Miss Morton smiled. "It would not make you at all happier, my dear," she said; "because, if you cared about it, you would be proud and disagreeable, and few persons would love you; and if you did not, you might just as well be Miss Herbert."
"But is there any harm in wishing it?" asked Amy.
"We can scarcely help wishing for things," replied Miss Morton; "I mean we can scarcely help the wish coming into our minds; but I think it is wrong not to try and get rid of it, and be contented with the situation in which we are placed."
Amy felt that this was exactly what her mamma would have said, and she began to forget all that had been told her against Miss Morton, and to wish she would go on talking; but it seemed quite an effort to her to say so much, for she spoke in a very low, timid voice, and when she had finished, looked at Dora, as if expecting that something impertinent would follow.
Dora, however, took no notice of her observation, but declared she would rather be Miss Harrington than anything else. "I heard papa talking to some people the other day," she said; "and he told them he would much prefer being an old country gentleman to a new-made nobleman. And I am sure I agree with him; it must be all pride and nonsense to wish for a title."
Miss Morton roused herself again to speak. "I am afraid," she said, "there is just as much pride, my dear Miss Harrington, in your caring about belonging to an old family, and living in a large house, and having money, and servants, and carriages, as in considering it a great thing to have a title. Everything of the kind tempts us to be proud."
"Then it is happy for those who have no such temptation," said Dora, scornfully.
"Yes, indeed, it is," replied Miss Morton, so meekly, and yet so earnestly, that any one less haughty than Dora must have been touched. But Dora was perfectly insensible; she did not, however, continue the subject; and finishing her dinner quickly, saying she had several things to do before three o'clock, without making any apology to Miss Morton, left the room directly the dessert was placed on the table.
Margaret expressed satisfaction at her sister's absence, as she declared it was much more agreeable to her to have her cousin all to herself during their walk; but Amy would willingly have lingered by Miss Morton's side, to hear something of her conversation with Rose.
Margaret, however, insisted upon her keeping at a considerable distance, whilst she again repeated the history of all she had been accustomed to do at Wayland, adding to it a description of her last new dresses, and the beautiful presents she had received on her birthday, until Amy's curiosity was greatly excited, and once more a feeling of envy arose as she thought of the difference between herself and her cousin. But she was just beginning to be aware of this fault; and although the wish to have similar presents returned again and again, as Margaret eagerly told over all her treasures, it was accompanied each time by the knowledge that it was wrong; and she felt sorry and vexed with herself, as she remembered how little her mamma would approve of what was passing in her mind. Still the conversation was very amusing, and the time passed so quickly that Amy was quite surprised when she found herself at the lane leading to Colworth parsonage. A girl, whom she immediately recognised as Susan Reynolds, was standing by the shrubbery gate; and Amy's first impulse was to speak to her: but she was crying bitterly; and Amy, though longing to know the cause of her tears, was too timid to interrupt her, and, without making any remark, followed Miss Morton and her cousins into the house. When, however, the first restraint of the visit had a little diminished, and Mrs Saville began asking some questions about her mamma, she ventured to inquire whether Susan's mother was worse, and whether this had occasioned her distress.