UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
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 A M Y HERBERT
 
 EALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 
 AMY HERBERT 
 
 r>Y 
 
 ELIZABETH M. SEWELL 
 
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 Why should we fear Youth's draught of joy, 
 
 If pure, would sparkle less ? 
 Why should the cup the sooner cloy 
 
 'VVl.iL.hGo5 Hath deign 'd to Iks;;? 
 
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 vol"* - I » o , # 
 
 yElV EDITION 
 
 EONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 1 886
 
 
 « • • • 
 • * • • • 
 
 • • • • 

 
 ^ ISSC 
 
 ^ 
 
 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN a remote picturesque village, on the borders of one of the 
 few remaining forests in England, was situated the home of 
 Amy Herbert. It was a lovely cottage, with a thatched roof and 
 latticed windows, covered with creepers and roses, and standing 
 upon a smooth velvet lawn, which gently sloped to the edge of a 
 clear stream, that flowed sparkling along at the bottom of the 
 garden. A small but very beautiful pleasure-ground divided it 
 from the forest, which stretched far away behind for many miles ; 
 whilst in the front it commanded a Adew over the village of 
 Emmerton, with its scattered dwellings and its gray church- 
 tower, and the distant country beyond. The interior of the cot- 
 tage consisted of a drawing-room, with windows opening upon 
 the lawn, a small study, a dining-room which looked out on the 
 most retired part of the garden, and several bedrooms ; and it 
 was here that Amy Herbert passed the earliest and the happiest 
 portion of her life : and though to some it might have seemed 
 that her pleasures could have been but few, as she had no com- 
 panions of her own age, not many servants to wait upon her, and 
 no money to expend on whatever might be the fancy of the 
 moment, yet it may be doubted whether any of those who have 
 been brought up in the midst of luxury, have ever spent so happy 
 a childhood as hers. For Amy lived in her quiet home, with the 
 mother vvho to her was all in all ; and when she sat by her side 
 . at work, or read to her aloud, or walked with her, or listened to 
 ■ her sweet voice as she sang her favourite songs, she had not a 
 wish for anything else that the world could give. In the summer, 
 Amy's mornings were employed in learning from her mother all 
 
 465465
 
 2 A.]/V HERBERT. 
 
 that was considered necessary for the education of a lady ; for 
 Mrs Herbert, besides possessing a well-cuhivaled mind, under- 
 stood both music and drawing, and spared neither time nor 
 trouble in endeavouring to give her child a taste for the same 
 pursuits. The afternoons were often spent in an arbour, shut out 
 from the view of every passer-by, where Amy read to her mother 
 the books which most interested \\^i ; and in the evening she 
 generally walked with her into the village, either to inquire after 
 some of their poor neighbours, or to pay a visit to the rectory, 
 where the affection with which she was received was always a 
 source of enjoyment, though there were no children to be her 
 play-fellows. Occasionally, also. Amy would persuade her mother 
 to wander with her into the forest, and there, leaving her seated 
 on ths trunk of some old tree, with her book or her work, she 
 would search amongst the thick underwood for wild flowers or 
 wood strawberries, and return to her, triumphantly Inden, as she 
 said, with spoils : and when the falling dews and the gathering 
 twilight told that it was the hour of rest. Amy, kneeling in her 
 chamber, repeated her evening prayers, and, after receiving her 
 mother's last fond kiss and her fervent blessing, laid her head 
 upon her pillow, to dream of the joys of the past day, and the 
 interests of the coming morrow. 
 
 The winter also brought its delights : the warm fireside in the 
 morning, and the quick walk in the middle of the day, when the 
 sun was shining and the earth glittering with the frost, and the 
 tales of days and people long gone by, with which Mrs Herbert 
 would amuse her little girl in the dusky twilight ; whilst in the 
 evening came the bright lamp and the hissing urn, to make them 
 forget that there was anything like cold or discomfort to be en- 
 dured without. And so Amy's childhood passed tranquilly on ; 
 not that it was entirely free from interruptions and disappoint- 
 ments, or that she was always able to follow her own inclinations ; 
 for there were gloomy days and causes of vexation, and she had 
 faults which, at times, interfered with her happiness ; but her 
 annoyances were soon over, and whenever she gave way to any 
 evil feelings, either of ill temper, indolence, or carelessness, the 
 sorrowful expression of her mother's countenance, and the grave 
 tone of her voice, never failed to recall her quickly to a better 
 mind. 
 
 There were, besides, other pleasures to vary the regularity of 
 Amy's life ; a drive in the rector's carriage to the neighbouring 
 tn^\-n, or an invitation to drink tea at the parsonage, or, what she
 
 AAfV H ELBERT. 3 
 
 most delighted in, a long walk with her mother, to wander over a 
 large old house, which was about two miles distant from the 
 cottage, and situated on the same side of the forest, though in a 
 different direction from the village. Emmerton Hall was indeed 
 a most interesting place ; the house^the work of ages passed 
 away — was of gray stone, deeply stained by exposure to the 
 severity of many a wintry storm. It was a large, irregular build- 
 ing, with high gable ends, deep oriel windows, turrets with 
 pointed pinnacles, and heavy, clustering chimneys nearly hidden 
 by masses of the rich, dark ivy which covered a great proportion 
 of the walls. The principal front consisted of the original three- 
 gabled house and two projecting wings which had been added at 
 a later period, and along its whole length extended a broad gravel 
 terrace, divided from the other part of the grounds by a stone 
 balustrade, and ornamented at regular intervals with large Italian 
 vases. From this terrace a flight of steps at each end descended 
 to the pleasure-garden, which was laid out in green lawns, and 
 shrubberies, and winding walks, and bounded by a clear sheet of 
 water flowing through the whole of the demesne. On the other 
 side of the water stretched a richly-wooded park that had once 
 formed a portion o-f the forest, whilst from the terrace might be 
 seen beyond this a wide expanse of lovely country, — corn-fields, 
 meadows, villages, and churches, blended together in the soft mists 
 of the distance, and terminated by the faint shadow which marked 
 the outline of one of the highest ranges of hills in all England. 
 
 To the right of the house the ground rose abruptly in a hill of 
 considerable height, the sides of which had been partly formed 
 into smooth grassy terraces, and partly planted with beech, ash, 
 elm, and oak trees, and amongst these many walks were cut, 
 ascending gradually to the top, and opening at length upon a line 
 of down, from whence might be discovered a view so extensive as 
 to reach even to the glittering waves of the ocean. 
 
 At the back and to the left of the mansion, the grounds were of 
 great extent, and still beyond them lay the park, carrying the eye 
 into deep hollows and sunny glades, till its furthest trees were 
 lost amongst the rich foliage of the adjacent forest. 
 
 Such was the exterior of Emmerton Hall, and the interior 
 suited well with it in beauty. The oldest part of the building 
 consisted, indeed, of long, low chambers, wainscoted with dark 
 oak, and giving an idea of solemnity, if not of gloom ; but the 
 wings, which were of a later date, contained spacious saloons, and 
 large lofty drawing-rooms hun;z wUV\ paintings, and rich in
 
 A AMY HERBERT. 
 
 splendid though o!d-l;ishioncd, furniture, that would liavc done 
 lionour to the palace of the proudest noble in the land. It was 
 not amongst these, however, th, it Am \ Ilerljcrt found her chief 
 enjoyment, — she cared little for the more modern additions ; but 
 her great pleasure was to wander through the long passages, and 
 explore the dark rooms which had for years been disused, while 
 the silent mansion echoed with the gay sounds of her young 
 voice, as she discovered some hitlierto unknown closet, or started 
 back half amused, and half frightened, at the grim visage of some 
 valiant knight or ancient lady which stared at her from the walls. 
 
 There was a chapel, too, attached to the house ; and great was 
 Amy's delight to look down from the private gallery that had 
 been specially reserved for the ladies of the famil)', upon the 
 massive oaken seats ranged on each side of the narrow aisle, and 
 while the rays of the sun, streaming through the painted glass 
 of the east window, lighted up every corner of the building with 
 a rich, unearthly hue, to people them in her own imagination 
 with the servants and retainers, who, she had been told, once 
 occupied them daily. 
 
 For the first few years of l;cr life, Amy's visits to Emmerton 
 Hall had been those of unmixed happiness ; but as she grew 
 older, and learned to feel more and more that no joy was complete 
 unless her mother could share it with her, she began to perceive 
 that, however willingly Mrs Herbert might grant her petition to 
 visit the old house, and however patiently she might wait whilst 
 she satisfied all her childish curiosity, yet, at their return home, 
 there was always a look of sorrow on her countenance, and some- 
 times even a tear glistening in her eye ; and the cause of this 
 she was soon able to understand, for Emmerton had been to Mrs 
 Herbert all that the little cottage was to Amy. It had been the 
 scene of her earliest pleasures — the home of her childhood — the 
 spot where she had dwelt with parents, brothers, sisters, and 
 friends, who were now, some dead, some scattered in distant 
 countries, and all so far from her as to make her feel lonely and 
 sad in the halls where once she had known little but enjoyment. 
 But it was not till Amy had nearly reached her twelfth year that 
 she became aware of the increasing extent of the painful feelings 
 excited in her mother's mind by these visits to the Hall. During 
 the first year of her marriage, Mrs Herbert had lived at the 
 cottage, but her family were still settled at Emmerton, and the 
 separation was merely nominal. After that time, the death of 
 her father and mother broke, in a great degree, the ties which
 
 AMV HERBERT. 5 
 
 had bound her to her early home ; for her brother, on whom the 
 property devolved, had married a lady, whose proud disposition 
 suited but ill with Mrs Herbert's meek spirit ; and when, on the 
 death of a relation, Mr Harrington became the owner of a still 
 finer estate in another county, Emmerton was almost deserted. 
 It was true he returned to it occasionally, but his visits were less 
 and less frequent ; and, although the steward and housekeeper 
 were ordered to keep it in complete repair, it was only as a place 
 for show, and because his pride would not permit him to sell or 
 let an old family residence. 
 
