"Because," said Amy, more firmly, "it is not quite right, is it, to laugh at people and mimic them?"
"Not right to laugh at people!" exclaimed Henry; "what a girl's notion that is!—why, half the fun in the world would be gone if we were not allowed to laugh at any one."
"I don't think that makes it right," said Amy.
"Oh nonsense, nonsense!" was the reply. "I will soon teach you to think differently from that; now, just look at me, and see if it is not capital sport."
Henry ran to the door, and then re-entered, with a manner and voice so exactly like Mr Cunningham's, that all burst into aloud laugh;—all, except Amy, who tried very hard to prevent even a smile; and when she found this was impossible, began blaming herself, and anxiously repeating her request that Henry would not do it.
"It is quite Mr Cunningham's misfortune," she said; "and he is so good and kind—he has been so very kind to me."
The peculiar sound which always preceded Mr Cunningham's sentences was heard when Amy had spoken, and some one said "Thank you;" but it was not Henry Dornford, for he looked completely frightened, and fixed his eyes on the door. No one ventured to utter another word, and in the silence retreating foot-steps were heard along the passage.
"Do you think he heard all we were saying?" asked Henry.
"Don't say we," replied Hester Stanley; "you know no one had anything to do with it but yourself. Why did you not take care to shut the door?"
"I daresay he only caught the last words," said Julia; "and if so, there is no harm done; besides, listeners never hear any good of themselves. It is his own fault; people who don't know how to talk should stay at home."