the road," observed Colonel Herbert;
"and they stopped, and told me what had happened. I am afraid, Dora,
your poor mamma must be in a dreadful state of suspense and alarm."

"I think Margaret is more unhappy than any one," said Dora. "She
was crying so bitterly when I went to her room just now; and she had
fastened her door, and would not let me in at first."

"She will never forgive me for having spoken to Mr Cunningham," said
Amy.

"Yes," replied Colonel Herbert; "she will forgive everything when she
can forgive herself."

"Now Lucy is gone," said Dora, "she is left quite alone; and she thinks
every one in the house is complaining of her, and that she is the cause
of all mamma's misery; and she does not dare go out of her room for fear
of meeting her."

"I wish she would let me go to her," said Amy; "I am sure she must
think I have been very unkind. But indeed I did not mean to make her so
wretched; I only thought of Miss Morton."

"She cares more about poor Rose now than anything else," replied Dora.
"She says it will make her miserable for life, if she does not get
better. And I know I should feel just the same. It would be so very
dreadful to think of having caused such an accident."

"But," said Colonel Herbert, "it certainly seems to me that Margaret's
deceit in Miss Morton's case was far worse than her having left Rose."

"Only the consequences may be so much worse," said Dora.

"The consequences of our actions are not in our own power, my dear
Dora," answered her uncle. "If we look to them, we may just as well say
that Miss Morton ought to be miserable, or the poor man who drove the
cows into the field, they all had a share in the accident."

"Certainly," said Dora, "when Margaret and I were talking together just
now, we traced it all back to Julia Stanley and Mary Warner. It was they
who made Lucy so angry. And if it had not been for that, Margaret says
she never should have asked her to go out; and then Emily Morton would
not have left poor little Rose with them, and the accident would not
have happened. How unhappy they would be if they knew all that had
occurred from their laughing at Lucy and saying foolish things."

"It is a great blessing," said Colonel Herbert, "that we are not in
general permitted to see the consequences of our actions; if we were,
we should be afraid either to move or speak; but I believe God sometimes
does show them to us, in order to make us fearful of doing the slightest
thing that is wrong. When we have once known all the evils that a hasty
word or selfish action may bring upon ourselves or upon others, we shall
learn how carefully we ought to walk through life, avoiding, as the
Bible says, even the appearance of evil."

"But, papa," said Amy, "if we do not think of the consequences of what
we do, how shall we ever be able to tell what is right?"

"Do you not see, my dear child," replied Colonel Herbert, "that we never
can tell the consequences of anything? we do not know what is going to
happen the next minute; and therefore we must have some other guide."

"It is very difficult sometimes to find out what is right," said Amy.

"The best way of discovering our duty, my dear," replied her father,
"is to have a sincere wish of doing it. People puzzle themselves because
they do not really make up their minds to fulfil their duty, whatever
may happen. They wish to escape if they can; and then they begin to
think of the consequences, and so they become bewildered, and at last
nearly lose their power of discerning right from wrong. You know, Amy,
what our Saviour calls 'an honest and true heart;' if we possess
that, we have a better guide for our conduct than any which the wisest
philosopher could give us."

"I think I wished to do what was right just now, papa," said Amy; "but
yet I could not make up my mind about it."

"I do not mean to say," answered Colonel Herbert, "that we shall always
be able to decide at once; but I am sure that, if we patiently wait and
pray to God to assist us, we shall find that something will happen, as
was the case with yourself when you could not resolve upon speaking to
Mr Cunningham, which will make it quite clear to us where our duty lies;
only, generally speaking, persons cannot endure suspense and doubt,
and so they act hastily, even with good intentions, and then blame
themselves when it is too late."

"What did happen just now?" asked Dora.

Amy hesitated for a reply; she could not repeat the fears that were
entertained for Rose; but her father came to her assistance, "One of the
servants had seen Miss Morton," he replied, "and told her that your
poor little sister was not so well; and the description of Miss Morton's
distress decided Amy upon applying to Mr Cunningham."

"I would give all the world," exclaimed Dora, "if Dr Bailey were come;
and it would ease Margaret's mind so much too."

"I wish it were possible to comfort her," observed Colonel Herbert; "but
I am afraid it would be out of the power of any one at present."

"Oh, if Rose should but get well!" exclaimed Dora, "we shall all be
happy again then."

"Yes," replied her uncle; "but do you not see, my dear Dora, that
nothing can really make any difference in Margaret's conduct?"

"Indeed, uncle," said Dora, "it would be impossible not to feel
differently."

"I will quite allow that," replied Colonel Herbert; "and I am not
wishing so much that Margaret should care less about Rose, as that she
should care more about Miss Morton. The one fault was far greater than
the other; and we must never forget that sorrow for the consequences
of our faults is not repentance; it will not keep us from sinning again
when the temptation offers. The only sorrow which can really be of
service to us is that which makes us shrink from an evil action when it
is done in secret, and apparently without having any effect upon others.
I mean," he added, seeing Dora look surprised, "that we must learn to
dread deceit, and selfishness, and vanity, for their own sake, because
they are hateful to God, not because they make us disliked by our
fellow-creatures."

Dora could not entirely see the distinction; she thought her uncle
harsh in his manner of speaking of Margaret; and Colonel Herbert soon
perceived by her silence that she did not enter into what he had been
saying; he did not, however, like to pursue the subject any further,
for it hardly seemed the moment to discuss questions of right and wrong,
when Dora's mind was in a state of so much anxiety; and he therefore
contented himself with begging her not to think that he could not feel
for Margaret most sincerely, because he wished that she could see her
actions in a just point of view. "I am a stranger to her as yet," he
said; "but I shall hope soon to show how real an interest I take in her,
and in all of you. Even if I were not so nearly connected, I could not
forget the kindness and affection you have shown to Amy, and that some
of her happiest moments have been spent with you."

Dora's heart was a little softened by this speech; neither could she
easily resist the polished dignity of Colonel Herbert's manner, which
gave a peculiar charm to every expression of feeling. She did not,
however, choose to acknowledge it, and exclaimed, when he left the room,
"Your papa is so different from every one else, Amy; he almost frightens
me. I wonder you could talk to him as you did this morning."

"I don't feel comfortable always," said Amy; "especially just at first
when I begin; but afterwards I forget everything but the pleasure of
having him home again, and then I can get on quite well."

"I wish Julia Stanley had talked to him a little," observed Dora; "he
would have put her down delightfully."

"I wanted to ask you a few questions about her and the others," said
Amy; "but there has been no time; and no one has been able to think of
common things. Perhaps, though, you would rather not tell me about them
now."

"Yes, I would," replied Dora. "I think it does me good to forget for a
few minutes. I sat in that room just now, looking at poor little
Rose, and watching mamma's misery, till I felt as if I could not
breathe--there was such a weight upon me; and it will come back again
presently."

"Don't fancy that," replied Amy; "it may all be right by and by."

"I cannot think so," said Dora. "I have often had a fear about Rose,
though I hardly know why; but she was so beautiful and innocent, and
everyone loved her so--she seemed born for something better than living
amongst persons who are always doing wrong. Do you remember, Amy, the
day we went together to Stephen's cottage, when he talked so gravely,
and said that she had an angel's face, and that it was fitter for heaven
than for earth? It gave me a pang to hear him; and I have thought of it
so often this afternoon."

"I remember it quite well," said Amy; "and how grave you looked
afterwards. But, Dora, would it not make you very happy to know that you
never could do wrong any more?"

"Yes. And then Rose has never done any great harm as other people have,
who are older; and, besides, she cannot look forward to anything."

"That is what I feel sometimes," said Amy. "It seems as if there were so
many things to be seen in the world, and so much pleasure to come when
one is grown up. I can quite understand that old people do not care
about dying, or persons like Miss Morton, who have nothing to make them
happy; but I cannot feel like them."

"Poor Emily!" sighed Dora; "she will be more unhappy than any one."
And then, as if trying to shake off painful thoughts, she added, in a
different tone, "But, Amy, you must tell me at once what you wish to
know about Julia Stanley, or I shall have no time left. I promised
Margaret to go back to her for a few minutes."

"It was nothing particular," said Amy; "only I wanted to hear what
time they went away, and whether Mary Warner said anything more to Miss
Cunningham."

"Lucy and Margaret went out almost immediately after you were gone,"
replied Dora; "so they did not meet again; and I don't think it would
have been of any use if they had, for there was nothing really to be
said--Mary had done no harm; and I am sure Julia Stanley would have
rendered matters ten times worse if an apology had been made in her
presence. She tried to make Mary as angry and pert as herself, but it
would not do; and at last she quite laughed at her, and called her a
tame-spirited girl, who was not fit to go through the world; and then
Hester took Miss Cunningham's part, and said that they neither of them
knew how to behave, and she would appeal to me to support her; so you
may imagine my walk was not very agreeable; and I was quite glad when we
came back to find that the carriage had been ordered and they were to go
directly. They all left messages for you, Amy, excepting Mary, who told
me she had seen you. Julia was really kind, and begged me to say how
glad she was about your papa's coming home, and that she wanted to have
told you so herself; and Hester joined with her, but I don't think she
really cared much."

"And Mrs Danvers," said Amy; "when did she go?"

"Directly after breakfast; because she was afraid of the children being
out late. I wish, oh, how I wish she had stayed, for then Rose would not
have been taken for a walk. They had all left us before one o'clock; and
Mr Dornford prevailed on papa to let Frank return with him for a day or
two."

"I shall never think of any of them with much pleasure," said Amy;
"though I enjoyed some things when they were here very much. I wonder
whether they will ever stay with you again."

"I don't know," replied Dora. "Mary Warner may, perhaps, because her
home is not very far off; but Mr Stanley intends to live in London soon;
so that unless we meet there, I suppose there is not much chance of
their ever coming in our way again. But one thing more, Amy, I must tell
you: I saw Mr Cunningham and Lucy before they set off. Lucy was very
sulky, and would hardly speak; but Mr Cunningham was extremely kind; and
I could see how much he felt for us all. He begged particularly to be
remembered to you, and said he wished he could have said good-bye to
you."

"I think he is the kindest person I ever met with," replied Amy; "but
still I am very glad he went away. And if I had seen Miss Cunningham, I
cannot think what I should have done."

"Perhaps her brother will not speak of you," said Dora; "but as it is,
I don't think she is very fond of you. She looked more sulky than ever
when your name was mentioned. And now I think I have given you the
history of every one, so I had better go to poor Margaret."

"Margaret will not like to see me, I am sure," observed Amy. "But I wish
you could tell her how sorry I am,--I don't mean that you should give
her a message; but only if, in talking to her, you could make her think
me less unkind."

"She does not know that you had anything to do with the affair," replied
Dora.

"But I would much rather she should know," said Amy, looking vexed. "I
could never bear her to love me, and yet feel all the time that I had
been deceiving her."

"I will tell her, if you desire it: I did not like to do it before. But
if I were in your place I could not keep such a thing back."

"No," answered Amy; "I do not wish any one to love me when they do not
know I have done things to vex them: it would seem as if I were taking
what did not belong to me. But, Dora, perhaps you will say to Margaret,
now that I wished her to know it myself, and that I am very, very sorry
about it, and that I hope, with all my heart, she will forgive me."

"She would never be angry with you if she felt as I do," said Dora.

"Hark!" exclaimed Amy, interrupting her, "is not that the hall
door-bell?"

Dora ran into the gallery to listen, but came back with a disappointed
countenance. "It was not the bell," she said; "but I could see the groom
who went with papa riding down the avenue, what can have made him return
alone?"

Amy had scarcely time to answer before Dora was gone to make inquiries.
They were not satisfactorily answered. Mr Harrington had not found Dr
Bailey at home, but hearing that he was only absent on a visit to a
patient, about a mile from his own house, he thought it better to follow
him himself, and had sent the servant back with a little pencil note,
explaining the reason of the further delay. The information, however, in
some degree relieved Mrs Harrington's uneasiness, for a thousand vague
fears had arisen in her mind; and notwithstanding her alarm for her
child, she could now feel comparatively composed.

Rose also was again becoming more tranquil; and her mother began to
cheer herself with the hope that even before Dr Bailey's arrival, there
might be a considerable change for the better. But in this hope Emily
Morton did not participate. Though equally anxious, she watched every
symptom with far greater calmness; and, young as she was, had seen too
much of illness not to perceive that the change which appeared to be
taking place was likely to end fatally, unless Rose possessed a
strength of constitution sufficient to enable her to bear up against the
excessive weakness with which it was accompanied. The remedies that
had already been tried had in a measure allayed the fever; but the poor
little girl was evidently suffering from some internal injury; and her
low moanings were as distressing to Emily now as her vehemence had been
before.

The moments passed wearily by. Colonel Herbert and Amy walked up and
down the avenue, although the evening had closed in, listening for the
trampling of the horses' feet: Dora remained with her sister; and Mrs
Herbert sat in the chamber of the sick child, forgetful of herself, as
she tried to console those whose sorrow was greater than her own.
Emily Morton was the first in the house to catch the distant sound; and
immediately afterwards Amy's voice was heard at the door, whispering
that her uncle and Dr Bailey were just arrived. Emily left the room,
thinking that Mrs Harrington might prefer her being absent; and while
the physician was deciding upon a case on which it seemed that her
own life depended, she paced the gallery quickly with Amy at her
side, without uttering a single expression either of hope or fear, and
endeavouring to bring her mind into a state of perfect submission to
whatever it might be the will of God to appoint.

Much as Emily had loved Rose before, though she had been for months the
very sunshine of her existence--the one bright gem which alone gave
a charm to her daily life--she had never fully realised how much her
happiness depended upon her till that moment; and when at length the
door again opened, and Mr Harrington and the physician came into the
gallery, all power of utterance seemed denied her, and unconsciously she
caught Dr Bailey's arm, and looked in his face, with an expression of
such fearful anxiety, that, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering,
it for the moment almost overcame him. But even before he had spoken
Emily had learned the truth from Mr Harrington's countenance. She had
never seen the same look of anguish before but on one occasion, when he
stood by the death-bed of his eldest son. "I know it," she exclaimed,
with the same unnatural hollowness of voice which had startled Amy
before: "you need not tell me; I felt there was no hope."

"We will not say there is no hope," replied Dr Bailey, kindly, yet
gravely. "She is so young that her strength may rally again."

"It is better to know the worst at once," said Mr Harrington. "But can
you indeed do nothing?"

"I fear not," was the reply. "There is apparently some internal
mischief. But of course I will do everything that lies in my power; and
I shall hope to return here very early in the morning, when I shall be
better able to judge of the case from the effect of the medicines I have
ordered."

"Do you think she will know us again?" asked Emily, rousing herself from
the first stupor of grief.

"It is probable she may," replied Dr Bailey. "The fever will most
probably diminish; and the pain she is suffering may, I think, be
soothed by opiates."

"And is it quite impossible that you should remain with us to-night?"
inquired Mr Harrington. "I need not say that where the life of my child
is at stake no sacrifice would be too great."

"You must not talk of sacrifices," replied Dr Bailey. "No one could look
at that sweet child without feeling that to be the means of restoring
her would be more than a sufficient recompense for the greatest
exertions. If it were not that I have a still more urgent case requiring
my presence, nothing would induce me to go. But I have no immediate fear
for your poor little girl; there is not likely to be any great change
for several hours; and you must remember she may rally after all."