 All this was a great trial for jMrs Herbert, though, whilst 
 Colonel Herbert was with her, it was comparatively but little 
 felt ; but the duties of his profession at last called him to a foreign 
 land, and it was then that she first knew the real loneliness of her 
 situation, the only alleviation being the society of her friends at 
 the parsonage, and the delight of receiving constant and cheerful 
 letters from abroad. At the period, however, just mentioned, 
 when Amy was about twelve years of age, the time appointed for 
 Colonel Herbert's absence had expired ; but no news had been 
 received from him for a considerable time. Post after post 
 arrived without letters from him. Friends came back from the 
 country to which he had been sent, but none brought intelligence 
 of him. Mrs Herbert's heart sank within her, the most sad fore- 
 bodings took possession of her mind, and even the company of 
 Amy often served only to increase her melancholy, as it reminded 
 her more forcibly of the probable failure of those visions of future 
 happiness, in which she had indulged when dwelling upon the 
 prospect of her husband's return to his native land, to spend the 
 remainder of his days with her and with his child. 
 
 Continued anxiety at length seriously aftected Mrs Herbert's 
 health ; and even Amy, young as she was, became sensible of it, 
 and learned to look eagerly for the daily post, in hopes that it 
 might bring some letter which would make her mother smile 
 again as she had been used to do, while she seldom expressed ^ 
 wish to go to Emmerton, since it only added to Mrs Herbert's 
 depression, by reminding her of the absence of her relations as 
 well as of that of her husband. Still Amy did not fully enter 
 into the causes of her mother's uneasiness ; and when she stationed 
 herself at the white garden-gate every morning to watch for the 
 old postman, it was with a feeling of expectation very different 
 from the nervous eagerness with which Mrs Herbert longed for 
 his arrival.
 
 6 AMV ITERUER'!. 
 
 ' Here he is, mamma ! ' she exclaimed, joyously, as she ran to 
 the drawing-room window one lovely summer morning, after 
 having waited unusually long at the gate. ' Here he is ! just turn- 
 ing the corner of the lane. Do let me go and meet him ; I shall 
 bring the letters much quicker than he will, and there nnut be 
 one from papa to-day.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert half smiled as she kissed her child's forehead, 
 and parted her dark ringlets. ' You may go, love,' she said ; 
 and Amy waited to hear no more. In a minute she was at the 
 end of the lane, entreating the old postman to give her the 
 letters ; but he was both deaf and obstinate, and resolved that no 
 one should have the honour of delivering them but himself; and 
 Amy, after repeatedly urging her I'equcst in vain, returned dis- 
 appointed to her mother. The delay had but increased Mrs Her- 
 bert's painful anxiety ; and when the man appeared with the letter 
 — for there was but one — she felt as if she had scarcely the 
 power to take it from him. 
 
 'It is from papa, I am sure,' said Amy; but Mrs Herbert 
 shook her head, and her face became very pale as she saw the 
 deep black edge. With a trembling hand she tore open the 
 letter ; and Amy, seeing that something unusual was the matter, 
 looked earnestly in her face while she read. For a moment her 
 mother's countenance wore the appearance of intense anguish, 
 but it was soon succeeded by an expression of comparative relief; 
 and when she had concluded, although she was grave and melan- 
 choly, it was evident that the news had not been what she so 
 much dreaded. 
 
 'Is it from papa?' asked Amy; 'and is he quite well, and 
 coming home soon ? ' 
 
 ' It is from your uncle Harrington, my dear,' said Mrs Her- 
 bert : ' he gives me no information about your papa, and he 
 writes in great distress.' 
 
 ' Why, why, mamma ! ' exclaimed Amy, eagerly; ' does it make 
 you unhappy too ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' said Mrs Herbert ; ' I must always be sad when I 
 know that your uncle is in afQiction. You have lost your cousin 
 
 Edward, Amy ; he has died quite suddenly, and ,' but here 
 
 Mrs Herbert paused, for her voice failed her. Amy endeavoured 
 to comfort her ; but it was not in her power to stop the course (f 
 her mother's grief, and for a few minutes she gave way to it 
 without restraint ; and then rousing herself, she said, ' I ought to 
 be thankful that I have been spared a still greater trial ; for,
 
 AJ/y HERBERT. 7 
 
 though I can feel bitterly for my poor brother, it would have 
 been far worse if I had known Edward well ; and one thing, Amy, 
 which will give you pleasure in the midst of all this sorrow is, 
 that your uncle tells me he intends coming to Emmerton imme- 
 diately ; and he begs me to go there, and give orders for every- 
 thing being prepared for them.' 
 
 ' To Emmerton, mamma ! ' exclaimed Amy, with delight, for- 
 getting what had given rise to this sudden plan. ' Will they 
 really come to Emmerton — my uncle, and aunt, and all my 
 cousins ? Oh ! you will look happy again, then.' 
 
 ' I will try to do so, at least,' said Mrs Herbert ; ' for it is 
 only selfishness to destroy your happiness, my dear child, by 
 anxiety, which you cannot understand. But, indeed, you must 
 not expect any great enjoyment at first ; for your uncle's letter 
 speaks of himself and all the family as being in the greatest 
 distress.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but,' said Amy, ' when they come to Emmerton, they 
 must be cheerful. To be sure,' she added, looking suddenly 
 grave, ' it is very sad to think that Edward will not be with 
 them ; but then, mamma, I dare say he is gone to heaven, so why 
 should they be so very sorry ? ' 
 
 ' Should not you be very sorry to part from me. Amy, if I were 
 to die ? and yet I trust that when it shall please God that I 
 should do so. He will take me to heaven.' 
 
 ' O mamma ! don't talk so,' said Amy, her eyes filling with 
 tears ; ' you know I should be so miserable. I should die 
 too.' 
 
 ' No, my love,' replied Mrs Herbert, ' I hope you would not 
 die ; for you may always be happy whether I am with you or 
 not, when you have God to watch over you ; but I wished to 
 show you that you must not expect other people to be less sor- 
 rowful than you would be yourself in such a situation. Your 
 cousins will, of course, be unhappy when they first come to 
 Emmerton.' 
 
 ' But when will it be .'' ' asked Am)-. 
 
 'Not till the week after next,' answered Mrs Herbert; 'for 
 the house must be made ready for them.' 
 
 * Oh ! such a long, long time ! ' sighed Amy. ' There are 
 five days to the end of this week ; and then will they come on 
 the Monday week after ? ' 
 
 ' They have not fixed the day, my dear, so you will try and 
 wait patiently, I know,' said Mrs Herbert ; ' and now you must
 
 8 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 get your lessons and read by yourself this morning, for I wish to 
 be alone in my own room.' 
 
 Tills was not pleasant news to Amy, bill slic made no ol)jcction, 
 and with her book in her hand seated herself at the window. It 
 was a harder task to learn on that morning than she had ever 
 before found it ; for, notwithstanding all her endeavours, some 
 thoughts of Emmcrton would creep into her mind perpetually. 
 First she fancied what rooms her cousins would choose ; then 
 whether they would like the same that she did ; whether any of 
 the old dark chambers would be used ; and, above all, whether 
 her uncle would have prayers in the chapel every morning, and 
 fill it with his servants, so that she might really see it as she had 
 been told it used to be. 
 
 The very loveliness of the day only served to increase her dis- 
 traction of mind. The sunlight was glancing on the turf, the 
 butterflies were settling continually on the flowers by the win- 
 dow, and the birds were singing gaily amongst the trees ; and 
 delightful as all this really was, it only made Amy feel the 
 stronger wish to be at that moment running over the lawns at 
 Emmerton, or standing by the side of the lake, watching the 
 swans and the other water-fowl as they sailed proudly along 
 on the bosom of the calm water. 
 
 ' I shall never learn these tiresome lessons, mamma,' she 
 exclaimed, as Mrs Herbert entered the room, after an absence of 
 about a quarter of an hour. 
 
 * And why not, my love ? — why should it be more difficult now 
 than at any other time ?' 
 
 ' Because I am so longing to be at Emmerton, mamma, and 
 I cannot fix my attention on them. Please let me leave off now, 
 and I will learn a double quantity to-morrow.' 
 
 ' No, Amy ; that is a great mistake. To-morrow will have 
 enough to do in its own occupations, without burdening it with 
 those of to-day. Besides, my dear, this is just the opportunity 
 for learning to do in a little way what will be required of you 
 perpetually during your whole life — to conquer your own inch- 
 nations ; you will be infinitely the happier for it afterwards.' 
 
