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.