Whilst Dr Bailey was speaking, Amy had brought a chair for Miss Morton,
and stood by her side, earnestly desiring to comfort her, yet not daring
to do more than show it by her manner. It was a grief so deep that she
could not venture to speak of it; and her own tears fell fast, as she
remembered what Rose had been, only a few hours before, and thought of
the condition to which she was now reduced.

But a few more words passed between Mr Harrington and Dr Bailey; and
when they parted, there was a promise given, that, if possible, the
latter should return to Emmerton by day-break. Mr Harrington was rather
relieved by the idea, and hastened to his wife to give her the same
comfort; but he found her in a state which rendered her incapable of
receiving it. Her expectations had been so sanguine before Dr Bailey's
arrival, and she had hoped so much from the decrease of the fever, that
the disappointment was doubly felt, and she now required almost as much
attention as Rose. Cold as she generally appeared, her affection for her
children was very great; and Rose from her infancy had been her especial
delight; and now that she was called suddenly to part from her, at a
time when she was still suffering from the loss of her eldest boy, her
whole mind seemed to sink under the trial. Emily Morton's love, indeed,
was not less; but there was a principle to support her, of which Mrs
Harrington knew but little; for she felt only that Rose was dying, and
her thoughts could not dwell with comfort upon the world in which
she would live again. At this season of distress the blessing of Mrs
Herbert's presence was particularly felt. The sight of so much sorrow
made her insensible to all pain or fatigue; she seemed to possess a
power of thought and feeling for every one; and her natural energy
enabled her to decide at once upon what was best to be done.

Dr Bailey's orders for Rose were quickly attended to; Mrs Harrington was
conveyed to her own room almost insensible; and a few words of kindness
and sympathy were spoken to Emily, which gradually recalled the feeling
of resignation to which her mind had been so long tutored, and restored
her power of action. Mr Harrington went himself to inform Dora and
Margaret of Dr Bailey's opinion, and then stationed himself at the door
of the sick chamber, that he might be informed of every change that took
place; whilst Amy, after doing her utmost to assist Mrs Herbert, went
to her father, who was now left solitary and anxious in the room, which
only the evening before had been filled with company, and resounding
with music and merriment. The contrast was indeed strange; and Amy,
when thinking of it, could scarcely believe it possible that so much
had happened in so short a space of time. It was her first lesson in
the changes of life; and it spoke even more plainly than her mother's
warnings of the utter insufficiency of wealth to afford anything like
real happiness. At that hour she felt how little comfort her uncle could
derive from being possessed of the means of gratifying every passing
fancy. He would have sacrificed all, without a thought, to have restored
his child to health; but his riches and his luxuries were powerless;
and the one only consolation now remaining was that blessing of prayer,
which was equally the privilege of the poorest of his neighbours.




CHAPTER XXIX.


Margaret's feelings, upon being first told of Dr Bailey's opinion, were
bitter beyond expression. She accused herself of having been the cause
of all that had happened; and declared that unless Rose recovered she
should never again know a happy moment; and then, as the burst of sorrow
subsided, she endeavoured to find some excuse for her own conduct in
that of Miss Cunningham, appealing to Dora to determine whether, if
it had not been for her, she should have been induced to leave Rose by
herself. Dora tried to console her; but she could not help remembering
what Colonel Herbert had said; for she saw that Margaret had no idea
how faulty her conduct had been with regard to Miss Morton; so entirely,
indeed, had it passed from her mind, that even when told of what Amy had
thought it right to do, she took but little notice, merely saying that
she had always thought Amy loved to meddle with everything, and then
renewing her self-reproach and her complaints of Miss Cunningham. For
some time she could not be persuaded to leave her room; but, as the
hours wore away, she became more tranquil, and at last consented to go
to her little sister, though it was with a shrinking reluctance, which
proved how much she dreaded to look upon the change of which she had
been partly the cause. The effect, however, was at first less painful
than might have been expected. The medicines which had been administered
had in a great degree lulled the pain, and Rose was now lying in a
state of torpor. Margaret gazed on her for some moments in silence,
but without any great apparent distress, until Rose opened her eyes and
looked up in her face with perfect unconsciousness; and then her cheek
turned pale, and her lip quivered, and, unable to bear the sight, she
turned hastily away, and again shut herself up in her own room.

Several hours passed after Dr Bailey's departure, and Rose still
continued so quiet, that a faint hope was felt even by Emily Morton that
her strength of constitution would enable her to rally from the shock
she had received. Mrs Herbert also fancied that she perceived some signs
of returning intelligence, and went herself to Mr Harrington to cheer
him with the favourable account, and to ask whether he thought it would
be expedient to communicate it to Mrs Harrington; but the amendment was
so trifling, that he feared the consequences of a second disappointment.
She was therefore only told that Rose was more tranquil, and that
everything had been done which Dr Bailey advised; and Mrs Herbert
urged the necessity of her taking some rest, if she wished to be of any
service in attending upon her child on the following day. At first she
strenuously resisted, but her husband's entreaties at length prevailed;
and, after some consultation, it was decided that Morris and Emily
Morton should watch till the morning, and that Mrs Harrington should
have the earliest intelligence if any change took place for the worse.
Mr Harrington went to his room, but not to rest, still less to sleep.
There were none, indeed, in the house who could obtain more than a few
moments of forgetfulness. The slightest sound was listened for with
anxiety; but through the greater part of the night all remained still,
and nothing but the light which gleamed from the sick chamber would have
indicated that any thing unusual had occurred. During this time there
was no change to excite either hope or fear; and Emily, as she observed
the perfect repose in which Rose was lying, almost hoped that she slept.
The painful expression of a wandering mind had passed away, and but
for the irregular breathing and the altered complexion, she could have
imagined that her anxiety was a delusion. And yet the thought that Rose
might recover did not bring with it entire happiness. In those silent
hours of watching, Emily's mind had recovered its usual tone, and she
had forced herself to look with steadiness upon the loss she dreaded.
For herself, it would be the severing of her dearest earthly tie; but
for Rose, it would be an escape from all the dangers of the world to the
enjoyment of rest and peace for ever; and as she recurred to the bitter
trials of her own life, and the sins and infirmities with which it had
been crowded, she felt that to wish that one as yet so innocent should
be spared to struggle with the same temptations would be merely
a selfish regard to her own feelings, without any reference to
considerations of far higher importance.

What Rose might be in after-life no one could dare to say. When she grew
up Emily must leave Emmerton; and, though she could trust and hope that
God would guard her through the difficulties of life, she could not but
tremble for her. To lose her now, would be to feel that she was gone
to happiness; to lose her then, might be to dread lest she should have
forgotten the promise of her baptism, and departed from the path of
holiness in which she had so earnestly endeavoured to lead her. The very
possibility was fearful; and as it flashed upon her mind, Emily went
to the window to relieve herself from the oppressive gloom of a sick
chamber, by looking upon the heavenly beauty of a cloud-less night. All
was perfectly still; the long shadows of the trees were motionless upon
the lawn, and not even a leaf was stirred by the night breeze. The earth
seemed to be at rest; but Emily well knew that the peace of that hour
would quickly pass away, and that the morning might bring with it rain
and storms to deface all that now appeared so fair. It was not upon the
beauty of this world that her heart could dwell with comfort at such a
moment; but she could look upon the bright stars which glittered above
her head, and rejoice to think that there were homes where sorrow had
never entered; and then she prayed, not that Rose might be restored to
her, but that God would guard her whether in life or death, and grant to
herself a perfect submission to His will.

Emily was still standing at the window when a slight sound startled her.
She fancied that Rose had spoken; but Morris, who was at the further end
of the room, had not noticed it. Again, however, her name was repeated
distinctly; and when she went to the bed-side, she saw by the light
of the lamp, that Rose had opened her eyes, and was gazing around,
apparently bewildered with the new situation in which she found herself.
At the first instant, Emily's heart bounded with joy, but another glance
made it sink in despair. Rose had recovered her senses; but a change had
passed over her countenance, which told that her hours were numbered. It
was an expression that Emily had too often watched to be deceived; and
anxiously beckoning to Morris, she determined upon sending immediately
to Mr Harrington. Morris, however, was leaving the room, and did not
observe her; and afraid of startling Mrs Harrington by ringing the bell,
she thought it best to wait a few minutes for her return, and endeavour
in the meantime to soothe and tranquillise the suffering child. "I am
near you," she said, softly. "You know, my darling, that I never leave
you."

"I thought you were gone," said Rose. "Why do you let me stay here?"

"Because it is better for you to be here than in any other place. You
will not care if I am with you."

"It is all strange," said Rose. "When will you take me away?"

"If you are better, you may go by and by," answered Emily, hardly able
to articulate the words; "but you are too ill now."

Rose tried to lift her little hand to her head, but she had not strength
for the effort. "It pains me so," she said.

"But it is God who sends you the pain," replied Emily; "and He loves you
so much, you will try and bear it."

"Will He make me die?" asked Rose, fixing her dark eyes earnestly upon
Emily's face.

For a moment Emily could not answer; and then, recovering herself,
she said, "If God should make you die, my darling, He will take you to
heaven; and you will live with Him, and with Jesus Christ, and the holy
angels. You will not be afraid?"

"Must I go alone?" continued Rose. "You always said you would be with me
everywhere."

"It is not God's will," replied Emily. "I must not go with you now, but
I will pray that I may follow you by and by. And He will watch over you,
and love you much more than I can; and you will be so happy, so very
happy, you will never wish to return back again."

"Then you will come soon, and mamma, and papa, and all," murmured Rose,
whilst her head sank, and her eyes closed.

Emily, in alarm, was about to ring the bell, when she again opened them.
"Don't go," she said, feebly clasping Emily's hand. "It is all dark. Why
will not mamma come?"

"She will be here directly, I hope," replied Emily. "But it is not
really dark; and God is near, and the angels, though you cannot see
them."

A second time Rose closed her eyes, and appeared to be repeating
something to herself. Emily gently withdrew her hand, and going to the
other side of the room, she rang to summon Morris. Rose looked at her as
she stood again by her side, but scarcely seemed to know her, till
Emily placed her hand on hers; and then, with an effort, she said, "am I
naughty? Indeed I cannot remember it."

"Remember what?" asked Emily, anxiously endeavouring to catch the reply.

"Say it, say it," murmured the dying child.

Emily bent still closer, and heard the words--"Our Father, which art in
heaven," though they were so faint as hardly to be intelligible. "I will
say it for you," she replied, summoning all her self-command to subdue
the agony of her feelings; and, kneeling down, she repeated, calmly and
distinctly, the holy prayer which Rose had been taught in her earliest
infancy, and which was now recurring to her mind, to bless and soothe
her death-bed.

Whilst Emily was yet speaking, Mrs Harrington, followed by her husband,
who had been alarmed at the sound of the bell, entered the room; but
Rose did not appear to notice them. A momentary strength had been
granted her, and with a clear though feeble voice, she followed the
prayer to the end; and then, stretching out her little hand, she said,
"Mamma, it is bright now. They are come to take me." And with a faint
smile, as she half repeated Emily's name, her head once more sank upon
the pillow, and the innocent spirit was at rest.




CHAPTER XXX.


It was happy for Emily Morton that the attention which Mrs Harrington's
situation demanded, when the fact of her loss forced itself upon
her mind, obliged her in some degree to forget the misery of her own
feelings. So much was required to be done, that she had no time to
realise the vast blank which that one moment had made in her existence;
and her chief anxiety now was to prevent Mrs Herbert from being
disturbed. This, however, was impossible. She had not, indeed, heard the
bell; but she soon learned all that had happened, and went directly to
Mrs Harrington's room to entreat that Emily would allow her to take
her place, and at least lie down for a few hours herself, even if sleep
were, as she feared, out of the question. But Emily's only support was
in exertion. To have been left alone in her own chamber, with everything
around to remind her of the treasure which had been taken from her,
would have been a trial so great that she could not suffer herself to
dwell upon it. "I must stay," she said; "it is all I can do; and I do
not need rest."

Mrs Herbert looked at her anxiously. "You do not know what you need just
now, my dear; but perhaps you are right; only," she added, as she kissed
Emily's burning forehead, and observed the trembling of her limbs, "I
have felt lately almost as if you were my eldest child; and you must
allow me a mother's authority."

Emily could not answer; but Mrs Herbert's affection, even in that hour
of bitterness, relieved the oppressive sense of desolation which had
before weighed her spirit to the earth; and when again left to herself,
she was able to dwell with greater composure upon the scene through
which she had just passed, and felt truly thankful that her prayers had
been heard, and that strength had been given her to support it.

The morning had dawned before Mrs Harrington was sufficiently recovered
to allow of her being left; and while Emily was still lingering, unable
to summon resolution to go to her own room, a gentle knock was heard at
the door, and Amy's voice asked permission to enter. "Mamma sent me,"
she said, as calmly as her agitation would allow. "She wishes you so
much to go to bed; and we have been getting my room ready for you,
that you may be near us, if you want anything. I am to be in mamma's
sitting-room, so that no one shall go to you unless you like it."

"You had better go," observed Mrs Harrington, faintly; "you must require
rest more than any one. Pray do not stay with me."

Emily hesitated. She thought that, if the effort she dreaded were made
at once, the most painful trial would be over. But Amy's pleading look
could not be resisted. "It has been my only comfort the last half hour,"
she continued, "to try and make all nice for you; and poor Dora has been
helping me; and Margaret sent her love to you, only she cannot bear to
see any one."

"You must go," insisted Mrs Harrington, "If Morris is left with me, I
shall not require any one else." And Emily did not wait any longer, for
she was beginning to suffer from the effects of all she had undergone.

The room had been so prepared by Amy's thoughtfulness, that it almost
looked as if Emily had inhabited it for weeks; and little as she then
cared for personal comfort, she yet felt unspeakably relieved by these
tokens of affection; for a child's love had lately been so associated
with every thought and feeling, that without it there was an aching void
in her heart which nothing else could fill.

Her rest, if such it could be called, was short and broken; but in her
half-waking intervals. Amy's face came before her with its expression of
peaceful innocence, as if to remind her that something was still left in
the world to which her affections might cling: and when she arose to the
full consciousness of sorrow, her first comfort was the thought that
it was God who had ordained her trial, and the second that He had
remembered her in her distress, by giving her such friends as she felt
Mrs Herbert and Amy to be.

The day passed slowly on, but Emily had neither the power nor the
inclination to leave her chamber. She was completely exhausted by the
night's fatigue; and Mrs Herbert entreated her on no account to make any
exertion, till her strength had been in some degree recruited. There
was not much indeed required, for Mrs Harrington had been considerably
refreshed by a few hours of sleep, but her spirit was entirely crushed
by the blow. She seldom spoke, or paid any attention to what was going
on, but sat gazing upon vacancy, or walking up and down the room,
unmindful of every effort that was made to rouse her. It was now
that Dora's energy and principle were fully called into action. The
selfishness which she had sometimes previously shown had been the result
rather of education than disposition; and she had lately struggled so
much against it, that, at a time when every feeling of sympathy and
affection was awakened, it seemed entirely to disappear. She attended
upon her mother, and talked to her father, and comforted Margaret,
without apparently once consulting her own wishes, though there were
moments when the recollection of Rose, or the sight of some book or
plaything which had belonged to her, brought such a pang to her heart,
that she longed to rush away and give vent to the misery of her feelings
alone.