 Amy looked as if she could not quite believe this, but she did 
 not speak in reply. 
 
 * You will endeavour, I am sure, my dear child,' continued 
 Mrs Herbert, 'if it is only to please me ; you know my greatest 
 wish is to teach you to do what is right, without thinking of 
 what is pleasant ; so make one more effort, and turn your face
 
 AMY HERBERT. 9 
 
 from the window, that you may have nothing to divide youi 
 thoughts, and then the lessons will soon be learned.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert left the room ; and Amy, obeying her directions, 
 seated herself with her back to the window, making a firm reso- 
 lution in her own mind that she would not look up from her book 
 till her lessons were ready ; and when her mother reappeared, 
 they were repeated without a fault. Mrs Herbert's smile suffi- 
 ciently repaid her for the exertion, and with renewed pleasure 
 she continued her usual morning occupations. 
 
 * And now, mamma,' she exclaimed, as she finished her read- 
 ing, ' I may think about Emmcrton. Will you tell me if you 
 are really going there this afternoon ? ' 
 
 'We will set off immediately after dinner,' replied Mrs 
 Herbert ; ' and as I cannot walk so far, I have sent to the par- 
 sonage to borrow Mr Walton's carriage.' 
 
 ' Shall you stay all the afternoon, mamma ? and will you let 
 me hear all you say to Mrs Bridget and Stephen?' 
 
 * I am afraid that will not interest you much, my dear,' 
 replied Mrs Herbert, smiling ; 'but you deserve to have your 
 wishes granted, to reward you for your endeavours this morning. 
 Was I not right in saying that you would be far happier if you 
 attended to your lessons first, and thought of your amusements 
 afterwards ?' 
 
 'Ah! mamma,' said Amy, 'you know you are always right, 
 and I am always wrong ; but then it does not signify so much 
 while you are with me to teach me.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert sighed. ' You must not look to me, my dear 
 child : I cannot keep you right. It is God alone who can do 
 that, and He only knows how long I may live to tell you what 
 you ought to do. But do not look so grave now, I did not mean 
 to make you unhappy. You must get your bonnet and take one 
 turn with me in the shady walk, and by that time dinner will be 
 ready.' 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THAT afternoon was one of perfect enjoyment to Amy. The 
 drive in the rector's carriage was an unusual treat, and the 
 road through the forest had never before seemed so beautiful ; 
 the light danced amongst the trees, and sparkled on the gay
 
 ic AMV HERBERT. 
 
 primroses nnd liarebells, and the deep blue violets, wliich peeped 
 from amongst the thick underwood. The rich moss which 
 covered the trunks of the old oak trees, was of a hue so bright 
 as to be surpassed only by the vivid green of the young leaves, 
 which had reached their full beauty, undimmcd as yet by the 
 scorching rays of the summer's sun ; and when at length they 
 reached the park gate of Emmerton, and drove under the long 
 rows of oak and chestnuts, and by the side of the clear silver 
 lake, Amy's delight was unbounded. Several months had passed 
 since she had last been there, and the beauty of the place was 
 now increased by the thought that she should soon be able to 
 visit it constantly, and might, perhaps, at times, spend days, and 
 even weeks there with her cousins. 
 
 ' Dear, dear mamma ! ' she exclaimed, as she jumped up in 
 the carriage to look at the lake, ' do you think my uncle can be 
 unhappy while he is here ? ' 
 
 ' Wliy should he not be, my love.'" asked Mrs Herbert. 
 
 ' Oh ! because it is so beautiful, mamma,' said Amy ; ' and it 
 is all his own, and he may go where he pleases, and do what he 
 pleases, and you say he has plenty of money : I am sure if I 
 were he, I should have nothing to wish for. If I lived at Em- 
 merton, nothing could ever happen to vex me, except,' she 
 added, looking grave, as she saw a tear in her mother's eye, 
 ' except if anything were the matter with you : but here comes 
 Stephen down the avenue. I wonder what he will say when he 
 hears that my uncle is coming back ? ' 
 
 The steward approached the carriage as Amy spoke ; he was 
 a tall, hearty man, of about seventy, with a step as firm, and a 
 back as unbent, as if he had numbered thirty years less. His 
 features were very strongly marked, and expressive of great 
 intelligence, and might even have been called handsome, though 
 his complexion was completely tanned by age, and many years' 
 exposure to the variations of the weather. There was a bright, 
 happy look in his clear, gray eye, and a smile about his mouth, 
 and yet a person who had watched him narrowly might have 
 seen the trace of care on his brow ; but it seemed as if it had 
 only recently been acquired, as if joyousness were the natural 
 inmate of his breast, and melancholy only its occasional visitant : 
 and so, indeed, it was. Stephen Browning had entered the 
 service of Mrs Herbert's father when quite a lad, and had risen 
 from being a mere stable-boy to the higher offices of groom and 
 coachman ; he had been the instructor of the young ladies
 
 AMY HERBERT. ii 
 
 of the family in horsemanship, and of the young gentlemen 
 in all their boyish sports, and considered himself — and was 
 indeed considered by many others- — as the most important 
 personage about Emmerton Hall, always excepting Mr Har- 
 rington. 
 
 During this period, his life had been a very happy one ; and 
 the pride with which he watched the children as they grew up 
 was scarcely inferior to that of their parents. Even the death 
 of old Mr Harrington did not in any serious degree disturb his 
 peace of mind, after the first shock was over ; for death, as he 
 said, was the lot of all men, and 'twas no use to grieve for him 
 who was gone to happiness ; and so Stephen consoled himself 
 for his loss, and still lool-:ed with delight upon the scenes he 
 had known from his childhood, and interested himself as much in 
 the new generation that had sprung up, as he had done in those 
 who had long been beyond his instruction. But a most bitter 
 trial awaited him in the removal of the family from Emmerton, 
 and it was one for which he was totally unprepared ; the first 
 intelligence was so astounding, that it was some time before he 
 could be induced to believe it ; and when at last the truth forced 
 itself upon his mind, he sank into a state of listless indifference, 
 which was for a time in no slight degree alarming. He did, 
 however, recover from it ; and at INIr Harrington's request con- 
 sented to remain at the Hall, and to take charge of it as steward ; 
 but his occupations, his enjoyments, all seemed gone, and his 
 only remaining pleasure was to visit the cottage, and talk over 
 the old days with Mrs Herbert, and tell Amy stories of the feats 
 of her uncles and aunts in horsemanship, long before, as he said, 
 she was ever thought of. For Mrs Bridget, the housekeeper, 
 who had only lived about twelve years in the family, Stephen 
 had an especial contempt. She was quite a new body, and 'twas 
 no good talking to her ; she could not remember the good old 
 times when the master was a young gentleman, and used to ride 
 about the park on his Shetland pony, and learn to play at cricket 
 and leap-frog ; and then she dressed herself out smart, with gay 
 ribands and silks, not befitting the housekeeper of Emmerton 
 Hall, who ought to keep to the ancient fashion ; and she would 
 have young idle lads and lassies about the place, which was 
 never known in his days, when everjthing was kept strict and 
 in order ; and, above all, she would never admit him and his 
 pipe into the house, but turned away when she saw it, as if she 
 was too fine a lady to bear what he knew she must have seen a
 
 12 A.)fV HERBERT. 
 
 lumdrod times in her father's farm kitchen. Mrs Bridget, on 
 her part, quite returned the fcehng ; and though she acknow- 
 ledged that Stephen might be very honest and trustworthy, and 
 she would not for the world say a word against any one, yet she 
 could not help hinting occasionally that he was growing old, and 
 would be better by his own fireside than attempting to give 
 directions which he could know nothing about ; and certainly 
 the air with which she was accustomed to turn her back upon 
 him, and tell him, whenever he approached with liis pipe, not 
 to come near her with that thing in his mouth, would have been 
 quite sufficient to deter a less adventurous person than Stephen 
 from making a second attempt. 
 
 The steward's loud exclamation of ' Sure, 'tis young madam 
 and little miss ! ' was heard when he was still at some distance 
 from the carriage, and he turned immediately to the house with 
 the quickest step which his age and gouty foot would allow, 
 that he might be ready to receive them. 
 
 'Well, 'tis a strange sight, to be sure,' he said, as he lifted 
 Aniy from the carriage. ' I thought Emmerton was never going 
 to see any of you again; and I have said to myself fifty times 
 within the last month, that, for certain, young madam couldn't 
 have forgotten me, and my pretty little miss, too^ who used to be 
 here so often.' 
 
 *Ah, but Stephen,' said Amy, 'poor mamma cannot walk so 
 far as she did, and you know we have only the rector's carriage ; 
 but why don't you come to see us ?' 
 
 'The gout, the gout. Miss Amy, that's what keeps me ; in the 
 old days, I could almost have run there and back in less than 
 the hour, but 'tis all changed — house, and garden, and servants, 
 'tis all alike — and little it signifies what comes to me. But, 
 madam,' he added, turning to Mrs Herbert, 'you'll be for wallc- 
 ing in and resting yourself, and Mrs Bridget will attend upon 
 you ; she won't let me put foot within doors, if she can help it, 
 since I last threw some tobacco on her new gown, which was 
 more loss to me than to her, seeing 'twas all I had, and there 
 was nobody to send to get some more.' 
 
