"I am sure it cannot be true," said Amy. "My aunt would never send her away now."
"But it is quite true," replied Dora; "nothing will have any effect. I have said all I could; and papa is not here."
"Where is she going?" said Amy. "I must run directly, and speak to mamma; she will entreat for her; and my aunt will never be able to refuse her. Has no one told mamma about it?"
Dora was about to reply, when Emily Morton opened the door, and in a voice so totally changed that Amy would scarcely have recognised it, asked them to come in.
The room presented a very different aspect from that which it usually wore. The pictures from the walls were lying about on the table and in the chairs; the floor was covered with trunks, band-boxes, and dresses; and the books had been taken from the shelves, and were piled together in regular order, preparatory to their being packed.
Amy did not speak; but Dora exclaimed instantly, "Oh Emily! why should you do this? you cannot manage it yourself."
"I must be alone," replied Emily; and again her voice sounded so strange, that Amy started. The gentle tone which had once sounded so sweet to her ear was changed for one that was unnaturally deep and hollow. There were no traces of agitation in her face—scarcely even in her manner; but her lips were perfectly colourless, and her eyes were dimmed and sunken.
"You must not,—oh! you must not go," exclaimed Amy, throwing herself into her arms, and bursting into tears.
Emily pointed to the floor, and, with a ghastly smile, said, "Will you help me? The carriage will be here."
Dora knelt down and tried to busy herself with the books, but she could not conceal her emotion; and Emily Morton, as she witnessed for the first time the sympathy of one who had hitherto so painfully neglected her, pressed her lips firmly together, and walked quickly up and down the room.