Mrs Herbert would probably have suffered much from her exertions if it
had not been for Dora's assistance; but she was able in consequence to
spend the afternoon in her own room; and however she might sympathise
in the grief of her brother and his family, there was a happiness in
the knowledge that her husband was near, which nothing could entirely
destroy. Her chief anxiety was for Emily Morton. She knew that the first
bitterness of sorrow would in time be diminished, and that even Mrs
Harrington would probably soon recover from its present overpowering
effects; but to Emily the change it would cause must be lasting. There
was but little prospect of her continuing at Emmerton, now that her
principal occupation was taken from her; and Mrs Herbert shrunk from
the thought of her being sent again amongst strangers, to meet, perhaps,
with still greater scorn and neglect than she had yet experienced. She
had no home and but few friends, and might, therefore, be compelled to
go immediately into another situation, with the recollection of little
Rose weighing upon her spirit, and adding tenfold bitterness to the
trials she would probably be called on to encounter.

Mrs Herbert was thinking upon this subject, and endeavouring to form
some plan for Emily's comfort, when her husband entered. He had been
talking with Mr Harrington, and had left him, he hoped, more tranquil
and resigned.

"I am not so much afraid for him," said Mrs Herbert, "as for my sister.
A person of her disposition can seldom entirely recover from a sudden
shock of this nature."

"Perhaps," he replied, "it may not be intended that she should. One
hardly likes to think of the reason for which afflictions are sent to
others, because one may judge so wrongly; yet a deep, quiet, lasting
grief will sometimes, I am sure, win back our hearts to God when
everything else has failed."

"Poor Charlotte!" said Mrs Herbert; "it is a bitter discipline. And I
never see other people suffer without thinking that I may require it
next myself."

"Have you seen Miss Morton lately?" asked Colonel Herbert,

"I am afraid the change this will bring upon her will be greater than
upon any one, as far as outward circumstances go."

"Amy has been keeping watch upon her all day, and told me just now she
thought that she was trying to sleep again, so I did not like to disturb
her; and indeed I have only seen her twice since the morning, and then
only for a few minutes, for I saw she required rest and solitude more
than anything else."

"She will scarcely remain here now," said Colonel Herbert.

"Her chief employment and interest will be gone. And I suppose she would
not be happy even if Mrs Harrington wished her to continue."

"Charlotte will not wish it. She told me a short time since that her
principal reason for desiring to keep Miss Morton was on account of
little Rose, as Dora and Margaret did not like having her in the house,
and she felt herself that the position was an awkward one. She did not
choose her to be a companion; and she was not old enough to have any
authority."

"And what will become of her?" said Colonel Herbert.

"She will go into another situation as soon as possible; but the
difficulty will be to find one that will suit her."

"It will be a miserable life for her, I fear," he continued. "Some
people seem born to struggle against the hardships of the world; but she
is so very gentle that it appeals as if the smallest unkindness would
completely crush her."

"You do not know her," replied Mrs Herbert. "She can never be crushed
by anything, not even by the grief which she is now enduring. Her
principles are far too high."

Colonel Herbert paced the room thoughtfully for several minutes; and
then, suddenly stopping, he said, "Amy is very fond of Miss Morton, I
think."

"Yes; and the acquaintance has been of infinite service already. Amy is
very quick at discerning character, and notices everything; and I can
constantly see how the example of Miss Morton's patience and goodness
has strengthened her own right feelings. I quite dread to think of what
she will suffer when they are compelled to part."

"Are you quite sure that parting is necessary?" said Colonel Herbert.

"Only as you are quite sure yourself. Miss Morton will not wish to stay,
and my sister will not wish to keep her; and of course in such a case
she must go."

"Supposing--remember I am not expressing any wish upon the subject--but
supposing it were suggested to Miss Morton to return with us to the
cottage, and take your place as Amy's governess, would it meet your
wishes; and do you think she would like it?"

"Would you really agree to such a plan?" exclaimed Mrs Herbert. "It
crossed my own mind once, but I thought it would not please you; and
I could not bear to propose anything which it might give you pain to
refuse."

"Why should you imagine it would not please me?"

"Because it might interfere with your notions of domestic comfort to
have a stranger in the house. And then you cannot feel for Miss Morton
as I do."

"But I can feel for her because you do. And with regard to my notions of
domestic comfort, I should consider them of very minor importance, even
if Miss Morton were not a person to excite such deep interest, when
compared with the advantage her assistance would be to you in Amy's
education, and the pleasure it would be to Amy to have such a companion.
The first thing that gave me the idea, was the knowledge that you
required more relaxation than you were likely to give yourself, if you
considered that Amy's instruction depended entirely on your own energy."

"I do not think we should repent taking such a step," said Mrs Herbert.
"My own feeling for Emily is so sincere that I would make great
sacrifices for her comfort if they did not involve yours."

"I do not see why they should; though, even if they did, I hope I should
not hesitate. By arranging for Miss Morton to return with us, we may be
the means of giving her peace, and even happiness, for several years at
least. But in fact I do not feel that it would be any sacrifice now that
I know you would like it."

"It would be a very great relief to my mind," said Mrs Herbert. "If you
had seen her look of misery last night, you would have felt that it was
impossible to rest satisfied till something had been done for her."

"It will not do to decide upon it hastily, though," observed Colonel
Herbert. "Situated as we are, having known her family, and having a
personal interest in herself, whatever we decided on doing we should
be obliged to continue,--I mean that we could not allow her to leave us
merely on the ground of its not suiting our convenience that she should
remain. It would be cruel, after giving her the idea that we are really
her friends, to throw her again upon the mercy of strangers."

"Still," said Mrs Herbert, "I am not really inclined to hesitate; my
feelings are decidedly in favour of the plan; though for that very
reason I should wish to consider all the possible objections in their
strongest light."

"There will be no occasion to decide at once," said Colonel Herbert.
"Miss Morton will scarcely be in a state to think of anything for the
next few days; and by that time we shall be better able to judge whether
there is any serious obstacle in the way--anything that involves a
sacrifice of what is right, which, in fact, is all that is really to be
considered."

"People would laugh," said Mrs Herbert, "at the idea of its being
possible to act wrongly in taking an orphan girl into your family, with
the earnest wish of making her happy."

"Very likely they would; but I have seen enough of life to have
discovered that a hasty kindness is often quite as injurious as a hasty
unkindness. Mere feeling, however good, should never be allowed entirely
to guide our actions, especially where the happiness of another person
is so materially concerned as in the present case."

"I do not well see how it could lead us wrong now," replied Mrs Herbert.

"It might induce us to decide without considering the sacrifices which
will be required of us; and then when the time came for making them we
should be vexed and disappointed, and should probably show it, and so
destroy poor Miss Morton's comfort, or perhaps force her to leave us,
whereas, if we well weigh them beforehand, we shall be prepared, and
they will come as a matter of course."

"I believe you are right; and yet my first impulse, when you mentioned
the subject, was to go at once and name it to Emily; of course, I felt
in a moment it would be very absurd, if not really wrong; but it is so
hard to know that suffering exists, and not make some effort to relieve
it."

"Yes," replied Colonel Herbert; "and it is so hard to make up our minds
that suffering is good for those we love. But we must do it now; we must
bear to wait patiently till Miss Morton has formed her own plans, though
we know how much it will cost her to do it, and also to see every one
about us unhappy for many weeks, if not months, to come; no human power
can at present give them consolation."

"It is but a sad welcome for you," said Mrs Herbert, smiling through her
tears as she looked in her husband's face; "but I can be deeply thankful
that the trial did not come sooner; I could not have borne it then."

"We might have been too happy without it," he replied. "I half dreaded
that something might happen when I went with Amy to the cottage. To see
you looking as you did on that morning, so much more like your former
self than I could possibly have expected, and to discover in every word
she uttered how entirely my fondest wishes for her had been realised,
was greater happiness than it is usually permitted us to enjoy for any
length of time."

"It is strange now," said Mrs Herbert, "to remember the unclouded
pleasure I then felt; it is like endeavouring to realise the beauty of a
summer's day when we are in the midst of winter. But there are some who
seem to have had no summer to their lives--Miss Morton, for instance."

"Her summer may be to come, even on earth," replied Colonel Herbert; "at
least, if it should be arranged for her to be with us, I think we shall
agree in striving that it may be so; and if it should be otherwise
ordered, she is hardly a person to grieve for the few wintry hours of
this life, when she can look forward to the long summer's day beyond
it."

"It would be a great blessing," said Mrs Herbert, "to feel that we had
been the means of giving her comfort and relief; yet I fully see the
necessity of considering the subject well. And one thing we must be
careful about is the manner in which it is first mentioned to my brother
and Charlotte. They would not be likely to object, and yet they might
be annoyed if Emily proposed herself to leave them, and then came to us
immediately afterwards."

"Perhaps it would be best," observed Colonel Herbert, "to find out their
ideas first, and, if they are what we fancy, to suggest our wishes, and
gain their approbation before it is named to Miss Morton."

"Always remembering that we well weigh all the difficulties," said Mrs
Herbert. "I see your mind runs on just as fast as mine; you speak as if
you had no doubt what your decision would be."

"Perhaps I have not; however, it is as well to be reminded of
prudence; so, for the next day or two, we will forget that we have any
inclinations, and look only to the objections."

The entrance of Amy interrupted the conversation, which was not again
renewed till the evening; and by that time Mrs Herbert's feelings were
still more interested in carrying the plan into execution. She had spent
nearly an hour with Miss Morton, and had found her more composed than
she could have imagined possible; but it was evident, from many little
expressions, that Emily fully contemplated the necessity of her removal.
She spoke much of Mrs Herbert's kindness, and said that the remembrance
of it would be carried with her as one of her greatest consolations,
wherever it might please God to place her; and with timid hesitation she
asked whether Amy might be allowed at times to write to her. "Perhaps,"
she said, "your slight knowledge of me scarcely warrants my making the
request; but it is hard to part so suddenly from all that has given
pleasure to life; and my heart will still cling to Emmerton, and to
those who have rendered it so dear to me, even in a few short months."

Mrs Herbert longed to say that she trusted the parting might be
unnecessary; but she contented herself with assuring Emily that Amy
should write to her frequently, if they were separated, and expressing a
general hope that she might always remain in the neighbourhood.

"I am afraid," replied Emily, "that it would hardly be for my good. I
feel now as if to linger so near, to be so constantly reminded of
lost blessings, would unfit me for the duties of life. I must act; and
perhaps the greater my difficulties and my loneliness, the better it
may be for me in the end. Even now I have forced myself to consider and
decide upon the future, because I know that to sit alone and dwell upon
the past would destroy all my powers of exertion."

"But to see us occasionally," said Mrs Herbert, "would surely be a
comfort to you."

"In time it would," replied Emily, "but not now. To be within reach
of you, and yet to be separated, as I must be by circumstances, would
probably make me repine even more than I fear I am inclined to do at
present. And I am trying," she added, while her pale lips quivered, and
the tears rushed to her eyes, "to learn the lesson which it is the will
of God to teach me. I know how quickly my heart will fix itself upon
earthly objects."

"But you must not think, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert, "that it is
God's will that we should live without affection. Why should He
have bestowed such feelings upon us if they were not intended to be
exercised? If we give the first place to Him, He will never forbid us to
give the second to our fellow-creatures."

"I am afraid," said Emily, faintly. "I have thought before that I could
give up all for Him, and yet when He required it I have shrunk from the
sacrifice; and so it is now. I am not resigned as I ought to be; and I
must never again put myself within reach of the temptation of loving an
earthly being too well."

"You are speaking, my love, under the influence of an overstrained
feeling," answered Mrs Herbert. "I know you would not change what has
happened if the power were granted you at this instant; you would not
bring back that sweet child to the sufferings of a sinful world, even if
it were to give yourself years of happiness."

"No, no!" exclaimed Emily, eagerly. "I can and I do thank God that she
is safe with Him--not in words only, but from the very bottom of my
heart; and yet I may be afraid--it has always been so. Those whom I have
loved the best have ever been taken from me the first."

"Only we may not presume to decide why," said Mrs Herbert. "It may have
been for their good, quite as much as for your warning. And even now, if
the loss of a darling child should be the means of bringing those whose
happiness was wrapped up in her nearer to God, you would be the first to
acknowledge the greatness of the blessing, and to see that the object of
the trial might be principally their benefit. I do not mean to say," she
added, observing that Emily continued silent, "that we are not all in
danger of allowing our hearts to rest upon our earthly treasures; I am
sure, indeed, it is one of our greatest temptations; but still we must
not always think we have done so when they are taken from us; and,
especially, we must not shut ourselves up in silent misery, and refuse
the alleviations which God mercifully grants us."

"Perhaps," said Emily, "I could be more resigned, if I did not at times
fancy that I had been the cause of everything. If I had never left her,
many moments of self-reproach would be spared me. Not that I give way to
the idea, because I believe it is false: I was doing what I knew to be
my duty in going to the cottage; and the event was in the hands of God:
but vet the notion haunts me; and even when I turn away from it, it
still remains a load on my heart."

"And it will remain there, my dear, till the first misery of your
feelings has worn off, and you can see things in a truer light. It is
impossible to argue against it; or rather, no arguments which any person
can use will entirely satisfy you; but you must, indeed, force yourself
to turn away from it, or it will grow into a certainty, and then the
whole energy of your mind will be destroyed. If we once allow ourselves
to dwell too much upon the consequences even of our slightest actions,
we shall be quite unfitted for the duties of life."

"Then you do not think I was wrong?" said Emily.

"No, indeed, I do not. You went on an errand of kindness, where your
services were really required, and you left that dear child, as you
believed, in a place of safety with those who were certainly quite old
enough to have taken care of her during the few minutes of your absence.
Consider what your feelings would have been if you had neglected to go
to the cottage, and fatal consequences had been the result. You might
have reproached yourself then, perhaps justly; but you can have no cause
for it now. If any one has reason to be distressed, it is poor Margaret;
and I am afraid she is suffering very much."

"Have you seen her?" asked Emily,

"No," replied Mrs Herbert; "but Dora tells me she cannot comfort her at
all. I have sent several messages, and hope, by and by, she will let me
go to her."

"Will you say something from me," said Emily; "I hardly know what; but
only let her feel that I think of her."

"I wish it were possible to convince her how wrongly she has acted
towards you," answered Mrs Herbert. "I fear that what she is suffering
now will have but little real influence on her character. It is mere
feeling, and will pass away; for she will soon discover that she has
exaggerated her negligence, and then she will care but little about it."

"I am very sorry for her," said Emily; "and I could not bear to think
that she was made more miserable now on my account."

"But it would be for her good, my dear; and if I attempt to comfort
her by proving that she has over-estimated one fault, I shall certainly
endeavour to make her sorry for having thought so little of the other.
It will be useless to attempt it by and by; but now Dora says she really
feels for you, and therefore there may be some hope."

"You must not let her think that I remember it," replied Emily, "I wish
she could know how entirely I have forgiven it."

"I am not sure that I do wish it just now," replied Mrs Herbert. "To
be forgiven before we have acknowledged our offences makes us think too
lightly of them. When Margaret can see how utterly selfish her conduct
was, and grieve heartily for it, although no evil consequences have
followed, then it will be time to talk of forgiveness. And now, my dear,
I must leave you; but Amy shall come to you whenever you wish it."

"Shall I ever thank you enough?" said Emily.

"Do not talk of thanks," interrupted Mrs Herbert; "or, if you will, you
must listen to all I have to say of your kindness to Amy."