 ' I want to talk to you first, Stephen, for a few minutes,' said 
 Mrs Herbert. 
 
 'Ah sure, ma'am,' replied Stephen, 'and 'twill do me good to 
 listen ; for there's no one here to whom one can talk that v.iK 
 understand, seeing they are all new, — all new ;' and the old 
 man's sigh almost amounted to a groan.
 
 AMY HERBER T. 1 3 
 
 ' I have had a letter from your master to-day, Stephen,' said 
 Mrs Herbert, fearing to impart too suddenly the death of his 
 young favourite, Edward. 
 
 ' Have you, ma'am ? and does he say he 's well, and the young 
 gentlemen and ladies ? 'Tis the best I can hope to hear now.' 
 
 'He does not write in good spirits, Stephen; he has been 
 suftering a great deal lately.' 
 
 ' Sure, ma'am, that 's bad news ; but what could any one 
 expect but to be ill, away from one's own place, and all the air 
 that's natural to one?' 
 
 ' Your master has not been ill himself, Stephen ; but one of 
 his children.' 
 
 ' Not master Edward ! ' exclaimed the old man, taking alarm 
 from Mrs Herbert's countenance. No answer was given for a 
 moment, and Stephen turned to Amy for an explanation. ' 'Tis 
 not master Edward ; it can't be. O Miss Amy ! just speak.' 
 
 ' I will tell you, Stephen,' said Mrs Herbert, recovering her 
 composure. ' It will grieve you very much ; but it is indeed 
 poor Edward, who was taken ill about a week since, and is now, 
 I trust, gone to a happier world.' 
 
 The poor old steward's bronzed complexion became of an 
 Himatural sallow hue, and he leaned against the stone porch for 
 support ; but it seemed as if the power of utterance were taken 
 from him. 
 
 ' Run into the house and fetch a glass of water. Amy,' said 
 Mrs Herbert ; and Amy, in extreme alarm, flew to obey her 
 mother's order. 
 
 In a few moments she returned, followed by Mrs Bridget, a 
 gaily-dressed, sharp-visaged person of about forty, who forgot 
 the last grievous offence against her new gown when she heard 
 Amy's frightened exclamation, that dear old Stephen was so ill 
 she thought he must be dying. By this time, however, the colour 
 had returned to his cheek, and he was able to inquire more 
 calmly the particulars of his young favourite's illness. They 
 were few, but very painful ; for the disease, which was inflam- 
 mation of the lungs, brought on by a neglected cold, had made 
 most rapid progress, and he died about two days after he had 
 first been considered seriously ill. ' But,' said Mrs Herbert, 
 after slie had answered the old man's various questions, ' I have 
 not told you yet, Stephen, the only thing which I think is likely 
 now to give you pleasure : my brother talks of returning to 
 Emmerton again to live.'
 
 14 /iJfV HERBERT. 
 
 ' To live, ma'nin ! ' exclaimed Stephen, startinj^ back ; * but 
 it can't be true. When the carria^^c drove away from this very 
 place, now ten years ago, I said to myself they were gone for 
 ever ; and so it has proved. 'Tis but a false hope, ma'am. The 
 master will change his mind when he begins to forget his 
 grief.' 
 
 ' Ah, but Stephen,' said Amy, taking his hand affectionately, 
 * it is not a false hope, though.; for mamma heard all about it 
 this morning, and she has come now to tell you and Bridget 
 to get the things in order, and they are to be here the week 
 after next. Think of that, Stephen. Won't that make you 
 happy ? ' 
 
 'Poor master Edward! poor master Edward!' sighed the 
 old steward ; ' 'twould have been a joyful day, indeed, if he had 
 been coming too. To have looked upon his young face again 
 would have added ten years to my life ; but God's will be done ! ' 
 
 ' But, Stephen,' said Amy, half disappointed, ' you are not as 
 much pleased as I thought you would be.' 
 
 ' Ah, little Miss,' replied Stephen, as he patted her shoulder, 
 ' you are too young to know anything about sorrow ; but I shall 
 be glad by and by, when I can think that it is true.' 
 
 * Indeed, indeed, it is true,' repeated Amy ; ' and mamma 
 knows it.' 
 
 ' Amy is right, Stephen,' said Mrs Herbert. ' My brother 
 writes me word that Wayland Court is now become so melancholy 
 to him, that he cannot bear to live there, and he intends being 
 at Emmerton as soon as the necessary arrangements can be 
 made.' 
 
 ' God be thanked for it ! ' exclaimed Stephen, clasping his 
 hands together ; ' and I shall go to my grave in peace, for the 
 old times will be come back again. But no, they won't, though, 
 he added, whilst a bitter recollection flashed upon his mind. 
 ' He will never be here again : ' and he brushed his hand across 
 his eye to wipe away the tear which glistened in it. 
 
 Mrs Bridget, half annoyed that Mrs Herbert should have 
 chosen to communicate so important a piece of intelligence to 
 Stephen rather than to herself, now came forward, and in a 
 formal manner, and with a voice which told there v/as a storm 
 within, said, ' I suppose, madam, my master and mistress will 
 communicate with me before they arrive ?' 
 
 ' I believe not, Bridget,' replied Mrs Herbert ; ' they are in 
 too much distress to think about anything now ; but they have
 
 AAfV HERBERT, 15 
 
 left it all to me, and I was wishing to ask }ou what would be 
 wanting.' 
 
 ' Nothing, ma'am,' said Bridget, drawing up her head rather 
 proudly, ' nothing at all. Though I say it that shouldn't say it, 
 the house is just in as perfect order now as it was when my mas- 
 ter went away. But I should like to know if my mistress would 
 choose to have the coverings taken off the furniture in the great 
 drawing-room ; and there have been a few breakages in the 
 bedrooms ; and Stephen tells me there is a pane of glass out of 
 the conservatory ; and the fringe of the curtains in the saloon 
 was torn yesterday by the girl who was here cleaning the rooms, 
 I scolded her well for it, and she is coming again to-morrow to 
 mend it.' 
 
 ' Well,' said JNlrs Herbert, stopping her, ' all these things you 
 can quite well manage yourself, they are but trifles. You had 
 better get all the rooms in order, for I do not at all know which 
 they will choose.' 
 
 ' And the chapel, mamma,' said Amy, ' won't Bridget have 
 the chapel cleaned ? When I was last in it, there was such a 
 heap of dust on the old monument near the door.' 
 
 Bridget looked annoyed. ' The chapel is not my department, 
 Miss Amy ; it was given in particular charge to Stephen's niece 
 by ]\Irs Harrington herself; but she is an idle troUoping girl, and 
 always neglects. Stephen,' she added, turning to the old man, 
 who appeared quite absorbed in his own thoughts, — ' Stephen, 
 Miss Amy declares the chapel is dusty.' 
 
 The steward started up like a man awakened from a dream ; 
 and catching only the meaning of the last word of the sentence, 
 exclaimed — ' Dusty ! and whose fault is that, pray "i 
 
 ' Whose, but that fine lady's your niece .-* ' said Bridget, giving 
 way to an irritation of temper which she did not dare to exhibit 
 to INIrs Herbert, and delighted at having something to find fault 
 with. ' She is so busy all day with her flounces and her fur- 
 belows, that she has no time to think of her work.' 
 
 Stephen, now fully alive to everything, looked steadily at Mrs 
 Bridget as she said this ; and then scanning her from head to foot 
 with a half contemptuous smile, muttered — ' Not so very dif- 
 ferent from other people,' and walked away, though it was only 
 a few paces, for his angry feelings were very soon subdued. 
 
 ' I should like to go over the house, Bridget,' said Mrs Her- 
 bert ; 'and after that, perhaps, you will get us some tea ; for the 
 evening is so fine we need not return home till late.'
 
 i6 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 'Dear mnTiima,' said Amy, 'may wc have it in your own 
 room ? I sliould so enjoy it ! you know I like it better than any 
 in the whole house' 
 
 Mrs Herbert made no objection ; for although there were many 
 melancholy ideas connected with this room, yet she felt like Amy, 
 that to her it had more charms than any other. 
 
 1 1 was in nearly the oldest part of the house, and had been 
 occupied by herself and her favourite sister from the time when 
 she was about fifteen, and was considered old enough to leave the 
 schoolroom, and yet too young to go into society. lier mother 
 had fitted it up for them with everj'thing that could be required 
 for their enjoyment ; and here they had been accustomed to spend 
 their mornings together free from interruption, for it was so far 
 removed from the more modern buildings that even the sounds 
 of the visitors' carriages could scarcely reach them. The deep 
 oriel window looked out on the quietest and loveliest part of the 
 pleasure-ground ; and a private door opening upon it, afforded 
 them a free and unobserved access to the garden ; and many were 
 the hours which Mrs Herbert had spent with her sister Edith, 
 reading together under the shade of the large elm trees, with not 
 a thought or wish beyond the enjoyment of the present moment. 
 
