On that bright August morning, which we have before described, she was sitting with her little sister, now a beautiful but weak and unhealthy child, of seven or eight, at her lessons in the cheerful little sitting-room. Mabel—with her bright, quick eye, changing color, and speaking countenance over which a thought, perhaps a single shade of mournfulness had been cast, and the little girl by her side looked well together, and they were almost always in company. Amy was at her French lesson, which that morning seemed peculiarly hard to learn, and much as she always tried to please her sister, she could not help turning her wandering eyes rather often to the open window to watch the butterflies flit past in the merry sunshine.
"It is so difficult, Mabel dear," said she, at length, "I learnt it perfectly this morning, but I cannot remember the words now."
"Well, try once more," replied Mabel; "but you must not look out of the window."
"But my head aches so," said Amy, coaxingly, knowing that Mabel could hardly ever resist her plea of illness.
"Well, there is mamma's bell, and while I go to dress her, you can take a run round the garden—but do not be long, or I shall have to call you."
Mabel went up-stairs, and Amy ran off to the garden—her first object was the fruit trees, to see if any were on the ground—she found none—but many beautiful ripe peaches were on one tree, which was carefully trained against the wall, and one finer than the rest, perfectly ready, and peeping out from the leaves, looked peculiarly tempting. She stopped to look, then felt it gently, then tried to see if it were loose, till one unfortunate push, and the peach tumbled to the ground. Amy looked frightened, and gazed round to see if any one was in sight, but seeing no one, she picked it up, and began to eat it.
Suddenly the awful step of old John was heard coming from the cucumber-bed.
"How did you get that peach, miss?" he said, roughly.
The child turned red, but answered quickly,