‘Either this or Charles’s illness has cast a gloom over the whole house. The girls are both grown much graver.’
‘Amy graver?’ said Mary, quickly.
‘I think so. At least she did not seem to cheer up as I should have expected when her brother grew better. She looks as if she had been nursing him too closely, and yet I see her walking a good deal.’
‘Poor little Amy!’ said Mary, and she asked no more questions, but was anxious to make her own observations.
She did not see the Edmonstones till the next evening, as the day was wet, and she only received a little note telling her that one carriage would be sent to fetch her and Mr. Ross. The whole of the family, except Charles, were in the drawing-room, but Mary looked chiefly at Amy. She was in white, with holly in her hair, and did not look sorrowful; but she was paler and thinner than last summer, and though she spoke, smiled, and laughed when she ought, it was without the gay, childish freedom of former times. She was a small, pale, quiet girl now, not a merry, caressing kitten. Mary recollected what she had been in the wood last summer, and was sure it was more than Charles’s illness that had altered her; yet still Amy had not Laura’s harassed look.
Mary had not much talk with Amy, for it was a large party, with a good many young ladies and children, and Amy had a great deal of work in the way of amusing them. She had a wearied look, and was evidently exerting herself to the utmost.
‘You look tired,’ said Mary, kindly.
‘No, it is only stupidity,’ said Amy, smiling rather sadly. ‘We can’t be entertaining without Charlie.’
‘It has been a melancholy winter,’ began Mary, but she was surprised, for Amy’s face and neck coloured in a moment; then, recovering herself, with some hesitation, she said,—
‘Oh! but Charlie is much better, and that is a great comfort. I am glad you are come home, Mary.’