 The room was now deserted. The piano was still in its accus- 
 tomed place, but its rich, full tone had become wiry and harsh by 
 time. The table was still standing by the window, but its clear 
 polish had a cold, repulsive appearance. There were no books, 
 no work, no flowers. The chairs were ranged in regular order 
 against the empty bookshelves ; the gay colours of the curtains 
 and ottomans were faded ; and, instead of the bright smile and 
 the merry laugh which had once greeted Mrs Herbert, there was 
 nothing now to tell of the companion of her childhood but the 
 picture which hung over the fire-place. 
 
 But Mrs Herbert did not complain : she had early left a home 
 of happiness for one which was even more delightful to her ; and 
 her sister, who had married likewise, was still in the possession 
 of health and prosperity. She had, therefore, much cause for 
 thankfulness ; and yet she never entered this room and recollected 
 the pleasures of her youth, without a pang, which became the 
 more painful when her husband's long-continued absence gave 
 her so great a cause of anxiety. 
 
 Amy's associations with what had generally been called the 
 oriel room were of a more cheerful character. She had never 
 known it diftercnt from what it now was ; and to her it only
 
 AAfV HERBERT. 17 
 
 brought the remembrance of many happy hours spent there with 
 her mother, in their occasional visits to Emmerton, and particu- 
 larly of various incidents in Mrs Herbert's early life, which were 
 almost sure to be recalled by some object or circumstance con- 
 nected with it. With a secret hope that something of this kind 
 would complete the pleasures of the day, she now followed her 
 mother through the silent, deserted chambers, while directions 
 were given for everything which might render them more com- 
 fortable ; but at last, wearied with listening, she left Mrs Her- 
 bert's side, and wandered by herself into the pleasure-ground, 
 till she became so tired that she was glad to find her way back 
 to the oriel room, where Mrs Bridget, whose great favourite she 
 was (and it was the only point on which Bridget and Stephen 
 agreed), had prepared the tea, and spread the table with fresh 
 fruit and cakes. This was not, to Amy, at all an unpleasing 
 sight ; and v.hen Mrs Herbert caine in, she felt quite inclined to 
 begin her evening meal ; but they had scarcely seated themselves 
 when Amy started back, exclaiming, ' O mamma ! pray look 
 there. Did you ever see such a wretched little object ?' 
 
 Mrs Herbert turned to the window, and saw a miserable eirl, 
 with a pale, haggard countenance and covered with rags, holding 
 out her hand and begging for charity. 
 
 * Dear mamma ! do give her something,' said Amy ; ' she 
 looks so dreadfully hungry.' 
 
 'I will ask her a few questions first,' replied i\Irs Herbert, 
 ' and find out where she comes from, and then we shall know 
 what is best to be done for her. I suppose she found her way 
 into the pleasure-ground through the back lane and the kitchen- 
 garden.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert opened the window ; and, beckoning to the girl 
 to approach, made several inquiries as to her parents, her home, 
 and her present necessities. She seemed sadly frightened ; but 
 answered without hesitation, that her father, who was a common 
 labourer, had lately died, leaving a wife and six children, of 
 whom she was the eldest. It was her mother's wish to return 
 to her parish, thinking she should be better provided for there 
 than amongst strangers. She had set out on the journey ; but, 
 being taken very ill, she had been obliged to stop at a village 
 about a mile and a half distant, where she had spent all her 
 money, and now, being totally destitute, she had sent her child 
 to beg for some assistance. 
 
 ' What will you do for her, mamma?' whispered Amy. 
 
 B
 
 l8 AJ/V HERBERT. 
 
 ' I must know a little more about her before I decide,' replied 
 Mrs Herbert. ' Is there no one in the village,' she added, 
 speaking to the girl, ' who has helped your mother?' 
 
 ' The clergyman's lady has been very good to us, ma'am,' was 
 the reply ; ' but the people of the house want mother to pay for 
 the lodging, and she has no money.' 
 
 ' It is a sad case, if it be true,' said Mrs Herbert ; 'but I will 
 make some inquiries to-morrow ; and now you shall take home 
 something for your supper ; and I will write to the lady who has 
 been so kind to you, and, if you have spoken the truth, she will 
 give your mother something for me.' 
 
 The girl curtsied, and seemed pleased and grateful ; and Amy, 
 whilst her mother -was writing a note, begged that she might 
 take her round to Bridget's room, and give her her supper be- 
 fore she returned home ; and when the girl had left the house 
 with some bread and a bone of meat, Amy went back to her 
 own comfortable meal with a much higher sense of the great- 
 ness of her daily blessings than she had had a quarter of an 
 hour before. 
 
 The idea, however, of so much poverty and suftering in some 
 degree diminished her enjoyment, and she sat for a while thought- 
 ful and silent. At length, turning suddenly to Mrs Herbert, she 
 exclaimed — 
 
 ' Mamma, it is very strange that some people are so poor and 
 others so rich ! ' 
 
 ' It does seem so at first,' replied Mrs Herbert ; ' and we can 
 only account for it by saying, that it is the will of God ; that He 
 alone knows what is good for us nil, and therefore He ordains 
 different things for different people ; and though we consider 
 poverty an evil, yet it is often a very great good, and makes 
 people think of Him and love Him, when they would otherwise 
 forget Him.' 
 
 'But there is such a great, great difference in people,' snid 
 Amy ; ' that poor woman has not a farthing, and my uncle 
 Harrington has thousands a-year, you have told me.' 
 
 ' So he has,' replied Mrs Herbert; 'and yet, in a few years, 
 they may both, perhaps, be equally rich.' 
 
 ' O mamma ! how can that be possible ?' exclaimed Amy. 
 
 ' It may be true to a certain extent, at this very moment, my 
 dear. You know what is meant by being an heir — having a 
 right to certain property or money, which is to be received at 
 some future period. Now, it is more than probable that your
 
 AMV HERBERT. 19 
 
 uncle with all his riches, and that poor woman in the midst of 
 her sufferings, have both the same expectations for the future.' 
 
 ' Not on earth, mamma ! ' observed Amy. 
 
 ' No, my love,' replied INIrs Herbert ; ' but a person is not the 
 less an heir because he will not receive his inheritance until 
 he is admitted to heaven. I remember that I first learned to 
 think upon this subject when I was about two years younger 
 than you are nov.'.' 
 
 ' Do tell me how, mamma ! ' exclaimed Amy, her eyes spark- 
 ling with delight : '' it must be one of your stories about the 
 time when you were a little girl.' 
 
 * It is not quite a story, Amy, and, at any rate, it is rather a 
 grave one ; so, perhaps, we had better wait till you are c[uite in 
 the humour,' 
 
 ' Oh ! but I am quite in the humour always, mamma ; and I 
 think I like grave stories best. Will it be a long one ?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Mrs Herbert ; ' neither long nor amusing , and 
 yet, perhaps, it may interest you, as it may help to explain a 
 subject on which you have often heard me speak, and which it 
 is very necessary you should understand and think about. 
 
 ' The time I am going to tell you of was, as I mentioned just 
 now, when I was about ten years old and your uncle Harrington 
 one-and-twenty. Persons at that age are, you know, considered 
 capable of taking cai'e of their property ; and the day of their 
 attaining it is very often marked by great rejoicings, in the case 
 of those who have the expectation of a large inheritance. This 
 was your uncle's situation, and great preparations were made for 
 several weeks before, that the event might be properly celebrated. 
 Invitations were sent to all our friends, who were then very 
 numerous, and many came from a distance to spend some days 
 with us. A dinner was to be given to the tenants and the school 
 children ; there were to be fireworks let off from the terrace in 
 the evening, and a band of music was engaged for the occasion ; — 
 and all this was to do honour to my brother. You may imagine 
 how much I was interested in it, and how very delightful I 
 thought it must be to be in his place. I do not think I ever 
 longed for anything in my whole life so much as I did for the 
 arrival of this day. I could talk of nothing else, — I could think of 
 nothing else ; and I am afraid I gave mygovcrncss, Miss Karwood, 
 very much trouble for a whole week, I was so inattentive to my 
 lessons. At length it came — the long-wishcd-for twenty-ninth 
 of June ; and certainly it was as lovely a day as I could possibly
 
 20 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 have desired. I remember waking very early, and jumping out 
 of my bed to look at the weather. The sky was of a deep rich 
 blue, with only a faint mist over the distance, foretelling the heat 
 of the noonday. From my window I could see far over the 
 country, and everything that I could distinctly view was my 
 father's property. I called to my sister Kdith, and made her 
 come to the window, to enjoy the perfect beauty of the morning; 
 and I can Avell recollect saying to her, with a half-envious sigh, 
 " Should you not like to be Charles, and to think that all this was 
 to be your own?" Your aunt. Amy, was of a very sweet, con- 
 tented disposition, and she checked me for the wish, and said that 
 she was thankful for her brother's blessings, but she could hnrdly 
 desire them for herself, — she was afraid she should not make a 
 good use of them. We stood for some time together ; but said 
 very little, for there was such a perfect stillness reigning around 
 that it almost seemed as if it would be wrong to break it. Pre- 
 sently, however, we heard the sound of distant music ; it came 
 nearer and nearer, and we soon recognised the sweet voices of 
 the village children, who had been sent to pay this first mark of 
 respect to their young master. 
 
