Elizabeth Sewell (1815-1906), Amy Herbert (1844), 1886 edition

Produced by Daniel FROMONT

AMY HERBERT

BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON

AMY HERBERT

BY

ELIZABETH M. SEWELL

Why should we fear Youth's draught of joy, If pure, would sparkle less?
Why should the cup the sooner cloy Which God Hath deign'd to bless?

CHRISTIAN YEAR.

NEW EDITION

LONDON

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

1886

AMY HERBERT.

CHAPTER I.

In a remote picturesque village, on the borders of one of the few remaining forests in England, was situated the home of Amy Herbert. It was a lovely cottage, with a thatched roof and latticed windows, covered with creepers and roses, and standing upon a smooth velvet lawn, which gently sloped to the edge of a clear stream, that flowed sparkling along at the bottom of the garden. A small but very beautiful pleasure-ground divided it from the forest, which stretched far away behind for many miles; whilst in the front it commanded a view over the village of Emmerton, with its scattered dwellings and its gray church-tower, and the distant country beyond. The interior of the cottage consisted of a drawing-room, with windows opening upon the lawn, a small study, a dining-room which looked out on the most retired part of the garden, and several bedrooms; and it was here that Amy Herbert passed the earliest and the happiest portion of her life: and though to some it might have seemed that her pleasures could have been but few, as she had no companions of her own age, not many servants to wait upon her, and no money to expend on whatever might be the fancy of the moment, yet it may be doubted whether any of those who have been brought up in the midst of luxury, have ever spent so happy a childhood as hers. For Amy lived in her quiet home, with the mother who to her was all in all; and when she sat by her side at work, or read to her aloud, or walked with her, or listened to her sweet voice as she sang her favourite songs, she had not a wish for anything else that the world could give. In the summer, Amy's mornings were employed in learning from her mother all that was considered necessary for the education of a lady; for Mrs Herbert, besides possessing a well-cultivated mind, understood both music and drawing, and spared neither time nor trouble in endeavouring to give her child a taste for the same pursuits. The afternoons were often spent in an arbour, shut out from the view of every passer-by, where Amy read to her mother the books which most interested her; and in the evening she generally walked with her into the village, either to inquire after some of their poor neighbours, or to pay a visit to the rectory, where the affection with which she was received was always a source of enjoyment, though there were no children to be her play-fellows. Occasionally, also, Amy would persuade her mother to wander with her into the forest, and there, leaving her seated on the trunk of some old tree, with her book or her work, she would search amongst the thick underwood for wild flowers or wood strawberries, and return to her, triumphantly laden, as she said, with spoils: and when the falling dews and the gathering twilight told that it was the hour of rest. Amy, kneeling in her chamber, repeated her evening prayers, and, after receiving her mother's last fond kiss and her fervent blessing, laid her head upon her pillow, to dream of the joys of the past day, and the interests of the coming morrow.

The winter also brought its delights: the warm fire-side in the morning, and the quick walk in the middle of the day, when the sun was shining and the earth glittering with the frost, and the tales of days and people long gone by, with which Mrs Herbert would amuse her little girl in the dusky twilight; whilst in the evening came the bright lamp and the hissing urn, to make them forget that there was anything like cold or discomfort to be endured without. And so Amy's childhood passed tranquilly on; not that it was entirely free from interruptions and disappointments, or that she was always able to follow her own inclinations; for there were gloomy days and causes of vexation, and she had faults which, at times, interfered with her happiness; but her annoyances were soon over, and whenever she gave way to any evil feelings, either of ill temper, indolence, or carelessness, the sorrowful expression of her mother's countenance, and the grave tone of her voice, never failed to recall her quickly to a better mind.

There were, besides, other pleasures to vary the regularity of Amy's life; a drive in the rector's carriage to the neighbouring town, or an invitation to drink tea at the parsonage, or, what she most delighted in, a long walk with her mother, to wander over a large old house, which was about two miles distant from the cottage, and situated on the same side of the forest, though in a different direction from the village. Emmerton Hall was indeed a most interesting place; the house—the work of ages passed away—was of gray stone, deeply stained by exposure to the severity of many a wintry storm. It was a large, irregular building, with high gable ends, deep oriel windows, turrets with pointed pinnacles, and heavy, clustering chimneys nearly hidden by masses of the rich, dark ivy which covered a great proportion of the walls. The principal front consisted of the original three-gabled house and two projecting wings which had been added at a later period, and along its whole length extended a broad gravel terrace, divided from the other part of the grounds by a stone balustrade, and ornamented at regular intervals with large Italian vases. From this terrace a flight of steps at each end descended to the pleasure-garden, which was laid out in green lawns, and shrubberies, and winding walks, and bounded by a clear sheet of water flowing through the whole of the demesne. On the other side of the water stretched a richly-wooded park that had once formed a portion of the forest, whilst from the terrace might be seen beyond this a wide expanse of lovely country,—corn-fields, meadows, villages, and churches, blended together in the soft mists of the distance, and terminated by the faint shadow which marked the outline of one of the highest ranges of hills in all England.

To the right of the house the ground rose abruptly in a hill of considerable height, the sides of which had been partly formed into smooth grassy terraces, and partly planted with beech, ash, elm, and oak trees, and amongst these many walks were cut, ascending gradually to the top, and opening at length upon a line of down, from whence might be discovered a view so extensive as to reach even to the glittering waves of the ocean.

At the back and to the left of the mansion, the grounds were of great extent, and still beyond them lay the park, carrying the eye into deep hollows and sunny glades, till its furthest trees were lost amongst the rich foliage of the adjacent forest.

Such was the exterior of Emmerton Hall, and the interior suited well with it in beauty. The oldest part of the building consisted, indeed, of long, low chambers, wainscoted with dark oak, and giving an idea of solemnity, if not of gloom; but the wings, which were of a later date, contained spacious saloons, and large lofty drawing-rooms hung with paintings, and rich in splendid though old-fashioned, furniture, that would have done honour to the palace of the proudest noble in the land. It was not amongst these, however, that Amy Herbert found her chief enjoyment,—she cared little for the more modern additions; but her great pleasure was to wander through the long passages, and explore the dark rooms which had for years been disused, while the silent mansion echoed with the gay sounds of her young voice, as she discovered some hitherto unknown closet, or started back half amused, and half frightened, at the grim visage of some valiant knight or ancient lady which stared at her from the walls.

There was a chapel, too, attached to the house; and great was Amy's delight to look down from the private gallery that had been specially reserved for the ladies of the family, upon the massive oaken seats ranged on each side of the narrow aisle, and while the rays of the sun, streaming through the painted glass of the east window, lighted up every corner of the building with a rich, unearthly hue, to people them in her own imagination with the servants and retainers, who, she had been told, once occupied them daily.

For the first few years of her life, Amy's visits to Emmerton Hall had been those of unmixed happiness; but as she grew older, and learned to feel more and more that no joy was complete unless her mother could share it with her, she began to perceive that, however willingly Mrs Herbert might grant her petition to visit the old house, and however patiently she might wait whilst she satisfied all her childish curiosity, yet, at their return home, there was always a look of sorrow on her countenance, and sometimes even a tear glistening in her eye; and the cause of this she was soon able to understand, for Emmerton had been to Mrs Herbert all that the little cottage was to Amy. It had been the scene of her earliest pleasures—the home of her childhood—the spot where she had dwelt with parents, brothers, sisters, and friends, who were now, some dead, some scattered in distant countries, and all so far from her as to make her feel lonely and sad in the halls where once she had known little but enjoyment. But it was not till Amy had nearly reached her twelfth year that she became aware of the increasing extent of the painful feelings excited in her mother's mind by these visits to the Hall. During the first year of her marriage, Mrs Herbert had lived at the cottage, but her family were still settled at Emmerton, and the separation was merely nominal. After that time, the death of her father and mother broke, in a great degree, the ties which had bound her to her early home; for her brother, on whom the property devolved, had married a lady, whose proud disposition suited but ill with Mrs Herbert's meek spirit; and when, on the death of a relation, Mr Harrington became the owner of a still finer estate in another county, Emmerton was almost deserted. It was true he returned to it occasionally, but his visits were less and less frequent; and, although the steward and housekeeper were ordered to keep it in complete repair, it was only as a place for show, and because his pride would not permit him to sell or let an old family residence.

All this was a great trial for Mrs Herbert, though, whilst Colonel Herbert was with her, it was comparatively but little felt; but the duties of his profession at last called him to a foreign land, and it was then that she first knew the real loneliness of her situation, the only alleviation being the society of her friends at the parsonage, and the delight of receiving constant and cheerful letters from abroad. At the period, however, just mentioned, when Amy was about twelve years of age, the time appointed for Colonel Herbert's absence had expired; but no news had been received from him for a considerable time. Post after post arrived without letters from him. Friends came back from the country to which he had been sent, but none brought intelligence of him. Mrs Herbert's heart sank within her, the most sad forebodings took possession of her mind, and even the company of Amy often served only to increase her melancholy, as it reminded her more forcibly of the probable failure of those visions of future happiness, in which she had indulged when dwelling upon the prospect of her husband's return to his native land, to spend the remainder of his days with her and with his child.

Continued anxiety at length seriously affected Mrs Herbert's health; and even Amy, young as she was, became sensible of it, and learned to look eagerly for the daily post, in hopes that it might bring some letter which would make her mother smile again as she had been used to do, while she seldom expressed a wish to go to Emmerton, since it only added to Mrs Herbert's depression, by reminding her of the absence of her relations as well as of that of her husband. Still Amy did not fully enter into the causes of her mother's uneasiness; and when she stationed herself at the white garden-gate every morning to watch for the old postman, it was with a feeling of expectation very different from the nervous eagerness with which Mrs Herbert longed for his arrival.

"Here he is, mamma!" she exclaimed, joyously, as she ran to the drawing-room window one lovely summer morning, after having waited unusually long at the gate. "Here he is! just turning the corner of the lane. Do let me go and meet him; I shall bring the letters much quicker than he will, and there must be one from papa to-day."

Mrs Herbert half smiled as she kissed her child's forehead, and parted her dark ringlets. "You may go, love," she said; and Amy waited to hear no more. In a minute she was at the end of the lane, entreating the old postman to give her the letters; but he was both deaf and obstinate, and resolved that no one should have the honour of delivering them but himself; and Amy, after repeatedly urging her request in vain, returned disappointed to her mother. The delay had but increased Mrs Herbert's painful anxiety; and when the man appeared with the letter—for there was but one—she felt as if she had scarcely the power to take it from him.

"It is from papa, I am sure," said Amy; but Mrs Herbert shook her head, and her face became very pale as she saw the deep black edge. With a trembling hand she tore open the letter; and Amy, seeing that something unusual was the matter, looked earnestly in her face while she read. For a moment her mother's countenance wore the appearance of intense anguish, but it was soon succeeded by an expression of comparative relief; and when she had concluded, although she was grave and melancholy, it was evident that the news had not been what she so much dreaded.

"Is it from papa?" asked Amy; "and is he quite well, and coming home soon?"

"It is from your uncle Harrington, my dear," said Mrs Herbert: "he gives me no information about your papa, and he writes in great distress."

"Why, why, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, eagerly; "does it make you unhappy too?"

"Yes," said Mrs Herbert; "I must always be sad when I know that your uncle is in affliction. You have lost your cousin Edward, Amy; he has died quite suddenly, and," but here Mrs Herbert paused, for her voice failed her. Amy endeavoured to comfort her; but it was not in her power to stop the course of her mother's grief, and for a few minutes she gave way to it without restraint; and then rousing herself, she said, "I ought to be thankful that I have been spared a still greater trial; for, though I can feel bitterly for my poor brother, it would have been far worse if I had known Edward well; and one thing, Amy, which will give you pleasure in the midst of all this sorrow is, that your uncle tells me he intends coming to Emmerton immediately; and he begs me to go there, and give orders for everything being prepared for them."

"To Emmerton, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, with delight, forgetting what had given rise to this sudden plan. "Will they really come to Emmerton—my uncle, and aunt, and all my cousins? Oh! you will look happy again, then."

"I will try to do so, at least," said Mrs Herbert; "for it is only selfishness to destroy your happiness, my dear child, by anxiety, which you cannot understand. But, indeed, you must not expect any great enjoyment at first; for your uncle's letter speaks of himself and all the family as being in the greatest distress."

"Ah! but," said Amy, "when they come to Emmerton, they must be cheerful. To be sure," she added, looking suddenly grave, "it is very sad to think that Edward will not be with them; but then, mamma, I dare say he is gone to heaven, so why should they be so very sorry?"

"Should not you be very sorry to part from me, Amy, if I were to die? and yet I trust that when it shall please God that I should do so. He will take me to heaven."

"Oh mamma! don't talk so," said Amy, her eyes filling with tears; "you know I should be so miserable. I should die too."

"No, my love," replied Mrs Herbert, "I hope you would not die; for you may always be happy whether I am with you or not, when you have God to watch over you; but I wished to show you that you must not expect other people to be less sorrowful than you would be yourself in such a situation. Your cousins will, of course, be unhappy when they first come to Emmerton."

"But when will it be?" asked Amy.

"Not till the week after next," answered Mrs Herbert; "for the house must be made ready for them."

"Oh! such a long, long time!" sighed Amy. "There are five days to the end of this week; and then will they come on the Monday week after?"

"They have not fixed the day, my dear, so you will try and wait patiently, I know," said Mrs Herbert; "and now you must get your lessons and read by yourself this morning, for I wish to be alone in my own room."

This was not pleasant news to Amy, but she made no objection, and with her book in her hand seated herself at the window. It was a harder task to learn on that morning than she had ever before found it; for, notwithstanding all her endeavours, some thoughts of Emmerton would creep into her mind perpetually. First she fancied what rooms her cousins would choose; then whether they would like the same that she did; whether any of the old dark chambers would be used; and, above all, whether her uncle would have prayers in the chapel every morning, and fill it with his servants, so that she might really see it as she had been told it used to be.

The very loveliness of the day only served to increase her distraction of mind. The sunlight was glancing on the turf, the butterflies were settling continually on the flowers by the window, and the birds were singing gaily amongst the trees; and delightful as all this really was, it only made Amy feel the stronger wish to be at that moment running over the lawns at Emmerton, or standing by the side of the lake, watching the swans and the other water-fowl as they sailed proudly along on the bosom of the calm water.

"I shall never learn these tiresome lessons, mamma," she exclaimed, as Mrs Herbert entered the room, after an absence of about a quarter of an hour.

"And why not, my love? why should it be more difficult now than at any other time?"

"Because I am so longing to be at Emmerton, mamma, and I cannot fix my attention on them. Please let me leave off now, and I will learn a double quantity to-morrow."

"No, Amy; that is a great mistake. To-morrow will have enough to do in its own occupations, without burdening it with those of to-day. Besides, my dear, this is just the opportunity for learning to do in a little way what will be required of you perpetually during your whole life—to conquer your own inclinations; you will be infinitely the happier for it afterwards."

Amy looked as if she could not quite believe this, but she did not speak in reply.

"You will endeavour, I am sure, my dear child," continued Mrs Herbert, "if it is only to please me; you know my greatest wish is to teach you to do what is right, without thinking of what is pleasant; so make one more effort, and turn your face from the window, that you may have nothing to divide your thoughts, and then the lessons will soon be learned."

Mrs Herbert left the room; and Amy, obeying her directions, seated herself with her back to the window, making a firm resolution in her own mind that she would not look up from her book till her lessons were ready; and when her mother reappeared, they were repeated without a fault. Mrs Herbert's smile sufficiently repaid her for the exertion, and with renewed pleasure she continued her usual morning occupations.

"And now, mamma," she exclaimed, as she finished her reading, "I may think about Emmerton. Will you tell me if you are really going there this afternoon?"

"We will set off immediately after dinner," replied Mrs Herbert; "and as I cannot walk so far, I have sent to the parsonage to borrow Mr Walton's carriage."

"Shall you stay all the afternoon, mamma? and will you let me hear all you say to Mrs Bridget and Stephen?"

"I am afraid that will not interest you much, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert, smiling; "but you deserve to have your wishes granted, to reward you for your endeavours this morning. Was I not right in saying that you would be far happier if you attended to your lessons first, and thought of your amusements afterwards?"

"Ah! mamma," said Amy, "you know you are always right, and I am always wrong; but then it does not signify so much while you are with me to teach me."

Mrs Herbert sighed. "You must not look to me, my dear child: I cannot keep you right. It is God alone who can do that, and He only knows how long I may live to tell you what you ought to do. But do not look so grave now, I did not mean to make you unhappy. You must get your bonnet and take one turn with me in the shady walk, and by that time dinner will be ready."

CHAPTER II.

That afternoon was one of perfect enjoyment to Amy. The drive in the rector's carriage was an unusual treat, and the road through the forest had never before seemed so beautiful; the light danced amongst the trees, and sparkled on the gay primroses and harebells, and the deep blue violets, which peeped from amongst the thick underwood. The rich moss which covered the trunks of the old oak trees, was of a hue so bright as to be surpassed only by the vivid green of the young leaves, which had reached their full beauty, undimmed as yet by the scorching rays of the summer's sun; and when at length they reached the park gate of Emmerton, and drove under the long rows of oak and chestnuts, and by the side of the clear silver lake, Amy's delight was unbounded. Several months had passed since she had last been there, and the beauty of the place was now increased by the thought that she should soon be able to visit it constantly, and might, perhaps, at times, spend days, and even weeks there with her cousins.

"Dear, dear mamma!" she exclaimed, as she jumped up in the carriage to look at the lake, "do you think my uncle can be unhappy while he is here?"

"Why should he not be, my love?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"Oh! because it is so beautiful, mamma," said Amy; "and it is all his own, and he may go where he pleases, and do what he pleases, and you say he has plenty of money: I am sure if I were he, I should have nothing to wish for. If I lived at Emmerton, nothing could ever happen to vex me, except," she added, looking grave, as she saw a tear in her mother's eye, "except if anything were the matter with you: but here comes Stephen down the avenue. I wonder what he will say when he hears that my uncle is coming back?"

The steward approached the carriage as Amy spoke; he was a tall, hearty man, of about seventy, with a step as firm, and a back as unbent, as if he had numbered thirty years less. His features were very strongly marked, and expressive of great intelligence, and might even have been called handsome, though his complexion was completely tanned by age, and many years' exposure to the variations of the weather. There was a bright, happy look in his clear, gray eye, and a smile about his mouth, and yet a person who had watched him narrowly might have seen the trace of care on his brow; but it seemed as if it had only recently been acquired, as if joyousness were the natural inmate of his breast, and melancholy only its occasional visitant: and so, indeed, it was. Stephen Browning had entered the service of Mrs Herbert's father when quite a lad, and had risen from being a mere stable-boy to the higher offices of groom and coachman; he had been the instructor of the young ladies of the family in horsemanship, and of the young gentlemen in all their boyish sports, and considered himself—and was indeed considered by many others—as the most important personage about Emmerton Hall, always excepting Mr Harrington.

During this period, his life had been a very happy one; and the pride with which he watched the children as they grew up was scarcely inferior to that of their parents. Even the death of old Mr Harrington did not in any serious degree disturb his peace of mind, after the first shock was over; for death, as he said, was the lot of all men, and 'twas no use to grieve for him who was gone to happiness; and so Stephen consoled himself for his loss, and still looked with delight upon the scenes he had known from his childhood, and interested himself as much in the new generation that had sprung up, as he had done in those who had long been beyond his instruction. But a most bitter trial awaited him in the removal of the family from Emmerton, and it was one for which he was totally unprepared; the first intelligence was so astounding, that it was some time before he could be induced to believe it; and when at last the truth forced itself upon his mind, he sank into a state of listless indifference, which was for a time in no slight degree alarming. He did, however, recover from it; and at Mr Harrington's request consented to remain at the Hall, and to take charge of it as steward; but his occupations, his enjoyments, all seemed gone, and his only remaining pleasure was to visit the cottage, and talk over the old days with Mrs Herbert, and tell Amy stories of the feats of her uncles and aunts in horsemanship, long before, as he said, she was ever thought of. For Mrs Bridget, the housekeeper, who had only lived about twelve years in the family, Stephen had an especial contempt. She was quite a new body, and 'twas no good talking to her; she could not remember the good old times when the master was a young gentleman, and used to ride about the park on his Shetland pony, and learn to play at cricket and leap-frog; and then she dressed herself out smart, with gay ribands and silks, not befitting the housekeeper of Emmerton Hall, who ought to keep to the ancient fashion; and she would have young idle lads and lassies about the place, which was never known in his days, when everything was kept strict and in order; and, above all, she would never admit him and his pipe into the house, but turned away when she saw it, as if she was too fine a lady to bear what he knew she must have seen a hundred times in her father's farm kitchen. Mrs Bridget, on her part, quite returned the feeling; and though she acknowledged that Stephen might be very honest and trustworthy, and she would not for the world say a word against any one, yet she could not help hinting occasionally that he was growing old, and would be better by his own fireside than attempting to give directions which he could know nothing about; and certainly the air with which she was accustomed to turn her back upon him, and tell him, whenever he approached with his pipe, not to come near her with that thing in his mouth, would have been quite sufficient to deter a less adventurous person than Stephen from making a second attempt.

The steward's loud exclamation of "Sure, 'tis young madam and little miss!" was heard when he was still at some distance from the carriage, and he turned immediately to the house with the quickest step which his age and gouty foot would allow, that he might be ready to receive them.

"Well, 'tis a strange sight, to be sure," he said, as he lifted Amy from the carriage. "I thought Emmerton was never going to see any of you again; and I have said to myself fifty times within the last month, that, for certain, young madam couldn't have forgotten me, and my pretty little miss, too, who used to be here so often."

"Ah, but Stephen," said Amy, "poor mamma cannot walk so far as she did, and you know we have only the rector's carriage; but why don't you come to see us?"

"The gout, the gout, Miss Amy, that's what keeps me; in the old days, I could almost have run there and back in less than the hour, but 'tis all changed—house, and garden, and servants, 'tis all alike—and little it signifies what comes to me. But, madam," he added, turning to Mrs Herbert, "you'll be for walking in and resting yourself, and Mrs Bridget will attend upon you; she won't let me put foot within doors, if she can help it, since I last threw some tobacco on her new gown, which was more loss to me than to her, seeing 'twas all I had, and there was nobody to send to get some more."

"I want to talk to you first, Stephen, for a few minutes," said Mrs
Herbert.

"Ah sure, ma'am," replied Stephen, "and 'twill do me good to listen; for there's no one here to whom one can talk that will understand, seeing they are all new,—all new;" and the old man's sigh almost amounted to a groan.

"I have had a letter from your master to-day, Stephen," said Mrs Herbert, fearing to impart too suddenly the death of his young favourite, Edward.

"Have you, ma'am? and does he say he's well, and the young gentlemen and ladies? 'tis the best I can hope to hear now."

"He does not write in good spirits, Stephen; he has been suffering a great deal lately."

"Sure, ma'am, that's bad news; but what could any one expect but to be ill, away from one's own place, and all the air that's natural to one?"

"Your master has not been ill himself, Stephen; but one of his children."

"Not master Edward!" exclaimed the old man, taking alarm from Mrs
Herbert's countenance. No answer was given for a moment, and Stephen
turned to Amy for an explanation. "'Tis not master Edward; it can't be.
O Miss Amy! just speak."

"I will tell you, Stephen," said Mrs Herbert, recovering her composure. "It will grieve you very much; but it is indeed poor Edward, who was taken ill about a week since, and is now, I trust, gone to a happier world."

The poor old steward's bronzed complexion became of an unnatural sallow hue, and he leaned against the stone porch for support; but it seemed as if the power of utterance were taken from him.

"Run into the house and fetch a glass of water, Amy," said Mrs Herbert; and Amy, in extreme alarm, flew to obey her mother's order.

In a few moments she returned, followed by Mrs Bridget, a gaily-dressed, sharp-visaged person of about forty, who forgot the last grievous offence against her new gown when she heard Amy's frightened exclamation, that dear old Stephen was so ill she thought he must be dying. By this time, however, the colour had returned to his cheek, and he was able to inquire more calmly the particulars of his young favourite's illness. They were few, but very painful; for the disease, which was inflammation of the lungs, brought on by a neglected cold, had made most rapid progress, and he died about two days after he had first been considered seriously ill. "But," said Mrs Herbert, after she had answered the old man's various questions, "I have not told you yet, Stephen, the only thing which I think is likely now to give you pleasure: my brother talks of returning to Emmerton again to live."

"To live, ma'am!" exclaimed Stephen, starting back; "but it can't be true. When the carriage drove away from this very place, now ten years ago, I said to myself they were gone for ever; and so it has proved. 'Tis but a false hope, ma'am. The master will change his mind when he begins to forget his grief."

"Ah, but Stephen," said Amy, taking his hand affectionately, "it is not a false hope, though; for mamma heard all about it this morning, and she has come now to tell you and Bridget to get the things in order, and they are to be here the week after next. Think of that, Stephen. Won't that make you happy?"

"Poor master Edward! poor master Edward!" sighed the old steward; "'twould have been a joyful day, indeed, if he had been coming too. To have looked upon his young face again would have added ten years to my life; but God's will be done!"

"But, Stephen," said Amy, half disappointed, "you are not as much pleased as I thought you would be."

"Ah, little Miss," replied Stephen, as he patted her shoulder, "you are too young to know anything about sorrow; but I shall be glad by and by, when I can think that it is true."

"Indeed, indeed, it is true," repeated Amy; "and mamma knows it."

"Amy is right, Stephen," said Mrs Herbert. "My brother writes me word that Wayland Court is now become so melancholy to him, that he cannot bear to live there, and he intends being at Emmerton as soon as the necessary arrangements can be made."

"God be thanked for it!" exclaimed Stephen, clasping his hands together; "and I shall go to my grave in peace, for the old times will be come back again. But no, they won't, though," he added, whilst a bitter recollection flashed upon his mind. "He will never be here again:" and he brushed his hand across his eye to wipe away the tear which glistened in it.

Mrs Bridget, half annoyed that Mrs Herbert should have chosen to communicate so important a piece of intelligence to Stephen rather than to herself, now came forward, and in a formal manner, and with a voice which told there was a storm within, said, "I suppose, madam, my master and mistress will communicate with me before they arrive?"

"I believe not, Bridget," replied Mrs Herbert; "they are in too much distress to think about anything now; but they have left it all to me, and I was wishing to ask you what would be wanting."

"Nothing, ma'am," said Bridget, drawing up her head rather proudly, "nothing at all. Though I say it that shouldn't say it, the house is just in as perfect order now as it was when my master went away. But I should like to know if my mistress would choose to have the coverings taken off the furniture in the great drawing-room; and there have been a few breakages in the bedrooms; and Stephen tells me there is a pane of glass out of the conservatory; and the fringe of the curtains in the saloon was torn yesterday by the girl who was here cleaning the rooms, I scolded her well for it, and she is coming again to-morrow to mend it."

"Well," said Mrs Herbert, stopping her, "all these things you can quite well manage yourself, they are but trifles. You had better get all the rooms in order, for I do not at all know which they will choose."

"And the chapel, mamma," said Amy, "won't Bridget have the chapel cleaned? When I was last in it, there was such a heap of dust on the old monument near the door."

Bridget looked annoyed. "The chapel is not my department, Miss Amy; it was given in particular charge to Stephen's niece by Mrs Harrington herself; but she is an idle trolloping girl, and always neglects. Stephen," she added, turning to the old man, who appeared quite absorbed in his own thoughts,—"Stephen, Miss Amy declares the chapel is dusty."

The steward started up like a man awakened from a dream; and catching only the meaning of the last word of the sentence, exclaimed—"Dusty! and whose fault is that, pray?"

"Whose, but that fine lady's your niece?" said Bridget, giving way to an irritation of temper which she did not dare to exhibit to Mrs Herbert, and delighted at having something to find fault with. "She is so busy all day with her flounces and her furbelows, that she has no time to think of her work."

Stephen, now fully alive to everything, looked steadily at Mrs Bridget as she said this; and then scanning her from head to foot with a half contemptuous smile, muttered—"Not so very different from other people," and walked away, though it was only a few paces, for his angry feelings were very soon subdued.

"I should like to go over the house, Bridget," said Mrs Herbert; "and after that, perhaps, you will get us some tea; for the evening is so fine we need not return home till late."

"Dear mamma," said Amy, "may we have it in your own room? I should so enjoy it! you know I like it better than any in the whole house."

Mrs Herbert made no objection; for although there were many melancholy ideas connected with this room, yet she felt like Amy, that to her it had more charms than any other.

It was in nearly the oldest part of the house, and had been occupied by herself and her favourite sister from the time when she was about fifteen, and was considered old enough to leave the schoolroom, and yet too young to go into society. Her mother had fitted it up for them with everything that could be required for their enjoyment; and here they had been accustomed to spend their mornings together free from interruption, for it was so far removed from the more modern buildings that even the sounds of the visitors' carriages could scarcely reach them. The deep oriel window looked out on the quietest and loveliest part of the pleasure-ground; and a private door opening upon it, afforded them a free and unobserved access to the garden; and many were the hours which Mrs Herbert had spent with her sister Edith, reading together under the shade of the large elm trees, with not a thought or wish beyond the enjoyment of the present moment.

The room was now deserted. The piano was still in its accustomed place, but its rich, full tone had become wiry and harsh by time. The table was still standing by the window, but its clear polish had a cold, repulsive appearance. There were no books, no work, no flowers. The chairs were ranged in regular order against the empty bookshelves; the gay colours of the curtains and ottomans were faded; and, instead of the bright smile and the merry laugh which had once greeted Mrs Herbert, there was nothing now to tell of the companion of her childhood but the picture which hung over the fire-place.

But Mrs Herbert did not complain: she had early left a home of happiness for one which was even more delightful to her; and her sister, who had married likewise, was still in the possession of health and prosperity. She had, therefore, much cause for thankfulness; and yet she never entered this room and recollected the pleasures of her youth, without a pang, which became the more painful when her husband's long-continued absence gave her so great a cause of anxiety.

Amy's associations with what had generally been called the oriel room were of a more cheerful character. She had never known it different from what it now was; and to her it only brought the remembrance of many happy hours spent there with her mother, in their occasional visits to Emmerton, and particularly of various incidents in Mrs Herbert's early life, which were almost sure to be recalled by some object or circumstance connected with it. With a secret hope that something of this kind would complete the pleasures of the day, she now followed her mother through the silent, deserted chambers, while directions were given for everything which might render them more comfortable; but at last, wearied with listening, she left Mrs Herbert's side, and wandered by herself into the pleasure-ground, till she became so tired that she was glad to find her way back to the oriel room, where Mrs Bridget, whose great favourite she was (and it was the only point on which Bridget and Stephen agreed), had prepared the tea, and spread the table with fresh fruit and cakes. This was not, to Amy, at all an unpleasing sight; and when Mrs Herbert came in, she felt quite inclined to begin her evening meal; but they had scarcely seated themselves when Amy started back, exclaiming, "Oh mamma! pray look there. Did you ever see such a wretched little object?"

Mrs Herbert turned to the window, and saw a miserable girl, with a pale, haggard countenance and covered with rags, holding out her hand and begging for charity.

"Dear mamma! do give her something," said Amy; "she looks so dreadfully hungry."

