Amy Herbert

by Elizabeth Missing Sewell

There was a moment's pause after the old steward had spoken, for none but Miss Morton entirely understood his meaning—even Amy, though she had often heard him talk in the same way before, thought it strange; and she stood looking in his face, and wondering whether it could be possible for herself or her cousins ever to feel like him. Stephen smiled as he watched the expression of her countenance. "You don't half believe me, Miss Amy," he said, "any more than I believed you when you said the young gentleman was come to see me; and, perhaps, 'tis as well you don't; only 'tis fit for us all to think betimes that we are not to stay here for ever, and to expect to find things hard as we grow old; for so we learn to look above, and then it may be God may see good to spare us a long trial, and call us early to Himself."

"To die!" exclaimed Amy, in a half-frightened tone.

"It sounds hard," said Stephen; "and yet God only knows how great a blessing it may be. But you need not look so sad, Miss Amy, the time may be very far off; and, when it comes, you may have learned to think like me; and there may be many a happy day in store for you all, only it may be near too,—aye, near even to that little one there, who looks as if she had never known what sickness was."

Amy looked at Rose; and certainly it did seem more difficult than ever to believe the truth of Stephen's words. She had left the rest of the party, not caring for what was passing, and was standing by the door, amusing herself with the antics of a young kitten, as it tried to catch the piece of cork which she held just out of its reach. Her bonnet had fallen back, and her bright, chestnut hair hung in clustering ringlets about her neck; the glow of health and happiness was on her cheek, and her dark eyes sparkled with delight, and her little hands were clapped in ecstasy at every fresh movement of the kitten; and, as Stephen spoke, she burst into a merry laugh, when the tiny animal, showing unusual agility, seized upon the cork, and, to her great surprise, carried it off in triumph.

"You will make us all melancholy, Stephen," said Miss Morton, as she watched the thoughtful expression of Dora's face. "My little pet has never known an hour's real illness from the day of her birth, so we will not begin fearing for her now."

"No, not fear," replied Stephen; "only," he added, in a lower tone, "'tis an angel's face; and at times I have thought that it was fitter for heaven than for earth. But I didn't mean," he continued, aloud, "to talk about such grave things just the first day of the young gentleman's visit. It isn't my way, Master Frank, in general, and so you shall know if you will come and see me again; and please God I get strong upon my legs, I shall hope to show you a good many things I've got together down here. There's the goats, that are as tame as children, and the old hunter that's been turned out to grass for these half-dozen years,—there isn't such another beauty in all the country round; and then there are the ponies that I had brought from the hills to train for the young ladies,—maybe you'd like to see them now; my grand-daughter will show you where they are."

Frank, who had felt strange and uncomfortable during the last quarter of an hour, gladly seized upon the idea, and the whole party immediately proceeded to inspect the ponies, followed by Stephen's lamentations that he could not exhibit them himself. Frank was just beginning to fancy he understood the merits and demerits of horses, and therefore examined them with a critical eye, and with every wish to show his knowledge by finding fault; but there was very little to be said against them—in colour and shape, they were almost perfect of their kind; and Frank's admiration, and Dora's earnest entreaties that they might be sent immediately to the Hall to be tried, soon recompensed Stephen for the disappointment he had at first felt respecting them. "To be sure, they are very well," was his reply to Amy's question, if he did not think them more beautiful than any he had ever seen before; "but they don't come up to the old ones, Miss Amy. There was the chestnut, that your own mamma used to ride when she was no bigger than you; that was worth looking at; not but what these are very well,—very well, indeed, for those who never saw any better."

"Ah! Stephen, that is so tiresome of you," exclaimed Amy, half laughing and half vexed; "you always will bring up something or other to make one discontented; you never can think that anything now is as good as it used to be."

"Well, so it is," said Stephen; "and when you come to my age, Miss Amy, you'll feel the same; not but what there is one thing which I like better now than all, and that's your own dear little merry face; 'tis always a comfort to look at it; and in the old times I didn't want comfort as I do now."

"And Dora, and Frank, and Margaret, will all come and see you now," said Amy, "and Miss Morton and Rose too. You will have so many visitors, Stephen, I am afraid you will get tired of them."