 ' I cannot describe how beautil'ul it sounded to me, though 
 perhaps it was only because I was in a state of such excitement, 
 and so inclined to find delight in everything ; but I know that 1 
 listened to it v.ilh breathless attention, and when I turned to look 
 at Edith, there was a tear in her eye, and I do not think that she, 
 though so much calmer in disposition, has ever forgotten, any 
 more than myself, the tones of that simple hymn.' 
 
 ' But, mamma,' interrupted Amy, 'the children never sing so 
 beautifully now?' 
 
 'I do not mean, my dear,' replied Mrs Herbert, 'that the 
 music was really so very much better than what I had usually 
 heard, though I dare say they had had a great deal of pains taken 
 with them. But you will find, as you grow older, that many 
 things which are in themselves common, will appear delightful 
 to you if you are inclined to be particularly happy ; and so it was 
 with me on that morning. Edith and myself stayed so long at 
 the window, even after the children's singing was over, that we 
 were only just dressed by the time the bell rang for morning 
 prayers, and when we entered the chapel, it was quite full. All 
 the servants of the family, with those of our numerous guests 
 and a few of my father's tenants, were ranged on the long oaken 
 benches in the aisle ; the seats for the gentlemen were occupied
 
 AMY HERBERT. 21 
 
 by my father, my brother, and their friends ; and the ladies' 
 gallery, in which we were, was also crowded. I felt quite 
 frightened when I went in, for many of those present were 
 strangers to me, having arrived late the night before ; but I took 
 my place between Edith and IVIiss Harwood, and the service 
 began. It was read by my brother's tutor, a clergyman who 
 lived in the family ; and when it was over, the party assembled 
 in the breakfast-room, but we were considered too young to join 
 it, and we came back to what was then the schoolroom — the 
 very room in which we now are, Amy — to be with Miss Harwood 
 and the younger children till it should be time for us to wait upon 
 the poor people, who were to have a dinner given them on the 
 lawn, in front of the house. All that I could think of was the 
 grandeur of my brother's situation, and the pleasure of having so 
 many persons assembled to do honour to oneself. I could not 
 fix my attention to anything, but could only count the hours till 
 two o'clock, and run occasionally to the top of the great stair- 
 case to look at what was going on below, for preparations were 
 making on a large scale for the evening's entertainment; ser- 
 vants were constantly passing and repassing, and I heard my 
 brother's name repeated by almost every one. At length Edith 
 and I were told to go into the servants' hall, where the school 
 children were to meet, and to place them in order, that they 
 might walk regularly, two and two, to the ground where the 
 dinner was laid. This was to me most welcome news ; for I was 
 tired of being nearly the only useless person in the midst of so 
 much bustle, and we spent at least a quarter of an hour endeav- 
 ouring to make them understand which were to go together, and 
 how they were to behave, and distributing some little coloured 
 banners which we had amused ourselves with preparing for the 
 occasion ; and when the great bell sounded, Edith and myself 
 walked before them to the ground. My father and his guests 
 were assembled on the terrace, and my brother stood by my 
 father's side exactly in the centre. The children and their 
 parents, and the rest of the tenants, were ranged at their several 
 tables ; and then, when the steward had called for silence, they 
 all rose, and my father spoke to them, in a voice so clear that I 
 think it must have been heard by every one. He told them of 
 the gratification it was to him to see them all before him, and of 
 the certainty he felt of their good-will towards him, with many 
 more expressions of the same kind ; and then, taking my brother 
 by the hand, he led him forward to the edge of the terrace, and
 
 22 AMY HERB ERT 
 
 presented him to them as his heir, and their future master, saying 
 that he trusted he would always prove himself their true friend ; 
 ?.nd that when he should be laid in his grave, my brother might 
 receive from them, and from their children, the same marks of 
 sincere attachment which they had always shown to himself. 
 
 'A general burst of applause followed this speech of my 
 father's, and the words "Long live the young master !" were heard 
 from every lip ; even the children joined in the cry ; and when 
 the excitement had a little subsided, my brother also spoke. He 
 was extremely frightened, and I could not hear all that he said ; 
 but I was told afterwards that he thanked them for their reception 
 of him, and added that he hoped it would be very long before he 
 should be called on to act as their master ; but that, when that 
 time should arrive, it would be his one earnest endeavour to fol- 
 low his father's footsteps. As he concluded, another loud cheer 
 was given by the tenants, and just as it was dying away I heard 
 a voice behind me say, in a deep, suppressed tone, " May God in 
 heaven bless him ! and may he one day be the possessor of a far 
 richer inheritance !" I was quite startled at the solemnity with 
 which the words were spoken, and I did not at the moment un- 
 derstand their meaning. They seemed to be quite involuntary, 
 and were certainly not intended to be overheard ; and I turned 
 quickly to see who was near. I was standing between the two 
 tables, and on my right hand was a young man whose face I did 
 not at all recollect. He appeared about my brother's age ; but 
 instead of Charles' healthy complexion and strong limbs, he 
 looked completely worn by disease. There was not the slightest 
 tinge of colour in his cheeks ; his eyes were deep sunk in his 
 head, and even his lips were of an ashy paleness, and the hand 
 by which he supported himself, as he leant rather than stood 
 against the table, was more like that of a skeleton than of a 
 living being ; his clothes were neat and clean, but showed marks 
 of great poverty ; and, in fact, I had seldom seen such indications 
 of extreme sickness and want.' 
 
 ' Poor man ! ' exclaimed Amy ; ' was he really unhappy, 
 mamma ? ' 
 
 * No, my love,' replied Mrs Herbert. * I was just going to tell 
 you that, notwithstanding all these symptoms of suffering, he 
 looked perfectly contented, and there was even a smile upon his 
 face. I watched him as he seated himself after the speeches were 
 ended, and saw that he was quite exhausted ; he ate little or 
 nothing; and, before the dinner was oves, he was obliged to leave
 
 JJ/V HERBERT. 23 
 
 ihe ground, assisted by an elderly woman, whom I knew very 
 well, and who was in very distressed circumstances. I could not 
 help thinking, as he slowly walked away, of the vast difference 
 there was between him and my brother in everything ; and the 
 same question arose in my mind which you asked me just now, 
 Amy, "Why God should make some people rich and others poor?" 
 but there was no one near me then to answer it. The remainder 
 of the afternoon was spent by us in setting the village children to 
 play, and resting ourseh^s in the schoolroom. And when the 
 heat of the day began to lessen, and we knew that the company 
 were at dinner. Miss Harwood proposed that we should go to the 
 top of the hill at the side of the house, which was our favourite 
 walk, where we should piobably see a magnificent sunset, and 
 return in time to be dressed for the drawing-room. 
 
 ' I was so restless, that it was a great relief to have some 
 occupation found for me, and I enjoyed the thought of the cool 
 evening air after the fatigue and sultriness of the morning ; and 
 I determined also that I would, if I could manage it, get Miss 
 Harwood alone, and ask her to explain what had so puzzled me, 
 and find out from her who the poor man was who had left the 
 table, for his face seemed constantly before me, with its expression 
 of great suflering, and yet of quiet happiness. Edith and I set 
 out together ; but I soon left her with the others, searching for 
 wild flowers, and joined Miss Harwood. We easily outstripped 
 them, and reached the top of the hill long before they had half 
 filled their baskets. Miss Harwood always noticed any change 
 in us, and she asked me why I was so fond of getting away from 
 the rest, and whether I should not be much happier with them 
 than with her. I had no concealment from her any more than 
 you have from mc, Amy, and I told her directly what I wanted 
 to ask her, and how I had wondered to see that poor man appar- 
 ently so destitute when my brother had everything that the world 
 could give him. She gave me very much the same answer that 
 I have given you, that it was the will of God, and that He knew 
 what was good for us, and often sent us sufferings to teach us to 
 think of Him ; and then she added that she knew the poor man 
 well, and had been present when he and my brother had both 
 been declared heirs of a far richer inheritance than any that my 
 father had to bestow. I felt surprised ; and the exclamation I 
 had heard in the morning, and which before I had scarcely 
 thought of, flashed upon my memory. I supposed Miss Har- 
 wood's words must have som.e allusion to it, though I could not
 