"I will ask her a few questions first," replied Mrs Herbert, "and find out where she comes from, and then we shall know what is best to be done for her. I suppose she found her way into the pleasure-ground through the back lane and the kitchen-garden."

Mrs Herbert opened the window; and, beckoning to the girl to approach, made several inquiries as to her parents, her home, and her present necessities. She seemed sadly frightened; but answered without hesitation, that her father, who was a common labourer, had lately died, leaving a wife and six children, of whom she was the eldest. It was her mother's wish to return to her parish, thinking she should be better provided for there than amongst strangers. She had set out on the journey; but, being taken very ill, she had been obliged to stop at a village about a mile and a half distant, where she had spent all her money, and now, being totally destitute, she had sent her child to beg for some assistance.

"What will you do for her, mamma?" whispered Amy.

"I must know a little more about her before I decide," replied Mrs Herbert. "Is there no one in the village," she added, speaking to the girl, "who has helped your mother?"

"The clergyman's lady has been very good to us, ma'am," was the reply; "but the people of the house want mother to pay for the lodging, and she has no money."

"It is a sad case, if it be true," said Mrs Herbert; "but I will make some inquiries to-morrow; and now you shall take home something for your supper; and I will write to the lady who has been so kind to you, and, if you have spoken the truth, she will give your mother something for me."

The girl curtsied, and seemed pleased and grateful; and Amy, whilst her mother was writing a note, begged that she might take her round to Bridget's room, and give her her supper before she returned home; and when the girl had left the house with some bread and a bone of meat, Amy went back to her own comfortable meal with a much higher sense of the greatness of her daily blessings than she had had a quarter of an hour before.

The idea, however, of so much poverty and suffering in some degree diminished her enjoyment, and she sat for a while thoughtful and silent. At length, turning suddenly to Mrs Herbert, she exclaimed— "Mamma, it is very strange that some people are so poor and others so rich!"

"It does seem so at first," replied Mrs Herbert; "and we can only account for it by saying, that it is the will of God; that He alone knows what is good for us all, and therefore He ordains different things for different people; and though we consider poverty an evil, yet it is often a very great good, and makes people think of Him and love Him, when they would otherwise forget Him."

"But there is such a great, great difference in people," said Amy; "that poor woman has not a farthing, and my uncle Harrington has thousands a-year, you have told me."

"So he has," replied Mrs Herbert; "and yet, in a few years, they may both, perhaps, be equally rich."

"Oh mamma! how can that be possible?" exclaimed Amy.

"It may be true to a certain extent, at this very moment, my dear. You know what is meant by being an heir—having a right to certain property or money, which is to be received at some future period. Now, it is more than probable that your uncle with all his riches, and that poor woman in the midst of her sufferings, have both the same expectations for the future."

"Not on earth, mamma!" observed Amy.

"No, my love," replied Mrs Herbert; "but a person is not the less an heir because he will not receive his inheritance until he is admitted to heaven. I remember that I first learned to think upon this subject when I was about two years younger than you are now."

"Do tell me how, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, her eyes sparkling with delight: "it must be one of your stories about the time when you were a little girl."

"It is not quite a story, Amy, and, at any rate, it is rather a grave one; so, perhaps, we had better wait till you are quite in the humour."

"Oh! but I am quite in the humour always, mamma; and I think I like grave stories best. Will it be a long one?"

"No," replied Mrs Herbert; "neither long nor amusing, and yet, perhaps, it may interest you, as it may help to explain a subject on which you have often heard me speak, and which it is very necessary you should understand and think about.

"The time I am going to tell you of was, as I mentioned just now, when I was about ten years old and your uncle Harrington one-and-twenty. Persons at that age are, you know, considered capable of taking care of their property; and the day of their attaining it is very often marked by great rejoicings, in the case of those who have the expectation of a large inheritance. This was your uncle's situation, and great preparations were made for several weeks before, that the event might be properly celebrated. Invitations were sent to all our friends, who were then very numerous, and many came from a distance to spend some days with us. A dinner was to be given to the tenants and the school children; there were to be fireworks let off from the terrace in the evening, and a band of music was engaged for the occasion;—and all this was to do honour to my brother. You may imagine how much I was interested in it, and how very delightful I thought it must be to be in his place. I do not think I ever longed for anything in my whole life so much as I did for the arrival of this day. I could talk of nothing else,—I could think of nothing else; and I am afraid I gave my governess, Miss Harwood, very much trouble for a whole week, I was so inattentive to my lessons. At length it came—the long-wished-for twenty-ninth of June; and certainly it was as lovely a day as I could possibly have desired. I remember waking very early, and jumping out of my bed to look at the weather. The sky was of a deep rich blue, with only a faint mist over the distance, foretelling the heat of the noonday. From my window I could see far over the country, and everything that I could distinctly view was my father's property. I called to my sister Edith, and made her come to the window, to enjoy the perfect beauty of the morning; and I can well recollect saying to her, with a half-envious sigh, 'Should you not like to be Charles, and to think that all this was to be your own?' Your aunt, Amy, was of a very sweet, contented disposition, and she checked me for the wish, and said that she was thankful for her brother's blessings, but she could hardly desire them for herself,—she was afraid she should not make a good use of them. We stood for some time together; but said very little, for there was such a perfect stillness reigning around that it almost seemed as if it would be wrong to break it. Presently, however, we heard the sound of distant music; it came nearer and nearer, and we soon recognised the sweet voices of the village children, who had been sent to pay this first mark of respect to their young master.

"I cannot describe how beautiful it sounded to me, though perhaps it was only because I was in a state of such excitement, and so inclined to find delight in everything; but I know that I listened to it with breathless attention, and when I turned to look at Edith, there was a tear in her eye, and I do not think that she, though so much calmer in disposition, has ever forgotten, any more than myself, the tones of that simple hymn."

"But, mamma," interrupted Amy, "the children never sing so beautifully now?"

"I do not mean, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert, "that the music was really so very much better than what I had usually heard, though I dare say they had had a great deal of pains taken with them. But you will find, as you grow older, that many things which are in themselves common, will appear delightful to you if you are inclined to be particularly happy; and so it was with me on that morning. Edith and myself stayed so long at the window, even after the children's singing was over, that we were only just dressed by the time the bell rang for morning prayers, and when we entered the chapel, it was quite full. All the servants of the family, with those of our numerous guests and a few of my father's tenants, were ranged on the long oaken benches in the aisle; the seats for the gentlemen were occupied by my father, my brother, and their friends; and the ladies' gallery, in which we were, was also crowded. I felt quite frightened when I went in, for many of those present were strangers to me, having arrived late the night before; but I took my place between Edith and Miss Harwood, and the service began. It was read by my brother's tutor, a clergyman who lived in the family; and when it was over, the party assembled in the breakfast-room, but we were considered too young to join it, and we came back to what was then the schoolroom—the very room in which we now are, Amy—to be with Miss Harwood and the younger children till it should be time for us to wait upon the poor people, who were to have a dinner given them on the lawn, in front of the house. All that I could think of was the grandeur of my brother's situation, and the pleasure of having so many persons assembled to do honour to oneself. I could not fix my attention to anything, but could only count the hours till two o'clock, and run occasionally to the top of the great stair-case to look at what was going on below, for preparations were making on a large scale for the evening's entertainment; servants were constantly passing and repassing, and I heard my brother's name repeated by almost every one. At length Edith and I were told to go into the servants' hall, where the school children were to meet, and to place them in order, that they might walk regularly, two and two, to the ground where the dinner was laid. This was to me most welcome news; for I was tired of being nearly the only useless person in the midst of so much bustle, and we spent at least a quarter of an hour endeavouring to make them understand which were to go together, and how they were to behave, and distributing some little coloured banners which we had amused ourselves with preparing for the occasion; and when the great bell sounded, Edith and myself walked before them to the ground. My father and his guests were assembled on the terrace, and my brother stood by my father's side exactly in the centre. The children and their parents, and the rest of the tenants, were ranged at their several tables; and then, when the steward had called for silence, they all rose, and my father spoke to them, in a voice so clear that I think it must have been heard by every one. He told them of the gratification it was to him to see them all before him, and of the certainty he felt of their good-will towards him, with many more expressions of the same kind; and then, taking my brother by the hand, he led him forward to the edge of the terrace, and presented him to them as his heir, and their future master, saying that he trusted he would always prove himself their true friend; and that when he should be laid in his grave, my brother might receive from them, and from their children, the same marks of sincere attachment which they had always shown to himself.

"A general burst of applause followed this speech of my father's, and the words 'Long live the young master!' were heard from every lip; even the children joined in the cry; and when the excitement had a little subsided, my brother also spoke. He was extremely frightened, and I could not hear all that he said; but I was told afterwards that he thanked them for their reception of him, and added that he hoped it would be very long before he should be called on to act as their master; but that, when that time should arrive, it would be his one earnest endeavour to follow his father's footsteps. As he concluded, another loud cheer was given by the tenants, and just as it was dying away I heard a voice behind me say, in a deep, suppressed tone, 'May God in heaven bless him! and may he one day be the possessor of a far richer inheritance!' I was quite startled at the solemnity with which the words were spoken, and I did not at the moment understand their meaning. They seemed to be quite involuntary, and were certainly not intended to be overheard; and I turned quickly to see who was near. I was standing between the two tables, and on my right hand was a young man whose face I did not at all recollect. He appeared about my brother's age; but instead of Charles' healthy complexion and strong limbs, he looked completely worn by disease. There was not the slightest tinge of colour in his cheeks; his eyes were deep sunk in his head, and even his lips were of an ashy paleness, and the hand by which he supported himself, as he leant rather than stood against the table, was more like that of a skeleton than of a living being; his clothes were neat and clean, but showed marks of great poverty; and, in fact, I had seldom seen such indications of extreme sickness and want."

"Poor man!" exclaimed Amy; "was he really unhappy, mamma?"

"No, my love," replied Mrs Herbert. "I was just going to tell you that, notwithstanding all these symptoms of suffering, he looked perfectly contented, and there was even a smile upon his face. I watched him as he seated himself after the speeches were ended, and saw that he was quite exhausted; he ate little or nothing; and, before the dinner was over, he was obliged to leave the ground, assisted by an elderly woman, whom I knew very well, and who was in very distressed circumstances. I could not help thinking, as he slowly walked away, of the vast difference there was between him and my brother in everything; and the same question arose in my mind which you asked me just now, Amy, 'Why God should make some people rich and others poor?' but there was no one near me then to answer it. The remainder of the afternoon was spent by us in setting the village children to play, and resting ourselves in the schoolroom. And when the heat of the day began to lessen, and we knew that the company were at dinner, Miss Harwood proposed that we should go to the top of the hill at the side of the house, which was our favourite walk, where we should probably see a magnificent sunset, and return in time to be dressed for the drawing-room.

"I was so restless, that it was a great relief to have some occupation found for me, and I enjoyed the thought of the cool evening air after the fatigue and sultriness of the morning; and I determined also that I would, if I could manage it, get Miss Harwood alone, and ask her to explain what had so puzzled me, and find out from her who the poor man was who had left the table, for his face seemed constantly before me, with its expression of great suffering, and yet of quiet happiness. Edith and I set out together; but I soon left her with the others, searching for wild flowers, and joined Miss Harwood. We easily outstripped them, and reached the top of the hill long before they had half filled their baskets. Miss Harwood always noticed any change in us, and she asked me why I was so fond of getting away from the rest, and whether I should not be much happier with them than with her. I had no concealment from her any more than you have from me, Amy, and I told her directly what I wanted to ask her, and how I had wondered to see that poor man apparently so destitute when my brother had everything that the world could give him. She gave me very much the same answer that I have given you, that it was the will of God, and that He knew what was good for us, and often sent us sufferings to teach us to think of Him; and then she added that she knew the poor man well, and had been present when he and my brother had both been declared heirs of a far richer inheritance than any that my father had to bestow. I felt surprised; and the exclamation I had heard in the morning, and which before I had scarcely thought of, flashed upon my memory. I supposed Miss Harwood's words must have some allusion to it, though I could not understand how; and I eagerly asked why the poor man did not obtain any benefit from his inheritance. 'He does obtain a great benefit from it at this moment,' replied Miss Harwood, almost sadly; 'and I do not doubt that, in a very short time, he will be admitted to possess at least a portion of it.' You may imagine how desirous I was of having this mystery explained; but when I looked at Miss Harwood, I saw that she was thinking of something very serious, and a sudden notion of her meaning came into my mind. 'You mean an inheritance in heaven?' I said, half doubting whether I might not be wrong. A smile of pleasure passed across Miss Harwood's face as she answered, 'Yes, Ellen, you are quite right; and I will tell you what I meant when I said that he was made an heir of heaven. It is now many years ago, I was staying at Emmerton, soon after your brother's birth, and long before I thought of ever being a governess. On the day on which he was baptized I went with your father, and several of his friends, to the village church. I stood at the font with the godfathers and his godmother (who, you know, are called sponsors), and I heard the clergyman ask them some very solemn questions, which they were required to answer in your brother's name. He then took him in his arms, sprinkled him with water in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, and marked on his forehead the sign of the cross; and, giving him back to his nurse, he declared him to be one of that society or set of persons who form what is called the Church, and to whom God has promised His kingdom. From that moment,' continued Miss Harwood, 'your brother was made a Christian and an heir of glory, such as we cannot imagine; the sins of his original evil nature were forgiven him, and a new spirit was implanted in him; and when I looked at him, as he lay in his nurse's arms, I could not help thinking that it would be happier for him if it were to please God to take him at once to Himself, before he could by any sin of his own forfeit his innocence, and risk the loss of his eternal inheritance. But,' she added, 'he was not the only one who on that day received the promise of the kingdom of heaven. Besides our own party, there stood by the font four of our poor neighbours, some, indeed, of the poorest in the parish. One of them held a sickly-looking infant, wrapped in a coarse kind of cloak; and when Charles had been baptized, this child was given to the clergyman. The same questions were asked, the same water was sprinkled upon him, the same words were pronounced, the same sign was marked on his forehead, and then he also was restored to his parents, a Christian, and an heir of everlasting happiness. Notwithstanding the vast difference in their outward circumstances, there was none in the eye of God; both had received infinite blessings, both were engaged to keep the most solemn promises.'

"'Your brother, Ellen,' continued Miss Harwood, 'has grown up in the midst of every earthly luxury, and has to-day been declared heir to a splendid property: the other child was bred in poverty, and accustomed to the severest privations. He was early obliged to leave his home, and work for his livelihood amongst strangers; and now he has returned to his mother, who is a widow, and nearly destitute, completely broken in health, and with no prospect before him but that of a speedy death. Which do you think is the more to be envied?'

"I was silent, for I knew that I would far rather be my brother, the possessor of health and riches, than a poor man in need of everything. Do you think I was right, Amy?"

"If the poor man went to heaven, mamma," said Amy, "I suppose he would have everything there that he could desire."

"Yes, my love," replied Mrs Herbert, "he would indeed; and yet, though I knew this then as you do now, I could not easily forget all the respect that I had seen shown to my brother that morning, and I did not like to say anything that was not true.

"Miss Harwood waited for a few moments, and then said, 'Look, Ellen, at the park, and the woods beneath us, and the pretty little village beyond—you know it is all your father's—is it not very lovely?'

"'Yes!' I replied, surprised at the question.

"'But now look farther,' said Miss Harwood; 'do you not see what a vast extent of country there is on the other side, stretching away till it reaches the sea? The owner of all that property would be a much greater person than even your father.'

"'Yes, indeed he would,' I said, as I turned in the direction to which she pointed.

"'But now, Ellen, look once more,' said Miss Harwood, 'over the sea into the sky—look at that mass of brilliant purple and golden clouds, behind which the sun is now sinking; do you not see, far away to the right, a pale bright star?—it is the only one which has yet appeared; but in a short time the whole firmament will be studded with millions and millions like it. Each of those stars is, as you well know, a world; and we may believe infinitely more perfect than ours. If it be a great thing to be the child of one who owns so beautiful an estate as your father, must it not be a far greater to be the child of Him who not merely owns, but who created those glorious worlds?'

"'But my brother,' I said, 'was made the child of God as well as that poor man.'

"'Yes,' replied Miss Harwood; 'and we may hope that when it shall be the will of God that he should die, he also may inherit the blessing which has been promised him, but his trial is yet to come: he may be tempted to do wrong, and forget God, and he may, therefore, lose it; but that poor man's trial will in all probability soon be over. I know that he has endeavoured to keep the vow made for him at his baptism, and trusts only to the merits of his Saviour for salvation, and therefore I have but little fear for him; but I do feel for your brother, because I know he is in the midst of great temptations.'

"These words sounded very strangely to me,—it seemed as if Miss Harwood were pitying Charles, instead of envying him, as I did; and I was going to ask her some more questions, when Edith and my other sisters came running towards us, telling us that they had gathered a most beautiful nosegay, and wished now to return home. They began laughing at me for running away from them; but they could not make me join in their merriment, for I could only think of all that Miss Harwood had been saying; and even when we reached the house, and were dressed for the evening, I still remembered it.

"The large saloon was lighted up when we entered, and there were a great many people assembled, all gaily dressed, and walking up and down whilst the band was playing. My brother was noticed by every one, and was evidently considered the chief person, and I felt that I should have been happy to be him; but then Miss Harwood's words recurred to my mind, and I became thoughtful; for I knew that although he might be the heir of earthly grandeur, yet that, if he were to do wrong, and lose the promise of heaven, he must be miserable. We were not allowed to stay very long, Amy, and therefore I cannot give you a great description of the ball. I only remember how very tired I was when I went to bed, and that my last thoughts were of my conversation with Miss Harwood, and of my brother and the poor man."

"Is that all, mamma?" said Amy.

"Yes, my dear," replied Airs Herbert; "you know I told you it was not a very interesting story."

"I did not mean that, mamma," said Amy; "for I have liked it very much; but I was thinking of the poor man. Did you never see him again?"

"Only once," replied Mrs Herbert; "for he was too ill, after that day, to leave his home. It was one afternoon when I had been with Miss Harwood into the village; and, as we were returning, we passed his cottage door; he was seated at it, supported by pillows, and looking even worse than on the day of the fete. Miss Harwood had a basket of fruit for him, and she stopped and talked to him for some little time. I cannot tell you all that passed, Amy, for I did not entirely understand it myself, and some of it was too solemn to be repeated again; but I well remember the peaceful expression of the poor man's countenance, and that he said he would not exchange his prospect of happiness for anything earth could give; he also mentioned my brother, and seemed to feel a great interest for him. But there was nothing like envy at what appeared to me so much more desirable a lot: he looked, and indeed he was, perfectly contented; and a few days after, I was told by Miss Harwood that he was dead."

"And what became of his mother?" asked Amy.

"She is living still in the village, and in the same cottage; for although it is almost a hovel, she cannot afford anything more comfortable: and I hardly think she would change it if she could; for she has often said to me, that it was there her husband and her child died, and she should never love any place so well. But you have frequently seen her, my dear; do you not remember the little thatched cottage next the blacksmith's shop, and the old woman we often notice spinning at the door?"

"Oh yes," said Amy,—"old widow Watson; but she is very cheerful."

"She has the same cause for cheerfulness that her son had," replied Mrs Herbert. "But now, Amy, do you understand from my story why I said that the mother of the poor little ragged girl we saw just now has probably as great a prospect of future happiness as your uncle Harrington?"

"Yes, mamma, if she has been baptized: but we are not sure of that."

"We may hope that she has been," replied her mother; "but that which I am most desirous you should think of, is not so much the case of that poor child as your own. You can have no doubt of your baptism, and you may therefore feel quite certain of having had a promise made to you; and when you grow older, and begin to know what the troubles of life really are, you will be able to appreciate the blessing of having something to hope for and expect beyond the pleasures of the world."

"Everybody who is grown up talks of having had a great deal of sorrow, mamma," said Amy; "and so I suppose it is true: and sometimes I feel quite frightened, and wish I could be always young; for I am very happy now, and when my cousins come, I do not think I shall ever want anything more."

Mrs Herbert looked rather grave as she answered,—"I am afraid, my dear, that your cousins arrival may make a great change in many of your ideas. They have been brought up very differently from you, and you will see them dressed in fine clothes, and with servants to wait on them, and carriages to drive about in; and then, perhaps, you will become envious and discontented."

"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Amy, "how can you think so, when I shall have you with me?"

"I wish I could teach you, my love, how much better it is to be the child of God than to be my child," replied Mrs Herbert. "I should have no fears for you then; for you would not care for the grandeur and riches which you will see your cousins possess, and you would always be happy whether I were with you or not."

"Mamma," said Amy, "you have often talked lately of my living without you; but it makes me so very miserable to think of it, I wish you would not mention it."

"You must not give way to this kind of feeling, my dear child," answered her mother; "for we must bear whatever God thinks fit to appoint. But I cannot talk any more now: you shall go into the garden till the carriage is ready, and leave me alone, for I am sadly tired."

"I do not like to leave you," said Amy, "you look so pale and ill; and you never used to do so. Oh, how I wish——," but here she stopped, fearing lest the mention of her father's name might increase her mother's grief.

"You need not be afraid," replied Mrs Herbert, with a half smile, though she well knew what was uppermost in her child's mind; "all that I require is rest and quiet."

Amy said no more, but placed a glass of water by her mother's side, and left the room.

When she was gone, Mrs Herbert closed her eyes, and seemed as if endeavouring to sleep; but the working of her forehead, and the pressure of her lips, showed that there was no repose of the mind. Solitude only brought before her more clearly the image of her husband in a distant land,—perhaps ill and unhappy, it might be dying; but it was necessary for her own health, and for Amy's happiness, that she should struggle against these sad forebodings; and although a few tears at first rolled slowly down her cheek, and she felt that it was almost impossible to prevent herself from giving way to her grief, she did at length succeed in turning her mind to the consideration of the watchful providence and mercy of God; and by the time Amy returned with the announcement that the carriage was ready, she had quite regained her tranquillity.

Stephen was at the door as they drove off, and bade them good-bye with a happier look than was his wont; though, when Amy asked him if he were not delighted at the thought of all the carriages and horses he should soon see, he scarcely smiled as he answered, "Ah! yes, Miss Amy, 'twill be very fine; but there will be no one now to ride the Shetland pony in the park;" and he turned his head and walked quickly away. Mrs Bridget's civilities, now that she knew how much depended on Mrs Herbert's good opinion, were greater than usual; and many were the hopes she expressed that everything had been satisfactory in the house, and that dear little Miss Amy had liked the cake and strawberries. But Mrs Herbert was too tired to listen long to her speeches, and expressed her approbation in few words; and Amy, who liked Stephen a great deal better than Bridget, declared that it was all quite delicious, and then ran after the old steward to say good-bye once more.

CHAPTER III.

"There are only six days now, mamma," said Amy, as she sat at work by her mother's side, about a week after their visit to Emmerton; "only six days, and then my cousins will be come; but they seem dreadfully long; and I have been thinking, too, that perhaps I shall not be liked; and if so, you know all my pleasure will be at an end."

"You had better not think anything about that, my dear," answered Mrs Herbert; "it is nearly the certain way of preventing yourself from being agreeable. If you are good-natured and sweet-tempered, there is very little doubt of your being liked; but if you make any great efforts to please, you will probably be led into saying and doing things that are not quite natural, and you will at once become disagreeable; besides, you may be tempted to act wrongly in order to suit your cousins' inclinations. You know, Amy, we ought to try not to be liked, but to be good."

"But will you just tell me everything about my cousins, mamma, that I may know what to expect? There will be Dora, and Margaret, and Frank, and Rose; four of them. Now, what will Dora be like?"

"I really can tell you very little," replied Mrs Herbert; "it is a long time since I have seen any of them, and you have heard almost as much as I have. Dora, I believe, has been brought forward a good deal, and probably, therefore, considers herself older than she really is; she must be more than fourteen, and I should think would not be so much your companion as Margaret, who is a year younger. Frank you will not see a great deal of, as he is at school the chief part of the year; though, perhaps, now, the difference of his position in the family may make some change in his fathers plans for him. Little Rose, who is not quite six, is the pet of the whole house, and especially doated upon by her mother; and this is nearly all the information I can give you."

"And will the young lady I have so often heard you speak of come with them, or will my aunt teach them as you do me?"

"She will come with them, I have no doubt," replied Mrs Herbert; "for although your aunt objects to a regular governess, and has educated your cousins almost entirely herself, yet, lately, Miss Morton has assisted her very much in their music and drawing."

"Miss Morton is the daughter of a clergyman who lived very near
Wayland—is she not, mamma?" said Amy.

"Yes," answered her mother. "He died suddenly, and his wife only survived him about a month, and this poor girl was left quite unprovided for. Some of her relations interested themselves for her, and placed her at a very excellent school, where she had great advantages; and having a superior talent for music and drawing, she made very rapid progress. When she was nearly nineteen, she entered your uncle's family, and has lived with them now for two years."

"Will she be with them always?" asked Amy, "or will she have separate rooms, as I have heard most governesses have?"

"I believe she has been accustomed to have a sitting-room to herself," said Mrs Herbert; "or, at least the schoolroom has been considered hers, and she seldom joins the rest of the party."

"Poor thing!" said Amy; "without any father or mother, it must be very sad in the long winter evenings."

Mrs Herbert thought the same, but she did not wish to express her opinion; and Amy, having finished her work, was told to go and prepare for a walk, her mother being glad to find an excuse for breaking off the conversation, and so avoiding any further questions.

The arrival of her brother's family was, indeed, a subject of anxious consideration for Mrs Herbert. It must have a great influence on Amy's mind, either for good or evil; and there was much reason to fear that the evil would preponderate. Mr Harrington was a man of high honour and extreme benevolence; but he was constitutionally indolent, and had allowed his wife to gain so much influence over him, that the management of everything was chiefly in her hands. It certainly might have been entrusted to worse, for Mrs Harrington had good judgment, superior sense in all worldly affairs, and a never-failing activity. Her establishment was the best ordered, her dinners were the best dressed, her farm and dairy were the best supplied of any in the county—all was in a style of first-rate elegance, without any pretension or extravagance, but when she attempted to apply her sense and her activity to the management of her children, she failed essentially, for the one thing was wanting—she had no real principle of religion.

She had, it is true, taken care that they should be taught their Catechism, almost as soon as they could speak; but she had never endeavoured to explain to them its meaning; they had been accustomed to repeat a hasty prayer every morning and evening, but they had never learned how solemn a duty they were performing; and every Sunday they had been in the habit of reading a chapter in the Bible, but it was hurried through without the smallest thought, partly as a task, and partly as a means of passing away the time. If it had not been for this great deficiency, Mrs Harrington would have been well calculated for the task of education; caring, however, only for accomplishments which might make a show in the world, she considered the cultivation of her children's minds a matter of secondary importance; and although she was desirous they should be clever and well-read, that they might appear to advantage in society, she thought very little of the effect their studies might have upon their general character.

From these circumstances, as might easily be supposed, Dora and Margaret grew up with all their natural evil inclinations unchecked and the good unimproved. Dora's temper, originally haughty, had become year by year more overbearing, as she found that, from her father's rank and fortune, and from being herself the eldest daughter of the family, she could exact attention, not only from her brothers and sisters, but from most of her playmates, and all the servants and dependents; and if occasionally she excited her mother's displeasure, when a music lesson had been particularly bad, or a drawing very carelessly executed, her talents easily enabled her to regain that place in Mrs Harrington's affection, which depended so much upon external superiority. And yet, under good guidance, Dora Harrington might have become a very admirable person. Her disposition was generous and candid, and her feelings were warm and easily excited; but her pride and self-will had hitherto marred every better quality.

Margaret was very different: she was more inclined to be gentle and yielding, but this rather from indolence than amiability; and her vanity and selfishness rendered her, perhaps, even less agreeable than her sister, when she became more intimately known. There was, indeed, one peculiarity about her, which, on a first acquaintance, was very winning—a great desire of gaining the love of others! and for this purpose she would use the most affectionate expressions, and profess the greatest interest in their happiness; but her young companions soon found that she was seldom willing to make the sacrifice of her own inclinations to theirs; and persons who were older, and could see deeper into her character, discovered that her love of affection differed but little from her love of admiration, as she only valued it because it gained her attention; and the same vanity which made her delight in the praises of her delicate complexion, and fair hair, and bright blue eyes, made her also take pleasure in knowing that she was an object of interest and regard to those around her.

Such were probably to be Amy's companions for the next few years of her life. Rose being too young to be considered of the number; and it was well for Mrs Herbert's happiness that she was little aware of their dispositions. Yet she had some fears as to the principle on which her nieces had been educated; and she could not but be thankful that she should, as she hoped, be at hand for at least some time to come, to watch the effect of the intimacy upon Amy's mind, and to warn her against any evil which might result from it; as she felt that, in the event of her own death and her husband's prolonged absence, it would be upon her brother's family alone that she could depend for friendship and protection to her almost orphan child.

Amy herself, with all the thoughtlessness of her age, looked forward to nothing but enjoyment; and when the first rays of the sun shone through her window, on the morning of the day that was to witness her meeting with her cousins, and awakened her from her quiet sleep and her peaceful dreams, it was only to give her the expectation of a yet brighter reality. For the next hour she lay awake, imagining the grandeur of Emmerton Hall in its best furniture, the delight of driving in her uncle's carriage, and the probability that she might have beautiful presents made her,—new books, or a watch, or a pony, or, what would be still better, a pony-chaise for her mamma, now that she was unable to walk far. She even went on to count up the books she should wish for, and to settle the colour of the pony, not doubting that her uncle would be willing to give her everything; for she had always been told he was very kind; and a person who could live at Emmerton, she was sure, must be able to purchase whatever he desired.

"Oh mamma, I am so happy!" was her first exclamation, as she seated herself at the breakfast-table. "Do see what a beautiful day it is; and I have been awake so long this morning, thinking over what we shall do in the afternoon. I am sure you must be happy too."

"Happy to see you so, my love," said Mrs Herbert, as she kissed her.

"But why not happy in yourself, mamma; are you ill?" and she looked at Mrs Herbert anxiously; then suddenly becoming grave, she said, "Dear mamma, it was very wrong in me, but I did not think about poor Edward."

"It was very natural, my dear, and you need not be distressed because you cannot feel for him as I do, who knew him when he was a healthy, merry child, the delight of every one."

"Then there is no harm in being happy?" said Amy; "but I will try to be so to myself, though I should like you to smile too; but, perhaps, you will when you see them quite settled at Emmerton."

"I hope every one will be reconciled to the loss in time," replied Mrs Herbert; "and, perhaps, Amy, it will be a greater pleasure to me, by and by, to know that your uncle is so near than it will be to you."

"Oh mamma! how can that be? you know you are so much older; and you always tell me that grown-up people do not enjoy things so much as children."

"But supposing, my dear, that your cousins' being at Emmerton should make you envious and discontented with your own home, you would not be happy then?"

For a few moments Amy did not speak; a grave expression came over her face; and, allowing her breakfast to remain untouched, she sat apparently deep in thought. At last she said, "Mamma, people must be very unhappy when they are envious."

"Yes, indeed they must," replied Mrs Herbert; "for they are always longing for things which God has not chosen to give them, and are unthankful for those which they possess; besides, they often dislike the persons whom they fancy more blessed than themselves."