The substance of this conversation was repeated to Colonel Herbert in
the evening: and as there was now no doubt of Miss Morton's intentions,
the only thing that required to be decided was the practicability of her
residence at the cottage. Colonel Herbert insisted strongly upon every
objection, feeling in his own mind how much his inclinations led him the
contrary way; and having been the first to propose the plan, he was the
more anxious that Mrs Herbert should not afterwards see cause to repent
it. The expense, the responsibility, the interruption to their own
privacy, were all brought forward; but Mrs Herbert overruled everything;
and after an hour's earnest conversation, it was finally determined that
the subject should be named to Mr and Mrs Harrington as soon as they had
heard of Emily's intentions. "And then," said Colonel Herbert, with a
smile of heartfelt pleasure, "if Miss Morton will consent, we will see
whether the quiet of the cottage, with you for a companion, and Amy for
a pupil, will not in some degree restore her to happiness."

"If it should please God to grant it," replied Mrs Herbert, "I believe
it will be through Amy's means. I can see, even now, how she turns to
her for comfort. She half-smiled this afternoon when Amy came into the
room, and then checked herself, as if afraid to allow her thoughts to
dwell upon her."

"Who would not find comfort in Amy?" said Colonel Herbert. "I have often
tried to fancy what she would be like; but I could not have expected to
find her so entirely simple and sincere, with a mind in many respects so
far beyond her age."

"It has been a great relief to me to observe how little she has been
altered by the change of her life since she has been so much with her
cousins," answered Mrs Herbert. "It was my principal fear at first; but
she has had a much greater influence upon them than they have had upon
her."

"I suspect," replied her husband, "that we are not at all aware of
the real strength of principle in the mind of a child who has always
endeavoured to do right. Children injure themselves for their whole
lives by indulging in what are called trifling faults--a little vanity,
or a little selfishness, or a hastiness of temper. If they could only
be made to see the infinite importance of subduing these feelings early,
they would grow up with confirmed habits of goodness, which, by the
blessing of God, would never leave them, however they might be tempted
in after-life."

"We will hope that it may be so with Amy," said Mrs Herbert. "Certainly
she has begun betimes; and I think she will lead her cousins to follow
her example."

"Dora interests me very much," observed Colonel Herbert; "but Margaret I
have scarcely spoken to. Have you seen her lately?"

"No; but she promises to let me go to her the first thing to-morrow. She
dreads seeing her mother; and I rather think she will be glad to have me
to intercede for her."

"She need not be afraid; while Mrs Harrington remains in her present
state, she will not be likely to notice anything."

"To-morrow," said Mrs Herbert, "I shall endeavour to persuade my sister
to go and look once more upon that darling child. It will be a great
trial, but I think it may rouse her; and her countenance is now so
exquisitely peaceful and beautiful, that I should hope it might go far
towards reconciling her to her loss."

"The worst trial is yet to come, I fear," said Colonel Herbert. "There
is something still to rest upon whilst the outward form is left us, even
when the spirit is fled."

"I do not think that I quite agree with you. When everything is gone
that belonged to this world, we are able to feel more truly that the
spirit may still be with us. Perhaps the separation between ourselves
and little Rose may be far slighter than we accustom ourselves to
imagine."

"It may be so," said Colonel Herbert, thoughtfully, "though the Bible
does not give us any certainty upon the subject."

"It does not forbid us to think so; and at times it has been an
inexpressible comfort to me to feel that those whom I have loved might
still be near, though I could not see them; and I have always felt it
more after they were taken from my sight, and I could no longer look
upon them with the intense longing that they might return to be what
they once were."

"Whether true or not, the idea is an innocent one," said Colonel
Herbert; "I wish sincerely that it could be a comfort to your poor
sister."

"I think it not impossible," said Mrs Herbert, "that by and by Charlotte
will consent to see Mr Walton. You know he has been acquainted with her
from her childhood; and I am sure she has a very great respect for
him; and, as a clergyman, he could say so many things which no one else
would."

"I rather doubt it," replied her husband. "She is so little accustomed
to be unreserved, according to your account, that I can hardly imagine
she would allow any one to speak plainly, much less to comfort her."

"A month ago the case would have been very different," said Mrs Herbert;
"but this grief, I trust and believe, will have a very great effect.
Even Edward's death was not felt as much; at least it did not appear
so when she first arrived. I am not, however, going to talk to you any
longer, for I promised Amy, before she went to bed, that I would go to
Miss Morton, the last thing, to see that she was comfortable."

"Amy seemed worn out when she wished me good-night," said Colonel
Herbert; "her pale looks made me quite anxious."

"She has had a very trying day; and then, real sorrow is so new to
her, and she has been endeavouring so much to comfort every one, and
suffering so much at times herself (for she was very fond of little
Rose), that it is not strange she should look pale."

"I must go and see if she is asleep," said Colonel Herbert, as he stole
softly into the adjoining room.

Mrs Herbert followed, though almost inclined to find fault with him for
running the risk of awakening her.

But Amy's repose was too deep to be disturbed even by her father's kiss.
There was a tear on her cheek, which showed what her last thought had
been; but sleep had restored the peacefulness of an innocent mind; and
Colonel Herbert, as he looked at her with delight, prayed that it might
never forsake her.

Mrs Herbert's conversation with Margaret, the following day, was more
satisfactory than she had anticipated. At first, indeed, Margaret
refused to listen to any consolation. She declared that she had been the
sole cause of the accident; that her mother must consider her so; and
that it would be impossible ever again to know a happy moment. But
when her aunt, although fully allowing her negligence and selfishness,
pointed out how many other circumstances had combined to bring about
the event; without which her fault, however great, would probably have
produced no important consequences to any one but herself, Margaret
became calmer; and Mrs Herbert's fear then was, lest she should consider
herself perfectly free from blame. "I do not mean, my dear," she said,
"that you have no reason to reproach yourself, for selfishness and
neglect must always be serious offences in the eye of God; but what I
wish you to feel is, that if you have acted in the same manner on other
occasions, you have been equally guilty in His sight, though no one may
have known it but yourself."

"Every one is selfish," said Margaret; "I never thought it was very
wicked before."

"Every one is selfish, naturally," replied Mrs Herbert; "but we are sent
into the world to conquer our nature; and many persons are enabled to do
it almost entirely. You will not call Miss Morton selfish?"

"No," said Margaret, "I don't think she is; but she has been so unhappy
always, that I can never fancy she has had the same inclinations as
other people--I mean that she does not care for things in the same way;
and so it is not much trouble to her to give them up."

"Yes," observed Mrs Herbert, "she has had a great deal of suffering in
her short life; and I doubt whether any trial has been greater than the
present."

"I was afraid she would be very miserable," said Margaret. "Dora has
told me how ill she looks; and I am sorry for her."

There was a slight hesitation in Margaret's manner, as if she wished to
escape from the subject; but Mrs Herbert was not inclined to permit it
to drop. "I am sure you feel for her now, my dear," she said; "but you
could hardly have done so when you would have allowed her to be sent
away under a false impression, and at a time when, of all others, it
must have been most distressing."

The colour rushed to Margaret's cheek, but she answered quickly, "I did
not know what would happen then; and, besides, she did not go."

"But for what reason?" inquired Mrs Herbert; "not because you spoke for
her willingly. If you had known how much she suffered for a whole hour,
whilst obliged to make preparations, and fully believing that she must
go, I think you would be sorry for your conduct. She thought then, what
we know now would have been the case, that she never would see little
Rose again."

"Was she really so miserable?" said Margaret. "Indeed I did not intend
to make her so; and I should never have concealed anything if it had not
been for Lucy Cunningham."

"Miss Cunningham will, I hope, one day see how great her fault was; but,
my dear Margaret, her actions cannot alter yours. God will not admit
it as an excuse, that others have led us into evil; for we must each be
judged for ourselves."

"Does Emily Morton think much about it now?" said Margaret.

"No," replied her aunt; "she is so far from feeling anything like
unkindness, that I am certain she would make any sacrifice to do you
good and make you happy. But, my dear child, why will you always turn
your mind to what other people think and feel? It can make no difference
to you."

"I don't know," replied Margaret; "but it always seems that things are
worse when they are thought much of."

"But why?" continued Mrs Herbert. "It does not alter our conduct in
the eye of God. We may think of it now, and it may appear to us of
consequence; but you know, my love, that there must come a time when it
will be of no use to us to have borne a good character in the world, or
even to have been loved and admired by our friends, unless we have been
also really good in our own hearts."

Margaret turned rather pale, but made no reply; and Mrs Herbert went
on. "We do not know how soon the moment may arrive," she said; "and God
sends us such warnings as we have had now to remind us of it. It is a
great mercy that we may look upon that dear child, and feel perfectly
happy in the belief that she is now safe, and in the keeping of her
Saviour; but it might have been very different if the summons had been
sent to any of us who are older."

"But," said Margaret, "I fancied it was only grown-up people who could
be so very wicked. I am only thirteen, and I have never been confirmed."

"But you have been baptized," replied Mrs Herbert. "Before you could
even know the difference between good and evil, God gave you His Holy
Spirit to guide you in the right way; and then He placed you in a happy
home, with kind parents, and you were taught to read, and taken to
church, and kept out of the reach of the temptations of the world. Why
should it be less wicked to do wrong when we are young, and have so many
blessings and so much instruction, than when we are old and exposed to
every kind of evil?"

"My faults are only little ones," said Margaret.

"Your faults are the greatest you can commit, my love; because you have
been so educated that you would be ashamed to be guilty of greater ones;
and we may be quite sure, that whoever wilfully indulges in a trifling
fault when not tempted to do anything worse, would equally indulge a
greater one if the inducement were to be put before him. If, situated
as you are, you will not struggle against vanity, or selfishness, or
deceit, or ill-temper, you would not struggle against theft or falsehood
if you were the child of a poor man."

"But I cannot really be so wicked," said Margaret.

"Yes, indeed you can," replied her aunt. "When God requires of us the
account of our lives, we shall have to confess our advantages as well as
our offences; and if we commit what people in general call little sins,
when our advantages have been great, we must be as wicked as persons who
commit greater sins with fewer advantages."

"I do not think," said Margaret, "that I have been taught as much as
Amy."

"That is not the question, my dear. The real thing to ask ourselves is,
whether we have made the best use of the instruction we have had; not
whether we have had less than others. And one blessing--the first and
greatest of all--is given to each of us alike at our baptism; for we
are told, in the service which is then used, that God is pleased at that
time to regenerate us with His Holy Spirit; and if we chose to follow
His guidance, we should constantly be kept in the right way."

"I have heard Amy talk in that manner," said Margaret; "but indeed, aunt
Herbert, I never understood what she meant."

"Will you tell me, my dear, whether you have ever wished to do right?"

"Oh yes, very often; only it is so much trouble always to think about
it."

"And have you not often admired people whom you saw conquering their
evil dispositions, and now and then tried to imitate them, and really
felt pleasure in doing it?"

"Yes," replied Margaret, "sometimes."

"All these better feelings," continued Mrs Herbert, "were not your own
by nature; they were the work of that better spirit of which I have been
speaking: and if you had prayed to God to keep them in your heart, and
had endeavoured to act from them, you would have found them becoming
stronger and stronger every day; and then, instead of being inclined
to vanity and selfishness, you would be humble, and gentle, and
self-denying: and though you might often do wrong--because no one in
this world can ever entirely get rid of his evil nature--yet you would
be very sorry for it; and God, for the sake of your blessed Saviour,
would forgive you, when you prayed to Him, and He would make you every
day holier and happier; He would cause all the troubles of the world to
appear light to you; and when you had lived here as long as He knew that
it was necessary for your good, He would take you to heaven."

"And will it never be so now?" exclaimed Margaret, touched at last by
her aunt's words.

"Yes," said Mrs Herbert, "if you will begin at once: but, indeed,
my love, there must be no delay. If you are really sorry for having
offended God, there can be no doubt of His forgiveness; but it must
always be asked in our Saviour's name. It is only for His sake that
we have anything granted us; and the blessings bestowed at our baptism
would never have been ours if He had not died to purchase them."

"I think, aunt Herbert," said Margaret, with earnestness, "that I should
never have done wrong things if I had always had you to talk to me."

"Indeed, my love, you would. It is not any human power that can keep
us from sin. But you are very young; and if you were to begin at
once, praying to God to assist you, and really trying to please Him in
everything, you might, in time, become as good as those saints and holy
people of whom we read in the Bible."

"No, never!" exclaimed Margaret; "it would be quite impossible."

"They were but human beings," replied Mrs Herbert; "and some of them had
not even the same advantages that we have. It requires nothing but real
sincerity and trust in God."

"I should like to be as good as they were," said Margaret, "if----" and
here she paused.

"If you could be so without any trouble. But, my dear Margaret, consider
what your condition will be at the end of your life, if you continue in
this state of mind. How will you feel when you look back upon, perhaps,
a long life, and know that it has been entirely wasted, that you have
never really tried to serve God, and that you will probably never go to
heaven, because you would not take the trouble?"

"It cannot be necessary to be so very good," said Margaret.

"It is quite necessary to _try_ to be," answered Mrs Herbert. "God
will never accept anything but our whole hearts. You must remember our
Saviour's words, 'Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is
in heaven is perfect.' Certainly this must mean that we are to be what
you call _very good_."

"But," said Margaret, "I thought no one could be good enough to deserve
to go to heaven."

"No, indeed, they cannot. But supposing, Margaret, that a great prince
were to come to Emmerton and offer to adopt you as his child, and were
to promise that, if you would do everything he wished, he would, in
time, take you to his kingdom, and give you riches and honours beyond
all that you could possibly imagine, do you not see that, although you
never could have merited such kindness, though it would be a perfectly
free gift on his part, yet that, if you refused to obey, you would
justly deserve to lose it?"

Margaret assented; but she did not seem entirely to understand what
was intended, and Mrs Herbert continued: "This is exactly the case with
ourselves, my dear. God gives us all the promise of heaven, for the
sake of our Saviour, when we are baptized; but He also requires that we
should obey Him; and therefore, if we neglect to do so, the consequences
must be our own eternal misery."

"I don't mean," said Margaret, "that I would not try to be good at all;
but that I don't think it can be necessary to be like the saints and
people who shut themselves up, and never saw any one."

Mrs Herbert half smiled as she replied, "Certainly God does not require
that we should all live exactly the same lives as the persons you
mention--He does not command us all to leave our homes and go to
deserts; but it is possible to have the same tempers and dispositions as
the saints, though we may live in our own families."

"How can we set about being so good?" asked Margaret.

"First of all," replied her aunt, "we must pray to God to give us the
will; and when we have that, half our difficulty will be over. It is
seldom really hard to us to do what we earnestly desire; even things
which seemed quite impossible have been accomplished by a real
earnestness of purpose. There is a story told of a man whose father from
extravagance had brought his family to great poverty, and who, when
he became of age, instead of being possessed of large estates, was
absolutely penniless. He was standing one day upon the top of a very
high hill, looking over a vast extent of country that had belonged to
his ancestors, and which, but for his father's folly, would have been
his, when the idea entered his mind that it would be possible by his
own exertions to recover all that had been lost. From that moment he
resolved that he would never rest till he had achieved his wishes. He
worked by night and by day, he gave himself no rest and no amusement;
and at length he succeeded, and the estate was his. And though the
end of the story is a very sad one, and shows us the sin and folly of
setting our hearts on earthly objects,--for we are told that the poor
man became from habit a miser as soon as he gained his end,--yet we may
learn from it how much is in the power of persons who are really and
sincerely in earnest."

"I think I could have felt like that man," said Margaret; "but I should
never care so much about being good."

