"Do you think I might speak to her?" asked Amy of Miss Morton. "I should like to tell her how sorry I am about her mother."
Miss Morton hesitated. "Perhaps," she said, "the poor girl would rather not be noticed; but, if you wish it very much, you may just speak, and pass on."
"I should like to do it, if you would go with me," replied Amy. "But I never saw any one so unhappy before."
Emily Morton sighed as she thought of Mrs Herbert's pale face, and how soon poor Amy might be called to grieve from the same cause; and then, in an instant, a scene which was never entirely banished from her mind, came vividly before her,—the darkened chamber, the anxious faces, the tears of overpowering sorrow, which were ever associated in her mind, with the recollection of her own mother's deathbed; and, without making any further objection, she followed Amy to the spot where Susan was standing, with a feeling of sympathy, which can only be experienced by those who have shared the same grief. Susan was too much absorbed to notice their approach, and Amy scarcely knew what to say; she could only repeat,—"Don't cry so, Susan, I am very sorry for you," besides asking a few questions about the other children, which Susan was quite unable to answer. But Miss Morton understood better what was to be done. She took the poor girl's hand in hers, and spoke so kindly, that Susan forgot that she was listening to the voice of a stranger; and she said what Amy could not say. She told her that she had suffered the same loss, and therefore knew well how great it was, and that it must seem now, as if she never could be happy again; and then she reminded her of her mother's goodness, and that, if she endeavoured to exert herself, and do her duty, she would live with her for ever, in a world, where there was no more sorrow. And, as she went on, Susan's sobs became fainter and fainter; and at last she was able to thank Miss Morton and Amy for their kindness, and to say that she would try to do what was right—she would do anything to be with her mother again. Amy listened, with the hope that she should, one day, be able to talk in the same way, and with an increased feeling of respect for Miss Morton, which she could not avoid expressing to Margaret when she returned to her. But Margaret was not willing to agree in any praise of which Emily was the object; and only expressed her wonder, that Amy could take so much interest in a girl whom she had hardly ever seen before. "As for her being unhappy, she was sorry for it, but she could not help it; and there were a great many people in the world in the same situation. She was not worse off than others; and in a short time, there was no doubt, she would get comfortable again, especially if she went to the Hall to live." And so Margaret remained in contented indifference; and Amy wondered how her cousin could have learned such a strange way of thinking, and determined that she would be the last person to whom she herself would go for comfort in suffering.
Dora returned from her drive soon after they reached home, and was immediately assailed by a host of questions as to what she had done, and whom she had seen, and whether Rochford Park was more beautiful than Wayland, But Dora was not in a communicative mood; she could make herself very agreeable when she chose, and could describe things in a very amusing manner; but this day her whim was to be silent; and all the information obtained was, that Rochford Park was a very good sort of place, that Miss Cunningham was like the rest of the world, only not so tall as she was, and that Lord Rochford talked of bringing her over to Emmerton soon, to spend the day, and then they would be able to judge for themselves.
"How stupid you are, Dora!" said Margaret, when this most unsatisfactory account had been given. "I thought you would entertain us all by telling us what you had seen; but you might just as well have stayed at home."
"I am sure I wish I had," replied Dora. "It was very hot and very dusty, and I am very tired; so, now, I hope we shall have tea as soon as possible. Do, Emily, look into Morris's room, when you go up-stairs, and tell her I am waiting to be dressed."
"Can't I go?" asked Amy, feeling instantly that the request was not a proper one.
Dora stared. She was not accustomed to see any one put themselves out of their way to help another, and she was conscious that Amy's offer was almost a reproach to her, for there were times when she was aware of her want of consideration for Miss Morton. "It will be no trouble," she said; "Emily has done it a hundred times before."
"I would rather go," persisted Amy; "I know very well where the room is." And without waiting for an answer, she ran upstairs.