"And should you love me, mamma, if I were envious?" continued Amy, looking intently at her mother as she spoke.

"It would be a dreadful thing indeed, my love, which would prevent me from loving you; but I should be very, very sorry to see you so."

Again Amy was silent, and began eating her breakfast hastily; but it seemed an effort, and Mrs Herbert presently saw that the tears were fast rolling down her cheeks.

"Amy, my dear child, what is the matter?" she exclaimed.

Amy tried to answer, but her voice failed her; and rising from her seat she hid her face on her mother's neck, and then said, in a low tone, "Mamma, I know I have been envious."

"If you have, my dear, you are, I am sure, very sorry for it now; and you must not vex yourself too much when you discover you have a fault, since you know that if you pray to God He will forgive you, and help you to overcome it."

"But, mamma," said Amy, "I did not think it was envy till just now. It was the other evening when we came back from Emmerton, and I was fancying how beautiful the house would be when it was all furnished, and how I should like to live there; and then, when we got near home, I did not like the cottage as much as I used to do, it appeared so small; and I began to think I should be happier if I were one of my cousins, and had a carriage, and horses, and servants. But, Oh mamma! it was very wicked"—and here Amy's tears again fell fast—"for I forgot that I had you."

"The feeling was very natural," said Mrs Herbert, "though I will not say it was right. I have often been afraid lest seeing your nearest relations so much richer than yourself might make you uncomfortable; but you know I told you before, that God sends to each of us some particular trial or temptation, to prove whether we will love and serve Him, or give way to our own evil inclinations; and this will probably be yours through the greater part of your life. But when the feeling of envy arises in your heart, will you, my darling Amy, pray to God to help you, and teach you to remember that at your baptism you received the promise of infinitely greater happiness and glory than any which this world can give? And now you must finish your breakfast, or you will make yourself quite ill and unfit for the day's pleasure; and, after our reading and your morning lessons, we will have a very early dinner, so that we may have time to call at Colworth parsonage before we go to Emmerton. Mrs Saville has sent me word, that the story the poor girl told us the other evening is quite true, and I should like to inquire how her mother is."

Amy reseated herself at the breakfast-table; but she could not easily recover her spirits, and during the whole morning there was a grave tone in her voice, and a slight melancholy in her countenance, which only disappeared when Mr Walton's carriage came to the door at two o'clock, and she found herself actually on the road to Emmerton to receive her cousins. The increased distance by Colworth was about two miles, and, at another time, it would have added to her enjoyment to go by a new road; but every moment's unnecessary delay now made her feel impatient, and she was only quieted by her mamma's reminding her that her uncle could not possibly arrive before half-past four or five o'clock, and therefore it would be a pleasant way of spending the intervening time. "Besides," said Mrs Herbert, "we must not forget others, Amy, because we are happy ourselves; perhaps we may be of use to the poor woman." Amy sighed, and wished she could be like her mother, and never forget what was right; and the consciousness of one fault brought back the remembrance of another, and with it the morning's conversation; and this again reminded her of their last evening at Emmerton, and her mamma's story, till her mind became so occupied that she forgot the novelty of the road, and her impatience to be at the end of her journey; and when the carriage stopped at the gate at Colworth, she was thinking of what Mrs Herbert had said about her uncle Harrington, and the poor woman having the same prospect for the future, and wondering whether they either of them thought of it as her mamma seemed to do.

Mrs Saville was almost a stranger to Amy; but her kind manner quickly made her feel at ease, and she became much interested in the account that was given of the poor woman's sufferings, and the dutiful affection shown by her eldest girl.

"Is it the one, mamma, whom we saw at Emmerton?" whispered Amy.

"Yes," replied Mrs Saville, who had overheard the question; "she came home that evening almost happy, notwithstanding her mother's poverty and illness; for it had been the first time she had ever been obliged to beg, and she had begun to despair of getting anything, when your mamma was so good to her. I learned the whole story when she brought me the note, and scolded her a little for not coming to me at once; but we had done something for her before, and she did not like to ask again. I cannot think," she continued, turning to Mrs Herbert, "what the children will do; for the mother is rapidly sinking in a decline; and she tells me they have no near relation, excepting a grandmother, who is old and in want."

"How far off is their parish?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"About ten miles; it is impossible to think of their being moved now; for the poor woman can scarcely live more than a few days longer; yet the eldest girl seems to have no notion of her danger, and I dread the consequences of telling her, she is so fond of her mother."

"I should like to go to the cottage, if it is near," said Mrs Herbert; "or, at least, I should be glad to see the girl; for I suppose her mother had better not be disturbed."

"It will be very easy, if you desire it," replied Mrs Saville; "for the children are kept in a separate room. I should wish you to see the woman herself, if she were equal to the sight of a stranger, for I am sure you would be pleased with her contentment and resignation."

"May I go too?" asked Amy, when Mrs Saville left the room.

Mrs Herbert thought for a moment, and then replied, "You may, my dear, if you are willing to assist in helping these poor people; I mean by working for them, or doing anything else which may be in your power; but it never does any one good to go and see people who are suffering, merely from curiosity."

"I think, mamma," said Amy, "I should be very willing to do something for them, if you would tell me what it should be."

"We must see them before we are able to decide," replied Mrs Herbert; "but we shall soon know, for here is Mrs Saville ready for her walk."

The cottage was but a short distance from the parsonage, and on the road to Emmerton, and the carriage was ordered to meet them there, that Mrs Herbert might be spared any unnecessary fatigue. Cottage it could not well be called, for it was little more than a hovel, divided into two parts; but it was the only one vacant in the neighbourhood, and the poor woman had gladly availed herself of any shelter when she became so ill; and though Mrs Saville's kindness had made it assume a more comfortable appearance than it had done at first, it was still very destitute of furniture, and, to Amy's eyes, looked the picture of wretchedness. The eldest girl was attending to her mother, and the five younger ones playing before the door. At the appearance of the strangers, they all rushed into the house; but Mrs Saville was an old friend, and, at her order, Amy's former acquaintance, Susan Reynolds, was called in. At first, Amy thought she should scarcely have known her again,—she was looking so much neater than when she had seen her that evening at Emmerton; but she soon remembered her face, and the frightened manner which she still retained.

Mrs Herbert made many inquiries as to the state of the family,—who were their relations, what they intended to do, and whether any of them had ever been to school; and the girl showed by her answers that she had no idea of her mother's danger. When she got well, she said, they should all go home, and live with grandmother, and go to school. She had learned to read and write herself; but the little ones never had, only sometimes she had tried to teach them; but now her whole time was taken up in nursing, and it was all she could do to keep them out of mischief, and mend their clothes.

Amy looked with a wondering eye upon the poor girl, as she gave this account of herself, and thought how impossible it would be for her to do as much; and yet there seemed to be but a slight difference in their ages, and the advantages of health and strength were all on her side. Mrs Herbert also remarked Susan's sickly countenance, and asked some questions as to her general health, but she could get very little information. Susan's care was entirely given to others, and she thought but little of her own feelings. At times, she said, she was very tired, and she did not sleep well at night; but then the baby often cried, and she was anxious about her mother, and so it was very natural. Again Amy felt surprised as she remembered her comfortable bed, and her quiet sleep, and her mamma's watchfulness on the slightest appearance of illness.

"Does it not make you very unhappy," she asked, "to see your mother suffer so much?"

"Yes, Miss," replied the girl; "but then I think of the time when she will get well."

"But supposing she should never get well?" continued Amy.

Poor Susan started, as if the idea had never entered her head before; her eyes filled with tears; and, after a great struggle, she said, in a broken voice: "Mother hopes to go to heaven." As she spoke, Mrs Herbert looked at her child, and Amy knew what the look meant; for it reminded her of the conversation at Emmerton, and she understood how true her mamma's words on that evening had been; for her uncle Harrington, with all his riches, could not expect a greater comfort than this for his death-bed. Conscious, however, that she had been the cause of a great deal of pain, her chief desire now was to make some amends; and, as they were about to go away, she whispered to her mamma, "I should like so much to do something for her."

"I will ask what would be most useful," replied Mrs Herbert. "This young lady," she added, turning to Susan, "wishes to make something which may be of service to you. Should you like it to be a frock for yourself, or for one of the children?"

"For Bessy, ma'am, if you please," said Susan; "her frock is all in rags, and it was quite old when she first had it." Bessy, who had run into the road to avoid the strangers, was summoned, and her measure properly taken; and Mrs Herbert, slipping a shilling into Susan's hand, and telling her she should have the frock in a few days, left the cottage, followed by Mrs Saville and Amy. Mrs Saville promised to send word if any plan were proposed which could be a comfort to the poor woman, or an assistance to her children; and then, wishing her good morning, Mrs Herbert and Amy stepped into the carriage, and were once more on the way to Emmerton.

"My dear child," said Mrs Herbert, finding that Amy made no observation on what had passed, "are you sorry that you went with me?"

"Oh no! mamma," exclaimed Amy; "but I am sorry that I said anything to Susan about her mother not getting well. I am afraid I made her very miserable."

"It was thoughtless, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert; "not but what it is quite necessary that Susan should be prepared, but then it would have been better for Mrs Saville to have broken it to her gently. These things happen to us all, from our not remembering, when we talk to people, to put ourselves in their situation. You would not have said it, if you had called to mind what your own feelings would have been in a similar case."

"But, mamma, it is impossible to be always on the watch."

"It is very difficult, but not impossible," said Mrs Herbert; "habit will do wonders; and the earlier we begin thinking about other persons' feelings, the more easy it will be to us to do so always; and I wish you particularly to be careful now, my love, because you will probably be thrown much more amongst strangers than you have been; and half the quarrels and uncomfortable feelings that we witness in society, arise from some little awkwardness or thoughtlessness in speech without any offence being intended. Though you are so young, Amy, you may soon learn, by a little observation, what things are likely to pain people, and what are not."

"But," said Amy, "I thought it was always necessary to speak the truth."

"Yes," replied her mother, "it certainly is quite necessary whenever you are called upon to do it; for instance, if you had been asked whether you thought it likely that Mrs Reynolds would get well, it would have been quite right in you to say, no, because you had heard so from Mrs Saville; but there was no occasion for you to make the observation of your own accord."

"I think I know what you mean, mamma," said Amy; "but will you tell me one thing more? Why did you say it would do me no good to see the poor woman, if I did not mean to help her? I am sure, whether I could have done anything or not, I should have been very sorry for her."

"I should like to give a long answer to your question, my dear," answered Mrs Herbert; "but here we are at the lodge gate, and there is Stephen ready to welcome us, so we must leave it till another time."

"How quickly we have come!" exclaimed Amy. "Do, mamma, let me get out, and walk up to the house with Stephen; I want to hear what he says, and whether he is as impatient as I am."

But it was only the quick glance of the eye that betrayed Stephen's impatience, as he turned to look up the road by which Mr Harrington's carriage was expected to arrive. He seemed even little inclined for conversation, though Amy did her best to draw him out, as she one moment walked quietly by his side, then ran joyously before him, and then suddenly stopped to ask him some questions about the preparations that had been made. His dress, too, was different from what it usually had been, excepting when he appeared at church on a Sunday; and Amy saw the black crape round his hat, which told that he, like her mamma, could not feel unmixed pleasure in the return of his master's family to their former home.

CHAPTER IV.

As they entered the house, Amy's quick eye soon discovered the changes that had taken place since she was last there. A detachment of servants and a large quantity of furniture had arrived three days before; and Mrs Bridget was now in all her glory, putting the finishing stroke to everything, moving tables and chairs to suit her own taste, carefully effacing every symptom of dust, and ordering servants in all directions, partly because she thought they might as well be actively employed, and partly because she felt it was so grand to command tall men in livery. Her smart silk gown seemed to Amy's ears to rustle more audibly than ever as she met her in the hall, and there was a greater profusion of frills and ribbons about her wide-spreading cap, and, above all, a mixture of importance and bustle in her step, which, with the shrill voice and up-turned nose and chin, showed that she felt herself, for the time being, the superior of every one about her. Nevertheless, she received Amy most graciously, told her that she had persuaded Mrs Herbert to rest in the great drawing-room, and endeavoured to induce her to do the same; but this was quite contrary to Amy's inclinations, and the moment she could escape from Mrs Bridget's fine words, she ran off to see that her mamma was comfortable, and the next minute her light step was heard as she danced along the galleries exploring every room, new and old, to see what alterations were made in them. This was not quite according to Bridget's notions of propriety, and she muttered to herself that it would not do by and by,—Miss Amy would soon find out that the house was not hers; but her partiality got the better of her dignity, and Amy continued the search, till, having satisfied her curiosity, she stationed herself half way between the lodge and the house to watch for the carriage. Every moment seemed now an age; but she was not long kept in suspense; after about ten minutes, the rumbling of wheels was distinctly heard, and almost immediately afterwards the gates were thrown open, and a carriage and four drove rapidly down the avenue. Amy's heart beat quickly; she stood for a few moments looking at it, and then, half frightened as it came nearer and nearer, she ran at full speed towards the house that she might be the first to give the joyful intelligence to her mother. But Mrs Herbert's anxious ear had already caught the sound, and she was standing on the steps when her child flew to her almost breathless. Even in that moment of excitement, Amy could not help noticing the deadly paleness of her mother's face; but there was now no time for words, the carriage stopped at the door, and Mrs Herbert making a great effort to command her feelings, with a firm voice welcomed her brother and his family to Emmerton. Amy shrank behind her mamma, with but one wish, to avoid being observed by the tall grave-looking gentleman, whom she thought she never could call uncle; and Mrs Herbert, considering only her brother's painful feelings, suffered him to pass with but very few words. Mrs Harrington followed, and Amy scarcely remarked what her aunt was like, her whole mind being occupied with wondering whether the two fashionable-looking young ladies, who remained in the carriage searching for their baskets and books, could possibly be her own cousins.

"Which is Dora, mamma?" she whispered.

But Mrs Herbert moved forward, as her nieces ran up the steps, saying, "Your mamma has left me to introduce myself, my dear girls. I can hardly imagine you have any remembrance of your aunt Herbert and your cousin Amy. I suppose I shall not be mistaken in calling you Dora," she added, as she kissed the one who, from her height and general appearance, was evidently the eldest.

Amy's first curiosity was thus set at rest, but in its stead she was seized with an overpowering feeling of shyness. Dora looked almost as awful a person as her papa, whom she very much resembled. There was the same high forehead, dark eye, rather large nose, and haughty curl of the lip; and her height, which was unusual at her age, gave the idea of her being at least two years older than she really was; and Amy turned to Margaret in despair of finding anything like a companion; but Margaret had a much younger face, and slighter figure, though she also was tall; and if her dress and manner had been less like those of a grown-up person, Amy might, perhaps, have felt more comfortable.

"You are quite right, aunt," said Dora, in a sharp, loud voice, which sounded disagreeably in Amy's ears, after the gentle tones to which she had listened from her infancy; "I am Dora, and this is Margaret, and there is little Rose behind."

"I begin to think," said Mrs Herbert, "that, after all, Rose will be Amy's best playfellow; we were neither of us quite prepared for anything so tall and womanly, and Amy is such a tiny child, you will think her more fit for the nursery than the school-room, I suspect."

"Is this Amy?" said Dora, giving her first a patronising tap on the shoulder, and then a hasty kiss; "I dare say we shall be very good friends." And without another word she ran into the house.

"I am sure we shall," said Margaret, in a more affectionate tone, and Amy, who had been chilled by Dora's manner, returned her embrace most cordially.

"I must give little Rose a kiss before we go into the drawing-room," said Mrs Herbert, "and perhaps, Margaret, you will introduce me to Miss Morton."

Margaret stared, as if she did not quite understand her aunt's meaning. "Oh!" she said, "there is no occasion for that, we never do it with her; but, to be sure," she continued, seeing that Mrs Herbert looked grave, "if you like it. Simmons, help Miss Morton down."

The footman moved forward a few steps, lifted little Rose from the carriage, and then held out his hand to Miss Morton, who was seated by the side of the lady's maid.

"Which is Miss Morton?" asked Mrs Herbert, in a low voice, much puzzled between two silk gowns, two silk bonnets, and two lace veils.

"Well, that is amusing!" exclaimed Margaret, pertly, and bursting into a short, conceited laugh. "Certainly Morris is the nicest-looking of the two. Morris, my aunt did not know you and Emily Morton apart."

Amy felt very uncomfortable at this speech, though she scarcely knew why; and even Margaret, when the words were uttered, seemed conscious they were wrong; for, with a heightened colour, and without waiting to introduce Mrs Herbert, she seized Amy's hand, and turned quickly away.

"Miss Morton will, I am sure, willingly pardon a mistake which only distance could have caused," said Mrs Herbert, as she looked with interest at the delicate features and sweet expression of the peculiarly lady-like young girl, whose face had become like crimson on hearing Margaret's thoughtless speech. "I ought to know you; for I well remember seeing you some years ago, when I was staying with my brother at Wayland Court; but you were then such a child, that I confess I find a considerable alteration."

The answer to this was given in a low, hurried tone, for Emily Morton had lately been so little accustomed to civility, that it confused her almost as much as neglect. She seemed only anxious to divert Mrs Herbert's attention from herself to little Rose as soon as possible; and whispering to the child to go with her aunt into the drawing-room, she herself followed the lady's-maid in a different direction. Amy was by this time rather more at her ease; and when Mrs Herbert entered, she was standing by her uncle, and had found courage to say a few words. Mrs Harrington was leaning back on the sofa, taking but slight notice of anything; and Dora and Margaret were examining the furniture, and making remarks which were far from pleasing to Amy's ears. The room was so dark, and the windows were so deep, and the furniture was so very old-fashioned, they were quite sure they never could be happy in such a strange place; and after the first observations about the journey were over, Amy began to feel still more uncomfortable; for she fancied that her mamma wished her to be away, that she might talk to her uncle and aunt, and yet her cousins showed no intention of leaving the room. At last, surprised at her own boldness, she whispered to Dora, who was standing next her, "Should you not like to see the house up-stairs?"

Dora turned sharply round, and Amy could not quite understand the tone of her voice, as she said, "I suppose you wish to do the honours."

"Amy, my love," said Mrs Herbert, who had overheard the question and answer, "you must recollect that your cousins are at home; they will go up-stairs when they please."

Poor Amy felt puzzled and vexed; she had meant no harm, and yet both her mamma and Dora seemed annoyed. She did not, however, venture to say anything further, and was quite relieved when Mr Harrington remarked that it was a good notion, the girls had better go and choose their rooms at once, and settle themselves a little; and by that time they would be ready, perhaps, for their tea, as they had all dined on the road quite early.

Amy hung back, afraid of again doing something which her cousin might not like; but Margaret called to her to follow them, and in a few moments she had forgotten her discomfort in the pleasure of showing the different apartments, and pointing out all their several advantages. But Dora and Margaret were very difficult to please: one room was too small, another too large; one looked out at the back, and another at the side; one was too near the drawing-room, and another too far off. Still Amy did not care; for she had determined in her own mind that they would decide upon the bedroom oriel, which was just over the old schoolroom.

"Well! this really does seem as if it would do," said Margaret, as they entered. "Do look, Dora; it is the prettiest room in the whole house, and has the prettiest view, too; and the dressing-room is so large and nice."

"I care very little which room I have," said Dora, who was looking grave and unhappy. "The house is so sad and melancholy, it is all much the same; we shall never be happy here."

"Not happy!" said Amy. "Oh yes! by and by you will; it never seems gloomy to me."

"That is because you have always been accustomed to it," replied Dora.
"If you had seen Wayland Court, you would think nothing of this."

"Dora is determined not to be happy," said Margaret; and then she added, in a whisper to Amy, "She was so very fond of poor Edward."

Dora evidently heard the words; for the tears rushed to her eyes, and she bit her lip and began walking about examining the pictures; but the painting which hung over the mantel-piece quite overcame all attempt at composure. It was the picture of Mr Harrington's grandfather, taken when a boy. He was represented riding in the park, on a spirited pony; and both Dora and Margaret saw in a moment the likeness to their brother. It was not natural for Dora to give way to any display of feeling; but she had suffered very much during her brother's illness,—and this, with her regret at leaving Wayland, the fatigue of the journey, and what she considered to be the gloom of the house, entirely overpowered her; and Amy, who had never been accustomed to the sight of any grief, except her mamma's quiet tears, became frightened. Margaret, too, looked astonished, but neither said nor did anything to assist or comfort her sister; and Amy, having exhausted all the kind expressions she could think of, at last remembered Mrs Herbert's infallible remedy of a glass of water, which soon enabled Dora, in some degree, to recover herself. At first she took but little notice of Amy, who stood by her side, begging her to try and be happy; in fact, like many other proud persons, she felt annoyed that she had given way so much before a mere child, as she considered her cousin to be; but there was no withstanding the winning tones of Amy's voice, and the perfect sincerity of her manner; and when, at last, she became silent, and looked almost as unhappy as herself, Dora's haughtiness was quite subdued, and she exclaimed, "I must love you, Amy; for no one else would care whether I were miserable or not."

Amy was surprised at the idea of any person's seeing others suffer and not feeling for them; but, rejoicing in the success of her efforts, she now tried to divert Dora's attention, by talking of the conveniences of the room, and the view from the window. It was, at length, quite decided that they should occupy it, and the bell was forthwith rung to summon Morris. But the summons was given in vain; no Morris appeared. Again and again the rope was pulled, but no footsteps were heard in answer. Dora became irritated and Margaret fretful; and, after a considerable delay, Amy proposed that, as she knew the way to the housekeeper's room, she should try and find out Morris, who was very probably there. The thought of the strange servants was certainly alarming; but then her cousins were in distress, and she could help them; and, overcoming her timidity, she set off on what appeared to her quite an expedition. Boldly and quickly she threaded her way through the dark, winding passages, every turn of which had been familiar to her from her childhood. But when she stopped at the head of the back staircase, and listened to the hubbub of voices in the servants' hall, her first fears returned. Even Bridget's shrill tones were drowned in the medley of sound, and Amy looked in vain, in the hope of seeing her cross the passage. After a few moments, however, she felt inclined to laugh at her own shyness, and ran quickly down, determining to inquire for Morris of the first person she met. The servants were rushing to and fro in every direction, in all the important bustle of a first arrival, and one or two pushed by without taking any notice of her; but Amy, having resolved not to be daunted, still went on; and, as a door suddenly opened immediately at her side, and a tall female servant (as she imagined), dressed in deep mourning, entered the passage, she turned eagerly to her, pulled her gown, and begged to know where Morris was to be found. To her extreme consternation, her aunt's voice answered quickly and angrily—"Who is this? Amy here! how very improper, amongst all the servants! Why did you not ring the bell, child? Go away, this moment."

Amy's first impulse was to obey as fast as possible; but she knew she was doing no harm; and a few words, which her fright, however, made it difficult to utter, soon explained to Mrs Harrington the cause of her appearance there. Morris was instantly summoned, and Amy returned to her cousins to recount her adventure.

"You don't mean to say mamma saw you amongst all the servants?" exclaimed Margaret. "Well! I would not have been you for something; it is just the very thing she most objects to. I have heard her lecture by the hour about it; we have never been allowed to go within a mile of the kitchen; and even little Rose, though she is such a baby, is kept just as strict."

"Well, but," said Amy, "why did you let me go, if you knew my aunt would object?"

"Oh!" said Margaret, "you offered, and I thought mamma was safe in the drawing-room."

"And we wanted Morris," interrupted Dora, "I hate false excuses."

Amy felt rather angry, and thought she should not have done the same by them; but everything this evening was so very new and strange, that she kept all her feelings to herself for the present, to be talked over with her mamma when they got home.

"But were you not very much frightened?" continued Margaret. "What did you say when mamma spoke to you?"

"I was frightened just at first," replied Amy; "but then I knew I was not doing anything wrong, and so I did not really care."

"Well, if you are not the boldest little thing I ever met with," said
Margaret; "even Dora would have cared, if she had been you."

"It is no use to say any more," exclaimed Dora, in rather an irritated voice, for she prided herself upon caring for nobody; "we must leave off talking now, and proceed to work. I am resolved to have all my things unpacked, and settled to-night; so I shall choose my drawers and closets, and say where I will have them put, and then Morris may as well begin."

"But it is so late. Miss," said poor Morris, who was quite exhausted with the packing of the previous night, and the fatigue of the long day's journey; "and yours and Miss Margaret's things are mixed, many of them."

Dora coloured, and said angrily, "You forget yourself, Morris; I have told you that I choose to have my boxes unpacked to-night."

Amy longed to petition for a little mercy; but she was beginning to learn not to interfere where she had no power, and Dora immediately walked round the room to examine drawers and closets, and to give directions, while Morris stood by, the picture of despairing fatigue. Margaret was too indolent to give herself much trouble about the matter, and Amy was rather astonished to see that Dora did not consult her in the least. She chose the best of everything for herself; and when Morris inquired what Miss Margaret wished to have done, the only answer she could get was, that it did not signify; at any rate, to-morrow would be quite soon enough to settle, for she was far too tired to think about it now; and Morris, thankful for even a partial respite, asked for no more orders, but hastened away to make the proper selection of trunks and imperials. Dora and Margaret then arranged their dress and went down-stairs to tea, followed by Amy, who felt alarmed as she thought of encountering her aunt's eye after her misdemeanour. Mrs Harrington, however, took but little notice of her; she had in some degree recovered her energy, and was able to exert herself at the tea-table: and as whatever she did always occupied her whole attention, she seemed to be quite engrossed in cups and saucers, milk and cream; and Amy placed herself at the farthest distance from her, taking care to have the urn between them, and reserving a place at her side for her mamma, who was standing at the window, talking in a low voice to Mr Harrington. But when the labour of tea-making was over, Mrs Harrington was able to think of other things, and her first inquiry was, what the girls thought of their rooms, and why they had been obliged to send Amy into the servants' hall.

"I suppose there is no bell, mamma," said Dora; "for we rang a great many times, but no one came."

"Where was Miss Morton?" said Mrs Harrington; "she ought to have been with you; it would not signify her going amongst the servants, but it was highly improper for your cousin."

"Emily Morton always thinks she has enough to do to take care of herself," said Margaret; "she is not over-fond of helping any one."

This struck Amy as very unjust; for Miss Morton had not been told where they were, and, of course, was not to blame. She was not aware that it was usual with Mrs Harrington to put upon Miss Morton everything that went wrong; and that she was expected to be at hand to assist Dora and Margaret on all occasions, no one considering for an instant whether the expectation were reasonable or unreasonable.

"But, mamma," said Dora, "I must tell you that Emily did not know we were gone to our rooms, so we ought not to find fault with her."

"But I do find fault with her, Dora," replied Mrs Harrington; "she knows very well what is expected of her, and she ought to have inquired whether she could be of any use to you."

"But, mamma,"—persisted Dora.

"I will not hear any buts, Dora; I must be the best judge of what Miss
Morton's duties are; you are not generally so apt to take her part."

"Only I hate injustice," muttered Dora, in a sulky tone.

"And I can't bear Emily Morton," whispered Margaret, who was sitting next Amy.

"Can't bear her!" exclaimed Amy.

"Hush! hush!" said Margaret; "I don't want every one to hear."

Amy would have repeated her exclamation in a lower voice, but Mrs Herbert now approached the tea-table, and began asking questions of her nieces, and trying as much as possible to make herself at home with them. Dora's answers were rather pert, and Margaret's rather affected; but neither Mr nor Mrs Harrington checked them in the least, and Amy felt annoyed at hearing them speak to her mamma almost as familiarly as if she had been of their own age. She herself sat perfectly silent, too much in awe of her aunt's grave looks to venture an observation, and quite amused with watching what passed, and remarking to herself upon the magnificence of the silver tea-urn and its appendages, and the profusion of things with which the table was covered, so different from what she was accustomed to see at the cottage. She was not sorry, however, when her mamma proposed ordering the carriage; for the novelty of everything did not quite make up for the restraint she was under. She was afraid not only of her uncle and aunt, but even of the footmen when they came near, and she anxiously observed Dora and Margaret, thinking she could not do wrong in imitating them.

"We shall see you to-morrow at the cottage, I hope," said Mrs Herbert to her brother, when the carriage was announced.

Mrs Harrington answered for him in a short, ungracious manner—"I don't know, indeed, there will be so much to arrange; perhaps the girls may manage it; but Mr Harrington's time and mine will be completely occupied."

"I shall come and see you as soon as possible, you may be quite sure," said Mr Harrington; "it is too great a pleasure to talk over everything with you, for me not to seize all opportunities of doing so; though perhaps to-morrow, as Charlotte says, I may be very busy."

"Then we will expect the girls alone," replied Mrs Herbert. "Amy is longing to do the honours of the cottage; and, if they come about one o'clock, they can have their luncheon with us."

Amy added her entreaties, and Margaret, with a great many kisses, declared it would be the thing of all others she should most enjoy: while Dora simply said, "Good night," and expressed no pleasure about the matter. When Amy found herself alone with her mamma, her first wish was to talk over all that had passed, but Mrs Herbert was looking very pale and exhausted, and her child had lately learned to watch every change in her countenance, and to understand in a moment when it was necessary for her to be silent; she therefore said but little during their drive home; and it was not till Mrs Herbert was seated in the arm-chair in her own room, that Amy ventured to express her feelings. "I may talk to you now, mamma," she said, "for there is no rumbling of the carriage to worry you; but you did look so ill when we left Emmerton, that I did not like to do it."

"Yes, my dear," said Mrs Herbert, "it has been a very trying day; but you shall ease your mind before you go to sleep, and tell me how you like your cousins, and everything you have been doing, and saying, and feeling."

"The doing and saying will be easy enough," replied Amy; "but, dear mamma, it was all so strange, I cannot tell at all what I have been feeling; and then I cannot make up my mind about anything, and that puzzles me. I always fancied I should be able to tell at once what I liked and disliked; but all the way home I have been trying to find out which of my cousins is the nicest; and one moment I think one thing, and the next another. And then the house was so changed with the different furniture, that it seemed quite like another place; only not quite another either, more like what the cottage seems to me in my dreams; and then I am so afraid of my aunt, and I think I made her angry—but I must tell you about that presently. I was so frightened at the men-servants too, there were such a number; and that one with the black hair, who was not in livery, is so like Mr Saville of Colworth, that I thought at first he was going to speak to me."

Mrs Herbert smiled. "You have certainly contrived to get a curious medley in your head, Amy; but you will never be able to talk over all these things to-night, it is getting so late."

"No, mamma," said Amy, "I feel as if there would be something to say if I were to go on till to-morrow; but I should care for nothing else if I could only make out which of my cousins I like best."

"But," said Mrs Herbert, "it is hardly possible to settle such a weighty matter, on so short an acquaintance; probably if you decided it to-night, you would change again to-morrow. I dare say it will take some time before you can know them sufficiently well, really to make up your mind."

"Well," sighed Amy, "I suppose I must leave it. I think, though, I like Margaret, because she is affectionate; and Dora, because she seems to speak just what she means; but I liked Margaret much better when we were alone, than when she was talking to you, mamma; her voice and all seemed quite different."

"And what did you think of Rose?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"Oh! I only saw her for a moment; she looked as if she must be a darling little thing, she is so very pretty; but, mamma, I cannot understand about Miss Morton. Is she a lady?"