 24 AM]' HERBERT. 
 
 understand liow ; and I eagerly asked why the poor man did not 
 obtain any benefit from his inheritance. " He does obtain a 
 great benefit from it at this moment," rephed Miss Harwood, 
 ahnost sadly ; "and I do not doubt that, in a very short time, 
 he will be admitted to possess ait least a portion of it." You may 
 imagine how desirous I was of having this mystery explained ; 
 but when I looked at Miss Harwood, I saw that she was think- 
 ing of something very serious, and a sudden notion of her mean- 
 ing came into my mind. "You mean an inheritance in heaven?" 
 I said, half doubting whether I might not be wrong. A smile of 
 pleasure passed across Miss Ilarwood's face as she answered, 
 " Yes, Ellen, you are quite right ; and I will tell you what I 
 meant when I said that he was made an heir of heaven. It is 
 now many years ago, I was staying at Emmerton, soon after 
 your brothei-'s birth, and long before I thought of ever being a 
 governess. On the day on which he was baptized I went with 
 your father, and several of his friends, to the village church. I 
 stood at the font with the godfathers and his godmother (who, 
 you know, are called sponsors), and I heard the clergyman 
 ask them some very solemn questions, which they were required 
 to answer in your brother's name. He then took him in his 
 arms, sprinkled him with water in the name of the Father, and 
 of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, and marked on his forehead 
 the sign of the cross ; and, giving him back to his nurse, he de- 
 clared him to be one of that society or set of persons who form 
 what is called the Church, and to whom God has promised His 
 kingdom. From that moment," continued Miss Harwood, "your 
 brother was made a Christian and an heir of glory, such as we 
 cannot imagine ; the sins of his original evil nature were for- 
 given him, and a new spirit was implanted in him ; and when I 
 looked at him, as he lay in his nurse's arms, I could not help 
 thinking that it would be happier for him if it were to please 
 God to take him at once to Himself, before he could by any sin 
 of his own forfeit his innocence, and risk the loss of his eternal 
 inheritance. But," she added, " he was not the only one who on 
 that day received the promise of the kingdom of heaven. Besides 
 our own party, there stood by the font four of our poor neigh- 
 bours, some, indeed, of the poorest in the parish. One of them 
 held a sickly-looking infant, wrapped in a coarse kind of cloak ; 
 and when Charles had been baptized, this child was given to the 
 clergyman. The same questions were asked, the same water 
 was sprinkled upon him. the same words were pronounced, the
 
 AMV HERBERT. 2$ 
 
 same sign was marked on his forehead, and then he also was 
 restored to his parents, a Christian, and an heir of everlasting 
 happiness. Notwithstanding the vast difference in their outward 
 circumstances, there was none in the eye of God ; both had 
 received infinite blessings, both were engaged to keep the most 
 solemn promises, 
 
 '"Your brother, Ellen," continued JMiss Harwood, "has grown 
 up in the midst of every earthly luxury, and has to-day been de- 
 clared heir to a splendid property : the other child was bred in 
 poverty, and accustomed to the severest privations. He was 
 early obliged to leave his home, and work for his livelihood 
 amongst strangers ; and now he has returned to his mother, who 
 is a widow, and nearly destitute, completely broken in health, 
 and with no prospect before him but that of a speedy death. 
 Which do you think is the more to be envied V 
 
 ' I was silent, for I knew that I would far rather be my 
 brother, the possessor of health and riches, than a poor man in 
 need of everything. Do you think I was right, Amy.?' 
 
 ' If the poor man went to heaven, mamma,' said Amy, ' I sup- 
 pose he would have everything there that he could desire .'" 
 
 'Yes, my love,' replied Mrs Herbert, ' he would indeed ; and 
 yet, though I knew this then as you do now, I could not easily 
 forget all the respect that I had seen shown to my brother 
 that morning, and I did not like to say anything that was not 
 true. 
 
 'Miss Harwood waited for a few moments, and then said, 
 " Look, Ellen, at the park, and the woods beneath us, and the 
 pretty little village beyond — you know it is all your father's— is 
 it not very lovely.'"' 
 
 '"Yes!" I replied, surprised at the question. 
 
 ' " But now look farther," said Miss Harwood ; " do you not see 
 what a vast extent of country there is on the other side, stretch- 
 ing away till it reaches the sea? The owner of all that property 
 would be a much greater person than even your father." 
 
 ' " Yes, indeed he would," I said, as I turned in the direction to 
 which she pointed. 
 
 ' " But now, Ellen, look once more," said Miss Harwood, " over 
 the sea into the sky — look at that mass of brilliant purple and 
 golden clouds, behind which the sun is now sinking; do you not 
 see, far away to the right, a pale bright star?— it is the only one 
 which has yet appeared; but in a short time the whole firma- 
 ment will be studded with millions and millions like it. Each of
 
 26 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 those stars is, as ) ou well know, a world ; and wc may believe 
 infinitely more perfect than ours. If it be a great thing to be the 
 child of one who owns so beautiful an estate as your father, must 
 it not be a far greater to be the child of Him who not merely 
 owns, but who created those glorious worlds?" 
 
 '"But my brother," I said, " was made the child of God as well 
 as that poor man." 
 
 '"Yes," replied Miss Harwood ; "and we may hope thnt when 
 it shall be the will of God that he should die, he also may inherit 
 the blessing which has been promised him, but his trial is yet to 
 come : he may be tempted to do wrong, and forget God, and he 
 may, therefore, lose it ; but that poor man's trial will in all pro- 
 bability soon be over. I know that he has endeavoured to keep 
 the vow made for him at his baptism, and trusts only to the 
 merits of his Saviour for salvation, and therefore I have but little 
 fear for him ; but I do feel for your brother, because I know he 
 is in the midst of great temptations." 
 
 ' These words sounded very strangely to me, — it seemed as if 
 ]\Iis5 Harwood were pitying Charles, instead of envying him, as 
 I did; and I was going to ask her some more questions, when 
 Edith and my other sisters came running towards us, telling us 
 that they had gathered a most beautiful nosegay, and wished now 
 to return home. They began laughing at me for running away 
 from them ; but they could not make me join in their merriment, 
 for I could only think of all that Miss Harwood had been saying; 
 and even when we reached the house, and were dressed for the 
 evening, I still remembered it. 
 
 ' The large saloon was lighted up when we entered, and there 
 were a great many people assembled, all gaily dressed, and 
 walking up and down whilst the band was playing. My brother 
 was noticed by every one, and was evidently considered the chief 
 person, and I felt that I should have been happy to be him ; but 
 then Miss Harwood's words recurred to my mind, and I became 
 thoughtful ; for I knew that although he might be the heir of 
 earthly grandeur, yet that, if he were to do wrong, and lose the 
 promise of heaven, he must be miserable. We were not allowed 
 to stay very long. Amy, and therefore I cannot give you a great 
 description of the ball. I only remember how very tired I was 
 when I went to bed, and that my last thoughts were of my 
 conversation with Miss Harwood, and of my brother and the 
 poor man.' 
 
 ' Is that all, mamma?' said Amy.
 
 AJ/y HERBERT. 27 
 
 *Vcs, my dear,' replied Airs Herbert; 'you know I told you it 
 v.-as not a very interesting story.' 
 
 ' I did not mean that, mamma,' said Amy ; ' for I have liked it 
 \-cry much ; but I was thinking of the poor man. Did you never 
 see him again?' 
 
 'Only once,' replied Mrs Herbert; 'for he was too ill, after 
 that day, to leave his home. It was one afternoon when I had 
 been with Miss Harwood into the village ; and, as we were 
 returning, we passed his cottage door; he was seated at it, 
 supported by pillows, and looking even worse than on the day 
 of the fete. Miss Harwood had a basket of fruit for him, and 
 she stopped and talked to him for some little time. I cannot 
 tell you all that passed, Amy, for I did not entirely understand 
 it myself, and some of it was too solemn to be repeated again; 
 but I well remember the peaceful expression of the poor man's 
 countenance, and that he said he vv'ould not exchange his pro- 
 spect of happiness for anything earth could give ; he also men- 
 tioned my brother, and seemed to feel a great interest for him. 
 But there was nothing like envy at what appeared to me so much 
 more desirable a lot: he looked, and indeed he was, perfectly 
 contented; and a few days after, I was told by Miss Harwood 
 that he was dead.' 
 
 'And what became of his mother?' asked Amy. 
 
 ' .She is living still in the village, and in the same cottage ; for 
 although it is almost a hovel, she cannot afford anything more 
 comfortable: and I hardly think she would change it if she 
 could ; for she has often said to me, that it was there her husband 
 and her child died, and she should never love any place so welL 
 But you have frequently seen her, my dear; do you not re- 
 member the little thatched cottage next the blacksmith's shop, 
 and the old woman we often notice spinning at the door?' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' said Amy, — ' old widow Watson ; but she is very 
 cheerful.' 
 
 ' She has the same cause for cheerfulness that her son had,' 
 replied Mrs Herbert. ' But now. Amy, do you understand from 
 my story why I said that the mother of the poor little ragged girl 
 we saw just now has probably as great a prospect of future 
 happiness as your uncle Harrington ?' 
 
 'Yes, mamma, if she has been baptized : but we are not sure 
 of that.' 
 
 'We may hope that she has been,' replied her mother; 'but 
 that which I am most desirous you should ihink of, is not so
 
 28 AA/y HERBERT. 
 
 much the case of that poor child as your own. You can have no 
 doubt of your baptism, and you may therefore feel quite certain 
 of having had a promise made to you ; and when you grow older, 
 and begin to know what the troubles of life really are, you will 
 be able to appreciate the blessing of having something to hope 
 for and expect beyond the pleasures of the world.' 
 
 * Everybody who is grown up talks of having had a great deal 
 of sorrow, mamma,' said Amy ; ' and so I suppose it is true : and 
 sometimes I feci quite frightened, and wish I could be always 
 young ; for I am very happy now, and when my cousins come, I 
 do not think I shall ever want anything more.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert looked rather grave as she answered, ' I am 
 afraid, my dear, that your cousins' arrival may make a great 
 change in many of your ideas. They have been brought up very 
 differently from you, and you will see them dressed in fine clothes, 
 and with servants to wait on them, and carriages to drive about 
 in ; and then, perhaps, you will become envious and discontented.' 
 