"You would if you could once see how beautiful goodness is," replied
her aunt; "if an angel were to be always at your side, you would long to
resemble him."

"Oh yes!" said Margaret; "but that is not possible; and every one I
see is much the same as I am; only Amy and Miss Morton perhaps are
different."

"But you can read your Bible," answered Mrs Herbert; "and you can see
there how holy, and merciful, and gentle our Saviour was. His perfect
purity is set before us to excite our longings to obtain it, as the
estates of that poor man were set before him. It is the image of that
holiness which we should have possessed if Adam had never sinned; and
if we had but equal resolution, we may have equal success; not, indeed,
entirely in this world, because we still must carry about with us an
evil nature, but in a far greater degree than we are at all apt to
imagine."

"Did you ever know any one who was so very good?" asked Margaret.

"Yes," replied Mrs Herbert; "and I have watched by their death-beds,
and witnessed their peace and happiness in the midst of the most severe
sufferings. I think, Margaret, if you had ever seen a real Christian
die, you would long to be like them."

"Should I?" said Margaret, thoughtfully. "I never saw any one die yet;
but poor Edward was always good; and they said he was quite happy."

"Yes," replied her aunt; "and if he were happy then, when lying on a
sick-bed, how much more happy must he be now! I know you would wish to
go to him."

"And Rose," exclaimed Margaret, bursting into tears. "Oh, aunt Herbert,
do you think I shall ever see her again?"

"I am sure you will, my dear child, if you will only pray to God to make
you good and holy, and fit for the home to which He has taken her. Will
you begin at once, and never neglect your prayers, and try with all your
heart to attend to them, and not allow your thoughts to wander? and will
you recollect how very many wrong things you have done, and ask Him to
forgive you for your Saviour's sake? And then will you endeavour, in
every little trifling thing, to give up your own will, and think only of
what is right?"

"I will try," answered Margaret.

"If you try," said Mrs Herbert, "not trusting to yourself at all, but
praying to God constantly to help you, and give you His Holy Spirit,
you may be quite sure of succeeding. Only you must remember that it is
absolutely necessary to try very much, and not give up the attempt
in despair because you find it difficult at first, and are constantly
falling back to your old habits; and especially you must not think it
sufficient to say your prayers only in the morning and evening; but you
must pray to God at all times, and in all places, whenever you are in
any danger of yielding to temptation. If you had prayed, I do not think
you would have acted as you did towards Miss Morton; you would have seen
the cruelty of wilfully adding to her anxiety; and you would have been
frightened at the thought of being deceitful."

"I think, now, it was very wicked," said Margaret, sighing deeply; "but
can I do anything to make up for it?"

"You cannot do anything to make amends to God," answered Mrs Herbert.
"When we have once sinned, no future goodness can wipe out the stain;
all that we can do is to trust that He will forgive us for our
Saviour's sake; but we can, in a certain degree, make amends to our
fellow-creatures; and the right thing for you now will be to acknowledge
to Miss Morton, when she is able to see you, how very great your fault
has been, and then to show, by every means in your power, that you are
anxious to consult her happiness."

"And will she forgive me, do you think?" asked Margaret,

"Why should you doubt it?" replied her aunt. "You have never known her
anything but affectionate, and kind, and forgetful of herself. I am sure
_she_ will forgive, because she will only hear your words, and see
your outward actions; but, my dear Margaret, it will be infinitely more
important that you should be forgiven by God, and He will look at the
heart."

"Indeed, indeed, I am sorry," exclaimed Margaret, "I do not think I
shall ever do such things again."

"I do most earnestly trust that you will not," said Mrs Herbert, "God
only knows the effect which the faults of our childhood have upon
our whole lives. You will not think, my love, because I have spoken
seriously, that I have not been sorry for all you have suffered."

"I like to hear what you say, aunt Herbert," replied Margaret; "but some
people I cannot endure, and I never listen to them."

"You must try and listen to everyone who wishes to do you good, my dear.
And now that we have talked together once, I hope we shall do so often;
and whenever you are in any difficulty in which I can help you, you
must remember that I am one of your nearest relations, and therefore, of
course, I shall love and take an interest in you."

"And will you ask mamma to forgive me?" said Margaret. "I am more afraid
of her anger than of any other person's."

"She is not in a state to think of anything now," replied Mrs Herbert;
"but I will certainly speak to her when I see she is able to listen; and
I trust you will remember what I said about Miss Morton."

Margaret promised that she would think of it often, and begged to see
her whenever she felt equal to it; and Mrs Herbert, after kissing
her affectionately, left her with a hope that the effects of the
conversation might be lasting.




CHAPTER XXXI.


Sadly and wearily the hours lingered on till the day that had been fixed
for the funeral of the innocent child, who had ever been the loveliest
and most cherished of the family at Emmerton. It was a time of bitter
trial to all; even the servants sighed deeply as they missed the young
voice which had once sounded so gaily through the house, and felt that
the low rooms and the long winding passages were more gloomy, and
the old pictures and curiously-fashioned furniture more strange and
distasteful to them, when they were no longer brightened by the sunny
smile with which little Rose had never failed to greet them. There was
an unnatural oppression upon every heart, and few felt it more than
Amy: she had never before been a witness of real sorrow, and it was
like entering upon a new and painful state of existence; for every one
appeared altered--Frank especially, who had returned from Mr Dornford's
the day after the death of his little sister, was completely altered;
his spirits were entirely subdued; and his only satisfaction seemed
to be in wandering over the house, and collecting everything that had
belonged to Rose, but without any other object than that of looking at
and sighing over them. Amy longed to comfort him; but she did not know
what to say, for she was herself sharing in his grief, and there was a
gloom over her feelings which few other events could have produced.

At her own request, she had been taken by her mother to look at her
little cousin as she lay in her coffin; and although some who had felt
more of this world's sorrow might have gazed upon her with calmness, and
envied a rest so peaceful, Amy could see only that a change, far beyond
her comprehension, had passed over her, which made even the heavenly
beauty of her features appear awful. There was the same fair, open
forehead, the same long, silken eye-lashes, almost the same sweet smile
upon the lips, which she had often admired when Rose was sleeping; but
there was also the fixed, immovable expression which only death can
give; and when she kissed the pale, marble cheek, and shrank away,
alarmed at the icy coldness of its touch, it seemed impossible to
believe that a form so still should ever have been gifted with life, and
still more impossible to realise that she must herself one day be like
it.

Mrs Herbert said nothing at first, knowing that words could scarcely
add to the lesson which such a sight must bring; and Amy felt as if the
sound of her own voice would have been as irreverent in that chamber as
in the midst of the services of the church. Long and earnestly she gazed
upon the fair, motionless image of little Rose; and then, when she had
once more kissed her for the last time, Mrs Herbert gently said, "Amy,
shall we pray that our lives may be as innocent, and our deaths as
peaceful?" and, kneeling down, she repeated the prayer appointed by the
Church to be used at the burial of the dead, to console and warn the
living. The impression of those moments was never effaced from Amy's
mind; and when in after years she looked back with gratitude upon the
early release of Rose, the remembrance of her calm face often came
before her, as an earnest of the perfect peace which she trusted might
one day be granted to herself: even then, when the first feeling of awe
had subsided, it was a relief that she had seen her; for the thought of
death was no longer as dreadful as it had been, and she was able to talk
freely to her mother, and tell her of many difficulties and fears which
had often crossed her mind before, but which there had never seemed a
fitting opportunity to mention. Her only real comfort, indeed, during
these melancholy days, was in being with her father and mother; for
there was something in Miss Morton's manner which distressed and pained
her. She was as kind and affectionate as ever, but she did not appear
as anxious to have Amy with her as might have been expected. Sometimes,
even after having expressed a wish that she should remain with her,
she would suddenly stop in the midst of her conversation, and continue
silent for several minutes, and perhaps make some excuse in order to
send her away; and although this was always done in the most considerate
manner, yet Amy did not fail to notice it; and her heart became more
heavy as she thought that possibly, after all, Emily did not really care
for her very much, and that now little Rose was gone, she would never
love any one again.

Mrs Herbert understood the reason of this change of manner, but it could
not be explained to Amy. She saw that Emily, under the belief of being
soon compelled to leave Emmerton, was afraid of making Amy too necessary
to her happiness. She was desirous of learning to live without any great
objects of affection, fearing that she might rest on them rather than on
God; but though such a wish might be natural after the loss of so many
whom she had loved, Mrs Herbert knew that it would not be likely to
continue, when her mind returned to its natural state. She would then
see that it is God's will that we should have parents, and children, and
friends to love; and that if we have been grateful for such treasures,
and given the first place in our hearts to Him while we possessed them,
He will often, when one is taken from us, in mercy grant us another
to supply its place; and she would be able to acknowledge how great a
blessing it was that she had learned to love Amy before she had been
called to part from Rose.

As yet, however, Emily could feel nothing of this. She was indeed
resigned, and could spend hours in looking upon her darling Rose, and
thinking of her great happiness, and praying that God would make her fit
to dwell with her again; but the thought that she had loved her too well
was still predominant; and when her heart turned to Amy, and she was
conscious how much happiness might still be enjoyed on earth, she feared
to dwell upon the idea, and tried to believe that it would be possible
to live without having more than a common regard and interest for all
who had been kind to her.

The endeavour, however, did not succeed. Amy's winning manner, and
thoughtful attention, and warm affection, were irresistible; every hour
brought some proof of her love, and every hour Emily became more
and more aware how great would be the pain of leaving Emmerton. Yet,
believing that it must be endured, she resolved upon delaying the trial
only till she had taken the last, long farewell of little Rose, and then
to lose no time in making arrangements for her departure. But for Mrs
Herbert's presence, she would have hesitated at leaving Mrs Harrington
whilst so ill; but the exertion which was now so much required, had
rather roused Mrs Herbert, and given her increased strength and energy,
than overpowered her; and Emily felt that her own health must suffer, if
she were to continue much longer with so great a pressure upon her mind.

The only friend with whom she could reside till another situation was
obtained was her former governess; for the aunt who had been the means
of placing her with Mrs Harrington was living abroad: and when once
her determination was fixed, she lost no time in writing to claim the
fulfilment of the promise of receiving her, and to beg that her friend
would exert herself to find some family where she might be admitted as a
governess, for the position she held at Emmerton it would be impossible
to occupy again. The letter was written and sent, yet Emily could not
summon courage to mention it to Mrs Herbert. The shadow of comfort
seemed still left whilst her determination remained secret in her own
mind--at least no one spoke of her departure openly, although it was
certain that Mrs Herbert must really know that it was intended, from the
manner in which it had frequently been implied in their conversations.
Dora came to her frequently, and Margaret sent a request that she might
speak to her soon; but Emily dreaded and avoided an interview which
must recall so much that was painful; and once when they met in Mrs
Harrington's room, though her manner showed how entirely she had
forgiven her, yet both felt relieved upon Margaret's being called away
immediately afterwards, so as to afford no opportunity for mentioning
the subject. It was the evening on which she was to look upon Rose for
the last time, and all her resolution was required to enable her to bear
the trial; but strength was granted to her then as it had been before;
and when it was over, she found a comfort which nothing earthly could
have afforded, in praying that God would enable her to give herself up
wholly to His service, and take her to Himself when her heart had been
made meet for His presence.




CHAPTER XXXII.


It was a calm and sunny morning on which little Rose was carried to
her grave, and with it came a feeling of hope and peace to some of
the family at Emmerton, for it was the promise of the spring amid the
dreariness of winter; and those who had accustomed themselves to read
the truths of religion in the silent language of nature could not but
view it as the type of that morning of the Resurrection--the spring-time
of eternity--when they might trust to receive again the treasure from
which they were now called to part for a season.

Many of the cottagers were assembled to watch the melancholy train as it
wound through the village; for Rose had been a favourite with all, and
there had been heavy hearts and sorrowing faces when it was first known
that she would never visit them again; and by a few amongst them,
also, the brightness of the morning was welcomed with satisfaction; for
although, to careless minds, the gay sunshine appeared but a mockery
on a day of so much sadness, they who were more chastened by affliction
felt that it suited well with the beauty and innocence of a child who
had been taken to happiness before she had tasted of sorrow. Several,
to show their respect for Mr Harrington, followed the procession to
the church; and amongst them old Stephen, notwithstanding his age and
infirmities, placed himself the foremost. He had borne the intelligence
of the accident, and its consequences, with tolerable composure, after
the first shock was past; for he was an old man, he said, and 'twould be
but a very few years, perhaps not one, before he trusted he should see
her sweet little face again. It might be hard for those who were young
to see others taken away, but 'twas very different for the old. He had
had a warning lately; and perhaps the next time the bell tolled it might
be for him.

Yet, notwithstanding his outward calmness, Stephen felt deeply in his
heart; he was anxious and restless, longing to be able to move, that
he might go to Emmerton and get permission to look once more upon his
little pet; and at last when dissuaded from attempting it, he declared
that nothing should prevent him from attending at her funeral, if it
were only as a mark of his duty to the family.

The exertion was greater than in prudence he should have made; but
Stephen had seldom been ruled even by those whom he called his masters;
and he kept to his determination, and slowly and with difficulty walked
to the church. It was nearly filled; and Mr Walton, as he looked upon
the sorrowing faces which surrounded him, felt that his task was a
difficult one; but his thoughts turned from Rose lying in her coffin to
Rose as she really was--an angel in heaven, and the weight passed from
his heart, and he was enabled firmly and unfalteringly to go through
the service. Mr Harrington's face was of a deadly paleness, though he
remained perfectly calm till the moment when the body of his darling
child was lowered to its resting-place in the tomb of her ancestors;
but then his fortitude forsook him; and when the earth fell with a dull,
heavy sound upon the coffin, he covered his face with his hands, and
leaned against the wall for support, vainly endeavouring to conceal his
grief.

There were few present who did not participate in it; and when he left
the church many glances of sympathy were cast on him by persons with
whose names even he was unacquainted; but Stephen could not be contented
with looks; forgetting the years that had elapsed since he had held him
in his arms, and taught him to guide his pony, and conscious only of the
affection which he felt for the family, he stopped him as he passed the
churchyard gate, and seizing both his hands exclaimed--"'tis a sad day
for us all, sir, and there's none but will feel for you; only we would
not have her back again, for she was too good for this world."

"Thank you, thank you, Stephen," said Mr Harrington, returning the
pressure warmly; "we will talk another day, but not now."

"No, not now," replied Stephen; "only I couldn't help letting your
honour see that I thought of you. I must go home now;" adding, to
himself, "the Colonel, I suppose, will hardly remember me."

"The Colonel will remember you, though, Stephen," said Colonel Herbert,
taking his hand. "It would be a hard thing to come back to England, and
forget one's oldest and best friends. But I shall see you soon, I hope,
in your own cottage, when we are all better and happier."

"I don't like my cottage as I did," replied Stephen, "I shall often
think it was the cause of it all,--not but what it's wrong, though; for
God's will was the cause, and His will must be done."

"Yes," said Colonel Herbert; "and we shall all learn, I hope, to be
resigned."

"In time, sir,--there's nothing like time and good thoughts. And you
will come and see me then, sir, and bring young madam with you, and Miss
Amy. How her little face brightened when she talked to me of your
coming home! We, none of us thought then what was going to happen just
afterwards."

"I must not stay now, Stephen," said Colonel Herbert; "Mr Harrington
is already standing by the carriage. But we will talk about Amy another
time."

"And the young lady, sir,--Miss Morton,--I should like just to know
about her; they say she takes on sadly."

