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