"Yes, my dear, certainly; she is the daughter of a clergyman."

"But, then, where was she all the evening? She did not come in at tea-time."

"I believe she generally spends the evenings alone," replied Mrs
Herbert, "as I told you the other day."

"It seems so strange," said Amy; "and Margaret told me she could not bear her, so I suppose she must be very disagreeable."

"You must not judge of people merely from what you hear, but from what you see of them too," said Mrs Herbert; "so don't determine upon poor Miss Morton's being disagreeable till you are more acquainted with her; she seemed to me to be very gentle and ladylike."

"I feel as if I never should be able to decide about any one now," sighed Amy, "I am so very puzzled; and I am not quite sure whether I have been happy to-night."

"My dear child," said Mrs Herbert, "I must send you to bed, for I am sure if you sit up thinking and talking any more you will be unfit for everything to-morrow. I only wish you to tell me what you could have done to make your aunt angry with you."

Amy repeated the history of her adventure, but Mrs Herbert made no observation upon it; and she was then sent to her room to prepare for bed.

"You will come back to me when you are ready to read," said Mrs Herbert.
And in about half an hour's time Amy reappeared with her Bible.

"It seems so nice and quiet," she said, "to be able to sit down with you quite alone, mamma, after seeing so many people; and I think I shall go to sleep better when I have read my psalm as usual."

"I hope you will always find it a blessing to read your Bible, my dear; and I know myself that it is peculiarly so when we have been much excited; there is something so calm and soothing in it."

Amy read her psalm, and did not attempt to say anything more about Emmerton, for she had always been taught that her last thoughts, before she slept, should be of God and heaven rather than of the things of earth; only, as Mrs Herbert bent over her, to give her the last kiss, she said, "Mamma, may I tell you one thing which came into my head to-night? You know I have read in the Bible, and have heard people talk about the world, and that there are temptations in it, and that we ought to avoid it; and I never could quite understand this, because it seemed that I had no world, for you always do what is right, and there is no evil in the trees and flowers; and one day you said that the world was different to everybody, and that it meant the things which tempted us to do wrong; and to-night, when I was saying my prayers, I recollected that I had felt angry with my cousins, and that you had said, 'that perhaps being with them would make me envious;' and then it came into my head, that perhaps Emmerton will be my world—do you think it will?"

"Most probably it may be," said Mrs Herbert.

"But then, mamma, will it be right to go there?"

"It is not right to shut ourselves up from our relations, and so lose opportunities of learning good from them, or setting them a good example," replied her mother. "If your cousins are better than yourself, they will, I hope, be of great use to you; and if they are not, you may try and benefit them. Your being envious and angry is your fault, not theirs; and if you were never to see them again, you would still have the same bad feelings in your mind. Renouncing the world does not mean shutting ourselves up and never seeing any one, but it does mean trying to avoid unnecessary occasions of temptation, as well as to overcome sin; and you will avoid the world, not by keeping away from your cousins, but by striving against evil feelings and actions when you are with them, and not allowing yourself to envy them because they are richer, and live in a larger house."

"I should like to talk a great deal more, mamma," said Amy, "only I am so sleepy."

"We must have some more conversation to-morrow," said Mrs Herbert, as she left the room. And in two minutes Amy had forgotten all her difficulties and all her pleasures, in the deep, calm repose which few but children can enjoy.

CHAPTER V.

The first impression on Amy's mind, after her introduction to her cousins, on their arrival at Emmerton, was that of disappointment. The long-looked-for event had come and passed, but it had not brought with it the pleasure that had been anticipated. Her cousins were not at all what she had expected to see; and she felt as if they were more like strangers now than when she had only pictured them to herself such as she desired. And yet it was so strange to her to be unhappy or discontented, that she did not long dwell upon the things which had annoyed her in them, but turned with pleasure to the hope that it was her own fault they did not seem more kind and agreeable, and that when she knew them better she should find them all she could wish. There was great enjoyment, too, in talking over everything with her mamma at breakfast, which she could easily do now that the fatigue and excitement were gone; and so fully did Emmerton engross her thoughts that she entirely forgot Susan Reynolds, and the promised frock, till Mrs Herbert produced it, ready prepared, after the lessons were finished, and begged her to do as much as she could before her cousins' arrival.

"It will not be much, I am afraid, mamma," said Amy, "for it is getting late, and they agreed to be here by one; but I must do more this evening."

"Yes," said Mrs Herbert, "I should be sorry if the poor child were disappointed."

"So should I too, mamma. Now I have seen her, I really do feel it will be a pleasure to help her. And will you tell me, whilst I am working, what you had not time to speak about yesterday? I mean, why it never does people any good to go and see others suffer merely from curiosity."

"It not only does them no good, but it does them harm," replied Mrs Herbert, "and for this reason: God gives to almost every one, and especially to young people, many kind, amiable feelings, as a sort of treasure which they are carefully to keep. Now, these kind feelings, as people grow older, gradually die away as they get accustomed to the sight of suffering, and so at last they are likely to become cold and hard-hearted; and there is only one sure way of preventing this,—by doing kind actions whenever we are blessed with kind feelings. Perhaps you would rather I should explain myself more clearly," added Mrs Herbert, as Amy laid down her work, and looked thoughtfully in her mother's face. "When you saw Susan Reynolds yesterday you had compassion for her, and a great wish to help her: this was the good feeling given you by God. But supposing you had thought that, after all, it was too much trouble to work for her, you would soon have forgotten her, and the next time you saw her you would probably have pitied her less, and the next time less still; and if you had gone on so, you might have ended in becoming perfectly cold and selfish. But by determining to do something, you have kept up your interest; and you will find that your kind feeling will continue and increase, not only for her, but for other persons you may see in distress."

"But, then, I have heard you say, mamma, that we ought not to follow our feelings entirely."

"No," replied Mrs Herbert; "because very often our feelings are wrong, and therefore we must have some other rule to go by, or we shall continually mistake our duties; but when they are right they are given us by God to make those duties easy and pleasant; and if we do not encourage them, we shall find when we grow old that it will be very difficult, if not almost impossible, to do right, however we may wish it."

"Then, mamma, if we had always good feelings there would be no occasion to do anything but just what we felt inclined; how very nice that would be!"

"There is but one way of getting these good feelings," said Mrs Herbert, "and that is by doing what we know we ought, whether we like it or not; and only one way of keeping them when we have got them, by taking care always to act upon them; and if we begin when we are young, it is astonishing how easy it will soon become. I know you like an illustration, Amy, to make you remember things; so now I will give you one, to teach you the difference between feelings and duty. Feelings are like the horses which carry us quickly and easily along the road, only sometimes they stumble, and sometimes they go wrong, and now and then they will not move at all; but duty is like the coachman who guides them, and spurs them up when they are too slow, and brings them back when they go out of the way."

"Thank you, mamma," said Amy, as she ran to the window at the sound of approaching wheels; "I think I shall always remember now. And here come my uncle's feelings down the lane,—beautiful gray ones; and there is duty on the coach-box driving them."

"Well," observed Mrs Herbert, smiling, "I hope duty will guide the feelings properly round the corner, for it is a very awkward turn."

Amy looked anxiously into the carriage as it drove up, and with great delight saw that it contained only her two cousins, for her aunt's stern look was sufficiently impressed upon her recollection to make the idea of meeting her again disagreeable. "I am so glad you are come!" she exclaimed to Margaret, who was the first to alight; "I have finished all my lessons, and dinner will very soon be ready, and afterwards, if you like, we can go all over the garden."

"I should not think that would take very long," said Dora, casting a contemptuous glance around.

Amy, for a moment, felt almost ashamed, as if there were something disgraceful in not having a large garden; but she did not make any reply, and led her cousins into the house, with a secret dislike of their seeing how different it was from Emmerton, and a dread lest Dora should make some more observations. In her aunt's presence, however, Dora was rather subdued, and did not venture to remark upon anything, though Amy, who watched her carefully, noticed the inquisitive look she gave to the furniture, as if she were determined to know exactly what everything was made of; and when Mrs Herbert left them, her first question was, "So this is your largest room, Amy, is it?"

"Yes," said Amy; "and we have a dining-room and study besides."

"And is that all?" added Margaret.

"All but the bedrooms," replied Amy.

"Well! how odd it must be to live in such a tiny house!" continued Margaret. "I should get so tired of it. To have lived all one's life in three rooms! Fancy, Dora, how strange it must be!"

"But," said Amy, "it does very well for mamma and me. You know many poor people have only one."

"That may be all right for poor people; but you are a lady—you are our cousin."

"Oh!" said Dora, "it does not signify when people are accustomed to it. And now Amy will be able to come and see us at Emmerton; and she can walk about the grounds; and sometimes, I daresay, mamma will let her have a drive in the carriage, which will make a nice change."

Amy was extremely inclined to say that she never wished to do anything of the kind, for she remembered that only a week before she was able to walk all over Emmerton, both in the house and the park, without any person's permission being required but her mamma's.

"You will like that very much, shan't you, dear?" said Margaret, giving her a kiss.

The kiss was not returned; but Amy coloured, and only replied, that she did not want any change.

"I declare you look quite offended," exclaimed Margaret; "doesn't she,
Dora? Well! I would not be so touchy for a great deal."

"I don't wish to be offended, and I am sure I could not bear to be touchy," said Amy, with tears in her eyes; "only I am very happy with mamma."

"Of course," said Margaret; "but then you need not be angry with us merely because we wish to give you a little pleasure; besides, it is so unkind. I thought you would be fond of us, instead of getting so cross in a minute."

This was rather more than poor Amy could bear, for she had never been blamed unjustly in her life, and believed that she must be in the wrong whenever any fault was found with her. She was conscious, too, of having felt angry; and sorrow for this, added to a slight remaining irritation against her cousins, made her tears flow fast.

"How silly!" exclaimed Dora. "We never meant to vex you; you will get us all into a scrape if you cry, for my aunt will be back in a moment."

"No one gets into a scrape with mamma," said Amy; "but I am sure it would be me she would blame now; and I am so sorry I was cross."

"Never mind anything more about it," said Margaret; "just look natural again, and then we shall not care."

Amy did her best to look natural, but her mamma's quick eye soon perceived on her return that there had been something amiss; however, she asked no questions, knowing that she should hear everything when they were alone; and both Dora and Margaret were considerably relieved when they found themselves seated at the dining-table, with Amy looking as bright and happy as usual.

"You must make a good luncheon, my dears," said Mrs Herbert; "for I suppose you dine very late."

"Oh no!" replied Dora, "this will be our dinner; mamma always dislikes our being late."

"She says it makes us ill, and spoils our complexions," added Margaret, casting, at the same time, a glance at her white neck in the glass which hung opposite to her; "so we always dine about two with Emily Morton and Rose in the schoolroom."

"Is Miss Morton very strict?" asked Amy.

"Strict!" answered Dora, with a toss of her head, "Who should she be strict with? She is not our governess."

"But then she teaches you some things," said Amy.

"Oh yes, music and drawing; but that any one can do. I should just as soon think of attending to Morris as to her."

"Only," said Mrs Herbert, in a quiet, grave tone, "that she is older than you are, and is a lady by birth and education."

Dora pouted and bit her lip, but she did not dare to make any pert reply, and only showed her displeasure by the sulky way in which she answered her aunt's further questions. Margaret was more communicative; and Amy soon became amused with her account of Wayland, and all they had been accustomed to do: but there was no interest shown for her in return, for Margaret seemed to find every subject dull which did not immediately relate to herself. She appeared unwilling, also, to mention Miss Morton again, though Amy wished more to hear of her than of any other person or thing; and when, after the dinner was ended, Mrs Herbert suggested they should go into the garden, she determined to ask them why they disliked her.

"Do let me know," she said to Margaret, as they seated themselves in the arbour, after exploring the not very spacious domain, "why you don't like Miss Morton. I told mamma, last night, that you said you could not bear her."

"How ill-natured!" exclaimed Margaret; "I declare I never will tell you anything again. Unless you promise not to repeat to aunt Herbert what we say, I can assure you we shall take special care not to talk to you."

"Oh Margaret!" said Amy, looking very much distressed; "indeed I meant no harm. But I cannot make such a promise; for I always do tell mamma everything, and she is never angry."

"That won't do," replied Margaret: "you must, or we shall not talk to you."

"But if there is no harm in what you say," asked Amy, "why must I not repeat it?"

"It is no use arguing," replied Margaret. "I never could bear the notion that every word I said would be told over again; and therefore, if you will not promise, I will not talk, that is all." And she threw herself back, and began picking flowers to pieces. Then, alter a few moments' pause, she turned to Dora, and said, "That was a very ill-natured trick she played on papa's birthday,—was it not?"

Dora nodded assent; and Margaret looked at Amy, hoping to excite her curiosity, for she was longing above all things to find some excuse for breaking her resolution. But Amy sat immovable, only appearing thoughtful and unhappy. A second silence ensued, which was broken again by Margaret, who exclaimed, in a pettish tone, that the sun was so hot it was not to be borne; she wondered how any one could have built an arbour in such a position.

Dora, though screened by the projecting branch of a tree, immediately took up the parasol at her side; and Margaret began lamenting that she had left hers in the house.

"Can't you spare me yours, Dora?" she said; "you never remembered you had it till I complained of the heat."

"You always leave everything behind you," was Dora's answer; "and I am sure I shall be burnt as brown as a berry if I don't shade myself. You had better go in and fetch your own parasol, and that will make you recollect it another time."

"I know who left their handkerchief behind them only this morning," retorted Margaret; "and I know who sent Emily Morton all over the house to look for it."

"That was only once in a way," said Dora. And here a long bickering dialogue was carried on between the sisters, at the commencement of which Amy disappeared; and before it had been decided which possessed most disagreeable qualities, a subject that was discussed with great warmth and earnestness, Margaret found herself sheltered from the sun by the intervention of a parasol.

"Where did you get it?" she exclaimed to Amy: "you did not bring it with you."

"No," replied Amy; "I got it from the house just now."

"And did you really go in on purpose! Well, that was very good-natured,
I must say; and now I do think, as a reward, I will tell you about Emily
Morton."

"A reward to herself, not to you, Amy," said Dora; "she has been dying to tell you all the time. I would have done it, only I knew it would come out if you had patience to wait."

"But," replied Amy, in rather a timid voice, "I hope you understand,
Margaret, that I cannot make any promise about mamma."

"Why don't you hear what she has to say first," said Dora, "and then talk about the promise afterwards?"

"I would rather settle it first," answered Amy, firmly; "I should not have any pleasure in knowing it if I thought Margaret were mistaken about me."

"Well I never mind now," said Margaret, "I am not going to speak treason; and you are so good-natured, Amy, I am sure you will never repeat anything to get us into a scrape."

"Perhaps I am not good-natured," persisted Amy; "so pray don't tell me unless you quite like it."

"But I do quite like it, now; and I am sure you are good-natured, and so you shall hear. I want to tell you what Emily Morton did last year on papa's birthday, and then I know you will hate her as much as we do. We have always had quite a fete given then; for papa says it was begun when he came of age, and he does not like to give it up."

"Oh!" said Amy, "that must have been what mamma was telling me about the other day; she gave me a long account of it."

"And did not aunt Herbert think it very delightful?" asked Dora. "Papa always speaks of it with such pleasure."

"Yes," answered Amy; "she says it was one of the happiest days of her life."

"It must be very nice," continued Dora, "to have every one looking up to one and envying one. I dare say aunt Herbert wished she had been papa."

"She said she wished it then," replied Amy; "but I am sure she does not now."

"What!—not to have two great houses, and heaps of servants, and plenty of money?" said Margaret.

"But," replied Amy, "mamma, when she told me the story, said that we all had the promise of much greater things given us at our baptism, and so it did not signify."

"What do you mean, Amy?" asked Dora, in a tone of extreme surprise.
"Great things promised us at our baptism! I never knew anything I had
either given or promised me then, excepting my name, and my old purple
Bible and Prayer-book."

"Oh Dora!" exclaimed Amy, "pray do not talk so; I am sure it must be very wrong; for mamma says that it has been the greatest thing in all my life, and that if I do as I promised I would then, I shall be quite sure of being happy when I die: and every year, on the day of my baptism, she makes me read over the service, and talks to me about it."

"Then it is very strange, that is all I can say," replied Dora, "I never in my life before heard any one say that baptism was any good besides giving a child a name."

Amy looked still more shocked. "Oh! but Dora," she said, very gravely, "indeed, it must be a great good; for you know when we were baptized, God gave us His Holy Spirit, that we might be able to do our duty."

"I don't understand what you mean, Amy," said Dora, hastily, "and I don't think you understand yourself, so we will not talk any more about it. Do, Margaret, go on about Emily Morton."

"I will," said Margaret, "if you will not interrupt me so. It was last year, Amy, on the day of the fete; and two of my aunts, mamma's sisters, and my uncle, Sir Henry Charlton, came to Wayland to keep it. Uncle Henry knows a great deal about drawing, and he always likes to see ours; and he had promised us a long time before, that if we could show him six good drawings on papa's birthday, he would give us each a beautiful picture done by one of the first artists in London. I worked very hard at first, and then I got a little tired, but I made sure I should be able to finish them in time; only, somehow or other, I was so hurried at last, for we had some new dresses to be tried on, and there were some songs to be practised, and there were a good many people staying in the house, that I had only five finished. I was in a great fright, and my only hope was that uncle Henry would not count them; but, in the morning, after he had looked at Dora's, I watched him count them, and then I thought I had no chance; but when I came to show mine, I found that by mistake one of Emily Morton's had got amongst them, which made them just right, and she was not in the room, so I had no fear of anything being said; and it was such a beauty I was sure my uncle would be pleased. Well! he looked at them all, and said they were very good, and was admiring Emily Morton's especially, when, to my great horror, in she came, and he immediately called out to her to look at the drawings with him. I could not imagine what to do; and at last I thought perhaps she would be good-natured for once in her life, so I went to her directly, and whispered all about it, and asked her to let it pass, or I should lose my beautiful picture; and really, Amy, it was worth a great deal of money; and, do you know, she actually declared she would not do it. I know I looked miserable, and I never begged so hard for anything in my life; and at last I was obliged to give it up, for uncle Henry began to wonder what we were talking about, and so I ran out of the room, and then it all came out. And there was such a great fuss; uncle Henry preached me a sermon, and papa and mamma were so cross; in fact, I never got into such a scrape in my life before, and all because of Emily Morton. Now, shouldn't you hate her, Amy, if you were me?"

Amy was silent.

"Oh!" continued Margaret, "you could not be so unkind as to take her part."

"But," said Amy, "it seems as if she were right."

"How can that be? I am sure no one can be right who is unkind."

"No," said Amy, looking a little perplexed; "but then it would have been deceit."

"Deceit! what deceit?" asked Margaret; "she had nothing to do with it; all I wanted was for her to hold her tongue."

"But your uncle would have thought the drawing was yours, when it was not."

"And what harm would that have done? I will venture to say I could have finished just as good a one if I had tried; it was only a sketch. No, no, it was mere ill-nature—she wished for the picture herself."

"I tell you what, Margaret," said Dora, "she did not wish any such thing, because uncle Henry pressed her to have it, and she refused, and made him put it by till this year, that you might try again."

"I hate such hypocrites," said Margaret, "and she is so cold-hearted too. I used to kiss her and love her when first she came, but she never seemed to care a bit about it; and now I never go near her, if I can help it."

"I should not mind anything," said Dora, "if she did not put one down so; but she has such a way of saying things are right, I can't bear it—as if we did not know what was right as well as she does. I shall teach her the difference between Miss Harrington and Miss Morton, I can tell her, when I come out."

"And then, people call her pretty," interrupted Margaret. "It makes me so angry, sometimes, to hear them go on about her beautiful eyes, and her black hair. She need have some beauty, for she spends quite enough time in dressing herself, I know."

Amy listened to these remarks in silent astonishment, and with an increasing feeling of dislike to Miss Morton. Not that she agreed with Margaret as to her unkindness in the affair of the picture, for her strict sense of what was right and sincere told her, in a moment, that she could not have acted otherwise; but it was impossible to hear so much said against a perfect stranger, without thinking that there must be some foundation for it, especially as Amy was accustomed to be very particular herself in everything she said, and had not yet learned to suspect her cousins of exaggeration.

"How very sorry you must be," she exclaimed, at length, "that Miss
Morton ever came to you!"

"Sorry!" repeated Margaret. "Yes, I think we are sorry; but one thing I can tell you, Amy, she will not stay with us long. I resolved, directly after that business of the picture, that I would never rest till I got her out of the house; and Dora feels the same."

"I beg your pardon," replied Dora; "I do not care enough about her; as long as she keeps to her own room, and does not plague me with constantly ringing in my ears that things are right, she may stay or not, as she likes."

"But," said Amy, "you cannot send her away; it must be your mamma."

"What a simpleton you are!" exclaimed Margaret, laughing. "There are a hundred ways of getting rid of a person you don't like; and I tell you I should have done it long ago, if it had not been for Rose, who is so fond of her, and such a pet of mamma's, that she is humoured in everything. Why, how surprised you look, and frightened too."

"Only," said Amy, "I thought that my aunt would do just as she pleased, without asking any one."

"I can't explain," said Margaret, "if you cannot understand; but you will learn all about it when you have been a little at Emmerton with us; and you will see, too, how she spoils Rose; she makes her so foolish, that she cannot bear to go to any one else, except mamma, when she is in the room."

"Then Miss Morton must be very kind to her," said Amy.

"Kind! Yes, to be sure, she is; she knows quite well that if it were not for Rose, she would not stay long in our family."

"And does she teach Rose entirely?" asked Amy.

"Yes, now she does, though, I believe, mamma never intended it at first. But there was so much to be done with us, that it was very inconvenient having so young a child at the same time; and so Emily Morton offered to take the charge of her, and she has gone on ever since. It is very odd of mamma allowing it, when she dislikes governesses so; but I think it would break Rose's heart if there were to be any alteration."

"And what have you to do with her, then?"

"Oh! we have regular music and drawing lessons twice a-week, and she attends to us, at other times, besides; and then we breakfast, and dine, and drink tea with her, and make her useful when we want her. She does everything almost for Rose; but that is her own choice. But I daresay you will know all about her ways soon; for when papa and mamma were talking of coming to Emmerton, I heard them say it would be a great advantage for you to learn of her; and I daresay they will arrange for you to have music and drawing lessons with us. It will be so nice being together often."

And Margaret gave Amy a kiss, which was very heartily returned. Amy looked at Dora, expecting something of the same kind from her; but Dora was playing with her watch-chain, and appeared to be taking no notice.

"I shall like being with you," replied Amy, "but I shall not like to learn of Miss Morton. Mamma is so kind, I don't know what I should do if any one were cross to me."

"But is your mamma quite regular with you?" asked Margaret.

"She used to be," said Amy; "but lately she has been very often ill—she gets so unhappy about papa."

"Oh!" observed Margaret, "I heard papa and mamma talking about her last night, after you were gone, and they said——"

"Hush, Margaret!" said Dora, turning suddenly round; "it does not signify what they said. How can you be so thoughtless!" she added, in a lower tone.

Margaret was about to make an angry reply, but she was prevented by Amy, who anxiously begged to be told everything. Again Margaret would have spoken, but Dora a second time interposed; and at the same moment Mrs Herbert appeared, and the conversation was interrupted. As they returned to the house, however, Amy remarked that Dora contrived to speak a few words to her sister alone; and, when she afterwards repeated her entreaty, Margaret's reply was, that Dora and she thought it better not to tell. This did not satisfy Amy; but she could not urge Margaret to do anything she felt was wrong; and, after pondering in her own mind for some minutes what Mrs Harrington could possibly have said, she, as usual, quieted her uneasiness by determining to talk to her mamma in the evening.

"The carriage is waiting for you, my dears," said Mrs Herbert, as they walked towards the house; "and, if you could find room in it for Amy and me, I should like to go with you as far as the rectory; for Mrs Walton has asked us to spend the evening with her, and I am always glad to be saved a walk."

Amy looked delighted, and ran up-stairs with great glee to get ready; and Margaret followed, offering to help her.

"Whom shall you see at the rectory?" she said, as Amy was expressing her happiness in rather ecstatic terms. "Are there children of your own age?"

"No," replied Amy; "no one but Mr and Mrs Walton; they had one child, but it died."

"But what shall you do? It must be so dreadfully dull with only old people."

"Oh no! it is never dull,—they are so kind, and the place is so pretty; and sometimes Mrs Walton tells me stories about what she did when she was a little girl; or, if they talk about things I don't care for, there is a beautiful large book of fairy tales, and I sit up in a little window, away by myself, and fancy that all the things I read about happened in the forest. I sometimes make out all the places just as if they were real. You know one can fancy almost anything in a wood; there are so many little winding walks and odd places, and there are some green spots of turf, with large trees all round, which look just like the fairies' homes. I have named them all after the stories, and when I read I can see them quite plainly in my mind."

"Well! that is a strange way of amusing yourself," exclaimed Margaret, in a tone of astonishment; "though, to be sure, I can understand the pleasure of reading a story, but then it must be about real people,—lords and ladies, I like! I never cared in the least about fairies and such unnatural things; and I quite wonder to see Rose so pleased with a little book she has about them."

Amy was in too great a hurry to reply, but dressed herself as quickly as possible, and in a few minutes was ready for her visit. The old rector was standing at the door as Mr Harrington's carriage drove up, and looked rather alarmed at the sight of such an unexpected number of visitors; but Mrs Herbert soon relieved his mind by introducing her nieces to him; and, if Dora had not been occupied with the contrast between the simplicity of the rectory and the grandeur of Emmerton, and Margaret with ridiculing the curiously-cut coat, brown wig, and gold shoe-buckles, which had been Mr Walton's constant style of dress for the last forty years, both might have been pleased with the affectionate interest expressed for them, and the many inquiries which were made for every member of the family. As it was, Mrs Herbert was hurt at their careless replies, and felt as angry as was possible for one so gentle, when she heard Margaret's loud whisper to her sister, "Did you ever see such a quiz?"

Apparently Mr Walton did not observe this, for he still continued entreating them to come in, and assuring them that Mrs Walton would never forgive him if he allowed them to depart without her seeing them. Dora, who was always an inch taller and several years older, in her own estimation, whenever she found herself mistress of her father's handsome carriage, drew herself up with a consequential air, and regretted that it would not be in their power to stop, for they wished to be home by a certain hour.

"Is that really the case, my love?" said Mrs Herbert. "Could you not spare one moment for Mrs Walton? She knew your mother when she was a child, and she has been longing to see you."

"I dare say mamma will call in a day or two," said Dora; "we really are in a hurry now."

"I will undertake to make your peace with your mamma," said Mrs Herbert.
"You would not be detained five minutes."

"I really am sorry," persisted Dora, quite proud of the power of saying
"No" to persons older than herself; "but I am afraid we must go home."

Mr Walton, who had been listening to the debate with a mixed expression of amusement and regret in his countenance, now came forward, and, laying his hand on Dora's arm, said, "My dear young lady, you are not accustomed to have a will of your own, I can quite see, because you are so glad to exercise it. Now, I never like to prevent young people from pleasing themselves, so you shall follow your inclination, and go home; but whenever this same inclination shall take another turn and bring you to the rectory, I will promise you a sincere welcome for the sake of your father and mother, and auld lang syne; and, now, good-bye."

Dora felt abashed by the kindness with which this was said, as well as by the reproof which she knew was intended; but she put on an indifferent air, and, giving a hasty nod to Amy, and a few parting words to her aunt, reassured her offended dignity by calling out "home," in a loud voice, to the footman, who was standing at the door, and the carriage drove off. For a moment a slight pang of envy crossed Amy's mind, as her cousins' grandeur was contrasted with her own insignificance; but it was soon forgotten when she found herself seated, as usual, on a low stool by the side of Mrs Walton, who, with one hand placed upon hers, and the other fondly smoothing her dark hair, heard with real pleasure her description of all she had been doing since her last visit; and, as Amy became more and more animated, the old rector himself was attracted to the window, and for a few moments, while watching the bright eyes and sweet smile of his young favourite, could almost have imagined he was again listening to the voice of his own child. Mrs Walton was several years younger than her husband, but rheumatic attacks of a very painful kind had rendered her nearly helpless, so that the difference between them appeared much less than it really was. Age and infirmity had subdued her naturally quick, eager disposition, into a calm and almost heavenly peace, without in the least diminishing her interest in everything that was passing around her. Her mind, like her dress, seemed to be totally different from that of the everyday world; the dress—was fashioned according to the custom of years gone by; the mind—of those which were to come; and few could converse with her without feelings of respect, almost amounting to awe, for her goodness, her patience, her meekness, her charity, her abstraction from all earthly cares. Amy could not as yet fully appreciate all her excellence, though she could understand it in some degree. She had never heard Mrs Walton spoken of but with reverence; and, perhaps, half the pleasure she felt in talking so freely to her arose from the consciousness of being petted and loved by one to whom persons so much older than herself agreed in looking up. There was an additional reason for Amy's enjoyment on this evening; she had, willingly and unknown to her mother, resolved to give up her favourite volume of fairy tales, that she might go on with the frock for Susan Reynolds; and even before the tea-things were brought in, she produced her basket, and began working industriously; and from having thus denied her own inclination in one instance, everything else appeared doubly delightful.

"Why, my little woman," said the rector, as he remarked her unusual occupation, "what makes your fingers so busy to-night? I thought you always studied the lives of the fairies whenever you came here."

Mrs Herbert, who had been talking at the other end of the room, turned to see what Amy was about; and her smile was quite a sufficient reward for the sacrifice which had been made. "I did not think of reminding you of your work, my darling," she said; "but you will not regret giving up your pleasure for one evening for the sake of another."

"And who is this other?" asked the rector.

Mrs Herbert told the story; and spoke highly in praise of Susan, and her attention to her mother.

"She is in good hands," said Mr Walton, "I never knew either Mr or Mrs Saville take up a case of the kind without managing to be of great service; and whether the poor woman should live or die, you may depend upon the children having found a friend for life."

"And, my dear child," added Mrs Walton, "you will not forget you have a second purse at Emmerton rectory if it should be needed."

"I should be very ungrateful if I were to forget it," replied Mrs Herbert, as she pressed the worn but delicate hand which was held out to her; "though, now that my brother is at the Hall, I think my first appeal must be to him."

"I suspect I shall have a regular jubilee celebrated in the parish," said the rector. "Do you remember the first we ever had, some twenty years ago, when your brother came of age? We have not had such another since."

"There was one other great day, surely," said Mrs Walton. "My memory sometimes seems to get sadly confused even about things which passed years ago, and which, they say, are always remembered the best; but, surely, there was one other fete—what was it for?"

Amy looked up from her work, and whispered in Mrs Walton's ear—"Mamma and aunt Edith's wedding-day."

Mrs Herbert caught the words, and the tears started to her eyes. She turned away, and, taking up a newspaper which lay upon the table, began looking over the contents.

"Ah! yes, my love, you are right," said Mrs Walton, in a low tone. And Mr Walton, anxious to change the subject, made some remarks upon a great fire which had taken place in a neighbouring village, and the account of which was in that day's paper.