"She is better," replied Colonel Herbert. "Of course it was a dreadful
shock to her."

"Ah, yes! they were always together," said Stephen. "Nobody dreamed
of their being parted so soon. But they will meet,--we shall all meet
again."

"May God grant it!" said Colonel Herbert, as he shook the old steward
warmly by the hand, and then, hastily walking away, he joined Mr
Harrington.

On his return home, Colonel Herbert went immediately to his wife to
inquire for Mrs Harrington and Emily. The former he found had been but
slightly aroused from her apathy, even when purposely told what was
passing; but Emily was better than Mrs Herbert had supposed possible.
The worst suffering had been over on the preceding evening; and she was
now able to converse tranquilly, and even again to allude to her future
prospects. This, however, arose from a restless anxiety that her plans
should be finally fixed. She longed to speak to Mr Harrington, and
decide at once upon leaving Emmerton, feeling that her mind would never
really be calm till this had been done; and she inquired eagerly of Mrs
Herbert, when she thought it would be possible for him to allow her a
few moments' conversation. "I know it cannot be to-day," she said; "it
would be cruel to ask it; but I cannot rest satisfied till I have seen
him."

"I am not sure that it might not be to-day, my dear," replied Mrs
Herbert. "If you have anything on your mind, he would be most anxious to
relieve you."

"It is on my mind, heavily," said Emily; "but I would not for the world
he should be troubled with my affairs when he has so much to oppress
him."

"If it is anything in which he can be of use, perhaps it may interest
and please him," answered Mrs Herbert.

"It is nothing of that kind," said Emily, resolving with great
difficulty to mention her intentions openly. "I wish to tell him that I
must leave Emmerton. I daresay he would name the subject to me if I did
not speak first."

"Will you let us talk to him, my dear? It might save you pain; and we
might be able, together, to form some plan for your future happiness.
You will trust us, I think, to arrange for you."

"Oh!" exclaimed Emily, "if I do not trust you, whom have I on earth to
rest upon? Will you really speak about it as soon as you can? Indeed, I
must leave this place soon."

"You may depend upon my not delaying one moment longer than is
necessary," said Mrs Herbert. "Perhaps this afternoon he may be able to
listen."

"And may I have Amy with me till then?" asked Emily; and then, checking
herself, she added, "but perhaps it will be better not; she will be
happier with you."

"No, indeed, my dear, she will not. You cannot give her a greater
pleasure--especially if she can feel that it is any comfort to you."

"It is only too great a comfort," said Emily; "but to-day, may be nearly
the last time."

"And therefore she shall come to you directly. She is walking in the
garden at present; for she has been very unhappy, and could not fix her
attention to anything in the house."

"I think I should like to walk too," said Emily. "I must be with
the family, and go out again now. And when I am with her I can bear
everything better; and I must tell her myself that I am going."

"Not to-day," replied Mrs Herbert. "Wait till we have spoken to
my brother; and then, perhaps, we may be able to give her a little
consolation, for she will feel dreadfully."

Emily knew that it would have been a relief to have mentioned the
subject at once; but she assented instantly to Mrs Herbert's wishes,
unwilling to give a moment's unnecessary pain to any one, especially to
Amy. The restriction prevented her from finding as much satisfaction
in her walk as she might otherwise have done; but to Amy it brought
feelings more approaching to pleasure than any she had experienced for
the last week; for it seemed like the restoration of the days when Emily
was always delighted with her society. "I thought, perhaps, you would
come out," she said, "at least in the afternoon; for I am sure you will
never feel better while you sit alone in the house."

"It is like a spring day," said Emily. "Who could imagine we were now in
the beginning of January."

"It does not seem like a spring day, though," said Amy, sadly. "I never
thought before that sunshine could be so melancholy."

"It will be cheerful to you again, soon. When you go back to the cottage
with your papa and mamma, you will feel just as you used to do."

"No," said Amy; "nothing will seem as it used to be while you are
unhappy."

"I am not going to be miserable," answered Emily, endeavouring to smile.
"I know there is not really any cause for it. My darling Rose is far
happier than we can imagine; and whilst there are so many duties to be
attended to, I hope I shall never sit down idly to repine at the will of
God."

"Rose must be happy," exclaimed Amy. "I thought just now I should like
to be her."

"We should all like it," said Emily, "if we could only see her as she
now is. Yet I believe it is really a great blessing that we do not know
more clearly what heaven is like; for if we did we should sometimes
be scarcely able to endure our life here, even when it is the most
blessed."

"I wish I could know, though," replied Amy; "it would make me so happy
to think of going there."

"But, then, you must remember," said Emily, "that if we had once seen
the beauty of heaven we should have no pleasure comparatively upon
earth. There are a great many things we enjoy now, which are very
innocent and good, and help us to bear up against sorrow; but they would
be of no use to us if we could contrast them with the glories of heaven.
This bright sunshine, for instance, and the lawn, and the evergreens,
and the water, and all that beautiful country beyond, would seem nothing
if we could know how much more beautiful the world is to which we hope
to be taken when we die."

"I see that," replied Amy, "because I remember, after I had been at
Rochford Park, the cottage seemed quite changed, and not half as pretty
as it was before--yet it was not really altered; but I do not think
I should have cared so much if I had thought that I should ever live
there."

"You will not care again," said Emily, "if you will learn to look upon
all beautiful things as the types or images of the treasures of heaven;
for no one will desire very much to possess an imperfect picture of
any object when he is soon to enjoy the reality. I can understand your
feeling, though, entirely; and Rochford Park, I have heard, is very
lovely."

"But the people who live there are not lovely," said Amy; "only Mr
Cunningham, I like. As for Miss Cunningham, I am afraid I shall dislike
her more than ever now."

"You must try not," replied Emily. "She might have been very different
with better education; and we might have been like her if our
temptations had been as great."

"Not you," said Amy; "I am sure it is impossible."

"Nothing of the kind is impossible, dearest," replied Emily. "We might
all have been like the worst persons that ever lived if we had not
received such great advantages; and, even now, God will not consider us
better than others if we do not profit by them. There are many of us who
bear a very good character in the world, and yet must appear hateful in
the sight of God."

"I think that is papa just come out of the house," exclaimed Amy.

Emily stopped and trembled. "I do not think I can speak to him now," she
said, faintly. "Will you come with me into another walk?"

"The one leading to the lake is the most private," said Amy; "only there
is not so much sunshine there."

Emily did not reply, but moved quickly away; and a few minutes
afterwards Mr Harrington and his sister joined Colonel Herbert on the
terrace. They walked for some time almost in silence; and Amy, as she
watched them could not help wishing; that her mamma might see Miss
Morton, and come to her, for it would be a pleasure to both of them;
and it did not seem that she was doing any good in being with her uncle.
After a time, however, something was said which apparently interested Mr
Harrington; for he listened attentively while Colonel Herbert spoke, and
then answered him with greater animation than he had before shown.
Amy had a full opportunity for observing all this, as Emily had become
suddenly silent. She also was looking at the party on the terrace,
and was evidently thinking only of them. The conversation lasted for a
considerable time, and Amy, fearing that Miss Morton would be fatigued,
begged her to go in; but she answered, rather hurriedly, that she would
much rather not; and Amy was not inclined to press the matter, for the
unusually mild air and the brightness of the weather had seldom been so
refreshing to her.

Sometimes, as she watched her father, she thought the conversation must
have some reference to Emily, for he looked frequently towards her; and
Mrs Herbert's smile, as they once unexpectedly met at the angle of the
terrace, made her hope that the subject might be an agreeable one. She
did not, however, dwell much upon the idea, having never understood that
it was likely for any change to take place in Emily's situation; but
just as she was about again to propose that they should go in, Colonel
Herbert left Mr Harrington, and coming towards them, told Amy that she
had better walk with her mamma, as he wished to speak to Miss Morton a
few minutes alone. "I will not detain you long," he added, turning to
Emily; "for I am sure you must be tired. Perhaps you would rather rest
yourself first?"

"Oh no!" exclaimed Emily; "I am not in the least tired; and I would much
rather hear everything now."

"You will, perhaps, scarcely imagine the subject I wish to mention,"
said Colonel Herbert, as he walked by her side; "but you have said that
you would give us the privilege of old friends, and allow us to name
your wishes to Mr Harrington; and though I am so little known to you, I
hope, when you have heard my reasons, you will not think me intrusive in
wishing to speak of them to yourself, personally. If your memory could
carry you back as far as mine, I think you would understand why I can
never consider you a stranger."

"Indeed, I can remember," said Emily, and her voice faltered. "They were
my happiest days, and every person connected with them must always be
remembered by me, particularly one who was so well acquainted with my
family, and so kind to them."

"Then we will not be strangers," said Colonel Herbert, "but old friends
who have a mutual interest in each other's welfare. If you will promise
to think of me in that light, I shall have less hesitation in asking a
favour of you."

"Of me!" exclaimed Emily, with surprise; "you cannot doubt my
willingness to grant anything you may require; but it seems impossible
that I should be able to do anything for you."

"I understand," replied Colonel Herbert, "that it is your wish now to
leave Emmerton, and Mr Harrington agrees in thinking that it may perhaps
be better; but he is very unwilling that you should go at once amongst
strangers, with whom you can have no sympathy; and the idea of it has
made him extremely uncomfortable, for he feels, with Mrs Herbert and
myself, that from our early acquaintance we are in a great degree your
guardians and protectors, and bound to consult your happiness."

"You are very, very kind," said Emily; "but I doubt if you will be able
to think of anything better for me in the end."

"Will you try the plan we wish to propose?" said Colonel Herbert. "If
it should not conduce to your happiness, we should be the first to wish
that it might be altered."

"I will do anything that is thought right," replied Emily.

"Then," said Colonel Herbert, "will you consent to return with us to the
cottage, and take Amy for your pupil?"

Emily was silent, and for an instant Colonel Herbert feared that some
objection might exist in her mind for which he was not prepared; but
when he looked at her countenance, he saw that she was endeavouring to
answer him calmly. Twice she tried to speak, but her words were choked;
and at last, giving way entirely, she burst into tears. Colonel Herbert
felt that his presence must be painful to her, and merely saying that he
would wait for an answer till she had had more time for consideration,
he left her, and she was immediately afterwards joined by Mrs Herbert.

"I am afraid you have been startled, my dear," she said; "Colonel
Herbert insisted upon speaking to you himself; but men never know how to
manage these things well."

"Oh! indeed," said Emily, "he has only been too kind; but it cannot
really be true; you cannot mean that I shall not be obliged to go away
from you?"

"It must depend entirely upon your own choice," replied Mrs Herbert. "If
you can be happy with us, and will consent to take charge of Amy, you
will ease me of a burden which is too much for my health, and give us
all most heartfelt pleasure."

"But Mr Harrington," said Emily, feeling as if there must be some
objection to a plan which promised so many blessings at a moment when
she was almost overwhelmed with sorrow.

"My brother feels with us entirely; it will be a real relief to him to
know that you are happy, or at least in the way of becoming so; for we
can only hope to make you tranquil and comfortable at first. And now I
shall not let you stay here any longer, but you must go to your room,
and I will send Amy to you. We thought that, perhaps, you would like to
name the subject to her yourself."

Emily spent the few moments that elapsed before Amy's knock was heard at
her door in endeavouring to realise the mercy thus granted her, and to
feel grateful to God, who had bestowed it. Though almost confused by the
suddenness of the idea, yet her first thought had been of Him; and if in
the time of sorrow she had prayed earnestly to be devoted to His service
in thought, and word, and deed, still more earnestly did she now pray
that no earthly blessings might ever lead her heart from Him.

Amy's countenance was sad when she entered. She had been talking to
Dora, whose spirits were so much depressed that it was difficult
to console her. Amy had seen comparatively little of her during the
preceding week, for she had been in constant attendance upon her mother,
or endeavouring to cheer Margaret; but the latter did not now require so
much sympathy; she was quiet and sorrowful, but the first excitement
of feeling was over; and her aunt's conversation had in a great measure
satisfied her mind as to her own share in the accident. Dora had,
therefore, more time to give to her own reflections; and they were very
painful. Everything around her was melancholy; and even her mother's
abstraction and indifference were scarcely so distressing to witness
as her father's silent suffering, and Frank's mournful face; while the
thought of Emily Morton was almost worse than either; for Dora felt
that she might have been a comfort to her now, if she had only been
less unkind before. It gave her a pang to know that Amy was admitted to
Emily's room at all times, though she had only been acquainted with her
for a few months, while her own visits were merely occasional; it would
have been far more natural and right that Emily should look to her as a
companion; and as she thought this, Dora's memory recalled all her
past neglect and selfishness, and the bitterness of self-reproach added
tenfold to her other sorrows. Amy heard it all, but could say little in
reply. She knew that Dora had often acted very wrongly, and that now she
was justly suffering for it; but she also felt quite certain that Emily
Morton did not for a moment think of it.

Dora, however, was not satisfied with this assurance; she could not be,
till she had spoken to Emily herself. "I cannot bear," she said, "only
to be allowed to go into her room now and then; it seems as if she were
quite cut off from us--and Margaret says the same; for indeed, Amy, you
cannot think how sorry Margaret is now for what she did. She has been
speaking about it to me this morning, and she wishes so much to say
something. I believe aunt Herbert made her promise to do it, when she
had that long conversation with her the other day. When do you think
Emily will be able to see us both? I mean not just for a few minutes,
but really to talk to her."

"I daresay she will to-morrow," said Amy; "for I believe she intends
going down-stairs as usual, now; and then you will see how true it is
that she does not think about anything, but really loves you very much."

"She is almost an angel, I believe," said Dora, earnestly.

"Yes, indeed she is," exclaimed Amy; "I am afraid to think much about
her being so good, because then I get a fancy that she will be taken
away; and I could not bear her to go."

"But I don't think she will stay here," said Dora.

"What do you mean?" inquired Amy, hastily.

"It will be so different now to what it used to be. She will not have
much to do with Margaret and me; and I am nearly sure she will go."

"But not yet--you cannot mean yet?" said Amy. "I daresay it may be when
you are quite grown up; but that is so far off."

"I think she will leave us at once," said Dora. "I have often heard
mamma say that she had but one very great reason for keeping her; and
you know that is all gone."

"Yes," said Amy, thoughtfully; "but she can teach you still."

"Mamma's notions are changed, lately, I think," replied Dora; "she does
not like having a person who is a governess and no governess."

"But has she said anything to you?" inquired Amy.

"No; for poor mamma does not think of anything now. I don't know when
she will again."

"Then Miss Morton cannot possibly go away yet?"

"Perhaps not; but at any rate she will before very long. I wonder you
never yet thought about it, Amy."

"It seems quite impossible," said Amy. "I cannot think of Emmerton and
you without her."

"She will never be happy here," replied Dora; "so perhaps it will be
better; only I should be glad for her to remain here some time. I think
I should try and make her comfortable."

"I must ask mamma," said Amy. "It makes me so unhappy to think about it.
I shall never rest till it is quite certain."

"I don't think any one knows for certain," replied Dora; "but you will
soon learn from what Emily says herself."

"I cannot ask her," said Amy; "but I am sure mamma must know; and she
must be come in by this time. I wonder whether what papa wished to say
to Miss Morton had anything to do with it?"

"Oh no! he would not be the person to talk to her. But you need not
distress yourself so much. Amy; it will not be just yet."

