"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."