Dora was silent; her own faults were so much greater than her cousin's, that Amy's self-reproach was more bitter than any reproof could possibly have been. If Amy were so grieved at the remembrance of an impatient word, or a passing thought of vanity, what ought she to feel whose whole life had been one of pride and self-will? She felt, too, as if she had no right to attempt to comfort one who was so much better than herself; and stood for several moments looking at Amy with wonder and interest, till the striking of the clock recalled her to herself, and, starting at the time they had spent together, she declared the day was half gone already, and there were a hundred things to be done before the people came.
"I had quite forgotten them," said Amy; "I think, Dora, I forget a great many things when I am talking to you."
"Do you?" said Dora, turning suddenly round to kiss her; "it cannot be any use to you to talk to me, because you have aunt Herbert to go to."
"I do like it, though, so very much," answered Amy, "and I think about it afterwards; but I wish I could help you in amusing every one."
"I must leave them to their fate," said Dora, preparing to leave the room, "for mamma wants me, I know; but Amy," she added, stopping, and apparently desirous, yet unwilling to say more; "I wish——no, never mind now."
"Oh! do tell it me," said Amy; "is it anything I can do for you? I should be so glad."
"No, nothing, nothing," hastily repeated Dora, though her manner was at variance with her words.
"But you must tell me," said Amy, seizing her dress to prevent her going; "I am sure you mean something; can I look out some books, or put the room in order, or get anything for you?"
"No, nothing of that kind; but, Amy, should you—should you very much mind letting me see the prayer aunt Herbert gave you?"
"Oh! if you would but let me give it you," exclaimed Amy, "for it is in mamma's handwriting; and I think you would like it all the better for that, and it is such a nice one; shall I go and fetch it?"