"Amy," said Mrs Herbert, "there is a very interesting story of the conduct of a little girl during the fire; you may read it if you like."

Amy took the paper and read what her mother pointed out; and as she came to the end her eye caught the first words of another paragraph, and she exclaimed, "Dear mamma, here is something about India."

Mr Walton looked very grave. "It is nothing good I am afraid," he said; "I was in hopes you would have heard it before you came here: they say the war has broken out again."

"The war!" repeated Mrs Herbert, in a suppressed tone of deep anxiety, as she seized the paper; "but it may be nothing to me."

The paragraph was short, but decisive. There was no doubt the war had recommenced, and that the chance of obtaining tidings of Colonel Herbert was less than ever,—at least such was Mrs Herbert's fear, though Mr Walton did his utmost to convince her it could make no difference; but whilst she listened to his words, they did not sink into her heart; and she turned from the thought of her increased anxiety if her husband continued silent, to the danger of the war should he return into it, till it seemed impossible to find comfort in anything. Amy stood by her mother in silent suffering; she felt as if she had been the cause of inflicting the pain by calling her attention to the paper; but she could do nothing to relieve her, and was obliged to wait patiently, though sorrowfully, till her usual self-command was restored. After some time, Mrs Herbert was again able to allude to the subject of the war, and she then spoke of the probabilities and dangers which it involved, without hesitation; but she was so much shaken by the unexpected news, that, notwithstanding the disappointment to all parties, no objection was made when she proposed returning home much earlier than usual. It was a melancholy conclusion to Amy's evening; but Mr Walton endeavoured to comfort her by promising, if possible, to call very early the next day to see her; and Mrs Walton held out the hope of another visit very soon. Amy's chief thought, however, was for her mamma; and a wish arose in her mind, which she had often felt before, that she were a few years older, and could be of greater service; and it was not till she had again received the often-repeated assurance of being now Mrs Herbert's greatest earthly treasure, and a real comfort to her in her distress, that she could lie down happily to sleep, even though she had unburdened her mind of the chief events of the day, and of the secret between her cousins. Amy was not aware that, by doing this, she added to her mamma's anxiety, for everything convinced Mrs Herbert, more and more, that Dora and Margaret were very different companions from those she would have chosen for her child. But there was little to be feared while Amy continued so perfectly open; and at any rate, it was better that she should be with them, whilst her mother was near to warn her against evil, than become acquainted with them, for the first time, when she might be obliged to live with them entirely. The secret, too, gave Mrs Herbert a pang, though she tried to persuade herself of what, in fact, was nearly the truth, that Dora had heard of the renewal of the war, and of the increased anxiety which it would bring; happily she did not know that Mr Harrington had also expressed his opinion, that it would have been useless to expect any further tidings of Colonel Herbert, even if the peace had continued; for he firmly believed that nothing but some dreadful event could have occasioned their total ignorance of his movements. Mrs Herbert, indeed, could hardly give Dora credit for so much thoughtfulness; but in this she did her injustice. Dora could often be thoughtful and kind when her pride did not stand in the way; and she could be sorry for the sufferings of others, when they were forced upon her notice, though she had never been taught to be upon the watch for them; whilst even her haughtiness did not prevent her from feeling an interest in the quiet grief which was expressed in every feature of her aunt's countenance, and which seemed constantly to check every happier feeling.

CHAPTER VI.

Several days passed before Amy again saw her cousins—there were so many arrangements to be made in their new home, that no convenient moment could be found for paying a visit to the cottage; and during this time Mrs Herbert had very much recovered her tranquillity, and began even to hope that the war, terrible though it seemed, might be the means of bringing her some tidings of Colonel Herbert.

The last letter she had received from him had mentioned his intention of making an expedition into the interior of the country; and a friend, who had returned to England soon afterwards, confirmed the fact of his departure. His silence might be accounted for, by his having entrusted letters to private hands, and by the difficulty of communication in the distant province to which he had gone; but now that the war had again broken out, she could not avoid hoping that he would make every effort to return, and that she should see his name in the public despatches, if anything should occur to prevent his writing. The dangers to which he might be exposed, and which had at first so startled her, seemed nothing to the wearying anxiety she had lately suffered; and even the mention of him in the list of the wounded, she felt, would be a relief.

Amy could not entirely enter into all her mother's solicitude, but she loved to hear her talk of Colonel Herbert, and to fancy what he must be like from the miniature which had been taken before he left England; and she remarked, also, that it was a relief to her mamma to speak of him; and she seldom appeared so cheerful as when she had been either spending half an hour alone in her own chamber, or answering the questions which Amy was never tired of asking. An accidental allusion, indeed, would often bring the tears into Mrs Herbert's eyes, but a lengthened conversation had a very different effect, for the thought of her husband was associated with all that was excellent and noble; and as she dwelt upon his high character, and the principles with which all the actions of his life were imbued, she could not doubt that the blessing of Heaven would attend him wherever he might be.

The constant pressure of anxiety rendered the presence of strangers in general very painful to Mrs Herbert; and the only person who was admitted to see her at all times was Mr Walton. Whatever, therefore, might be the interest felt in her brother's family, she did not regret that the distance from the Hall was likely to prevent anything like daily intercourse; and Amy, too, was not sorry, for her cousins did not quite please her; and, though she had been very much amused by them, she was conscious that only with her mamma could she feel perfectly safe from harm. There was, in consequence, a mixture of alarm and pleasure in her mind upon being told, about three days after her visit to the rectory, that she was to spend the next day at the Hall, going quite early and returning late; and the alarm was not a little increased when her mamma read the postscript of the note:—"I am anxious that Amy should become acquainted with Miss Morton, and get rid of her fears before she begins taking lessons."

"What do you say to that, Amy?" asked Mrs Herbert. "Do you think you shall be able to go twice a week, sometimes, perhaps, without me, to learn music and drawing of a stranger?"

"Oh mamma! indeed I don't know. But when did you settle it? You never told me. Is it really to be so? I don't think I can go without you."

"And I think," said Mrs Herbert, "that you can and will do everything that is thought right. Is not that the proper way of looking at it? It does not sound very agreeable at first, but, by and by, you will be sorry when the day comes to stay at home."

"Oh no, mamma! never. I shall always dislike learning of Miss Morton; my cousins have said so much against her."

"It is rather hard to make up your mind beforehand," said Mrs Herbert; "you must try and judge for yourself whether she is really everything they represent; you know it is possible they may be in the wrong."

Amy recollected Margaret's complaint about the picture, and felt that this was quite true, but her prejudice still remained; and when, on their arrival at the Hall, she was told to find her way by herself to the oriel-room, which was now converted into a schoolroom, she hung back in some fear; and though at length obliged to go, it was with reluctant steps; and for several moments she stood with the handle of the door in her hand, unable to summon courage to enter the room alone.

"Who can that be fidgeting at the door?" was exclaimed by some one inside; and Amy in despair opened it.

Dora was seated at the window reading, Margaret was drawing, and Miss Morton writing, with little Rose on a high stool by her side, intently occupied with a sum in subtraction.

The appearance of the room was totally changed since Amy had last seen it. Books, music, drawings, prints, and work, were to be seen in every direction; the old damask chairs had been removed, and lighter ones introduced; the table had been covered with a handsome cloth, and the floor with a new carpet; a cabinet piano had taken the place of the oak chiffonier; and the only thing that Amy fully recognised as an old acquaintance was her aunt Edith's picture, which still hung over the mantel-shelf. Miss Morton came forward to meet her, and shook hand; so kindly that Amy's prejudice was for the instant shaken. Margaret overpowered her with kisses; and Dora, in her usual indifferent manner, just spoke, and then again took up her book; while little Rose quite forgot the difficult sum, as she sat with her eyes fixed upon her new cousin.

Amy felt very awkward, and as if she had intruded where she had no business; but Miss Morton soon relieved her embarrassment by giving her a portfolio of drawings to look at, and asking some questions about her own occupations, in a voice which sounded more like her mamma's than any she had yet heard at Emmerton.

"You must not mind our being rather silent now," she said, at length, when Amy seemed more comfortable, "for Miss Harrington is reading for her mamma, and talking interrupts her."

"Come and sit by me, Amy," said Margaret; "and see how I am getting on with my drawing."

"It would be better not," observed Miss Morton; "whispering is quite as likely to distract your sister's attention as talking out loud."

Margaret did not take any notice of this advice, but made a sign to her cousin to come to the table.

"Not now, Margaret," said Amy; "I shall be quite well amused with these drawings."

A cloud passed over Margaret's very pretty face, and, for the moment, she looked positively ugly, while she muttered, "How unkind! cross thing! I knew she would always interfere."

Amy was vexed, but did not move, and soon became interested in watching Miss Morton's manner to little Rose. It was very quiet and very gentle, but it was quite clear that her will was law; for Rose, whose thoughts had been diverted by the unusual visitor, found great difficulty in finishing her task, and was turned back several times without daring to make a complaint, though a few tears filled her bright hazel eyes, when, after three attempts, the sum was again pronounced incorrect. Margaret, forgetting that she had accused Miss Morton of spoiling Rose, and only anxious to prove her in the wrong, cast a look of triumph at Amy, certain that she would agree with her in thinking it very harsh. But Amy, though so young, was quite capable of discovering the difference between firmness and severity, and did not at all dislike Miss Morton for being particular.

"Indeed, you must be quick, Rose," said Miss Morton, as Dora closed her book, and Margaret prepared to put up her drawing; "you see your sisters are ready for dinner, and we are to have it to-day half an hour earlier than usual, that we may walk to Colworth; you would not like to stay at home."

Poor little Rose looked very unhappy, and began counting the figures again; but her haste only made her the more confused.

"It is very hard," she said, as she offered the slate again to Miss
Morton, "and Amy is here."

Miss Morton smiled, and so sweetly, that it seemed impossible to be afraid of her.

"Well! that is an excuse, I will allow, only it must not be made often; but come and stand by me, and we will do it together."

Rose dried her eyes; and in a very short time the sum was finished, and she went with Miss Morton to get ready for dinner.

"What do you think of her?" asked Dora and Margaret in one breath, almost before Miss Morton was out of the room.

"She seems rather strict," replied Amy; "but I don't think I should be very much afraid of her."

"But do you think she is pretty?" inquired Margaret, eagerly.

"Oh yes!" answered Amy, "very pretty; prettier than almost any person I ever saw before."

Margaret's lip curled, and, in a short, contemptuous tone, she said, "There is no accounting for taste. To be sure, you have not seen many people in your life; but, for my part, I can't say I like such black beauties."

"Nor white ones either," said Dora. "I never heard you praise a pretty person yet. I don't think Emily Morton such an angel as most people do; but she is twenty times prettier than you are, Margaret, or ever will be."

"That is as others think," said Margaret, casting a self-satisfied look at herself in the glass. "We must go and prepare for dinner now." And she ran out of the room.

Dora was about to follow, but, recollecting her cousin, she stopped, and said, "You will not mind staying here for a few minutes by yourself, shall you, dear, while the servants are bringing the dinner?"

Amy thought she should have preferred going with her cousins to being alone in the room with the tall men-servants; but she made no objections, and Dora left her.

During the short interval that elapsed before their return, she amused herself by endeavouring to fancy what Emmerton used to be, and comparing it with its present condition; but she had chosen a difficult task. All was so changed within a few days, that it seemed as if months had gone by since her last visit with her mamma; and when at last she had succeeded in recollecting exactly the position of the chairs and tables, and the cold, desolate look of the oriel-room, she was startled from her dream by the voice of the gray-haired butler, who, in a very respectful manner, begged pardon for disturbing her, but wished to know if Miss Harrington were ready for dinner; and, after such an interruption, a further effort was useless.

Dora sat at the head of the table, though she could not carve, which appeared very strange to Amy; and she remarked, too, that her cousins addressed Miss Morton by her Christian name, but that she in reply always spoke of Miss Harrington and Miss Margaret; indeed, in every possible way, there seemed to be a determination to show her that she was considered quite an inferior person.

"Will you all walk to Colworth this afternoon?" asked Miss Morton. "Rose and I are going on a little business to Mrs Saville."

"I thought it was settled," replied Dora; "we said we would at breakfast-time."

"Yes," answered Miss Morton; "but I fancied I had heard something about a wish of your mamma's, that you should go in the carriage with her."

"Oh! for a stupid drive. I believe there was something said; but I had much rather go to Colworth."

"But what will your mamma wish?" inquired Miss Morton, very gently.

"I can arrange with mamma myself, I hope," was the reply; "I prefer going to Colworth."

"You must allow me to beg that you will mention it to Mrs Harrington first," said Miss Morton; "she was very much annoyed with me for walking with you yesterday, when she wanted you."

Dora's only answer was, what she considered a very dignified look; and at this moment a servant entered with a message, desiring that Miss Harrington would be ready to go out with her mamma at three o'clock.

"I know what it is for!" exclaimed Dora; "we are to call at Rochford Park. Mamma wants me to gel acquainted with Miss Cunningham, and I am sure I don't want to know her."

"Is not Lady Rochford a great invalid?" asked Miss Morton, anxious to divert Dora's attention.

"Yes, and that is the reason mamma is going to see her. I believe they were at school together, or something of that kind."

"I have heard it is such a beautiful place," said Amy; "I should so like to see it."

"Then I wish you would go instead of me," replied Dora; "I am sick of beautiful places. What is the use of going six miles to see what you have just as well at home! It is all very natural for people who live in cottages to wish to look at fine houses; but really it is far too much trouble for me."

"It is not merely the seeing fine houses," said Miss Morton, "but the grounds and the scenery may be very different. I should soon get tired of looking at large rooms and gilt furniture; but trees and flowers must always give one pleasure."

"There cannot be any better flowers at Rochford Park than we had at Wayland," persisted Dora; "every one said the conservatory was the finest in the county."

"Yes," replied Miss Morton; "but now you are at Emmerton, it may be different."

"I never could see any great pleasure in looking at other persons' beautiful things," continued Dora; "and really I don't know what right Lord Rochford has to have anything better than papa. I heard mamma say yesterday, that our family was much older than his, and yet people make such a fuss about him; and he is going to be an earl soon, and then Miss Cunningham will be lady something."

"Lady Lucy Cunningham," said Margaret. "Morris told me about it this morning, and Bridget told her. I must say I should like to be called 'lady' of all things; should not you, Amy?"

"Yes," answered Amy, "I think,—I am sure I should."

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.

"Poor Susan has enough to make her unhappy," said Mrs Saville. "Her mother died last night; and though there is in fact nothing to grieve for, as she was a truly religious person, yet it is a dreadful trial to her children; and Susan is left with the sole charge of her little brothers and sisters; but she is an extremely well-disposed girl, and I hope we shall manage to do something for her by and by."

"I believe you have a very good school in the village," said Miss Morton. "Mrs Harrington is anxious to take a young girl into her service, to be under the lady's maid; and she thought you would excuse her troubling you with asking whether you could recommend one. I rather think several of her best servants were educated at Colworth."

"I am afraid," said Mrs Saville, "that it will be rather a difficult thing to find one suited to the situation. The girl I should have chosen has just left us, and the others are all too young."

Amy thought of Susan Reynolds, but she did not like to name her. Mrs Saville, however, did, to her great satisfaction. "I can answer," she said, "for her good principles, cleverness, and sweet temper, though I know nothing of her capabilities in other ways; of course, she would have everything to learn—but I think you would find her very docile. It would be an admirable thing if you can answer for her being kept strictly under the eye of the lady's maid; for she must do something for herself, as the grandmother, who will take care of the younger children, will find them quite a sufficient charge; and if she should not suit Mrs Harrington, she can return to me at any moment. What she will say to the notion herself, I cannot tell, for just now she is so overpowered with grief, that she can think of nothing but her mother. But I will take her to Emmerton in about a week, or ten days' time, if Mrs Harrington would like to see her."

"Do have her," whispered Amy to Miss Morton, feeling extremely anxious that the affair should be settled at once, and, in her eagerness, forgetting her shyness.

"It is not for me to decide, my dear," said Miss Morton. "I am afraid your aunt will hardly be inclined to have a stranger."

"But she is so good," continued Amy; "and she has such a nice manner."

Miss Morton smiled, and said, that "even these qualifications might not be all that would be required." And then, turning to Mrs Saville, she added, "If you could bring the little girl to Emmerton, you would, I am sure, confer a favour on Mrs Harrington, for her time, at present, is very much occupied."

Mrs Saville willingly agreed to this; and Amy left the parsonage in great delight, having fully settled in her own mind, that Susan Reynolds would soon be established at Emmerton, and fancying what a happy change it would be, from the miserable hovel in which she had last seen her. She did not know that no earthly comforts could make amends for the loss of her home; and no earthly friend, even if she should find one at Emmerton, could be to her as her mother; for no one can fully understand the blessing of a mother's love, till it is taken away for ever.

As they passed the shrubbery gate, they perceived Susan standing in the same position in which they had left her, and still crying, as if her heart would break.

"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.

"It may be very good-natured," muttered Dora to Margaret; "but I don't see why she should interfere." And, with a pouting lip and her usual scornful toss of the head, she followed her cousin.

The rest of the evening was not agreeable to Amy, for Dora's ill-humour exhibited itself very plainly; and neither Emily Morton's kindness nor Margaret's kisses could make her forget that one of the party was discontented; and she was not sorry when her mamma appeared in the schoolroom, prepared to return home. Mrs Harrington accompanied her in a more gracious mood than ordinary; she even patted Amy on the shoulder, and called her "dear;" but the next moment the harshness of her voice, as she remarked something that was amiss in Margaret's manner, recalled all Amy's fears, and she shrank away from her aunt with a feeling of even greater awe than at their first meeting.

CHAPTER VII.

After this visit Amy's prejudice against Miss Morton considerably decreased; and she made no objection, when the arrangement was finally made, that she should go to Emmerton twice a week to receive drawing and music lessons. For many reasons it was a great pleasure, as she was amused by her cousins when they were in good humour, and the novelty and variety had always charms; besides which, Mr Harrington made her a present of a donkey, to carry her backwards and forwards when it was not convenient for the carriage to be sent; and a ride through the forest, with the man servant walking by her, in the lovely summer mornings, compensated for any disagreeables in the remainder of the day. She usually returned to the cottage soon after the early dinner in the schoolroom, and some of the party often walked back part of the way with her; or if she were quite alone, old Stephen generally contrived to hobble for about a mile by her side, giving her the history of all the cows, horses, dogs, and sheep about the place, almost all of whom were Amy's old acquaintances, though she saw little of them now that her time at the Hall was so differently occupied. And so the bright months of summer passed away, and Amy became accustomed to the great change in her life, and began to wonder how she could have liked the house in its former desolate state, and to associate with the old trees in the park and the lovely walks over the downs, thoughts of rambles with her cousins, or conversations with Emily Morton (whom she soon felt inclined to love as she became more acquainted with her character), instead of the old-fashioned ladies and gentlemen with whom she had formerly been accustomed to people the Hall and every place about it.

In one thing alone there was no change. The chapel still remained unopened from week to week, apparently forgotten, except when visitors were in the house, and it was exhibited as a show, for the purpose of passing away a few idle moments. The rich light streamed through the painted glass of the east window, and chequered the marble floor and shone upon the grotesque oak carving; but there was no one to admire its radiance. The splendidly-bound Bible lay uncared for upon the desk; the family-prayer books, moth-eaten and decayed, were piled upon the seats; and the only thing which bore the semblance of devotion in the place, once hallowed by daily prayer, was the marble figure of the first lord of Emmerton, who, stretched upon his tomb, with his clasped hands raised to heaven, seemed silently to reproach all who entered with their forgetfulness of the privilege he had so highly valued. Amy could not feel this neglect of the chapel as keenly as her mother, for she could not remember the time when it was otherwise; but she could feel the disappointment of her curiosity to see it as it had been described to her; and something told her that it must be wrong to think so lightly of it, and entirely to omit the practice of daily family prayer, even if circumstances interfered with the performance of the regularly-appointed service; and at last she became quite shy of talking about it; and when she knew the chapel was open, she would steal into it by herself, and indulge some of her former reveries, and then return to the schoolroom without venturing to mention what she had been doing.

This was one among many instances in which the difference of education between Amy and her cousins was easily to be discovered. With all Amy's occupations, and all her pleasures, her mother had carefully endeavoured to blend ideas which might improve and raise her mind. She had taught her that the days of her childhood were the most important of her life, for they were those in which habits must be formed either for good or evil, which would be her blessing or her curse for ever. She had told her of the first sinful nature which she brought with her into the world at her birth, and of the second holy nature which had been given her at baptism, and had warned her that the whole of her life would be a struggle between the two—a struggle which was begun from the very first moment of her becoming sensible of the difference between right and wrong. And thus Amy had learned to look upon what are often considered trifling faults in a child—ill-temper, indolence, vanity, greediness, and similar evil dispositions—as real sins in the eye of God, which must be checked at the very beginning by all who wish to continue what they were made at their baptism—His children. She did not think, with her cousins, that it signified little what she did as a child, for that the time would, of course, arrive when she should be able at once to become good; but in the little everyday trials, to which she was now exposed more frequently than ever, she endeavoured to conquer any irritation of temper, or inclination to indolence, or envy; and every day the task became less difficult. Perhaps this kind of education had caused her to be more thoughtful than is usual at her age, and made her pleasures of a graver and quieter cast; but in reality it added to her happiness far more than it apparently took away. It made her love the blue sky, and the trees and flowers, not merely for their beauty, but because she knew they were especial blessings sent to her; and that every day's enjoyment of them was provided for her by God, in the same way as her mother provided for her pleasure in other things. It made her sensible of the holiness of those places which were especially dedicated to the worship of God; and the silence of the beautiful chapel at Emmerton had as great a charm for her as the gay scenes which her cousins often described had for them; and, above all, it gave her that quietness and cheerfulness of mind which only those can possess who really try in everything to do what they know to be their duty. But the same education which had made Amy think so differently from her cousins, made her also feel that they could not sympathise with her; and thus, though Emmerton was a source of constant amusement, it was principally because at the time she was enjoying it she could look forward to the evening, when she should return to her mother, and give her an account of what she had been doing. Her walks, her books, her music, her drawing,—all would have ceased to charm without this; but with it, even Dora's petulance and Margaret's selfishness caused only a momentary annoyance. Whatever discomfort she might find at the Hall, there was always a bright smile and a fond kiss awaiting her at the cottage; and the enjoyment of her mother's love there was nothing to mar. For Amy did not notice what a stranger would have looked on with fear; she did not see the increasing paleness of Mrs Herbert's complexion, the hectic flush upon her cheek, the transparency of her delicate hands; the change was so gradual as to be in general unobserved, or, if remarked by other persons, there was always some reason to be given for it, either the heat, or a bad night, or the disappointment of not hearing from India—the last being, in fact, the real cause of the evil.

During this time Mrs Herbert watched her child most anxiously, to discover the effect which the intimacy with her cousins might produce upon her mind, but she saw little to make her uneasy; for, however Amy might enjoy the grandeur of Emmerton, she seldom expressed any wish to possess it; and day after day, and week after week, she returned to her quiet home with the same gentle, humble, open spirit with which she had left it. But still her mother was not quite satisfied. She knew that while Amy had no rivals, the strength of the temptation was but slight. She went as a visitor, and, to a certain degree, a stranger, and her cousins were pleased to see her, and in general her wishes were consulted; but Mrs Herbert looked forward to the time when she might be obliged to live at Emmerton altogether, perhaps as a dependent, certainly as a person quite inferior to Mr Harrington's daughters; and she could not but fear lest Amy might then be sensible of a false pride of which she was now unconscious. Yet, although the constant communication between the Hall and the cottage had had little effect upon Amy, it was not entirely so with her cousins. Margaret's character, indeed, was not one to be easily improved, for her extreme vanity prevented her being in the least alive to her own faults or to the virtues of others. She remarked that Amy was seldom or never selfish; but she only liked her for it because it gratified her own indolence and self-will; it never entered her head that in this her cousin was her superior, and that therefore she ought to imitate her; and as for her sincerity and humility, it required a much purer mind than Margaret's to understand why such qualities were good. If Amy's praises were sounded by Emily Morton, Margaret would seize upon some trifling occasion in which they might have differed, or some passing hasty expression, to prove that every one was mistaken in their opinion of her, and that she was no better than others; whilst the next moment, if her cousin entered, she would try her patience and her good-nature, perhaps, by sending her to a distant part of the house for a book, or begging her to finish some tiresome piece of work, and then think she had made quite sufficient amends for the trouble by covering her with kisses, asking her if she did not love her dearly, and declaring she was the most good-natured little thing in the world. At first Amy did not understand this; she thought Margaret affectionate and Dora cold; and she turned from the one and clung to the other; but this could not last long, for Margaret's selfishness was too great to be concealed by any show of warmth, and after a little time she wondered why she should be so uncomfortable when Margaret put her arm so kindly round her neck, and asked her to do the very thing that she knew was most disagreeable to her, and why she should be annoyed when she chose the most beautiful flowers or the finest fruit for herself, and then said, "You won't mind, will you, darling?" It seemed almost wrong, yet Amy could not help the feeling. With Dora, however, it was very different; she had serious faults, and they were so evident as to be perceived even upon a first acquaintance; but she had also qualities upon which a very superior character might be formed, and amongst them, perhaps, the most valuable was sincerity. Whatever she said was strictly true; there was no pretence of affection which was not felt, no affectation of virtues which were not possessed; she was too reserved to express all her feelings, but those she did express were perfectly real; she was too proud to confess herself in the wrong of her own accord, but she would never for a moment stoop to the slightest meanness to screen herself; and this it was which formed the connecting link between her and Amy, for it was the one thing to which Dora was peculiarly alive, and half her quarrels with Margaret, when they were not caused by opposition to her will, arose from her perceiving some little cunning or paltry motive, which her sister tried to conceal but could not. If Amy had not been true and candid, Dora would have cared little for her other qualities; but when once she discovered that her cousin's lightest word was to be depended on, and that she never hesitated to acknowledge an error, whatever might be the consequence, she began to respect her, and to remark the other points in which she was superior; and though she would hardly have borne a rebuke for her ill-temper or her pride, even from her father, she would think over some instance in which Amy had shown self-command or humility, with a feeling of self-reproach she had seldom known before. And thus quite unconsciously, Amy was exercising an influence for good, over the mind of a person older and cleverer than herself, merely by the quiet, unobtrusive manner in which she performed her daily duties. But as yet this made no difference in Dora's manner; she was still proud and irritable, and often most unkind at the very moment she was feeling the greatest respect, and Amy's chief pleasure at Emmerton soon arose from being with Emily Morton and little Rose. Rose, indeed, was not much of a companion; but she was a very interesting and beautiful child, and Emily Morton's great love for her was in itself quite sufficient to make her a source of pleasure to Amy. At first, when the music and drawing lessons began, Amy's hand shook and her voice almost trembled whenever Miss Morton found fault with her; but she soon discovered there was not the slightest occasion for fear, since even Margaret's inattention only gave rise to a serious look, and a hope, expressed in a grave tone, that, to please her mamma, she would be more careful for the future. And when the awe had subsided, Amy began to look forward to Miss Morton's approbation, and to wish she would notice her as she did Rose; and when vexed at her cousins' neglect, she endeavoured to make some amends by bringing her the prettiest flowers from her own garden, or working some little thing which she thought might gratify her, till Emily, touched by attentions she had lately been so little accustomed to receive, anticipated Amy's visits as one of the chief enjoyments of her lonely life, and bestowed upon her a considerable portion of the affection which had once been exclusively given, to little Rose.

It was some time, however, before Amy discovered that Miss Morton was indeed fond of her; she was very gentle and very kind, but this she was to every one, and her extreme reserve and shyness prevented the expression of her real feeling; besides, they were very seldom alone; and when Dora and Margaret were in the room, Emily seemed to shrink into herself, and never to speak except when absolutely obliged. From her childhood Emily Morton had had a peculiar dread of anything like scorn or ridicule, a dread which her friends had often vainly endeavoured to overcome, until her sense of religion had taught her how wrong it was to indulge it, and even then something of the feeling remained. The careless jest upon any little awkwardness, or the thought that she was forgotten when others were noticed, which had brought the tears into her eyes when a child, caused as keen a pang as she grew older, though her self-command prevented its being shown; and the suffering she had undergone from the moment of her entrance into Mr Harrington's family, it would be difficult to describe. At school she had always felt herself on an equality with her young companions, and in general, from her accomplishments, their superior; but at Wayland Court every one looked down upon her. Mr Harrington scarcely thought of her at all; and Mrs Harrington considered her as little above the level of an upper servant, useful in a party to sing and play, and useful in teaching Dora and Margaret to do the same, but in other respects very slightly differing from Morris. Dora scorned her as inferior in rank and wealth, and disliked her because on certain occasions she was bound to obey her; and Margaret envied her beauty, and was angry with her straightforward simplicity; and when all this was gradually discovered, the feeling that arose in Emily Morton's mind was most bitter. Every trifling neglect, every proud look, every taunting word, brought the colour to her cheek, and a host of painful recollections to her mind; and though too gentle to retaliate, she thought over them in private till they seemed almost unendurable, and she was often on the point of leaving Mr Harrington's house and seeking for another situation. But there was a principle within that soon brought her to a more patient spirit. She had been placed at Wayland by the only friend on whom she could depend, and to leave it would be, she knew, a cause of great anxiety, and the "charity which beareth all things" at length enabled her to submit to the trial without a murmur. She learned not only to listen without reply to undeserved reproofs, but to ask herself whether there might not even be some ground for them. She learned to return the greatest neglect with the most thoughtful attention, the harshest speeches with the most considerate kindness, till the calmness of her own mind became a sufficient recompense for all her difficulties; and the person most to be envied in the family of a man who had thousands at his disposal, worldly rank, the respect of his friends, and the applause of his dependents, was the young girl whom even the very servants considered themselves privileged to mention with contempt.

Emily Morton's situation, however, would have been very different but for little Rose. She was the one charm of her life, the only thing that seemed yet left her in which to take a deep and affectionate interest; and till her arrival at Emmerton, Rose was the one subject of her daily thoughts. It was long before she could believe that Amy was indeed so different from her cousins; and still longer ere her habitual shyness could be so far overcome as to enable her to talk, except at the times of the regular lessons. The constant impression on her mind was, that every one was ridiculing her; and this made her so unwilling to speak unless when obliged, that Amy often feared she never should be at ease with her. The reserve between them would probably have continued for even a greater length of time, had it not been for the introduction of Susan Reynolds into the place of under lady's maid soon after the walk to Colworth. Mrs Harrington was pleased with her appearance, and still more with Mrs Saville's recommendation; and although Bridget looked sulky at first, because she was not consulted on the occasion, and old Stephen grumbled in private, because his little grand-daughter had not been chosen, no other person in the house found fault with the arrangement; and even Morris, the quickest, neatest, and most particular of her particular race, declared she had never met with so clever and well-behaved a girl for her age.