"I must know," said Amy. And she ran off to her mother's room; but she
was stopped by Susan Reynolds, who told her that Miss Morton desired to
speak to her. Amy's fears immediately conjectured the intelligence
she was to receive, and her face plainly betrayed her anxiety. "Is it
anything very particular?" she said, as she entered. "Is anything the
matter?"

"Why should you think so?" replied Emily gently. "It is not very strange
that I should like to have you with me."

"But Dora says,"--and here Amy paused, for she felt that to repeat the
conversation would be to inquire into Miss Morton's plans.

"What does she say?" asked Emily. "You are not afraid of telling me
anything, are you?"

"Not if it is right," replied Amy; "but I don't think I ought to say
this."

"Then you shall not," said Emily. "I am sure you will judge properly;
only, if it is anything that concerns me, you need hardly think that I
should be vexed."

"Are you quite sure? I should be so very glad to know; but I thought it
would seem impertinent."

"I will let you ask anything you like," replied Emily; "and if it is
something I must not answer, I will tell you."

"You will not go away?" said Amy, timidly, and at the same time looking
anxiously in Miss Morton's face.

"I am going from Emmerton," replied Emily; and poor Amy felt as if
a shot had passed through her heart. "But I am not going far away, I
hope," she added, as she watched the quiet tears that trickled down
Amy's cheek. "It depends upon you how far."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy; "it cannot depend upon me. You know I would
never have you go away from me; I would have you live with me always,
and I would love you, and do everything for you, and I would attend to
all your wishes; and then, perhaps, some day you might say that I had
made you happy."

"And will you really love your governess?" said Emily. And she put her
arm round Amy's waist, and drew her fondly towards her.

The truth flashed in a moment across Amy's mind. "Was that really what
papa said?" she exclaimed.

"He asked me," replied Emily, "if I would go back with you to the
cottage: and he said that you should be my pupil; and now you shall
decide."

Amy could not answer; for words are even more powerless to express
joy than grief. But Emily needed no assurances; and for the moment she
yielded without fear to the consolation which an affection so deep was
capable of affording her.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


There was a strange mixture of feeling in Amy's mind, on the following
morning, when she thought of all that had lately occurred. It was
impossible to forget Rose, but it was equally impossible to avoid
thinking of Emily; and she immediately began to anticipate the pleasure
of living with her, and exerting herself for her happiness. The new
arrangement was satisfactory to every one, though when named to Mrs
Harrington, she merely said, "Yes, certainly, it would do very well;"
and then appeared to take no further interest in it. Even Dora and
Margaret felt it a comfort that Emily would be near them; for now that
they were about to lose her, they first began to be sensible of her
value. Little unthought-of kindnesses and daily self-denials were
remembered with regret that they had been so lightly appreciated: and
Dora looked at her music-books, and Margaret at her portfolio, and
sighed as they thought that they should have no one for the future to
take an interest in them as Emily had done.

"I shall envy you more than ever, Amy," said Dora, as they walked
together in the garden a few days afterwards. "I always thought you were
happier than we were; and lately, I am sure of it."

"You will get better by and by," said Amy. "I know how you must
feel,--the place is so altered."

"Yes," observed Margaret; "and it will never be what it was again. It
does not look the same."

"I think even the blue sky has grown dim," said Dora; "yet I like to
look at it, because I can think that little Rose is there. But the sky
will never be dim to you, Amy."

"Why not?" asked Amy. "I know I must have a great many sorrows, just as
other people have."

"But," replied Dora, "I am sure it is something in one's own mind which
causes it. The earth often looks gloomy when there is really nothing
the matter; but I do not think the sky would, if we never did wrong: and
that is the reason why I do not think it ever will to you."

"Indeed, Dora," exclaimed Amy; "you don't know anything about me; and
you will find out some day how bad I am."

"I dont wish to find it out," said Dora. "It pleases me to believe there
are some people in the world who always do right."

"Then you shall believe it of mamma, and Mrs Walton, and Miss Morton,"
said Amy.

"I don't like to think of Emily," replied Dora. "When will she let us go
and talk to her."

"I hope she will soon," said Margaret. "It quite weighs upon my mind."

"I told her yesterday that you wished it," answered Amy; "and then she
said you thought a great deal more about things than herself, and she
did not like you to be distressed; and that she had thought you would
have understood her feelings by her manner at breakfast and dinner."

"That will not quite please my aunt," said Margaret. "I promised her
I would speak to Emily myself; and I do wish very much to do what she
likes."

"There is Miss Morton just coming down the steps," said Amy; "perhaps if
I were to go away, you would like to say something now."

Margaret rather hesitated, feeling half ashamed when the opportunity
was given her; but Dora urged that there might be no delay: and Amy went
into another walk.

"I fancied," said Emily, as she came up to them, "that Amy was with you.
Mr Walton is in the house, and wishes to see her."

"I will go and call her," said Dora; "she is only gone into one of the
back walks."

Emily begged she would not trouble herself; but Dora felt quite pleased
with the opportunity of showing her a little attention; and Margaret
and Emily were left alone. Margaret was extremely embarrassed; and
Emily perceiving that something was the matter, made a few passing
observations on the beauty of the weather.

Margaret's answers were short, for her mind was pre-occupied; and it was
not till she saw Dora returning that she summoned courage to say, "You
would not let me speak to you before; but I must tell you now, I am so
very sorry,--and I have wished so much that you should know it."

"Indeed, I have known it," replied Emily; "and I hoped you would have
understood from my manner how little I have thought about it. We have
both been suffering too much not to feel for each other; and I have had
you in my mind very often, and wished that I could have comforted you."

"But it was not only that," continued Margaret; "I wanted to say, and
so did Dora too, that we know we have often been very unkind, and done a
great many wrong things; and we should be much happier if you would say
that you forgive us."

"Will you?" said Dora, who had been walking a few paces by their side.

"I do not like to say it," replied Emily; "it seems now as if I had no
right to do it. All the pleasure I have known for the last two years has
been found in your family; and what I feel now is thankfulness that it
has been so much greater than I deserve."

"But we did not make you happy," said Dora. "You would have been
miserable if it had not been----'

"For Rose," continued Emily, firmly. "I do not know, indeed, how I
should have felt without her; but with her I had, at times, all that I
dared desire; and now God has given me blessings for which I can never
be sufficiently grateful."

"Yes," said Dora; "Amy is a blessing to every one."

"And you are blessings too," replied Emily, in a tone of deep interest
and kindness. "You do not know the satisfaction you are affording me
now; and you may be unspeakable blessings to your parents."

"We shall not know what to do when you are gone," said Margaret; "and my
aunt and Amy also."

"Your mamma will recover herself by and by, I have no doubt; and then we
shall be so near, it will be scarcely like a separation."

"There was one thing," said Dora, "which I thought I would ask you: but
I am afraid you will not tell me if you had rather not."

"I will tell you really, though," replied Emily. "I always try to say
exactly what I mean."

"Then do you think, sometimes, if we go to the cottage, you would be
able to hear us play, and look at our drawings? We shall be so very much
at a loss without you."

"I trust," said Emily, "that my being away will make but very little
difference to you in those things; you know I shall not be so far off
but that I can come to you, or assist you whenever it will give you the
smallest pleasure."

Dora expressed her thanks, and felt how little she deserved such
kindness; and Margaret hoped that she would not leave them yet.
"Everything will seem a great deal worse then," she said.

"Mrs Herbert intends staying with your mamma while she continues so
ill, I believe," replied Emily; "but when she is better, I heard Colonel
Herbert say, he should like to go directly to the cottage."

"Do you know what Dr Bailey thinks about mamma?" asked Margaret.

"He says that she requires change, but she is not equal to the exertion
of moving."

"I wish we might go somewhere before Frank returns to school," observed
Dora. "He has had such melancholy holidays."

"Should you like to go to London?" said Emily.

Margaret started at the idea. "Oh no!--not to London; any place but
that."

"I thought you wished it once," said Emily.

"Yes; but things are altered since then. I shall never wish to go
there."

Emily looked surprised; but she did not inquire the reason of Margaret's
sudden alteration of feeling, thinking it was most probably caused by
the loss they had all sustained; and remarking that Mr Walton might
perhaps wish to see them before he went away, she proposed that they
should go into the house. The mention of London brought many sad
reflections to Margaret's mind; and while slowly following her sister
and Emily, she began to think of Miss Cunningham, and to wonder what her
feelings had been upon learning all that had happened, and whether the
idea that she had been the origin of it had occurred to distress her.
"Do you think Lucy will go to London without us?" she said to Dora.

"She will never go at all, if she does not," replied Dora. "Papa will
not consent to her being with us again as she used to be."

"She will be very sorry about it," said Margaret.

"Oh! it will not signify to her. She will find other persons to suit
her just as well; and she will go to gay parties, and drive about in the
parks, and forget us, and everything about us."

"Not everything," said Margaret. "I am sure she cannot forget
everything. She must feel for us."

"Perhaps she may care for a day or two; but it is not her way to think
on any subject long. Do you think it is?" added Dora, turning to Emily,
and moving aside to allow her to pass before her into the house.

"I hope it may be, by and by," was the reply; "but I am afraid she has
not been taught to think much as yet."

"There is one of the Rochford servants coming down the avenue now," said
Dora. "Perhaps he has brought a note or a message."

"I suppose he is only come as usual to inquire for mamma," said
Margaret. "Morris says Lord Rochford has sent nearly every day."

There was, however, a note for Margaret, which was given her just as she
was about to go into the drawing-room, but there was no time to read it
till Mr Walton was gone.

He did not stay long, for he had seen Mrs Harrington, and was anxious
to return home to keep an engagement; but he was very much pressed to
repeat his visit, especially by Mrs Herbert, who hoped that seeing him
might be effectual in exciting Mrs Harrington's interest. "I think,"
she said, "that my sister will take more notice of you another time;
I remarked to-day that she listened more than usual to what you were
saying."

Mr Walton promised to return, if possible, the next day; and then,
taking his leave, Margaret was at liberty to read Miss Cunningham's
note. It was short, and Margaret thought cool, although there were many
expressions of sympathy for the family. "Her brother," she said,
"had begged her to write, but she had not much to say, though she was
extremely sorry for them, and hoped that Mrs Harrington had not been
very angry with Margaret. She expected soon to be able to drive over
to Emmerton, and, in the meantime, should be very glad to hear of them
all."

"I would not give much for Miss Cunningham's affection after such a note
as that," said Dora.

"What did you expect from her?" asked Emily.

"I don't know, exactly; but any one might have written it; and after
being with us so much, I think she might have said something more. I did
not imagine she cared for me at all, but I thought she had some feeling
for Margaret."

"Do you think it cool?" said Margaret, turning to Emily.

"Rather," she replied: "but you could scarcely have supposed she would
have written in any other way."

"Why not?" asked Amy.

"Because it is seldom people feel much for sorrows that are not present
to them. If Miss Cunningham had been with us for the last ten days she
would probably have cared very much more."

"She is so selfish," observed Dora; "she never can sympathise with any
one."

"Indeed," replied Emily, "I think she would if she were taught to do
it."

"How can persons be taught to feel?" said Dora; "it must come naturally
to them."

"Not quite. The feelings are certainly given to us originally, but
they may be very much increased by action. If Miss Cunningham were once
taught to do little trifling kindnesses for her friends she would soon
feel for them. You know it is almost a proverb that benefactors are fond
of those on whom they confer favours."

"I dare say you may be right," said Dora; "but I cannot imagine
that Lucy Cunningham will ever be anything but a cold, hard-hearted,
disagreeable girl. Margaret perhaps may find out her virtues some day or
other, but I am afraid I never shall."

Margaret was silent:--she was vexed and disappointed, but did not like
to own it; and she was so fully aware of her unkindness to Emily, that
she expected Lucy to be the same, forgetting how differently they had
been circumstanced. Miss Cunningham's preference had flattered her,
while she believed it real; but she was now beginning to perceive that,
where selfishness is the foundation of the character, no trust can be
placed in any professions of affection.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


It was about three weeks afterwards, during which time nothing
particular had occurred to vary Amy's life at Emmerton, that Margaret
received a second note from Miss Cunningham, which gave her much greater
vexation than the former. It was written more naturally, but the tone
was one of considerable annoyance.

Lord Rochford, at Mr Cunningham's request, had settled that the journey
to London should be postponed another year, as, upon consideration, he
thought Lucy too young to join in any amusements, and not sufficiently
advanced in her education to profit by masters. The French governess
was, therefore, to be dismissed, and another provided, who might be more
equal to instruct her.

"This is the most provoking part of the whole business," wrote Miss
Cunningham. "Madame was the kindest creature possible, and allowed me
to do just as I chose in everything; and now I shall be pestered from
morning till night by a stiff, formal, odious Englishwoman. And I must
say, Margaret, that it is a very great deal your doing; at least, I am
sure, if I had not gone to Emmerton, nothing of the kind would have been
thought of; and George has grown so disagreeable lately, he is not to be
endured."

"It would be strange," said Dora, when Margaret showed her the note,
"if, after all, we should go to London, now that Lucy is obliged to stay
at home."

Margaret was unprepared for the idea, for she had not been so much with
her father as Dora, and was, therefore, not aware of the conversation
that had lately passed between him and Mrs Herbert. Dora could not give
her any certain information; but she knew that a plan was in agitation
for some change; and she had overheard Colonel Herbert urging her father
to try London. The reason of this was, not simply that Mrs Harrington
required a different scene to relieve her spirits, but that it was also
considered advisable to have the benefit of further medical advice. She
had, indeed, partly recovered her interest in everyday occurrences,
but her nerves had been so much shaken, that but little discernment was
needed to discover how much she was altered. The necessary orders for
the arrangement of the house were given as usual, but she had entirely
lost the quick, restless activity which had formerly made her notice
even the minutest inattention to her wishes; and when her morning
occupations were over, she would sit abstracted and silent for hours,
having apparently neither the power nor the inclination to move. Every
noise startled, and every exertion was a trouble to her; her days were
gloomy, and her nights disturbed: and her husband could not but have
many anxious fears for the future, if she were to continue long in such
a state. The only thing which really seemed to rouse and comfort her was
the conversation of Mr Walton, whose visits at the Hall were now almost
of daily occurrence. At first she had allowed him in silence to talk
to Mrs Herbert; but, after a time, her interest in his observations was
awakened; and Mrs Herbert, perceiving it, took frequent opportunities of
leaving them together, and although the result of these interviews was
as yet but slightly apparent, they gave Mrs Herbert many sanguine hopes
that they might eventually be of infinite service.

As Mrs Harrington's health improved, Colonel Herbert became desirous of
returning to the cottage, for he longed to enter upon the plan of life
which he had so often pictured to himself; and he was afraid that,
whilst Mrs Herbert remained at Emmerton, she would continue to exert
herself far beyond her strength. It was impossible, also, that Miss
Morton should recover her spirits whilst in a place where everything
reminded her of little Rose; for although Amy was her constant
companion, her occupations were gone, and her feelings unsettled; and
Colonel Herbert, who watched her with interest, saw in her subdued,
melancholy countenance an additional inducement for hastening his
departure. Mrs Harrington strongly objected to the idea of going
to London, when the proposition was first made; but her husband's
uneasiness at length prevailed on her to consent, much to the distress
of Margaret, who could look forward to nothing but gloom in a journey
undertaken under such different circumstances from what she had
originally anticipated. "I wish," she said to Dora, when the plan was
mentioned as positively settled, "that my uncle had proposed anything
else; there might have been a little pleasure in going to some other
place, but there can be nothing but dulness and misery in London."

