Her naturally fair complexion—so fair, that it almost rivalled the clear white muslin dress—was set off by a slight colour which tinged her cheeks, caused, perhaps, by the eagerness with which she wrote; for Amy knew full well, that the dinner over, she would have to go below, with no chance of finishing her letter that night, for the morrow's early post.
But now her task is done; a pleasant task for her, so filled as her heart is with love for her fond and anxious mother. A few tears glistened in her eyes, as she sealed and directed the letter, and, "I wish dear Mamma would write to me," fell scarcely audible from her lips.
It was nearly a month since Mrs. Neville had written; not once during all the time of Amy's illness; but then she knew nothing of that, Amy never mentioned it; it would have made her mother too anxious and unhappy.
How slowly the days crept by! and how anxiously every morning Amy looked forward to the afternoon, when the postman made his appearance at the park; yet each day she was disappointed, Mrs. Neville did not write.
Mrs. Elrington wrote constantly, at her friend's earnest request and wish, so she said. But did this satisfy Amy? No; she longed once again to see her dear parent's handwriting; she felt an aching void at the heart; and was most anxious and nervous, fearing she knew not what, whilst a thousand wild suggestions filled her brain, and sad thoughts trembled in her heart.
Amy's desk was scarcely shut ere Mrs. Hopkins came in. She hesitated half-way between the door and the table, uncertain whether to advance or not, but Amy's voice soon assured her.
"Come in, Nurse," said she, "and sit down. I am not busy; I have been writing, but my letter is finished, so I am quite ready to talk to you, which will be far pleasanter to me than sitting alone."
"Thank you, Miss; it is so long since I had a talk with you—not since your illness; I hope you are feeling well and strong again?"