"Why not?" asked Amy.
"It is so awful. I should not care if I were you, Amy, and had never done anything wrong; but I could not bear to die now."
"Oh Dora!" exclaimed Amy, "you know no one could bear to die, if they thought only of what they had done wrong, and I am sure the idea would make me miserable if I did not say my prayers every night; but when I have done that, and remember what mamma has shown me in the Bible about our Saviour, and that God will love us for His sake, though we are so wicked, I am quite comfortable; and sometimes, after I have read my psalm, I can go off to sleep so happily, with the thought that angels are watching all round my bed."
"Yes," said Dora, earnestly; "if angels watch over any one, they must over you, Amy."
"The Bible says they are sent to take care of us all," replied Amy.
"I should like to think so," said Dora; "but it is so strange."
"It must be true," answered Amy; "if it is in the Bible, and I like to think of them so much. It seems as if one could never be alone; and sometimes I fancy that they are quite near, amongst the trees and flowers. Will you read the psalm to-night which says 'that God will give His angels charge over us?' I don't quite know which it is, but I think I could find it."
Dora read the psalm, but she did not make any more observations; and having thought of every little trifle that could contribute to Amy's comfort, she gave her one kiss of the truest affection, and left her to the enjoyment of a calm and innocent repose. Her own thoughts, when she retired to rest, were far from being happy: indeed, she seldom now had any conversation with her cousin, without its being succeeded by a deep consciousness of her own inferiority in those principles which she was just beginning to consider of the utmost importance; and to this was now added a feeling of great loneliness. Colonel Herbert's return would most probably cause a considerable change in Amy's life. She would be far less dependent upon Emmerton than formerly, and Dora found that her cousin was gradually becoming so necessary to her comfort, that the idea of any arrangement which might prevent her from being with them constantly was excessively painful. Yet they might be separated at any moment. Colonel Herbert might leave the cottage: he might choose that Amy should travel, and then all sympathy and consolation would be taken away; and while dwelling sadly upon these probabilities, the image of Emily Morton came before her, and with it the feeling that once she might have been her friend, but that no present attention could atone for the neglect and scorn that had so long been shown her. Dora saw that she had injured her as far as lay in her power, by destroying her comfort for months, and it was vain to hope that now she would be willing to forget it. Amy would have thought differently; but she understood better than Dora what is meant by forgiving our brother "until seventy times seven," and she knew also that there was no Christian virtue, however difficult, which Emily Morton did not endeavour to attain.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The sun was shining brightly into Amy's room when she awoke the next morning—so brightly, that she started up in alarm at what she knew must be the lateness of the hour; but the next moment brought the thought of her father to her mind, and with it a feeling of entire happiness and peace. Her mother's gentleness seemed frequently overpowered by her aunt's sternness, but no one would dare to find fault with her in Colonel Herbert's presence: and for the first time Amy felt sure that she could be perfectly at her ease even if Mrs Harrington were there. Yet, on remembering what had passed, and recalling her father's grave, calm features, she was not entirely free from fear. His height, his voice, his age, his manner, placed him in her imagination at an immeasurable distance from her; she could not believe it possible that he should be satisfied with her; he must expect to see some one taller, and cleverer, and more accomplished: if she could but sing and play like Miss Morton, and speak French and Italian like Dora, she should not care; but as it was, she was convinced he must be disappointed; and as these thoughts crossed her mind, Amy stopped in the middle of her toilette, and began repeating French phrases, and reckoning how many drawings she had to show, and playing over the most difficult passages in her music with her fingers on the table. A knock at the door interrupted her. It was Emily Morton, looking so happy, that Amy fancied for the instant she must have some personal cause for joy. But it had been long since Emily had known what it was to be light-hearted for herself. Peaceful and contented she could always be; but when her countenance was the most brightened by smiles, and her voice sounded the most cheerfully, the happiness of others rather than her own was invariably the cause. She had learned to "weep with those that weep," and now she was learning to "rejoice with those that rejoiced."