"Yes," said Dora; "I really think that sometimes having what we wish
is a punishment to us; not that I ever cared for London as you did,
Margaret; but I used to fancy that it would be nice to see all the
sights."

"I will never wish again," said Margaret; "it only makes one
disappointed when the time comes, I suppose now we shall go to a dull,
quiet part of the town, and not see any one."

"And have lessons," continued Dora, "without any person to help us, as
Emily would have done; and be engaged all day besides in attending upon
mamma."

Margaret remembered her conversation with Miss Cunningham, when she had
been threatened with almost precisely the same kind of life; and it
was impossible not to feel that what Dora had said might be true;
her punishment seemed, indeed, to have been sent in the partial
gratification of the wishes she had so wrongly indulged.

"How I envy Amy," she exclaimed. "Everything will be delightful to her,
and everything will be wretched to us."

"Amy deserves happiness," said Dora. "If we were to change places
to-morrow, we should not feel as she does."

"No," replied Margaret. "I don't think I should quite like living in
that small cottage, and having things so different from what they are
here; but she does not care about it."

"I think she used to do so," said Dora; "but I am sure she must have
seen lately that luxuries are no comfort when people are unhappy. It is
not because of the cottage being smaller that I think we should not be
happy if we lived there, but because we are not at all like Amy."

"Of course not," replied Margaret; "what two people in the world are
alike? And then we have been brought up so differently."

"A great many people are alike, though," said Dora; "my aunt, and uncle,
and Emily are, and Mr Walton, too; and I would rather think and feel as
they do than live in a palace."

"Would you?" said Margaret. "I am not sure about that."

"But indeed," replied Dora, "it must be better. I never thought about
it till I knew Amy; but now I am quite certain. All such persons seem to
carry about their happiness with them."

"Not always. I have seen Amy unhappy; and Emily Morton, we all know, has
been miserable."

"Yes," said Dora; "but I am sure it is not like our unhappiness. There
is always something to comfort them, because they think their troubles
are sent them, and that they shall be happy when they die, even if they
are ever so miserable now, I could bear anything if I did not think it
would last for ever."

"But how should it?" said Margaret. "You know everything will come to an
end at some time or other."

"Oh Margaret!" exclaimed her sister, "please don't talk so."

"Why not? it is true."

"No," replied Dora; "it cannot be true to say that troubles will come to
an end when we die, if we have not tried to do right. Amy put it into my
head to think about it one night, when I was with her as she was going
to bed. She said that sleep was like death, and perhaps we might never
wake again; and ever since that I have never gone to sleep without
remembering it; and sometimes I become so frightened."

"I should be frightened too," said Margaret, "if I thought about it; but
I never do; it is very disagreeable."

"Amy does not think it disagreeable," answered Dora. "She told me that
same night how happy she was when she went to bed; and that she thought
angels watched over her. Oh, how I wish I could be like her!"

"It makes me uncomfortable to think of it," said Margaret. "It must be
impossible!"

"I should be glad to try, though," replied Dora. "I never saw any one
else who made me wish it half as much. Almost all other good persons we
have known have been so much older: and I never believed it was possible
to be so good when one was so young."

"It will be very nice to have her here again when we come back from
London," said Margaret; "and Emily Morton, too. I could never bear this
place now if it were not for them."

At this instant Amy ran hastily into the room--evidently the bearer
of some news which she was anxious to communicate. "Do you know," she
exclaimed, "when you are going?"

"No," replied Dora. "Papa, I think, has written about a house, but he
has not had an answer."

"The answer is just come," continued Amy; "and there is some reason why
you must hasten, rather: so my uncle says. I believe you must take the
house from next Monday; and, therefore, you are all to leave Emmerton on
Tuesday, and to be in London on Wednesday."

"So very soon," said Dora, looking grave.

"I was in hopes you would like it," replied Amy. "I know you did not
wish it at first, but I fancied when the time came you really would be
glad. Frank is delighted, because my uncle says he shall stay a day or
two extra with you in London before he goes to school."

"And you will go back to the cottage," said Dora. "What a happy party
you will be!"

"Not Miss Morton," replied Amy; "I don't think she will smile heartily
for some time to come. But mamma wishes her to have everything just as
she likes: and we are to walk to the cottage this afternoon to give some
orders about her room, and then we are to call at the rectory."

"I should like to go with you," said Dora; "but mamma will want me at
home; there will be so many things to be done now, the time is so short.
Are you quite sure it is fixed?"

"I heard my uncle talking to papa about it; and he said some of the
servants were to go on Monday to have everything ready for you. But,
dear Margaret, don't look so very sad."

"I cannot help it," said Margaret, bursting into tears. "Two months ago
it would have given me such pleasure; and now it is so miserable."

"You will like it when you are there, I dare say," replied Amy.

"Oh no; how can I? What will there be that will be pleasant, with mamma
ill and in bad spirits, and not going out anywhere, or seeing any one?"

"Should you have liked it better if Miss Cunningham had been there at
the same time?" asked Amy.

"No," replied Margaret, almost indignantly. "It will never give me any
pleasure to be with her again. She does not care for me, or for any
one but herself; and she does nothing but blame me for everything that
happens that she does not like. I wish sincerely I had never seen or
heard of her; perhaps then all might have been as it used to be."

"It can do no good to think so now," observed Dora, sighing. "We had
better make the best of it all, and go and ask mamma what orders we are
to give to Morris."

"Will Susan Reynolds go too? It would be rather nice having both of
them," said Margaret.

"Susan Reynolds is not to stay with us," replied Dora. "There will
be nothing for her to do. Perhaps, Amy, my aunt will take her to the
cottage."

"No, she will not do that," answered Amy; "because I asked her about
it yesterday, and she said it would be an additional servant; and papa
would not like it: but Mrs Saville, I believe, has determined on taking
her; and mamma thinks Susan will be quite contented with her by and by,
though just now she is very unhappy at leaving Miss Morton."

"I am glad she is not going far away," said Dora. "I have liked her
lately a great deal better than Morris."

"I like her," observed Amy, "because she is so fond of Miss Morton,
and was so kind and thoughtful the other day, when she was in such
distress."

Margaret's face flushed upon hearing this allusion to the suffering of
which she had been the cause, for she could never think of it without
pain; and each day, as she became more alive to Emily's goodness, she
wondered more at her own selfishness. There was now, however, but little
time for reflection--so much was to be quickly arranged in consequence
of the hasty departure, that every moment was occupied: and Margaret
began to forget her sorrow in the bustle of preparation. The excitement
was of use also to Mrs Harrington. She gave her orders with something
like energy, and seemed to have recovered a portion of her former
quickness of discernment; yet Mrs Herbert remarked little instances of
consideration, which had before been quite foreign to her character.
She herself collected many things that had belonged to little Rose, and
giving them to Mrs Herbert, requested that they might be kept for
Miss Morton till after they were gone; and, on the day previous to the
journey, she called Emily to her room, and, after expressing how much
she felt for the affectionate care that had always been evinced to her
darling child, she put into her hands a gold locket, enclosing a bright
curl of chestnut hair, which she begged might be worn for the sake
of one who had been very precious to them both. Emily was more deeply
touched by the tone in which this was spoken than even by the action
itself. It told of a broken, humble spirit; and much as she longed to
comfort a mother's grief, she could not but rejoice in the effect that
it appeared likely to produce on her character.

"We shall see you again to-morrow, as we pass the cottage," said Mrs
Harrington, when Emily had warmly thanked her for this remembrance;
"Colonel Herbert insists upon our calling; but it will only be for a
moment, as we shall have a long day's journey before us."

"Perhaps," said Emily, "you would allow me to remain here to-night. I
might be able to assist you; and it would be a pleasure to me to think
that my last evening at Emmerton had been a useful one."

But Mrs Harrington would on no account listen to the proposal. She saw
that Emily was feeling very much even then, and she knew that it would
be far worse for her on the following morning, when the house would be
left silent and deserted, "I shall be glad," she said, "to think that
we leave you comfortably settled with friends who are so much interested
about you; and I am sure neither Mrs Herbert nor Amy would bear the
thought of your staying behind."

Emily did not press the proposal, for she was conscious that to act
upon it would give her much pain; but she employed the hour that elapsed
before the carriage was ordered to take them to the cottage in arranging
different things for Dora and Margaret, which they did not understand
themselves, and which Morris thought herself too busy to attend to.

The moment for departure at length arrived; but Amy would not allow that
she was saying "good-bye," for she dwelt upon the thought of seeing her
cousins the next morning.

"It is good-bye to Emmerton, though," said Dora.

"Yes," replied Amy; "and I don't like it at all, now it is come to
the point. I shall always avoid the place till your return. It will be
nearly the summer then, I suppose, or, at least, it will be quite late
in the spring."

"You must write very often," said Dora, "it will be our greatest
pleasure when we are shut up in London." And then, turning to Emily, she
added, "I have no right to ask any favour of you; but you do not know
how glad we should be to hear from you. We should think then that you
had quite forgiven us."

"I cannot write for that purpose," said Emily, endeavouring to smile;
"but if you will let me tell you how I am, and what I am doing, for my
own satisfaction, I think you will not find me negligent."

"It seems," said Amy, "as if I had a great many things to say; but
everything is ready, and papa and mamma are waiting. You will be sure
and call to-morrow."

Emily would have spoken again, but her heart was full. Even the prospect
of her life at the cottage could not, at that moment, make her forget
all that had once constituted the charm of Emmerton; and with a feeling
of regard for Dora and Margaret, which a few months before she would
have thought it almost impossible to experience, silently and sadly she
followed Amy to the carriage.

The fire blazed cheerfully in the breakfast-room at Emmerton Cottage on
the following morning, and the sun shone brightly through the window,
as if to prophesy that the gloom of the winter would speedily be passed
away. And there were faces assembled round the table, which suited well
with the brilliancy of the weather. Even Emily, as she seated herself by
Mrs Herbert's side, and listened to her tones of kindness, and watched
Colonel Herbert's attention to her most trifling wishes, could scarcely
feel sad; or if an occasional shadow crossed her mind, it vanished as
she looked upon Amy, and saw the deep, tranquil happiness expressed in
every feature of her countenance. It was the happiness not merely of
external circumstances, but of the inmost heart; for Amy's recollections
of the past were as peaceful as her hope for the future was unclouded;
and the blessing of a holy, humble spirit, was one which no wealth could
have purchased. Many glances were turned to the window to watch for the
carriage from Emmerton; but breakfast was nearly over before it was seen
turning the corner of the lane. Amy ran to the door to beg that they
would come in; but Mr Harrington thought it better not, as they were
already so much later than they had intended. The joint entreaties of
Dora and Margaret at last, however, prevailed, though the permission was
granted only for one instant.

"I wished so much to do it," said Dora, "because I want to fancy how you
go on when we are in London; and it will not seem natural to think that
Emily is here unless I have seen her."

"I can hardly believe that she is really living with us," replied Amy;
"but I should be dreadfully sorry to think that it was not true."

Dora's glance around the room was but momentary, yet it was sufficient
to make her feel how blest Amy must be with such a home, and such
parents. "I could envy you, Amy, so very much," she said, after they had
both spoken a few kind words to Emily, and urged her not to forget her
promise of writing; "yes, I could envy you for everything."

"Not envy," said Colonel Herbert; "you would not wish to deprive her of
her blessings."

"No," answered Dora; "but I would wish to share them; every one wishes
for happiness."

"And every one might find it," observed Colonel Herbert, "if they
would but seek for it rightly. Perhaps, though, I was wrong in saying
happiness; but peace, which is the nearest approach to it on earth, is
in every one's power."

Mr Harrington's voice was heard calling to his daughters to hasten; and
the conversation was abruptly broken off.

"What did your papa mean, Amy?" said Dora, as she stood upon the step of
the carriage. "Just tell me, in one word, if you can, that I may think
about it."

"He must have meant," answered Amy, "what I have often been told, that
when people are good their hearts are at peace, and then no sorrow can
really make them miserable."

Dora had not time to reply. The parting words were once more spoken; the
carriage drove from the door; and Amy returned to her happy fireside,
and the enjoyment of the blessing she had that moment described.

Mr and Mrs Harrington returned with their family to Emmerton; and to a
careless observer, it might have seemed that the death of their
child had produced but a passing impression on their minds. The first
bitterness of grief was gradually softened by time and the daily
occupations of life, and calmness, and even cheerfulness, were at length
restored to them. But the effects of their sorrow were not the less
real, because exhibited in action rather than in words. They were to
be seen in a constant observance of family worship, in an increasing
attention to their children and servants, and in the untiring exertions
which were made to assist Mr Walton in providing for the comfort and
instruction of the poor. The change was felt by every one within the
reach of their influence; but to Dora, it was a blessing beyond all
price, for Emmerton was so retired as to oblige her to depend entirely
upon her home for happiness; and in her parents she now met not only
with affection, but sympathy, and, from their example, learnt to find
her chief satisfaction in the quiet performance of everyday duties. Of
Miss Cunningham she saw but little, Mrs Harrington being too fully alive
to the defects of her disposition and education, to feel any longer
inclined to cultivate an intimacy which had once been considered of so
much importance; and although Margaret's character differed too widely
from Dora's to afford all that was required in a friend, her sister
was enabled, by continual watchfulness, to bear with her failings, and
cherish her better qualities, while the society of Amy gave her the
great blessing of confidence and mutual interest, which formerly she had
so much needed.

And years passed on, and Emily Morton was still an inmate of the
cottage. Amy no longer depended upon her instruction, but the blessing
of her love and her example, when once felt, it was hard to part from;
and neither Colonel Herbert nor his wife could willingly consent again
to cast upon the mercy of the world one who had gradually become dear to
them as their eldest child. Colonel Herbert had prophesied truly, when
he said that the summer of Emily's life was yet to come. The remembrance
of Rose never faded from her mind, but it was blended with a calm and
lasting gratitude for the mercy which had taken her in her innocence
to a world where there was no sin; and Amy's deep affection, and
never-ceasing consideration for her happiness, filled up entirely the
aching void, which would otherwise have been left in her heart. Neither
was there any cause now to fear lest Miss Morton should be treated with
ridicule or contempt at Emmerton, for the feelings with which she was
there regarded were those of the truest esteem and regard; a regard
heightened by the circumstances which had for ever associated her with
the remembrance of little Rose.

And of Amy herself, what more need be said? If the cottage had been a
scene of happiness, when shared only with her mother, its enjoyment was
tenfold increased by the presence of her father and Miss Morton. Mrs
Herbert's health was, for some time, a source of anxiety; but care, and
the tranquillity of her domestic life, by degrees restored her natural
strength, and Amy's mind was then completely at rest; and although,
as she grew up, the romance with which she had once invested Emmerton
partially vanished, her pleasure in visiting it became more real as she
felt, day by day, that her cousins were more fully her friends, and able
to enter into her highest and purest pleasures. And there were times
when even the visions of her childhood seemed realised. The chapel was
opened for daily service whenever the opportunity offered; and Amy could
then yield to the influence of its hallowed beauty, without one sigh of
regret, as she gazed, not upon noble knights and high-born ladies, but
upon those she best loved on earth, about to join in the solemn act of
united worship, and to offer to their Maker, not only the sacrifice of
their lips, but also of their hearts and lives.

Amy's lot was indeed blessed; blessed in her parents, her relations,
and her friends; but, above all, blessed in that she had been taught to
remember her Creator in the days of her youth, and could look forward
with calm confidence to the Divine support in the "evil days," which
must come upon all.



THE END.





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