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.