She took up a book of sacred poetry, and began to learn a piece which she already nearly knew; but the light was bad, and it was dreamy work; and probably she was half asleep, for her thoughts wandered off to Sintram and the castle on the Mondenfelsen, which seemed to her like what she had pictured the Redclyffe crags, and the castle itself was connected in her imagination with the deep, echoing porch, while Guy’s own voice seemed to be chanting—
Who lives forlorn,
On God’s own word doth rest;
His path is bright
With heavenly light,
His lot among the blest.
‘Are you there, Amy?’ said Charles, waking. ‘What are you staying here for? Don’t they want you?’
‘Mamma was so kind as to send me up.’
‘I am glad you are come, for I have something to tell you. Mr. Ross has been up to see me, you know, and he has a letter from Guy.’
Amy’s heart beat fast, and, with eyes fixed on the ground, she listened as Charles continued to give an account of Guy’s letter about Coombe Prior. ‘Mr. Ross is quite satisfied about him, Amy,’ he concluded. ‘I wish you could have heard the decided way in which he said, “He will live it down.”’
Amy’s answer was to stoop down and kiss her brother’s forehead.
Another week brought Guy’s renewal of the correspondence.
‘Amy, here is something for you to read,’ said Charles, holding up the letter as she came into the room.
She knew the writing. ‘Wait one moment, Charlie, dear;’ and she ran out of the room, found her mother fortunately alone, and said, averting her face,—‘Mamma, dear, do you think I ought to let Charlie show me that letter?’