This was joyful news to Amy, who, of course, fancied that now all Susan's troubles were at an end; for every one said it was the most fortunate thing in the world that she had found so good a situation; but when several weeks had passed, and her eyes were still often filled with tears, and her voice had the same melancholy resigned tone as at first, Amy became half-vexed, and, perhaps, a little impatient. It seemed almost like ingratitude; and she ventured one day to ask Emily Morton a few questions on the subject, as Susan's principal employment was to wait upon her and Rose, and, therefore, she must know more about her than any one else. Miss Morton spoke so kindly, and took such an interest in the poor orphan girl, that it was impossible not to be at ease when talking on this one thing at least; and Amy's heart was at length completely won, when she met Susan one afternoon on the stairs leading to Miss Morton's room, which was in a little turret close to the schoolroom; and on inquiring what made her look so much more cheerful than usual, found that Emily had made her a present of a new book, and had promised, if possible, to hear her read three times a week.

"She is so good to me, Miss Herbert," said Susan; "it almost makes me happy."

"Oh! but, Susan," said Amy; "I wish you could be quite happy. I thought you would when you came here, and had such a comfortable home."

"It is not my home. Miss," replied Susan; "grandmother's cottage is my home now."

"And do you want to go back there?" asked Amy, looking very disappointed.

"Oh no! Miss, I should only be a burden, and I know it would not be right; but I should like very much to see her and the children."

"But would you rather live there?" repeated Amy.

"I would rather live with my friends anywhere, Miss, than amongst strangers."

Poor Amy felt heartily vexed. "But you know, Susan," she said, "you could not expect to have such nice dinners with your grandmother, or such a comfortable bed, or to wear such good clothes, as you do here."

"Ah! Miss, but it is not the eating and drinking, and the clothes, that make one happy," replied Susan.

At this moment Margaret called her cousin to the schoolroom, and the conversation was interrupted; but Amy could not help thinking of it afterwards, and talking of it to her mamma when she went home.

"It seems very strange, mamma," she said, "that Susan should care so little for having such a comfortable place to live in."

"Should you be happy, Amy, at Emmerton, without me?"

"Oh no! mamma, never; but then——"

"But what, my dear child?"

"I am afraid it is wrong, mamma; but I think sometimes that it would be very nice to have a carriage and servants, and a large house; and it must be almost as great a change to Susan to have so many comforts as she has now."

"The reason why you think so differently, my love, is, that you have never known yet what real unhappiness means. When that time comes, you will feel with Susan, that all such things are of no consequence. I believe God often sends afflictions to teach us this."

"And do you think He will send them to me, mamma?" said Amy, anxiously.

"I believe He will send you whatever is necessary to make you good, my dear, and will give you strength to bear it; but it will be better and happier for you if you endeavour to overcome this longing for riches and grandeur now, and so, perhaps, the trial may not be required."

Amy did not quite understand all that her mother meant, or why she should look so sad; but she went to rest that night with a heavier heart than usual, even though she had made it an especial part of her evening prayers that God would grant her a humble spirit, and teach her not to desire anything beyond what He had given; and when she next went to Emmerton she looked upon Susan as much better than herself, and took even a greater interest in her; and finding that Miss Morton did the same, and studied in many little ways to make the poor girl feel less friendless and lonely, it seemed as if the barrier between herself and Emily was in a measure done away; and she began from this time to experience a pleasure in being with her, which once she would have imagined impossible.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Mamma," said Amy, as she returned from Emmerton one bright afternoon in the beginning of September, "Aunt Harrington hopes that when I go to the Hall on Thursday, you will go with me; for Lord Rochford is coming over with Miss Cunningham, and she thinks you would like to see them. The carriage will be sent for you whenever you wish it."

"Has not Miss Cunningham been at the Hall before?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"No," replied Amy; "she was to have gone there just after my aunt came, but one of her uncles was taken ill and died, and then she went away somewhere on a visit. I want to see her very much, for I am sure my aunt is very anxious that Dora should be with her a great deal."

"How did you guess that?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"Oh, by the way in which she talked of her, and said she hoped Dora would make herself agreeable, and that there were very few young people of the same age here, and that the acquaintance was very desirable. But, mamma," continued Amy, looking up archly in her mother's face, "I think Dora is determined not to like her."

"And why should you think so?"

"Because I am sure Dora never does like any one she is told to like. She always has a fancy for things which no one else can endure, and she will pet that ugly tabby cat which you saw in the schoolroom the other day, and that great fierce dog which growls whenever any one goes near it, though I think she is a little afraid of it."

"And does her love for human beings go by contraries too?"

"I don't know quite, because I have never seen her with strangers," said Amy; "but I am sure it is her way in other things, for even in her dress I can see it. She generally chooses to wear whatever Margaret or I think ugly. But, mamma, have you ever seen Miss Cunningham, and do you think I shall like her?"

"I saw her frequently when she was a very little child," replied Mrs Herbert; "for before your uncle went to Wayland, Lady Rochford was very intimate with your aunt; but after that she became ill, and I had no carriage, and the distance between us is so great, that we have very seldom met, though I have been asked occasionally to stay there; and once, when your dear papa was here, I went."

"Then you will like to go with me on Thursday, mamma," said Amy; "you know it will make me so happy, and you never go now, as you used to do in the summer. You always say it is such a fatigue; but I did so enjoy the nice long days, when you were with me."

"I must wait till Thursday comes before I decide," answered her mother. "The postman shall take a note for me to Emmerton early, to say whether we shall want the carriage."

Amy watched her mamma more anxiously than usual the next day, and was not quite satisfied with her pale and languid looks; and when she appeared at breakfast the following morning, evidently suffering from the effects of a sleepless night, it was clear that she was more fit to stay at home than to spend the day at Emmerton; and, much to Amy's disappointment, the donkey was ordered at eleven o'clock, and she was obliged to set off for her ride by herself.

There were preparations in the schoolroom for a day of idleness. Rose was playing with her doll, Margaret engaged with some fancy work for herself, and Dora deep in the contents of an amusing book, while Miss Morton, relieved from her usual duties, had gone to her own room to enjoy quietness and solitude.

"I don't think I like coming here on a holiday," observed Amy, when she entered the room; "it does not seem natural."

"I like it, though," said Rose, as she tied a pink ribbon round her doll's waist, in a firm, hard knot, and then held it up to be admired. "I never have my doll's new frock except on holidays; and Emily is coming presently to have a good game of play."

"You won't play here," exclaimed Margaret, sharply; "we can have no litter made."

"I don't want to make a litter," said Rose; "and I had much rather go and play in Emily's room; she is never cross."

"Oh Rose!" said a gentle voice behind her; and Rose was immediately sensible that she had been wrong; and turning round to Emily, who had just come into the room, she jumped upon a chair to kiss her, and whispered, "I won't be naughty; but no one is kind except you."

"You must not speak so," replied Emily; "and your sister is quite right in saying it will not do to make a litter here; but there is plenty of space in my bedroom, and we will go there and play when I have just spoken to your cousin."

"And won't Amy come too?" said Rose.

Amy looked half inclined; but Margaret vehemently asserted that such a thing had never been heard of before; and Dora raised her head from her book, begging more earnestly than was her wont that Amy would stay with them; and so Miss Morton and Rose departed with the doll and her treasures, and Amy remained to while away the time as she best could till Miss Cunningham arrived. Not that this was a difficult task, for there were many books at hand which were quite new to her; and she was so unwearied a reader, that, although her cousins did not take the least trouble to entertain her, the time seemed very short till the sound of carriage wheels and the loud ringing of the door-bell announced the arrival of a visitor. Margaret hastily gathered up her fragments of silk and beads, and thrust them into the first open drawer she could find (a proceeding which Amy did not fail to remark, as she knew that the task of finding Margaret's missing treasures always devolved upon her); but Dora did not appear to observe what was passing till her sister stealthily opened the door and peeped into the passage, and then she called out to her to shut it, and wondered she was not ashamed of being so unladylike. Margaret was not at all inclined to obey, and a dispute would probably have been the consequence but for the entrance of the footman, who came with Mrs Harrington's orders that the young ladies should go immediately to the drawing-room. Margaret ran to the glass to arrange her curls; and Dora, lingering over her book, reluctantly prepared to do as she was told, always a difficult task with her, and particularly so at that moment.

"I suppose my aunt wishes me to go, too?" said Amy.

"My mistress only mentioned Miss Harrington and Miss Margaret," replied the man, very respectfully but decidedly; for he well knew that Mrs Harrington always required her commands to be taken literally.

Amy shrunk back, vexed with herself for having offered to go, and more vexed with her aunt for having omitted to send for her. It would have made her feel shy to be obliged to encounter strangers; but it was not pleasant to be left behind.

"Never mind, dear," said Dora, kindly, seeing her blank face of disappointment; "we shall be back again presently, and then you shall see Miss Cunningham; but I tell you she is just like the rest of the world."

"I don't know why I should care," replied Amy, recovering herself; "it will be much more agreeable to stay here and read, for I am not used to strangers as you are, Dora."

And yet, though it was more agreeable, Amy was not contented; and when Margaret, having arranged her longest ringlet to her satisfaction, and set her dress to rights, and drawn up her head so as to show off her long neck to advantage, pronounced herself quite ready, and left Amy to the quiet enjoyment of her book, she could not manage to fix her attention upon it. For the first time since her uncle's arrival at Emmerton she felt neglected; it had often happened before that Dora or Margaret had been sent for on some little business with their mamma, but then it did not signify; and the few visitors who called seldom inquired for them; or, if they saw them accidentally, there was always as much notice taken of Amy as of her cousins, so that she had not fancied there could be any distinction between them; and even now she hardly acknowledged to herself the cause of her uncomfortable feelings, but sat with the open book before her, trying to find out why her aunt had wished her to be left behind; and then looking at the loveliness of the grounds and the signs of wealth and luxury in the room, and contrasting them with the plainly-furnished drawing-room and the little garden at the cottage, "I should be very happy if mamma had such beautiful things," was the thought that arose in her mind, but there was something within that checked it. They only who have tried earnestly to do right can tell how quickly conscience whispers when we are wrong; and Amy, young as she was, had too often heard her mother's warnings against envy and covetousness, not to be aware that she was at that moment tempted by them; and half-repeating to herself, "how wrong it is in me!" she turned to her book with the resolution of not thinking anything more about the matter. She had read but a few pages when the sound of voices in the passage interrupted her. Dora's constrained tone, and Margaret's affected laugh, told directly there was a stranger with them, and immediately afterwards they entered with Miss Cunningham, and the first glance showed Amy that Dora's description had been very correct. She was neither tall nor short, neither stout nor thin; she had grayish blue eyes, without any particular expression in them; sandy-coloured hair, a fair, freckled complexion, and rather pretty mouth, and certainly was very unlike what Amy had fancied in all but her dress, which was peculiarly handsome.

"This is our schoolroom," said Dora, when Miss Cunningham, upon being told who Amy was, had shaken hands with her, and scanned her from head to foot.

"Is it?" was the reply. "It is a nice little place; I think it must be just the size of my governess's sitting-room."

"It does very well," said Dora; "but it is nothing like the room we had to ourselves at Wayland, which was twice as large."

"My governess's room," continued Miss Cunningham, "used to be my nursery; and then, when I grew too old for it, of course papa gave up another to me; in fact, I have two I may call my own now—a little room where I keep all my books, and a large one where I do my lessons."

"There was a whole set of rooms which was to have been ours," said Dora, "if we had remained at Wayland; and here, I suppose, something of the kind will be arranged for us soon, but everything is so unsettled yet that papa has not had time to think about it."

"My little room," observed Miss Cunningham, "looks out upon the finest view in the whole estate. I can see a distance of twenty miles from the window."

"The tower on Thorwood Hill was thirty miles off, I think. Margaret," said Dora, turning to her sister.

"Yes," she replied; "but then it could only be seen as a little speck on a clear day."

Miss Cunningham went to the window. "You have no view here," she said.

"No," answered Dora; "it is much pleasanter having it shut in in this way, because it makes it so private."

"But when a house stands high, it is very easy to be private, and yet to have beautiful views between the trees."

"I suppose," said Dora, "that when this house was built, several hundred years ago, people did not think so much about scenery, though, indeed, there is a very nice view from the front. I have heard papa say that it is only modern places which stand high. Rochford Park, I think, is about fifty years old."

"Only the new part; there is one wing which is much older."

"But the new part was built when your family first went there, was it not?"

"Yes; it was built by my grandfather, when he returned from being ambassador to Turkey."

"I think the newest part of Emmerton has been built at least a hundred and fifty years," said Dora; "and the old part—I really cannot say exactly what the age of it is; but the first baron who is buried in the chapel died somewhere about 1470, and his was the elder branch of our family."

"But there is no title in your family now," observed Miss Cunningham.

"Indeed there is," replied Dora; "Lord Doringford is a cousin of ours."

"Oh! a hundredth cousin, I suppose. Any one may be that; for you know we are all descended from Adam."

"Yes; and of course, that is the reason why people think so much more of a family being an old one, than of a mere title."

Miss Cunningham turned sharply round to Amy.

"Do you live here?" she asked; and at being addressed so unceremoniously, Amy's colour rose, but she tried to answer gently, though she felt a little unwilling to acknowledge that her home was neither a park nor a hall.

"I live about two miles off," she said, "at Emmerton Cottage; but I am here a great deal."

"Oh!" was all the reply; and Amy took up a book, and wished the new visitor had remained at Rochford Park.

"Is not that a very pretty drawing?" said Margaret, finding Dora unwilling to speak again, and feeling very awkward. It was a drawing of Miss Morton's, which she was going to copy.

"Very," replied Miss Cunningham, shortly. "My style is flowers; I learned when I was in Paris, and——"

"But that does not make this drawing pretty or ugly, does it?" interrupted Dora, with a curl of the lip which portended a storm.

Miss Cunningham stared at her, and then went on with her sentence: "And my master told papa that my copies were almost equal to the original."

"I should like to see them very much," said Margaret, wishing as usual to conciliate her last acquaintance. "Will you bring them over to show us some day?"

Dora held up a lovely rose, almost the last of the season. "Look," she said; "who would not rather have that than the most beautiful drawing that ever could be made of it?"

No notice was taken of the question; for by this time Miss Cunningham felt that she was no match for Dora in anything but pretension; and her only resource was indifference. She therefore went on talking to Margaret, who proved herself a willing listener. Drawings, music, lessons, dress, all were mentioned in turn; and Margaret patiently bore the perpetual repetition of "I think this," and "I do that," as she looked at Miss Cunningham's sandy hair and freckled complexion, and felt that in one thing, at least, there could be no comparison between them. Amy for some time stood by, one moment casting a wistful look at her book, and wishing that it were not rude to read, or that she might carry it off to Miss Morton's room, and the next feeling a strong inclination to laugh, as she listened to what was passing. She had never heard anything of the kind before; for Dora did not boast except when she wished to rival some one, and Amy was far too humble to enter into competition with her in anything.

At length, even the delightful subject of self seemed to be exhausted. The visitor paused; and Margaret looking at the time-piece, and remarking that it wanted nearly an hour to dinner, proposed that they should go into the garden.

"Is there anything to be seen there?" asked Miss Cunningham.

"Nothing that you will admire," replied Dora, sarcastically.

But the emphasis on the you was quite lost. From her childhood, Miss Cunningham could never be made to understand what was not expressed in plain words.

"I suppose," she said, rather condescendingly, "you think we have such a beautiful place at the Park, that I shall not care about this."

"Oh no!" answered Dora, "such an idea never entered my head; for it struck me when I was there the other day, that it was so like all the other gentlemen's seats I have ever seen, that you would be quite glad to look at something different. There is hardly such another place as Emmerton, I believe, in England."

The meaning of this was certainly quite evident, but Miss Cunningham was not quick at a retort; she could only stare, as she usually did when she had not words at command, and ask Margaret to show her the way into the garden. Dora begged to be excused accompanying them, and Amy would willingly have done the same, but for the fear of appearing rude; and even in such trifles she had learned already to consult the feelings of others.

The morning was so lovely, uniting almost the warmth of summer with the freshness of autumn, that the mere sensation of being in the open air was enjoyable; and it was fortunate for Amy that it was so, as neither of her companions paid any attention to her. Margaret led the way through the winding walks in the shrubbery, and along the terrace, and by the side of the lake; pointing out the different objects which were to be seen, expressing herself extremely delighted at having Miss Cunningham with her, and hoping that they should meet very often, for really there were no people living near Emmerton, and it was dreadfully dull after Wayland; forgetting that only the day before, in one of her fits of extreme affection, she had told Amy they did not regret Wayland in the least, for that being with her made up for everything. Amy, however, did not forget; and it made her doubt, as she had often been inclined to do before, whether her cousin was not sometimes insincere. It was quite possible that Margaret might find Emmerton dull, and there was no harm in her saying so, but there was no occasion to make kind speeches if she did not mean them; and almost involuntarily she turned away, and walked a few paces behind by herself. Miss Cunningham looked at everything that was pointed out, and once or twice said it was pretty; but the chief charm of all consisted in its being like something else which was more beautiful at Rochford Park. The trees were taller, the lake was clearer, the walks were broader, and Amy, as she listened, sometimes forgot her annoyance in amusement, though Margaret's words continually reminded her of it again; and by the time they had gone over the pleasure-grounds, she thought that her society would not have been missed if she had remained in the house. Suddenly, however, as they seated themselves on a bench by the side of the lake, Margaret seemed to recollect that her cousin was present; and, with a half-suppressed yawn, asked her if she could think of anything else they could do before dinner. It was evident that she was tired of her company, and Amy ransacked her brain to discover something else which might be seen.

"I think we have gone over everything except the chapel," she said.

"Oh yes! the chapel," exclaimed Margaret, "that will just do, I am sure
Miss Cunningham would like to see it."

"I don't know, indeed," was the reply. "Is it far? I am dreadfully tired."

"It is a part of the house," said Amy, "and you know we must get home. This is the shortest way to it, Margaret," she continued, pointing to a dark overgrown walk; "you know it leads over the wooden bridge to the private garden, without our being obliged to go to the front of the house."

"The shortest way is the best," muttered Miss Cunningham; "I hate being walked to death."

Amy thought it would have been more civil to have kept her remarks to herself; but she supposed the observation was not intended to be heard, and they went on, Miss Cunningham complaining the whole way either of the narrowness of the path, or the inconvenience of the briars, or the heat of the sun, and making both Margaret and Amy very much repent having her with them.

The walk, however, did at last come to an end; and as they turned a sharp angle of the building, and came suddenly upon the chapel, with its gray buttresses half covered with ivy, standing out upon a smooth square of velvet turf, and concealed from the pleasure-ground by a thick shrubbery and one or two splendid chestnut trees, Amy forgot how unlike her companions were to herself, and involuntarily exclaimed, "Is it not beautiful!"

"How odd!" said Miss Cunningham; "why, it is a church."

"It is very gloomy," observed Margaret; "I don't often come here."

"Not gloomy," said Amy, "only grave."

"Well! grave or gloomy, it is all the same. I wish, Amy, you would learn not to take up one's words so. And now we are come here, I don't think we can get in. You should have remembered that this door is always locked; do run into the house, and ask Bridget for the key, and we will wait here."

Amy instantly did as she was desired, but had not gone ten yards before she returned. "You know, Margaret," she said, "that I cannot see Bridget, because I must not go amongst the servants. I never have been since the first night you came, when my aunt was so angry with me."

"But," replied Margaret, "mamma is engaged with Lord Rochford now; you will be sure not to meet her."

"It is not the meeting her, but the doing what she would not like, that I am afraid of; but it will do, perhaps, if I ring the bell in the schoolroom, and then I can ask for it."

"Yes; only run off and be quick, for we have not much time to spare."

And in a moment Amy disappeared; and with the best speed she could make, found her way to the schoolroom, and seizing the bell-rope, without remembering how easily it rang, gave it such a pull that the sound was heard through the whole house. The last tone had but just died away when another was heard, to Amy's ear much more awful. It was her aunt's harsh voice in the passage, exclaiming against such a noise being made, and declaring that Dora or Margaret, whichever it was, should be severely reprimanded. Poor Amy actually trembled, and stood with the bell-rope in her hand, unable to move, when Mrs Harrington entered.

"What, Amy! Amy Herbert! A most extraordinary liberty, I must say! I must beg you to recollect that you are not at home. Pray, did any one give you permission to ring?"

Amy could hardly say "yes," because it was her own proposition; but she stammered out "that Margaret wanted the key of the chapel, and she did not like to go amongst the servants, for fear of displeasing her aunt."

"Then Margaret should have come herself to ask for what she wants; I will have no one but my own family ringing the bell and giving orders in my house. And such a noise!" continued Mrs Harrington, her anger increasing as she remembered how her nerves had been affected by the loud peal.

Amy could only look humble and distressed; and, forgetting the key and everything but her desire to escape from her aunt, she moved as quickly towards the door as she dared. But she had scarcely reached it when a second fright awaited her—a grasp, which seemed almost like that of a giant, stopped her, and the quick, good-humoured voice of a stranger exclaimed, "Why, what's the matter? Who have we got here—a third daughter, Mrs Harrington?"

Amy ventured to look in the face of the speaker, and felt reassured by the kind, open countenance that met her view. She guessed in an instant it must be Lord Rochford.

"Not a daughter," replied Mrs Harrington, in a constrained voice; "Mr
Harrington's niece, Amy Herbert."

"Ah! well," said Lord Rochford, "it is very nearly a daughter, though. Then this must be the child of my friend Harrington's second sister, Ellen. I could almost have guessed it from the likeness; those black eyes are the very image of her mother's. And what has become of the colonel? any news of him lately?"

Mrs Harrington shook her head.

"Sad, sad, very sad," muttered Lord Rochford to himself; "and the mother, too, so ill, I hear." Then, seeing a tear glistening in Amy's eye, he paused, patted her kindly on the shoulder, and told her he was sure she was a great pet at home, and he should be glad to see her at Rochford Park; "and Lucy will like to see you, too," he continued. "She never meets any one but grown-up people from year's end to year's end. By the by, Mrs Harrington, I dare say Mrs Herbert would be very willing to enter into the plan you and I were talking of just now. I wish some day you would mention it."

"You forget," replied Mrs Harrington, trying to look gracious, "that I said it was quite out of the question at present."

"Oh no! not at all. But, begging your pardon, I never knew a lady yet who was not willing to change her mind when she had a fair excuse given her."

"You may not have met with any one before," said Mrs Harrington, in her haughtiest manner, "but I must assure you, you have met with one now.—What do you want?" she added, for the first time perceiving the footman, who had answered the bell. "Amy, you rang; Jolliffe waits for your orders."

Amy's neck and cheeks in an instant became crimson; but she managed to say, though in a voice scarcely audible, that she wanted the key of the chapel.

"Tell Bridget to send it instantly," said Mrs Harrington; and she did not notice Amy again till the key was brought, when, putting it into her hands without a word, she motioned her to the door. And Amy, enchanted at having at last escaped, returned to her cousin even more quickly than she had left her. "Oh Margaret!" was her exclamation, as she ran up, holding the key in her hand, "here it is; but I have got into a dreadful scrape by ringing the bell, and I don't know what I shall do; my aunt will never forgive me."

"Nonsense," replied Margaret, in a really kind manner; "it is only just for the moment; mamma will soon forget it. You have nothing to do but to keep out of her way for some time."

"I am sure she won't," replied Amy; "she looked so angry, and called me
Amy Herbert."

"But your name is Herbert, is it not?" said Miss Cunningham, with a stare.

"Don't you know what Amy means?" asked Margaret, laughing; "people never tack on surnames to Christian names till they are so angry they don't know what else to do. But don't make yourself unhappy, Amy; I know mamma better than you do; she soon forgets—just let me know what she said."

The story was soon told, and Amy's mind considerably eased by her cousin's assurance that she had got into a hundred such scrapes in her life; though there still remained such a recollection of her alarm, that even the quiet beauty of the chapel could not entirely soothe her. Miss Cunningham looked round with curiosity, but with a total want of interest; and Margaret laughed, and said it was a gloomy old place, and then called to her companions to observe the strange little figures which were carved on an ancient monument near the altar, declaring they were the most absurd things she had ever seen. But she could only induce Miss Cunningham to join in the merriment; Amy just smiled, and said, in rather a subdued voice, that they were odd, and she had often wondered at them before.

"What is the matter, Amy?" asked Margaret. "Why don't you speak out; and why are you so grave!"

"I don't quite know," answered Amy, trying to raise her voice; "but I never can laugh or speak loud in a church."

"And why not?" said Miss Cunningham, who had been patting one of the figures with her parasol, and calling it a "little wretch."

"Because," replied Amy, "it is a place where people come to say their prayers and read their Bibles."

"Well! and so they say their prayers and read their Bibles in their bedrooms," observed Margaret; "and yet you would not mind laughing there."

Amy thought for a moment, and then said, "You know bedrooms are never consecrated."

"Consecrated!" repeated Miss Cunningham, her eyes opening to their fullest extent; "What has that to do with it?"

"I don't know that I can quite tell," replied Amy; "but I believe it means making places like Sundays."

"I wish you would talk sense," said Miss Cunningham, sharply; "I can't understand a word you say."

"I know what I mean myself, though I cannot explain it. On Sunday people never work, or ride about, or read the same books as they do on other days—at least mamma never lets me do it; and she makes me say my Catechism, and other things like it—hymns, I mean, and collects."

"That may be your fashion on a Sunday, but it is not mine," said Miss Cunningham. "I used to say my Catechism once a month before I was confirmed, to get it perfect; but since then I have never thought about it."

"Have you been confirmed?" asked Margaret and Amy, in one breath.

"Yes, to be sure. I am quite old enough; I was fifteen last month."

"Then you must feel quite grown up now," said Amy.

"Grown up! why should I? I shall not do that till I come out in London."

"Shall you not?" said Amy, gravely. "I think I should feel quite grown up if I were confirmed."

"I never heard any one yet call a girl only just fifteen grown up," observed Margaret.

"It is not what I should be called, but what I should feel," replied Amy. "People, when they are confirmed, are allowed to do things that they must not before." And as she said this, she walked away, as if afraid of being obliged to explain herself more, and went to the lower end of the chapel to look at her favourite monument of the first baron of Emmerton.

"I never knew any one with such odd notions as Amy," said Margaret, when her cousin was gone. "I never can make out how old she is. Sometimes she seems so much younger than we are, and then again she gets into a grave mood, and talks just as if she were twenty."

"But it is very easy to ask her her age, is it not?" asked the matter-of-fact Miss Cunningham.

"Do you always think persons just the age they call themselves?" said
Margaret, laughing.

"Yes, of course, I do, every one, that is except one of my aunts, who always tells me she is seven-and-twenty, when mamma knows she is five-and-thirty."

"What I mean," said Margaret, "is, that all persons appear different at different times."

"They don't to me," answered Miss Cunningham, shortly. "If I am told a girl is fourteen, I believe her to be fourteen; and if I am told she is twelve, I believe she is twelve. Your cousin is twelve, is she not?"

Margaret saw it was useless to discuss the subject any more; and, calling to Amy that they should be late for dinner if they stayed any longer, hastened out of the chapel. Amy lingered behind, with the uncomfortable feeling of having something disagreeable associated with a place which once had brought before her nothing but what was delightful. Margaret and Miss Cunningham had seemed perfectly indifferent to what she thought so solemn; and although quite aware that their carelessness did not at all take away from the real sacredness of the chapel, yet it was something new and startling to find that it was possible for persons to enter a place peculiarly dedicated to the service of God without any greater awe than they would have felt in their own homes.

If Amy had lived longer and seen more of the world, she would have known that, unhappily, such thoughtlessness is so common as not to be remarkable; but she had passed her life with those who thought very differently; and the first appearance of irreverence was as painful as it was unexpected.

CHAPTER IX.

The thought of being probably obliged again to meet Mrs Harrington, soon made Amy forget her painful feelings in the chapel; and during the whole of dinner her eye turned anxiously to the door, and her ear caught every sound in the passage, in the dread lest her aunt should enter; and she ate what was placed before her almost unconsciously, without attending to anything that was said.

Miss Morton was the only person who remarked this; and she had a sufficient opportunity, for no notice was taken of her. She was not introduced to Miss Cunningham; but the young lady cast many curious glances at her as she came into the room, and then a whispered conversation followed between her and Margaret, quite loud enough to be heard. She was described as "the person who teaches us music and drawing," and her birth, parentage, and education were given. And when Miss Cunningham's curiosity was satisfied, she condescended to look at her attentively for nearly a minute, and then appeared entirely to forget that such a being was in existence. Miss Morton bore this gaze without shrinking. There was not a flush on her delicate cheek, or the slightest curl of anger about her gentle mouth; and all that showed she was aware of what was said was the momentary glistening of her eye as she caught the words—"Oh! she is an orphan, is she?" and then Margaret's reply—"Yes; she lost her father and mother both in one month." Amy would have felt very indignant, if she had remarked it, but at that moment she could attend to nothing but the door; and Dora, whose proud, sulky mood had not yet passed away, sat by the window, and did not speak.

The dinner was very dull. Miss Cunningham professed herself so tired with her walk that she could not eat; and looking at everything that was offered her, said "she would try it, but really she had such a delicate appetite she could seldom touch anything;" helping herself, at the same time, to two very good-sized cutlets as a commencement, and finishing with the last piece of apple-tart in the dish near her. Rose fixed her eyes steadily upon her, as she transferred the remains of the tart to her plate; and then turning to Miss Morton, whose seat was always next to hers, said almost aloud, "Why does she not ask first!" Miss Morton looked as grave as she could, and tried to stop her; but although Miss Cunningham heard, it did not at all follow that she understood; and the child's question had no more effect upon her than if it had been put in private.

"Would you let me go with you to your room?" said Amy to Miss Morton, as soon as dinner was over. "I am afraid aunt Harrington will be here presently; and I have got into such a scrape with her."

"But supposing," replied Emily, "that I should think it best for you to stay, what will you do then?"

"Oh! of course," said Amy, "I should do as you thought right; but if you would let me go and tell you all about it, I should be so glad; and I will promise to come back again if you say I ought."

"Well!" replied Emily, "if we make that agreement I shall not care; and we will let Rose and her doll stay behind."

Miss Morton's room was becoming to Amy's feelings almost as delightful as the chapel. It was not often that she was admitted there, but whenever she was, her curiosity and interest were greatly excited. There were, in fact, two rooms, a small ante-room and a rather large bedroom; and they would probably have been considered too good to be appropriated to Miss Morton's use, if it had not been that Rose always shared the same apartment. Emily's taste was so good, that wherever she went, some traces of it appeared; and when Amy first saw these rooms after her uncle's arrival, she scarcely recognised them to be the same which she had before known only as desolate lumber-rooms. Not that there were any symptoms of luxury about them, for there was no furniture beyond what was absolutely required; but there were books and work on the table, pictures on the walls, and flowers in the windows; and to all these Amy guessed some history was attached, for the pictures she had been told were of Emily's friends and relations, and the books had been given her by those she was now parted from, perhaps for ever in this world; and the flowers seemed to possess a value beyond anything they could derive from their own beauty, for they were cherished almost as living beings. Once or twice lately Miss Morton had related to Amy some of the stories relating to these things, and this naturally increased her desire to hear more; but on the present occasion she thought of nothing but the relief of escaping from her aunt; and telling Emily, in a few words, what had occurred, she begged not to be sent back again.

Miss Morton thought for a moment, and then replied, "I am afraid, my dear, that I must be very hard-hearted and say, no. Mrs Harrington is much more likely to be displeased, if she thinks you have hidden yourself. You know you must see her again, and then you will still have the same fear, and you will not be comfortable even at home, unless the meeting is over, but if you face it now, and tell her, if she should say anything, that you are sorry she has been displeased, and ask her to forgive you, you will return home happy. We never lessen our difficulties by putting off the evil day."

"But," replied Amy, "Margaret says she will forget."

"I think your cousin is wrong," answered Miss Morton. "Some things Mrs Harrington does forget, but not what she considers liberties; besides, is it not much better to have our faults forgiven and forgotten?"

"But I don't think I did anything wrong," said Amy.

"No," replied Miss Morton, "it was not wrong in itself; it was only wrong because it was against your aunt's wishes. She is very particular indeed about some things; and this, of ringing the bell and giving orders, is one."

"I can't say I am sorry if I am not," said Amy; "and if I have not done anything wrong, how can I be so?"

"You may be sorry for having vexed your aunt, though it was unintentionally; and this is all I wish you to say."

Amy looked very unhappy. "I wish I had not gone away," she said; "it will be much worse going back again if she is there."

"Yes," replied Miss Morton, "I can quite understand that; but whether it be easy or difficult it does not make any difference in its being right; and I think," she added, as she put her arm affectionately round Amy's waist and kissed her for the first time, "I think there is some one you love very dearly who would say the same."

Perhaps no kiss that Amy had ever before received had been so valuable as this. At the moment it seemed as if she had power to do anything that Miss Morton thought right, and she walked to the door with a firm step. Then once more her resolution failed, and as she stood with the handle in her hand she said, "Do you think my aunt will be there?"

"I do not think about it," replied Miss Morton; "but if you delay, your courage will be quite gone. You will not shrink from doing what is right, will you?"

Amy waited no longer, but with a desperate effort ran down the turret stairs and along the passage, and opened the school-room door without giving herself time to remember what she was about to encounter.

The dessert still remained, but Dora and Margaret were standing at the round table in the oriel window, exhibiting their drawings to Lord Rochford, and Mr and Mrs Harrington were talking together apart. Amy's first impulse was to screen herself from sight; but she remembered Miss Morton's words, and resolving to meet the trial, at once walked up to the table.

"Ah!" said Lord Rochford, as he perceived her, "here is my little runaway friend, whom I have been looking for for some minutes. I am sure there must be some drawings of hers to be seen too."

Mrs Harrington turned round. "Get your drawings, Amy," she said in her coldest manner. Amy willingly obeyed, thinking anything preferable to standing still and doing nothing.

"Very pretty, very pretty, indeed!" exclaimed Lord Rochford, looking at them; "artist-like decidedly; very good that is." And he pointed to one which Amy knew was the worst of all, and which only struck his eye because the shadows were darker and the lights brighter than the rest.

"Has Amy been doing anything wrong?" said Mr Harrington, in a low voice to his wife. "She seems so frightened, yet she always strikes me as being very obedient; and those drawings of hers are admirable."

"She would do very well." answered Mrs Harrington, "if she would but be as attentive to her general conduct as she is to her accomplishments."

"Oh! careless, I suppose," said Mr Harrington. "It is not to be wondered at in such a young thing."

"I can never think any age an excuse for an impertinent liberty," was her reply.

"Amy impertinent! it is quite impossible. Come here, my dear, and tell me what you have been doing."

A cloud gathered on Mrs Harrington's brow; but Amy felt reassured by her uncle's kind manner, and answered as audibly as she could, "I rang the bell, uncle."

Mr Harrington laughed heartily, and Mrs Harrington looked still more annoyed.

"This is not the place to talk about it," she said, quickly. "Amy knows very well that I had full reason to be displeased, but of course she is too proud to own it."

"Oh no, indeed I am not!" exclaimed Amy. "I did not know I was wrong, aunt; but I am very sorry for having vexed you."

"There," said Mr Harrington, "you cannot wish for anything more; she is very sorry, and will not do it again. And now, Charlotte, you must be very sorry and forgive."

Amy felt as if she hardly liked to be forgiven, when she did not think she was in fault; but again she recollected what Miss Morton had said,—that she was to be sorry, not for having been guilty of a fault, but for having annoyed her aunt; and she checked the feeling of pride, and listened patiently and humbly, while Mrs Harrington gave her a tolerably long lecture on the impropriety of taking the same liberties at Emmerton that she would at the cottage, and ended by saying that she hoped, as she grew older, she would know her position better. After which, bestowing upon her a cold, unwilling kiss, she promised that she would try and forget what had passed.

Mr Harrington walked away as the lecture began; disliking so much being said before his visitor, who, he saw, observed what was going on.

Lord Rochford's pity had, indeed, been somewhat excited, and he said good-naturedly, as Amy came up to the table again—"Well! I hope it is right now. I suspected you were not in such a hurry for nothing; but 'all's well that ends well,' you know. I hate scrapes, and always did,—never let Lucy get into any, do I, darling?"

Miss Cunningham either did not hear, or did not think it worth while to answer; taking advantage of her father's principle that she was never to get into scrapes, she always treated him in the most unceremonious manner possible.

"I don't think you and Mrs Harrington would quite agree upon that subject," observed Mr Harrington; "her principle is that storms bring peace."

"Not mine, not mine," said Lord Rochford. "There is nothing in the world that I love like peace; so now, Mrs Harrington, we will be of the same mind about your visit to the Park. You shall come next week, and bring all the young ones, my little friend here included."

"You must excuse my deciding immediately," replied Mrs Harrington; "and I have great doubts whether going about and seeing people is at all good for my niece; even being here upsets her mind."

Poor Amy looked very blank, for it had long been one of her chief wishes to see Rochford Park.

"You must not be out of temper about it," said Mrs Harrington, as she remarked her disappointed countenance; "only try and be more attentive, and then you will be sure to be rewarded."

"I shall not let you off, though, so easily," continued Lord Rochford. "I have set my heart upon your coming, and I must have you all; no exception for good temper or bad. Come, Harrington, interpose your authority."

"I will promise to use my influence," answered Mr Harrington; "and with that you must be satisfied."

Lord Rochford declared he was not at all, but that he had no time to argue the matter, for the carriage had been at the door at least a quarter of an hour, so he should consider the thing as settled.

The parting between Margaret and Miss Cunningham was very affectionate; and Amy, as she looked on, wondered how so much love could have been inspired in so short a time, and felt it quite a relief that Dora was contented with a cold shake of the hand, since it allowed her to follow her example without being particular. To have kissed Miss Cunningham would have been almost as disagreeable as to be kissed by her aunt when she was angry.

"That is the most unpleasant girl I ever saw," exclaimed Dora, when she was left alone with Amy, Margaret having followed Miss Cunningham to the carriage. "A proud, conceited, forward thing, who thinks she may give herself any airs she pleases. Now, Amy, don't look grave; I know you can't endure her."

"I don't like her," said Amy.

"Not like her! You hate her, I am sure you do,—you must."

"I hope not," replied Amy, laughing. "I never hated any one yet."

"Then I am sorry for you," said Dora. "No one can be a good lover who is not a good hater. I would rather have any thing than lukewarmness."

"So would I," replied Amy. "I hope I am not lukewarm; and I am sure I can love some people very dearly,—yes, more than I could ever tell," she added, as she thought of her mamma. "But I don't know whether I could hate; I never met with any one yet to try upon."

"You can't have a better subject than that odious Miss Cunningham. I could not think of her sandy hair, and her ugly unmeaning eyes, for two minutes, without feeling that I hated her."

"Please don't say so, Dora," said Amy, earnestly, "it makes me so sorry."

"Does it? I don't see why you should care what I say; it can make no difference to you."

"Oh yes, but indeed it does, for I think it is not right. I don't mean to vex you," continued Amy, seeing the expression of her cousin's countenance change. "I know you are older than I am, and perhaps I ought not to say it, only I could not help being sorry."

"I am not vexed," said Dora; "but it cannot signify to you whether I am right or wrong. It would be different if it were yourself."

"If it were myself," replied Amy, "I could be sorry for myself, and try not to do wrong any more; but I cannot make you sorry, and so it seems almost worse."

"Make me sorry!" exclaimed Dora, in a tone of surprise. "Of course you can't; but why should you wish it?"

"I always wish every one to be sorry when they do wrong, because, you know, no one is forgiven till they are."

"But supposing they don't think it wrong, you would not have them be sorry then, would you? I see no harm in hating Miss Cunningham."

"It may be wrong," replied Amy, "though you don't think so,"

"Who is to judge?" asked Dora.

Amy was silent for a moment, and then said. "Would you let me show you a verse in the Bible, Dora, about it? Mamma made me read it one day when I said I hated some one, though I know I did not really do it, and I have never forgotten it."

"Well, let me see it," said Dora, almost sulkily. Amy took a Bible from the book-case, and pointed to the fifteenth verse of the third chapter of St John's first epistle:—"Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him." "Oh!" exclaimed Dora, when she had read it, "that is so shocking. Of course, when I talk about hating, I don't mean such hatred as that."

"So I said," replied Amy; "and then mamma told me that if I did not mean it, I ought not to say it; and that the very fact of my using such expressions showed that I had a great dislike, which I ought not to indulge; and then she made me read a great many more verses in this epistle, about its being our duty to love people. But, Dora, I don't mean to teach you anything, for I am sure you must know it all a great deal better than I do; only I wanted to tell you what mamma said to me."

Amy would probably have been very much surprised if she had known the feelings which passed through her cousin's mind as she spoke. It had never entered her head that she could give advice or instruction; and yet, perhaps, no words from an older person could have had half the effect of hers. Dora, however, was not in the habit of showing what she felt, and Amy was too simple to guess it, even when the exclamation escaped her, "I would give all I am worth to have lived with Aunt Herbert and you all my life, Amy."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy, "you cannot be serious. Think of this house, and the beautiful grounds, and Wayland too, where you used to be so happy; you never would bear to live in a cottage."

"I think sometimes it makes no difference where people live," answered Dora. "I don't think I am at all happier for papa's having a fine house."

Amy thought of what Susan Reynolds had said, "that eating, and drinking, and fine clothes, did not make people happy;" and it seemed strange that two persons so differently situated should have thought so much alike; but she had not time to talk any longer to Dora, for the evening was closing in, and she was obliged to return home, and, as she thought, without any attendant except the man servant who usually took charge of her. But just as she was settling herself upon her donkey, Bridget appeared at the hall door with a request that Miss Herbert would be so very kind as to wait one moment longer, for Stephen had been in just before, to know if any of the ladies were going back with her, for he wished very much to walk a little way if he might be allowed. "He is only gone up to the stable, Miss," added Bridget, "if it is not too much trouble for you to stop. I can't think what made him go away."

"Never mind," said Amy, "it is never any trouble to wait for Stephen; but it will not be long now—that must be he coming down the chestnut walk."

Stephen's hobbling pace was exchanged for a species of trot, as he perceived Amy already mounted; and he came up to her with a thousand apologies for the delay. "But you know, Miss Amy, 'tis not very often I can see you now, so I thought I would make bold for once. And please to tell me now how your mamma is, for she doesn't come here as she used; and the folks in the village say she's getting as white as a sheet."

"I don't think mamma is as well or as strong as she used to be, Stephen," replied Amy; "but she does not complain much, only she soon gets tired."

"Oh!" said Stephen, shaking his head, "India, India,—'tis all India, Miss Amy. Why English people shouldn't be contented to stay on English ground is more than I can guess. A nice, comfortable cottage in a good pasture country, such as this, with a few ups and downs in it to make a variety, is all I should ever wish to have. I want nothing that's to be got from foreign parts; for it's always been my maxim that one penny in England is worth twenty out of it."

"But," replied Amy, "some people are obliged to go, Stephen. I am sure papa would not have done it if he could have helped it."

"Help or no help, 'tis what I can't understand," said Stephen. "Not that I mean any disrespect to the colonel, Miss Amy, but it grieves me to hear the people talk about your poor mamma's pale face."

"I don't think she looks so very pale," said Amy, feeling uncomfortable, and yet hardly owning it to herself.

"The dwellers in the same house are not those to see the change," replied the old man; "but I don't mean to be vexing your young heart before its time. Sorrow comes soon enough to all; and," he added, reverently, "He who sends it will send His strength with it."

"That is what mamma says," answered Amy. "She is always begging me not to look forward; but I do long to do it very often; and she would be so happy if she could be sure when papa would come back."

"Look, Miss Amy," said Stephen, gathering a daisy from the grass, "do you see that? Now, you might try, and so might I, and so might all the great folks that ever lived,—we might all try all our lives, and we never could make such a thing as that; and yet, you know, 'tis but a tiny flower that nobody thinks about; and sometimes, when I get wishing that things were different, I take up a daisy and look at it, till it seems most wonderful how it should be made, and how it should live; and then it comes into my head how many millions there are like it, and how many plants, and trees, and insects, and animals, and living souls too, and that God made them all,—all that are here, and all that are up above (for I suppose there is no harm in thinking that there may be such); and so at last, do you see, I don't only know, but I can feel, that He is wise; and my heart gets quite light again, for I am sure that He knows what is best; and as He has not told us what is to come, 'tis but folly to wish about it."

"Well! Stephen," said Amy, "I really will try; but it is very hard sometimes."

"Ah! yes," replied Stephen, "we all have something hard, Miss Amy; young or old, there is always something. 'Twas hard for me when the master went away and left the old house to itself, as you may say; and there are some things that are hard now."

"What things?" asked Amy, as she almost stopped her donkey, and looked eagerly into the old steward's face. "I thought you never would be unhappy again when uncle Harrington came back."

"'Tis he, and 'tisn't he, that's come," replied Stephen. "There's a change; but 'twas the foolishness of an old man's heart to think that it wouldn't be so."

"But what is changed?" said Amy,

"Everything!" exclaimed Stephen; "the master, and madam, and the young ladies, and all; only Mrs Bridget isn't a bit different."

"Oh, but Stephen, you know my cousins were so young when they went away—of course they are altered."

"To be sure, Miss Amy, I wasn't so foolish as not to expect that; but I did hope that the young ladies wouldn't be above coming to see one, and talking a bit; and that the young gentleman (God bless him and keep him, for he's the only one) would have been here, and that, perhaps, they would have wanted a little teaching about the ponies. I had two of the little Welsh ones brought in from the hills on purpose, and took a pleasure in training them, but no one comes near me to look at them."

"If you would only mention it," said Amy, "I am sure my cousins would be delighted."

"No," replied Stephen, "it's not in my way to put myself forward so, for those who don't care to ask after me. If they had come down to the cottage, and said a word to me or little Nelly, and then noticed that the ponies were about there (for I keep them in the field), 'twould have been all very well, and natural like; but I shall say nothing about it now; only if master should inquire after any, he can have them. And master Frank, too—'twill never be like the old times till there is a young gentleman about the place."

"Frank is expected at Christmas," said Amy; "he went to stay with his uncle, Sir Henry Charlton, after poor Edward died, because it was a change for him; and he was so wretched; and since then he has been at school."

"I'm growing old, Miss Amy," answered Stephen, "and Christmas is a long time to look forward to. I don't mean to complain, only 'twould have been a comfort to have seen him here with the rest, and perhaps have kept me from thinking so much about him that's gone: but it's all right; and," he added, more earnestly, as he brushed his hand hastily across his eyes, "I would not have him back again,—no, not if I could see him a king upon his throne."

"And does no one ever go to visit you, Stephen?" asked Amy, rather sadly.

"Yes," he replied, "the young lady, Miss Morton, comes very often; and though she is not one of the family, yet it does one good to see her, and talk to her; and then, too, she brings the little one with her; and sure enough she's the sweetest little cherub that ever was born."

"What, Rose?" said Amy. "Is she not a darling little thing?"

"I never saw but one before that I thought I could like better," said Stephen, laying his hard sun-burnt hand on Amy's tiny fingers; "and that one, I hope, God will bless, and keep for many a long day. But I must not go on farther, for you don't get on so fast when I am walking with you."

Amy pressed the old man's hand affectionately, begging him to come on only a little way, for she hardly ever saw him now.

But Stephen was firm. He had gone to his usual point, a splendid oak, commonly called the Baron's tree, from a tradition that it had been planted when Emmerton was built; and it seemed almost as if a charm would be broken if he went further. Amy stopped, and watched him till he was out of sight, and then pursued her ride through the forest with a sadder heart than she had begun it.

"You are late to-night, my love," said Mrs Herbert, as her little girl dismounted from her donkey; "you forget that the days are beginning to close in; and what makes you look so unhappy?"

"Oh! not much, mamma; only please don't stand here in the cold."

"You are so very suddenly careful of me," replied Mrs Herbert, smiling; "is this the last thing you learned at the Hall?"

"No," answered Amy; "only Stephen says you look pale, and all the village people say so too; but I don't think you are so now."

"I am much better to-night, my dear child," said Mrs Herbert. "You must not listen to what every one says, and get frightened without reason."

Amy's spirits were revived in a moment, and she ran gaily into the cottage, and in a very short time was seated by the fireside with her mamma, recounting the incidents of the day; Miss Cunningham, and her behaviour, her aunt's anger, and her own conversations with Dora and old Stephen, furnishing quite sufficient materials for a long story. "There were one or two things that my aunt told me, which I could not quite understand," she said, after having repeated a great portion of the lecture she had received. "What did she mean, mamma, by my knowing my position, and speaking of me as if I were not one of the family? I am her niece."

"Yes," replied Mrs Herbert; "but people think differently about their families. Some persons consider that every one who is any relation at all forms one of the family, and others only call those so who are their own children."

"But my position," repeated Amy; "why is my position different from my cousins? You are a lady, and papa is a gentleman."

"Compare this cottage with Emmerton," replied Mrs Herbert, "and then you will see the difference, and why people in general would think more of your cousins than of you."

A sudden pang shot through Amy's heart. "Dear mamma!" she exclaimed, "I wish you would not say so."

"Why not, my dear? why must not that be said which is true?"

"It makes me uncomfortable," said Amy, "and wicked too, I am afraid. If papa were to come home, should we be able to live in a larger house?"

"I do not know," answered her mother; "but if we could, I do not think we should wish it."

"Ah! mamma, that is because you are so much better than I am. I never used to think so till I saw my cousins at Emmerton; but I should like very much to live in a place like that."

Mrs Herbert looked grave, yet she felt thankful that her child spoke openly of her feelings, as it enabled her so much better to guide them.

"It is not only the house that I should enjoy," continued Amy, "but I think people would love me better. Margaret did not seem to think anything of me when Miss Cunningham was by; and when Lord Rochford and my uncle came in, I thought every one had more business there than I had. It was very kind in him to look at my drawings, but still I felt nobody by the side of Dora and Margaret."

The conversation was here stopped by the entrance of Mr Walton, who often came in at this time of the evening, on his return from his visits in the parish. Amy was only half pleased to see him, for she would willingly have talked much longer to her mamma alone; but her mind was partly relieved by the confession she had made of her foolish wishes; and Mrs Herbert's countenance brightened so much at the sight of him, that she was soon reconciled to the interruption.

Mr Walton brought as usual several tales of distress and difficulty, which Mrs Herbert, notwithstanding her limited income, was always the first to relieve; and Amy, as she listened to the account of a widow with six children, unable to pay her rent, a father on his sick bed, totally unable to provide for his family, and other cases of a similar kind, and then looked round upon the comfortable room in which she was silting, with its bright curtains and carpet, its easy sofas and chairs, and the preparations for tea upon the table, felt grieved and ashamed that she should have allowed a pang of envy to render her for a single moment insensible to her many blessings; and perhaps Mr Walton's parish tales produced a greater effect than even her mother's words could have done, for she went to bed that night far more contented than she had been on her return from the Hall.

CHAPTER X.

Nothing more was said about the proposed visit to Rochford Park on Amy's two following visits to Emmerton; and though her anxiety was great to know if she were to be included in the party, she only ventured once to ask Margaret two or three questions, and then received a short, abrupt answer, that nothing was settled, and that it could not be any concern of hers. The fact was, that Margaret disliked the notice which Lord Rochford had taken of Amy, on the day he had spent at Emmerton; for she had resolved in her own mind that she would be Miss Cunningham's friend and companion, and her fears of a rival were considerably excited. Of this, however, there was no occasion to be afraid. Amy felt not the smallest inclination to be intimate with her new acquaintance; and her only wish for being of the party was, that she might see Rochford Park, which had always been described to her as one of the finest places in England. Mrs Harrington did not appear at all likely to give her any information, for whenever they met, which was but seldom, she only said a few words more hastily and sharply than she had done before, in order to show that she had not quite forgotten Amy's offence; and it was not till the evening previous to the day which was at last fixed for going, that any hope was given her of accompanying them.

"Take this note to your mamma," said Mrs Harrington, coming to the hall-door just as Amy was about to set off; "and if she should say yes to what I have asked, the carriage shall call for you at eleven; if not, you had better come here by yourself, as usual; and you shall go with us to Lord Rochford's; and we will take you home at night, though it will be considerably out of our way."

Amy's gratitude even was subdued in her aunt's presence; but she did manage to say something about being delighted; and then, carefully depositing the precious note in the pocket of her saddle, she made her donkey move at its quickest pace down the road.

Mrs Harrington turned away with the consciousness of having done a disagreeable thing in a disagreeable manner. She had fully determined upon not taking Amy, it would only crowd the carriage; and she did not wish it to be considered a necessary thing, that where her daughters went, her niece should go too; but a note, which she had that morning received from Lord Rochford, expressly mentioning Amy, and adding a hope that Mrs Herbert would be prevailed on to comply with Lady Rochford's wishes, and join the party, left her no choice; and it was happy for Amy that she did not know how very little her aunt desired her presence.

Mrs Harrington's note enclosed Lady Rochford's invitation, which Mrs Herbert decided at once it would be better not to accept for herself; but she did not object to Amy's going, though she feared that if Emmerton in its quietness, and almost solemnity, excited her longings after riches and grandeur, Rochford Park would probably have a still greater effect. Yet, even if this were the case, she trusted that she should be able to check the feeling; and she knew that the same temptations were nearly certain to arise in after-years, when she would not be at hand to put Amy on her guard against them.

Amy's delight was unmeasured. Her aunt's harsh looks, and Miss Cunningham's disagreeable manners, were quite forgotten in the pleasure she anticipated in going to a new place; and long before her usual hour of rising she had been to the window several times to see if the weather promised to be fine. The calm, gray mist of the morning was hardly what she would have desired; but there was a joyousness in her own spirit which made almost everything appear bright, and when at length the sun broke slowly through its veil of clouds, shedding a clear line of light over the distant hills, and then bursting forth in full radiance over the richly-wooded country, and the cheerful village, Amy's heart bounded within her, and again, as she recollected her feelings of envy on her return from Emmerton, she sighed to think that she should have been so ungrateful as to wish for anything beyond the enjoyments which God had given her.

Punctuality was one of the virtues which Mrs Harrington strictly enforced; and Amy almost trembled when she heard the clock strike eleven as she rode up to the lodge. She knew also, that on this point her mamma and aunt entirely agreed; and she had received many injunctions on no account to delay on the road, and so be the means of keeping the carriage waiting—and to have vexed her mother would have been even worse than to have excited Mrs Harrington's anger. Happily, however, there were some last orders to be given, which caused a delay of about five minutes, and Amy had time to dismount, and join her cousins in the schoolroom, before her aunt appeared.

She seemed more inclined to be kind than before; and Amy felt so much reassured by her change of manner, that, although placed in the middle of the back seat, between Dora and Margaret, and having Mrs Harrington's face nearly opposite, she contrived to be extremely happy. It was only necessary to be quite still and silent, to avoid giving offence; and this to her was no punishment.

From being so much alone, she had learned the secret of amusing herself with her own thoughts, and found them far more agreeable than the effort of talking in a constrained way to her cousins. Dora and Margaret willingly followed her example; the former from being rather in a sulky mood, and the latter from finding her attempts at conversation useless. The drive was consequently a quiet, but not a dull one; and the distance appeared very short to Amy, though Dora had yawned at least four times, and at last muttered that she could never think Miss Cunningham was worth coming so far to see.

"I cannot say I want very much to see her either," replied Amy; "only the place,—I would give anything to see that."

"Then look," said Dora, pointing to a long white building on the nearest hill, "there it is, just to your right."

Amy looked eagerly, and fancied she saw something very grand, though only the general outline could be discovered; but as she came nearer, still keeping her eyes fixed upon it, she was quite satisfied that it must be what it had been described—the most splendid nobleman's seat in the county. "Oh!" she exclaimed, jumping up in the carriage; "it is, yes, it really is more beautiful than Emmerton."

"Sit still, pray," said Dora; "you nearly trod upon my foot."

Amy reseated herself, and felt rebuked; but the next moment, as she caught the full front of the house through an opening in the trees, she forgot everything but her admiration, and again began expatiating upon its beauty.

"Look, Dora! is it not lovely? it is so large, so much larger than Emmerton, and then those beautiful pillars, and the broad steps with the figures in front; it is just like a palace."

"A palace!" replied Dora; "what nonsense you talk, only because you have never seen anything else like it. It is a very good gentleman's house; but there are hundreds in England just as fine."

"I beg your pardon," said Mr Harrington; "there are very few places which can in any degree compare with it."

"Wayland was nearly as large, papa," answered Dora, more gently than usual; for her father's mildness had a much greater effect upon her than her mother's sharpness.

Mr Harrington smiled. "Your affection for Wayland," he said, "causes you to magnify it in a strange manner. I suppose it is scarcely more than half the size."

Amy felt rather triumphant, and a little inclined to show it, but she checked herself; and as they had now reached the park gate, a fresh interest was excited in her mind, and she had no inclination to continue the discussion.

If the exterior of the house had appeared imposing at a distance, it lost none of its effect upon a nearer approach; and when, after driving a considerable way through the park, the carriage at length stopped at the side front, Amy's expectations were raised to the highest pitch, though something of fear mingled with her pleasure as she thought of the strangers she should probably see, and wondered whether she knew exactly how it would be proper to behave.

Lord Rochford met them at the door, and expressed great pleasure at their arrival; but Amy felt a little disappointed that he did not say anything in particular to her, as her mamma had told her that he had sent her a special invitation; but Lord Rochford was at that moment too much occupied in doing the honours of his house to Mr and Mrs Harrington, and too anxious to point out the improvements he had made, and hear them pronounced perfect, to think of her.

Poor Amy felt lost and bewildered as they entered the splendid hall, with its painted ceiling, and pillars of Italian marble, and then passed on through long suites of rooms furnished in the most sumptuous manner, some hung with delicate silk, and glittering with gilded cornices and costly ornaments, and others crowded with rare pictures and richly-bound books, while sofas, ottomans, cabinets, and tables of the most exquisite workmanship gave an air of comfort to what would otherwise have appeared only desolate grandeur. It seemed to her like fairyland. Emmerton, and its deep windows, and handsome but sombre furniture, at once sank into insignificance; and she no longer wondered that Miss Cunningham had been little inclined to admire anything there, when she could compare with it the gorgeousness of her own home.

It seemed strange, too, that her uncle and aunt could see it all without apparently noticing it. They walked quickly on, as if only wishing that there were fewer rooms to go through; Dora followed, looking round certainly, but not giving any symptoms of admiration; and Amy found that her feelings were shared by no one excepting Margaret, who, however, was more engaged in spying out what she called "odd things," and peeping into the books which lay on the table, than in anything else.

"I think I must leave you young ones here," said Lord Rochford, opening a door which led into a small hall with French windows fronting the pleasure-ground. "These are Lucy's own rooms; and she and madame will take great care of you, while Mrs Harrington pays a visit to Lady Rochford. I am afraid she is not well enough this morning to receive you all."

Amy wondered for an instant who madame could be; but she was not left long in doubt: for immediately behind Miss Cunningham, who came forward to receive them, appeared her French governess, a tall, thin, inelegant-looking person, with a good-natured, merry face, a dress made in the newest Parisian fashion, and a cap which seemed formed rather for the purpose of receiving a certain quantity of ribbon and artificial flowers, than as any covering to the black wig which it only half concealed. Amy felt very much amused, and would perhaps have smiled, had she not remembered that there was something unfeeling, independent of its being unladylike, in turning a foreigner into ridicule; but Margaret's merriment was almost audible, as madame placed chairs for them, hoped in broken English they were not fatigued with their drive, and then, with a swimming French curtsey, vanished from the room.

"That is your governess, is it?" said Dora, almost before the door was closed, in a tone which plainly spoke her opinion of her.

"Yes," replied Miss Cunningham, "she is the most good-natured creature in the world; and I am so fond of her. She speaks French beautifully."

"Not a first-rate qualification for a native," said Dora.

"Oh! but she paints flowers, too, and sings."

"Sings!" repeated Margaret; "but she is so old."

"Indeed! no, she is not. She sings and plays the guitar; and she is teaching me—papa has just bought me a new one." And Miss Cunningham took up a richly-inlaid instrument, with a long blue ribbon attached to it, and began striking some false notes which she called chords.

"I don't like the guitar," said Dora, "unless it is played beautifully."

"Oh! but madame is quite a superior performer; and she says I have made a wonderful proficiency, considering the few lessons I have had. She practises a great deal, not in this room, for I can't bear the twang, but in the next, which is her own. This is my study, and the little one within I call my boudoir." Here Miss Cunningham looked round, apparently expecting some flattering observation to be made; and of course all eyes were immediately directed to the room and its furniture. Dora's gaze was the most fixed and earnest, and when it was ended, she played with her parasol, and was silent; but Margaret declared that everything she saw was delightful—the chintz furniture such an extremely pretty pattern, the tables so well placed, the piano so very handsome, and the view from the window so lovely—that Amy found there was nothing left for her to say; and feeling a great dislike to merely echoing Margaret's words, she contented herself with expressing what she really thought—"that it looked very pretty and comfortable"—and then amused herself with Margaret's panegyrics. Miss Cunningham probably would have talked long without weariness on this favourite topic; but Dora's patience was soon exhausted; and she at last interrupted a question of Margaret's, which she foresaw would lead to one of Miss Cunningham's long dissertations upon herself and the splendour of her family mansion, by asking whether they were to go out before dinner.

"We dine at four, altogether," replied Miss Cunningham; "so we had better, I suppose." And then, turning to Margaret, she began, as Dora had feared, not merely an answer, but a history. There was no resource but to sit still and endure it; and when at length it ended, to Dora's great relief, Miss Cunningham prepared to show them through the grounds.

Amy soon found that the uncomfortable feelings she had experienced at Emmerton were beginning to return. She almost envied Dora her proud indifference; for though Miss Cunningham took little notice of her, it was quite evident that she did not wish for attention; but Amy could not be happy as one of the party, when no one spoke to her, or even appeared to recollect that she was present. The grounds were very extensive, and something lovely opened at every turn; but she felt neglected, and not all the costly flowers and shrubs in the garden, or the beautiful birds in the aviary, nor even the bright sunshine itself, could make her forget that she was with persons who did not think it worth while to interest themselves about her.

Perhaps the very charm of the place only increased her uneasiness. It was so rich and brilliant, that it seemed more than to realise all she could possibly desire; but there was no hope that her father would ever possess anything like it—it was to be looked upon, but not to be enjoyed; and as she remembered the tale of Aladdin's lamp, she longed that it could be hers but for one moment, that she might raise a palace, not for herself but her mamma, which should be in every respect like Rochford Park. These dreams so absorbed Amy's mind that she paid but little attention to what passed between Margaret and Miss Cunningham; for they were the only two who conversed, Dora being too grand to make any remarks beyond what were absolutely necessary. At length, however, she was struck by Miss Cunningham's exclaiming, in rather a more energetic tone than usual, "Pray, has your mamma mentioned anything to you about the new plan?"

"Plan," repeated Margaret. "No. What do you mean?"

"Oh! the plan about our going to London."

"We can have nothing to do with that," said Margaret.

"Yes, you have; it is your plan as well as ours."

"But what do you mean," continued Margaret; "I never heard a word about it before."

"Why, you know," said Miss Cunningham, "that papa and my brother generally go to town in the spring, and leave mamma, and me, and madame, here, because there is some fancy about its suiting mamma better; and dreadfully dull it is. But now I am growing so old, they think it quite right that I should have some one better to teach me than poor madame; and mamma has promised to let me go to London after Easter, and one of my aunts is to be with me, and I am to see everything, and have lessons in everything."

"But that is no concern of ours," said Margaret; "and Easter is so far off."

"It does concern you, though," replied Miss Cunningham, "for papa has got it into his head that I shall learn much better if I can get some other girls to have lessons with me. He says it will be much more amusing, and I shall like it better; and so be has been trying to persuade your mamma to let you go up too, and then the same masters will do for all."

"Then that is what Lord Rochford meant the other day," said Amy, "when he talked about a plan, and begged aunt Harrington to mention it to mamma."

"Did he wish you to go too?" asked Miss Cunningham.

The words of this question were very simple; but the tone of it showed plainly that the idea was not agreeable; and Amy felt quite abashed, and answered hurriedly, that she did not know what was wished, for that no more had been said upon the subject.

"Won't it be delightful?" said Miss Cunningham to Margaret; "We shall be together so much, and shall go to the theatre; and, perhaps there will be some parties for girls of our age; you know there are such things."

"It would be all very nice if there were any chance of it," replied
Margaret.

"And why should there not be?" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, who had never dreamt of any obstacle to a wish of her father's.

"Because," said Margaret, "mamma will not allow it."

"And why not? what objection can she have?"

"She will not let us go while Emily Morton is with us," said Margaret, "because she does not think it necessary. Before she came, I often used to hear her talk of taking us to London for masters, but now she never mentions it; and it was only yesterday I heard her say that we had greater advantages at present than we possibly could have by any other means."

"Oh! but that is all nonsense," said Miss Cunningham, "Just let papa talk to her for ten minutes, and she will soon come round."

"You don't know mamma," replied Dora, who, being very firm and decided herself, particularly admired decision in others. "If she does not approve of the plan, all the world might talk to her, and it would have no effect."

"But why does Miss Morton stay with you?" asked Miss Cunningham. "Are you very fond of her?"

"Fond of her!" exclaimed Margaret. "No, indeed; it would rejoice my heart to see her fairly out of the house."

"It would not mine," said Amy, whose spirit was roused at hearing a person she loved so mentioned.

A moment before Dora would have taken Miss Morton's part, but she could not bear Amy to interfere as if it were her business; and, in an irritated voice, she asked, what it could possibly signify whether she liked Miss Morton or not.

"Nothing," replied Amy, gently; "only I am very fond of her?"

"Then I wish you would keep her," said Margaret. "I shall dislike her more than ever, now; for I shall always think she is preventing us from going to London."

"But why don't you persuade your mamma to get rid of her?" exclaimed Miss Cunningham. "Madame would not stay an hour in the house if I did not like her."

"Ah, but it is very different with us," replied Margaret. "Mamma will have her own way about it; she knows very well that we dislike Emily, and she is always finding fault with her, herself; but when it came to the point I am certain she would say no. And then, too, both papa and mamma hate London, and would be very glad of an excuse for not going."

"But do you really think," asked Miss Cunningham, "that if it were not for Miss Morton they would be obliged to do it?"

"Yes; at least they always said so before Emily came."

"Well! if you are quite sure of that, I can see no reason why we should not try and manage the matter between us."

"Hush!" exclaimed Margaret, who observed that Amy seemed quite aghast at the cool way in which this was said; "there is no use in speaking about it now. Is that your dinner-bell?"

"Yes; but there is no hurry; do promise to talk to your mamma. I am sure papa will do all he can—we should be so happy together in London."

"Without Emily Morton," said Margaret; "it would drive me wild to feel she was always tacked on to me."

"Oh Margaret! how unkind you are!" exclaimed Amy. "You know Miss Morton is always trying to please every one, and she never gets out of temper."

"Miss Morton pets you till she makes you as disagreeable as she is herself," said Margaret, angrily.

Amy for an instant was strongly inclined to retort; but she did not give way to the feeling, and, preferring to walk behind with Dora, did not speak again till they reached the house. Margaret and Miss Cunningham immediately began a low, and apparently a very interesting conversation; for it was continued at intervals even when they were dressing for dinner, though, whenever Dora or Amy approached them, they broke off abruptly, looking very mysterious, as if the fate of the world depended on no person's knowing what they were talking of. But Amy thought little about them, being entirely engrossed with the dread of dining for the first time at what appeared to her a regular party. The feeling had been lurking in her mind during the whole day, but the novelty of all she had seen had distracted her attention. Now, however, the awful moment was drawing near; and even her desire to see everything, and her admiration of the house and furniture, could not prevent her from wishing that she could transport herself back to the cottage just till dinner was over. She felt also quite overpowered by Miss Cunningham's dress, and the profusion of brooches and chains, with which she adorned herself, turning them over one by one, with an air of the utmost indifference; and then, finding that her visitors did not make any observation, calling to them to ask their opinion as to which suited her best. Dora took care to object to almost all, or to compare them with something more splendid belonging to other people; but Amy, who had never yet seen such beautiful things worn by a person so young, expressed her admiration very openly; and then, as she caught sight of her plain silk frock in the large looking-glass, wondered whether Lady Rochford would think it very strange that she was not dressed equally well.

"May I sit by you, Dora?" she whispered, as they went down-stairs.

"I can't tell," replied Dora; "it will depend upon how we go in to dinner."

"But what shall I do?" asked Amy. "Do you think any one will speak to me?" Dora laughed; but when she looked at her cousin, she saw that her eyes were almost filled with tears. "I am so frightened," continued Amy, "I know I shall do something very wrong, and then every one will stare at me. If I might only stay in the drawing-room——"

"Every one would stare at you a great deal more then," replied Dora; "besides, there is no party; there will be only Lord and Lady Rochford, and Mr Cunningham and ourselves."

"Mr Cunningham!" said Amy. "Is he very old?"

"Oh yes, quite grown up," replied Dora. "But you need not trouble yourself about him, for I daresay he will not speak to you; and, if he does, you won't understand him."

Amy recollected having heard Dora mention Mr Cunningham's peculiar voice before; and she was on the point of asking her to explain what was the matter with it, but they were standing at the drawing-room door, and there was no time.

Lady Rochford was seated on the sofa, talking to Mrs Harrington; and Amy was instantly struck with the likeness between her and her daughter. There was the same sandy hair, the same dull eye, the same fair complexion, the only difference being in the greater softness of expression, and the lines which continual illness and additional years had worn in her face. Her dress, too, was very youthful; and it was difficult for a stranger to believe that she could possibly be the mother of the tall, gentlemanly young man, who stood by her side, apparently intent upon examining the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Lady Rochford's manner, however, had none of Miss Cunningham's scornfulness; her temper was very sweet, and it was her wish to make everyone about her happy; and if she did sometimes fail, it was more from over attention, and insisting upon their enjoying themselves in her way rather than in their own, than from any other cause. Amy felt relieved by the kindness with which she spoke to her, and almost happy when she had contrived to hide herself behind Dora, and could look at what was going on without being observed; and dinner being announced almost immediately, she kept close by her side, hoping that, after all, she might not find it as terrible as she had expected. But her hope was soon crushed. There was a slight confusion as they went into the dining-room; no one seemed to know exactly where to place themselves; and Amy was obliged to leave Dora, and take the vacant seat between her aunt Harrington and Mr Cunningham.

"George, you will take care of your little neighbour," said Lord
Rochford; "do find out what she would like to have."

The silent Mr Cunningham turned to Amy, and spoke; but whether his words were English, French, or German, it would have been impossible for her in her fright to have told. By persons who were well acquainted with him, he was very easily understood; but, in consequence of a defect in the formation of his mouth, his articulation was so indistinct, as to be almost unintelligible to strangers; and Amy looked at him, with mingled fear and surprise. Again he endeavoured to render his meaning clear; but not a word could Amy comprehend, though, guessing what he would say, she faltered, "Chicken, if you please," and then looked at her aunt, and blushed painfully, from the idea that she had done exactly the very thing she ought not. Mr Cunningham apparently was very desirous of seeing her comfortable; for, during dinner, he made a point of offering her everything on the table which he thought she might like; and each time he opened his lips Amy's distress revived. But the climax of misery was, when, after the dessert being placed on the table, he seemed inclined to enter into conversation with her. Happily she caught the words, "live at Emmerton," in his first sentence, and contrived to answer it correctly; but as he went on, the confusion of sound increased, and, perfectly bewildered between endeavouring to make out the meaning of the last question and the dread of hearing a new one, she continued to repeat "Yes" and "No," at regular intervals, resolving in her own mind that it would be better to live at the cottage all her life, even if it were twice as small, and she were never to see any one, than be condemned to the penance of talking to Mr Cunningham.

Her cousins, from the opposite side of the table, watched her with considerable amusement, though, after a short time, Dora's compassion was much excited, and once or twice she attempted to help her, by partly repeating the question when she understood it better than Amy; but this only served to increase Mr Cunningham's desire to make himself intelligible, and the eagerness with which he went over the ground again, rendered the sounds only the more perplexing, so that Dora was obliged to resign Amy to her fate, and wait with patience till Lady Rochford should move.

The looked-for moment did at last arrive, and Amy's spirits rose like those of a prisoner released from captivity; for nearly at the last moment, having answered "Yes," when she ought to have said "No," she found a large bunch of grapes placed upon her plate, and, not liking to confess she had misunderstood, and still less liking to eat them, she was obliged to leave them, and went out, wondering whether Mr Cunningham would remark it, and, if he did, what he would think of her.

The evening was but short, and to Amy it was rather stupid. Margaret and Miss Cunningham left the room together soon after dinner, and only appeared again when they were summoned to tea. Lady Rochford talked a good deal to Dora, and asked her to play and sing; but she said very little to Amy, except that observing her interested in a book of prints, which Miss Cunningham had brought before dinner for Margaret to see, she declared that it must be much more agreeable to her to look at a cabinet of minerals; and, taking the book away, Amy was obliged, for the next half hour, to turn over a number of drawers filled with odd-shaped stones, and pieces of iron and copper, about which she knew nothing, and cared less.

There was some pleasure, notwithstanding, for there was no necessity to admire them, and she could stand with them in her hand, and amuse herself with the other things in the room, since no one took any notice of her; but the marked difference between herself and her cousins, had never been so observable before. Even the servants overlooked her, and forgot to offer her any coffee; and her wishes of the morning returned with redoubled vigour. Not that she would have been Miss Cunningham, for her own mother was a treasure beyond all price; she would only willingly have given her an equal share of the world's riches and grandeur. Mr Cunningham did not come into the drawing-room till tea was nearly over; but Lord Rochford and Mr Harrington soon joined them, and the former immediately began urging upon Mrs Harrington the importance of acceding to the plan he had mentioned at Emmerton.

Amy saw that her aunt was annoyed by the subject being named so openly, for she remarked immediately that it was time for them to prepare for returning; and though Dora and Margaret lingered as long as they could to hear what was said, she preserved perfect silence until they were gone.

"Mamma will say no," exclaimed Margaret; "I could see it by the way she bit her lip."

"And papa will make her say yes," replied Miss Cunningham. "He never gives up anything he has set his heart on."

"Then there is one good thing," said Dora; "they will have a subject of interest to discuss for the remainder of their lives. You might just as easily move this wall as mamma."

"I shall never rest till it is settled," continued Miss Cunningham; "fancy the delight of being in London, and driving about in the parks, and seeing all the shops, and buying whatever one likes. I shall give all my old dresses to my maid; for I am determined to have quite a new set of my own choosing."

"It would be very nice," said Margaret, with a sigh of hopeless regret; "and to think that that pale-faced, black-haired Emily Morton should be the only thing to stand in the way."

"Ah!" said Miss Cunningham, significantly, "we will see about that," and some more whispering went on between her and Margaret.

Amy did not remark this conversation; but she said in a low voice to
Dora, "Does Mr Cunningham go to town with them always?"

"Yes," answered Dora, laughing; "and you must go to town too, to learn his language. French, Italian, German, and double-Dutch,—what an accomplished person you will be!"

"I don't mean to be unkind to him," said Amy; "but it would take off a great deal of my pleasure."

"Oh no, it would not; it is only because you are not accustomed to him—every one in the house understands him."

"Do they? but then they are older. Oh Dora! you cannot think how frightened I was. I was so afraid he would think me rude and unfeeling."

"I should have been afraid of laughing," said Dora; "I never heard such an extraordinary voice in my life."

"Perhaps I might have laughed if he had not been so kind; and then it vexes mamma so, if I ever ridicule a person's misfortunes; she says that we never can tell when the same things may be sent to ourselves."

Dora was thoughtful for a minute; at length she said, "You are so grave about things, Amy; it is not human nature not to laugh at such oddities."

"But," replied Amy, "mamma says we have two natures, a good one and a bad one, and that human nature is the bad one."

"Two natures!" exclaimed Dora, "what can you mean?"

"I wish you would ask mamma some day," answered Amy; "she would tell you so much better than I can."

"She would find it so much trouble," said Dora, sadly; "I have not been taught like you." And she turned hastily away, and, scolding Margaret for being so slow in getting ready, declared it would not do to wait any longer, and ran down-stairs.

It was a happy thing for Amy that her dread of Mr Cunningham prevented her from indulging to its full extent the wish of accompanying her cousins to London, if Mr Harrington should consent to their going; but the incidents of the day had been quite sufficient to excite her imagination to the utmost. The magnificence of Rochford Park had realised many of her gayest dreams; and while her uncle and aunt, and her cousins, giving way to the weariness consequent on a long day, composed themselves to sleep, she felt quite at liberty to build a castle in the air, which should have all the splendour of the princely mansion they had left, without the drawback of its inhabitants. In a few moments she was living at a park, with her father returned from India, her mother in perfect health and happiness, and her cousins and Emily Morton on a visit to them. The house was filled with company; there were pleasant drives and rides, a pony for herself and a pony-chaise for her mamma, handsome dinners, and amusements of every kind for her father's visitors; and the chapel was also thought of, but it seemed inconsistent with her other dreams, and she could not decide upon its being used every day—perhaps once a-week would be sufficient. Then again the scene changed to London—to handsome shops, and beautiful dresses, and rich ornaments, just like Miss Cunningham's; and the delight of going to a play when she liked, having constantly new books, and being able to make presents to all her friends; and in the midst of this vision of grandeur, the carriage stopped at the little white gate of Emmerton cottage. Her mother's voice recalled her to herself; but even its much-loved gentle tone could not at that instant entirely content her. A feeling of dissatisfaction with everything had taken possession of her mind, and the gaiety of her spirit was fled.

But few words passed between Mrs Herbert and her brother, Mrs Harrington complaining of being extremely cold, and objecting to the horses being kept standing; and Amy was not sorry for this, as she longed to be quiet with her mamma after the excitement of the day. Her spirits, however, were too much depressed to be again roused even by the interest of talking over all she had done and seen; and after a few attempts at answering her mamma's questions, she gave it up in despair, and burst into tears. Mrs Herbert guessed directly what was the matter, on finding that Amy could assign no reason for her distress. Her cousins had not been unkind, her aunt had not been angry, she had seen everything she expected; but she was quite tired, and this was the only account she could give. "I suspect a night's rest will be the most certain means of making you feel happy again, my love," said Mrs Herbert; "suppose you prepare to go to bed, and I will hear all you can tell me to-morrow."

"I should like very much to talk to you to-night," replied Amy, almost sobbing; "I am very unhappy, but I cannot tell why."

"At any rate," continued her mother, "it would be better to wait a little while, and when you are ready to read, you shall come to my room, and then you can say all you wish, and go to bed afterwards with your mind at ease."

"But I would rather say it now," answered Amy, "if I only knew how to begin. I don't think, mamma, it makes me happy seeing fine places."

"Because you wish they were your own; is that the reason?"

"I long for them very much," replied Amy; "but, mamma, I have told you all about it before."

"Yes, my dear child, so you have; but knowing that you have told me before, will not ease your mind now."

"Only that I don't like repeating it all over again," said Amy; "it seems as if all you had said had done me no good."

"It takes a very long time to make any one good," answered her mother, "so you must not be disheartened even if you do find the same bad feelings returning again and again. I daresay you have been dreaming of having a large house like Rochford Park, and quantities of money to spend just as you please; and now, when you find you must be contented with a small house, and very little money, you are unhappy."

"I don't want it all for myself," said Amy.

"But even for others," replied Mrs Herbert; "you desire to give them something that God has thought fit they should not have; which do you think knows best what is good?"

"Oh mamma! indeed I am sure that God is wiser than any one; but I cannot help wishing."

"Do you remember, Amy, the promise you have so often repeated to me; I mean the promise made for you at your baptism; that you would renounce 'the pomps and vanities of this wicked world?'"

"But, mamma, I do not want any pomp; I should not care to be a queen; and it would make me miserable to have anything to do with what was wicked."

"My dear," said Mrs Herbert, "the pomps and vanities of the world are different to different people. If Susan Reynolds, for instance, were anxious to live in this cottage, and wear a silk dress like yours, she would be longing for pomps and vanities, because she would be coveting something beyond her station; and so, when you are desiring to live at Emmerton or Rochford Park, you are equally wrong."

"Then why does my uncle live at such a large place, and have so many servants and carriages, if he has promised to renounce them?" asked Amy. "Is it wicked?"

"No," answered Mrs Herbert, "it is not wicked in him, because they are things proper to the station in which God has placed him. A king must live in grandeur, so must a nobleman,—it is befitting their dignity; and private gentlemen, when they have large fortunes, are obliged to do the same, only in a less degree. But such persons have a very difficult task assigned them, as it is almost incumbent upon them to maintain a certain degree of splendour in their style of living; and yet God will assuredly one day call them strictly to account for any wilful extravagance or self-indulgence."

"But why was the promise made for them, if they never can keep it?" said
Amy.

"Because," replied her mother, "renouncing does not mean that we are to give up all the blessings which God has bestowed upon us; but it does mean that we are not to pride ourselves upon them, or rest our happiness on them, or covet more than we possess. It means that we should use them entirely for the benefit of our fellow-creatures, that we should be perfectly willing to part with them if God were to require it, and should be as happy in a cottage with only bread to eat, as we should be in a palace."

"Oh mamma! no one can feel so."

"Look, Amy," said Mrs Herbert, taking up the Bible which she had been reading during her child's absence; "have you never seen this before? 'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!' and 'It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God' (Luke xviii. 24, 25). These are our Saviour's words; do you think that any one who really believed they were true could wish for riches?"

Amy hid her face on her mother's shoulder, and her tears again fell fast. Mrs Herbert went on. "It is quite necessary, my dear child," she said, "that you should learn what you wish for, before you indulge in any dreams of greatness. You are desiring what, our Saviour says, makes it almost impossible for a person to enter into heaven; and you yourself have just acknowledged that it must be the case. I told you the disposition of mind which God requires of us; that, if we have riches, we should be ready in a moment to part with them, and be quite contented without them, and you immediately exclaimed that it could not be; and yet God will not own us as His children unless we have this spirit, or at least strive very hard to obtain it."

"Mamma," said Amy, in a low voice, "indeed, I will try not to wish any more."

"I am sure you will, my love," replied her mother; "and I am sure, also, that if you pray to God, He will assist you; but it will require very many attempts before you can succeed. And will you remember, also, how vain and foolish it is for those who are the children of God, and look forward to living with Him in heaven, to set their hearts upon anything this world can give? You would laugh if you saw a person who was one day to possess a kingdom, sighing for a little cottage, or a small garden; but the most glorious kingdom that could be given us here, even the world itself, is nothing when compared with what God has promised us hereafter."

"If I could but see it for one moment," said Amy, "I should never wish again."

"Yes," answered her mother, "if we were to see it, our difficulty would be at an end; but God has placed us here to try us, to prove whether we will believe that we shall have what He has promised, though whilst we are on earth it is hidden from us. If I told you that to-morrow you would have a splendid present made you, but that I could not show it to you to-day, would you not believe me?"

"Oh yes," replied Amy, "you always keep your word."

"And if I read to you in God's Word, the description of the beautiful home in which, our Saviour tells us, we shall one day live, will you not believe Him?" But Amy did not answer, for her heart was full. "I will not talk any more to you now, my dear child," continued Mrs Herbert: "but I will read to you presently those two concluding chapters in the last book in the Bible, which you have only occasionally heard. They will do far more to calm your mind than anything I can say."

Amy went to her room; and the last sound that mingled with her dreams, was her mother's gentle voice, as she sat by the bedside, describing to her, in the words of the Bible, the blessedness of that glorious city, which shall have no "need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it; for the glory of God shall lighten it, and the Lamb shall be the light thereof."

CHAPTER XI.

The autumn months passed quickly away, and brought but little change in Amy's life, except that her visits to Emmerton became less frequent, as the uncertainty of the weather obliged her to depend more upon her uncle's carriage; but she still practised her music under her mother's direction, and copied Miss Morton's drawings at home, and made up by diligence for the superior advantages which her cousins enjoyed. The London plan had been often mentioned, but, as Margaret foretold, Mrs Harrington was decidedly opposed to it, and became at last quite annoyed whenever any reference was made to it; and the idea would probably have completely died away, had it not been for Miss Cunningham, who, notwithstanding the distance between Emmerton and the Park, contrived to be a very constant visitor; and whenever she appeared, London was invariably the theme of conversation. There needed no description, however, to excite Margaret's wishes, and Dora would have been equally anxious, if her dislike to Miss Cunningham had not prevented her from entering into any scheme of enjoyment in which she was to participate. But Miss Cunningham's earnestness on the subject did not exhaust itself in mere words. Her first object had been to induce her papa to urge the scheme on Mrs Harrington as often as they met, and when, after many trials, this was found to fail, the only thing that remained was to get rid of the one great obstacle, Emily Morton. Lord Rochford was persuaded to criticise her drawings, to find fault with her style of playing, and to declare that her voice was extremely indifferent, in the hope that Mrs Harrington might at last yield to the necessity of having better instruction for her daughters. But Mrs Harrington was not so easily deceived; she was far too good a judge of both music and drawing, to be influenced by what Lord Rochford said, and only answered him with cool indifference in public, and laughed at his ignorance in private. Yet Margaret and her friend did not despair. There was one resource left; though Mrs Harrington could not be persuaded to part with Miss Morton, Miss Morton might be induced to leave Mrs Harrington; and when this notion entered their heads, a series of petty persecutions commenced according to a plan that had been determined on at Rochford Park, which, with any other disposition, could hardly have failed of success. But Miss Morton was invulnerable; she felt that it was her duty to remain at Emmerton; and without paying any attention to looks and inuendoes, or even open words, she pursued her round of daily duties with the same unruffled temper, the same cheerful smile, as if her life had been one of uninterrupted happiness. The only difference observable was during Miss Cunningham's visits, when she generally spent as much of her time with Rose in her own room as was possible; and this, quite as much on the little girl's account as on her own; for Miss Cunningham, having just cleverness sufficient to discover that Rose was Miss Morton's great interest and anxiety, endeavoured to interfere with her in every possible way, distracting her attention from anything in which she might be engaged, and teazing her so much, that even Dora's indignation was at length roused. Of all this, Amy saw but little. The days were now so short that she had only time to take her lesson and return home; but she could not help observing it occasionally, and then longed to be Miss Morton's friend, and to be a comfort to her; and still more did she wish that Emily could be often with her mamma, and be enabled to tell her all she was suffering. But to this there was an obstacle, which Miss Morton would have felt, though Amy was not sensible of it. To have repeated all that passed at Emmerton, would have been in her eyes betraying the secrecy in some degree necessary in private life, and to Mrs Harrington's sister it would have been quite impossible. If there was a complaint to be made, Mrs Harrington was the person to whom to apply for the remedy; and if she did not choose to do this, it could not be right to seek assistance from any other person; and thus, day after day, Emily bore silently and meekly the scorn of folly and ignorance, with but one Friend to guide her, one hope to cheer her, and yet feeling that that Friend and that hope were sufficient in all things for her comfort. Mrs Herbert's interest in Miss Morton had been much excited by Amy's account, and she was induced to think over many plans that might render her life happier. The undertaking, however, was a difficult one, for it was impossible to intrude on her confidence; and there were few opportunities for gaining it, as Mrs Harrington always made some objection to her going to the cottage. Perhaps she feared that Miss Morton's history of her life at Emmerton might not sound favourably in her sister's ears; but, whatever might be the cause, the dislike became so apparent, that Mrs Herbert gave up all hope of being useful, until the idea of an introduction to Mrs Walton suggested itself to her mind. In her Miss Morton would find everything that she could require; warm affection, superior judgment, and the advice and sympathy which Mrs Herbert's position rendered it impossible to give; and with such a friend at hand, there would be comparatively little to fear for Emily's comfort.

Of Mrs Walton's willingness to cultivate the acquaintance, Mrs Herbert had no doubt. It seemed impossible, indeed, that any one could look at Emily Morton without feeling the deepest interest in her; yet the charm was not that of mere personal beauty; many might have criticised the colour of her hair and eyes, and found fault with her pale, transparent complexion, but none could be insensible to the simple grace of her manner, the musical sweetness of her voice, and, above all, the calm, soft, expression of countenance, which was but the outward sign of that "meek and quiet spirit," which, the Bible says, "is in the sight of God of great price." Without Mrs Herbert's recommendation Emily would have been a welcome visitor at the rectory; but with it, Mrs Walton's feelings were so much excited in her favour, that even Amy was quite satisfied as to her being properly appreciated, though she still longed that her mamma could know her more intimately.

But Miss Morton was not Amy's only object of compassion at the Hall. As Christmas approached, Dora's spirits evidently sank; she became more silent and abstracted, took little interest in what was passing, and, if any remark was made upon her low spirits, either roused herself to a forced gaiety, or shut herself up in her own room, and remained there for a considerable time. Amy longed to ask what was the matter, but she did not dare; and they now met so seldom, that the hope of discovering it seemed vain. It was therefore a cause of satisfaction to her, independent of her own enjoyment, to hear that it was Mr Harrington's wish, that the week before and the week after Christmas should be spent by her mamma and herself at Emmerton, as she was certain the arrangement would give pleasure to Emily Morton, and thought it possible that her mamma might be some comfort to her cousin. Dora was the first to give her the intelligence; but although she declared it would be very nice to have Amy staying there, and expressed a hope that her aunt would be comfortable, she did not really seem to care much about it.

"It will not be gay as it used to be at Wayland," she said; "there we always had the house full of people, but now there are only a few coming, whom I know nothing about. I believe we are to have some boys and two or three girls, but we have scarcely ever seen them. Two of the boys are the young Dornfords, and, besides, there will be the Miss Stanleys, and Mary Warner, and the little Danvers; but I shall hate it, for I don't know what we shall do with them."

"Frank will amuse Mr Dornford's boys," said Amy, who knew all their names, though she had never been accustomed to visit in the neighbourhood.

"Yes! but Frank is not used to it."

"Don't look so very unhappy, dear Dora," replied Amy, "I cannot bear to see it; you always seem out of spirits now, and I would give anything in the world if I could help you."

"Would you?" said Dora, looking at her earnestly; "that is more than half the people I know would say."

"But it is true; only, of course, I cannot be any good to you."

"No one can be any good to me now; I knew I should be wretched when
Christmas came."

"But why?" asked Amy.

"Oh! never mind," said Dora, rather hastily, "I cannot talk about it; please don't say anything to anybody."

"But if you would talk to some one else, would not that help you?"

"Whom should I talk to?" said Dora.

"Do you never tell your mamma when you are unhappy?" continued Amy, though she felt that to have asked for sympathy from Mrs Harrington in her own case would have been impossible.

"Talk to mamma!" exclaimed Dora; "why, I could more easily be miserable all the days of my life; besides," she added, "I said no one could help me; no one can bring back——," the sentence remained unfinished, for her voice was choked, and her eyes were blinded with tears.

Amy had always hitherto felt in a certain degree afraid of showing any affection to Dora—her manner was in general so cold, that she never knew how far it would be returned; but the sight of her present distress was quite sufficient to overcome every feeling of the kind, and, putting her arm round her cousin's neck, she said very gently, "But he is so happy now."

Dora hid her face in her hands, and did not answer for several minutes; at last, rousing herself with a great effort, she said, "Amy, I am very cross to you sometimes."

"Oh no!" replied Amy, "don't think about that; you know we are all cross occasionally."

"He was never cross to any one," said Dora, in a voice so low, that it sounded as if she were speaking to herself.

"Miss Morton told me how good and kind he was," replied Amy, "and how miserable you were when he was taken ill."

"Did she?" exclaimed Dora, with interest; "I did not know she ever thought about me."

"Oh Dora! indeed, I am sure she does think about you a great deal, and would love you very much, if——"

"If what? why should you be afraid of speaking out?"

"If you would love her," continued Amy, hesitatingly.

"It would be no use if I did," replied Dora; "she is as cold as a stone to every one but Rose and you, and as proud as a queen."

"But she spoke of you so kindly the other day, and said that she could not bear to see you in such bad spirits, and that she was so sorry about poor Edward; and then she told me that in some things she thought you were like him."

"Me! no indeed, nobody could think that; he was like no one else."

"Not Frank?" asked Amy, anxious to make her cousin converse upon the subject she knew was uppermost in her thoughts.

"No," replied Dora; "Frank is thoughtless and hasty, but he never said a harsh word to any one, not to me even!"

"It would have been hard to speak crossly to you, when you were so fond of him," said Amy.

"Ah! you don't know," answered Dora, while a host of recollections flashed across her mind, of taunting looks, and angry words, and selfish actions, which at the time were thought of as nothing, but which now stood forth in their true light. For a short time she was silent; and then, turning abruptly to Amy, she said, "Then you will come next Monday—aunt Herbert is to have the green room and the boudoir, and you are to have the dressing-room."

Amy was vexed; she longed to continue the conversation about Edward, and she was always pleased and interested when Dora spoke of her own feelings, for it seemed as if she were then admitted to a secret which no one else was allowed to share. "I shall like it very much if mamma will consent, and if you will be happy," she said; "only I wish there were to be no strangers."

"Don't think about me," replied Dora, "and pray don't say anything about my being out of spirits; I shall do very well by and by."

"I wish Frank were here," said Amy.

"Frank will do no good, only make a noise; but I shall be happy again after Christmas. I did not think half so much about it a month ago, and not even when first I came here, because everything was new; but he always came home about this time, and I used to look forward to it so—at last I quite counted the days."