 * O mamma ! ' exclaimed Am}-, ' how can you think so, when 
 I shall have you with me ? ' 
 
 ' I wish I could teach you, my love, how much better it is to 
 be the child of God than to be my child,' replied Mrs Herbert 
 ' I should have no fears for you then ; for you would not care 
 for the grandeur and riches which you will see your cousins 
 possess, and you would always be happy whether 1 were with 
 you or not.' 
 
 ' Mamma,' said Amy, ' you have often talked lately of my 
 living without you ; but it makes me so very miserable to think 
 of it, I wish you would not mention it.' 
 
 'You must not give way to this kind of feeling, my dear 
 child,' answered her mother ; ' for wc must bear whatever God 
 thinks fit to appoint. But I cannot talk any more now : you 
 shall go into the garden till the carriage is ready, and leave me 
 alone, for I am sadly tired.' 
 
 * I do not like to leave you,' said Amy, ' you look so pale and 
 
 ill ; and you never used to do so. Oh, how I wish ,* but 
 
 here she stopped, fearing lest the mention of her father's name 
 might increase her mother's grief. 
 
 You need not be afraid,' replied Mrs Herbert, with a half 
 smile, though she well knew what was uppermost in her child's 
 mind ; ' all that I require is rest and quiet.' 
 
 Amy said no more, but placed a glass of water by her mother's 
 side, and left the room.
 
 AMY HERBERT. 2g 
 
 When she was gone, Mrs Herbert closed her eyes, and seemed 
 as if endeavouring to sleep ; but the working of her forehead, 
 and the pressure of her lips, showed that there was no repose of 
 the mind. Solitude only brought before her more clearly the 
 image of her husband in a distant land — perhaps ill and unhappy, 
 it might be dying ; but it was necessary for her own health, and 
 for Amy's happiness, that she should struggle against these sad 
 forebodings ; and although a few tears at first rolled slowly down 
 her cheek, and she felt that it was almost impossible to prevent 
 herself from giving way to her grief, she did at length succeed in 
 turning her mind to the consideration of the watchful providence 
 and mercy of God ; and by the time Amy returned with the an- 
 nouncement that the carriage was ready, she had quite regained 
 her tranquillity. 
 
 Stephen was at the door as they drove off, and bade them 
 good-bye with a happier look than was h'.s wont ; though, when 
 Amy asked him if he were not delighted at the thought of all the 
 carriages and horses he should soon see, he scarcely smiled as he 
 answered, ' Ah ! yes, Miss Amy, 'twill be very fine ; but there 
 will be no one now to ride the Shetland pony in the park;' 
 and he turned his head and walked quickly away. Mrs Bridget's 
 civilities, now that she knew how much depended on Mrs 
 Herbert's good opinion, were greater than usual ; and many 
 were the hopes she expressed that everything had been satis- 
 factory in the house, and that dear little Miss Amy had liked the 
 cake and strawberries. But Mrs Herbert was too tired to listen 
 long to her speeches, and expressed her approbation in few 
 v/ords ; and Amy, who liked Stephen a great deal better than 
 Bridget, declared that it was all quite delicious, and then ran 
 after the old steward to say good-bye onrc more. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 * nPHERE are only six days now, mamma,' said Amy, as she 
 -L sat at work by her mother's side, about a week after their 
 visit to Emmerton ; ' only six days, and then my cousins will be 
 come ; but they seem dreadfully long ; and I have been thinking, 
 too, that perhaps I shall not be liked ; and if so, you know all 
 my pleasure will be at an cncL'
 
 30 AMV HERBERT, 
 
 ' You had better not tliink anytliing about that, my dear,' 
 answered Mrs Herbert ; ' it is nearly the certain way of pre- 
 venting yourself from being agreeable. If you arc good-natured 
 and sweet-tempered, there is very little doubt of your being liked ; 
 but if you make any great efforts to please, you will probably 
 be led into saying and doing things that are not quite natural, 
 and you will at once become disagreeable ; besides, you may be 
 tempted to act wrongly in order to suit your cousins' inclina- 
 tions. You know, Amy, we ought to try not to be liked, but to 
 be good.' 
 
 ' But will you just tell me everything about my cousins, 
 mamma, that I may know what to expect ? There will be Dora, 
 and Margaret, and Frank, and Rose ; four of them. Now, what 
 will Dora be like ? ' 
 
 ' I really can tell you very little,' replied Mrs Herbert ; ' it is 
 a long time since I have seen any of them, and you have heard 
 almost as much as I have. Dora, I believe, has been brought 
 forward a good deal, and probably, therefore, considers herself 
 older than she really is ; she must be more than fourteen, and 1 
 should think would not be so much your companion as Margaret, 
 who is a year younger. Frank you will not see a great deal of, 
 as he is at school the chief part of the year ; though, perhaps, 
 now, the difference of his position in the family may make some 
 change in his fathers plans for him. Little Rose, who is not 
 quite six, is the pet of the whole house, and especially doated 
 upon by her mother ; and this is nearly all the information I can 
 give you.' 
 
 ' And will the young lady I have so often heard you speak of 
 come with them, or will my aunt teach them as you do me ? ' 
 
 ' She will come with them, I have no doubt,' replied Mrs 
 Herbert ; ' for although your aunt objects to a regular governess, 
 and has educated your cousins almost entirely herself, yet, lately, 
 Miss Morton has assisted her very much in their music and 
 d ''awing.' 
 
 * Miss ■Morton is the daughter of a clergyman who lived very 
 near Wayland — is she not, mamma ? ' said Amy. 
 
 * Yes,' answered her mother. ' He died suddenly, and his 
 wife only survived him about a month, and this poor girl was 
 left quite unprovided for. Some of her relations interested 
 themselves for her, and placed her at a very excellent school, 
 where she had great advantages ; and having a superior talent 
 for music and drawing, she made very rapid progress. When
 
 ■ AMY HERBERT. 31 
 
 she was nearly nineteen, she entered your uncle's family, and 
 has lived with them now for two years.' 
 
 ' Will she be with them always ? ' asked Amy, ' or will she 
 have separate rooms, as I have heard most governesses have ?' 
 
 ' I believe she has been accustomed to have a sitting-room to 
 herself,' said jNIrs Herbert ; ' or, at least the schoolroom has 
 been considered hers, and she seldom joins the rest of the party,' 
 
 ' Poor thing ! ' said Amy ; 'without any father or mother, it 
 must be very sad in the long winter evenings.' 
 
 i\lrs Herbert thought the same, but she did not wish to express 
 her opinion ; and Amy, having finished her work, was told to 
 go and prepare for a walk, her mother being glad to find an 
 excuse for breaking off the conversation, and so avoiding any 
 further questions. 
 
 The arrival of her brother's family was, indeed, a subject of 
 anxious consideration for IMrs Herbert. It must have a great 
 influence on Amy's mind, either for good or evil ; and there was 
 much reason to fear that the evil would preponderate. Mr 
 Harrington was a man of high honour and extreme benevolence ; 
 but he was constitutionally indolent, and had allowed his wife 
 to gain so much influence over him, that the management of 
 everything was chiefly in her hands. It certainly might have 
 been entrusted to worse, for Mrs Harrington had good judg- 
 ment, superior sense in all worldly aftairs, and a never-failing 
 activit}-. Her establishment was the best ordered, her dinners 
 were the best dressed, her farm and dairy were the best supplied 
 of any in the county — all was in a style of first-rate elegance, 
 without any pretension or extravagance, but when she attempted 
 to apply her sense and her activity to the management of her 
 children, she failed essentially, for the one thing was wanting — ■ 
 she had no real principle of religion. 
 
 She had, it is true, taken care that they should be taught their 
 Catechism, almost as soon as they could speak ; but she had 
 never endeavoured to explain to them its meaning ; they had 
 been accustomed to repeat a hasty prayer every morning and 
 evening, but they had never learned how solemn a duty they were 
 performing ; and every Sunday they had been in the habit of 
 reading a chapter in the Bible, but it was hurried through with- 
 out the smallest thought, partly as a task, and partly as a means 
 of passing away the time. If it had not been for this great defi- 
 ciency, Mrs Harrington would have been well calculated for the 
 task of education ; caring, however, only for accomplishments
 
 32 AA/y HERBERT. " 
 
 wliich might make a show in the world, she considered the cul- 
 tivation of her children's minds a matter of secondary import- 
 ance ; and although she was desirous they should be clever and 
 well-read, that they mip;ht appear to advantage in society, she 
 thought very little of the effect their studies might have upon 
 their general character. 
 
 From these circumstances, as might easily be supposed, Dora 
 and Margaret grew up with all their natural evil inclinations 
 unchecked and the good unimproved. Dora's temper, originally 
 haughty, had become year by year more overbearing, as she 
 found that, from her father's rank and fortune, and from being 
 herself the eldest daughter of the family, she could exact attention, 
 not only from her brothers and sisters, but from most of her play- 
 mates, and all the servants and dependents ; and if occasionally 
 she excited her mother's displeasure, when a music lesson had 
 been particularly bad, or a drawing very carelessly executed, her 
 talents easily enabled her to regain that place in Mrs Harring- 
 ton's affection, which depended so much upon external superiority. 
 And yet, under good guidance, Dora Harrington might have 
 become a very admirable person. Her disposition was generous 
 and candid, and her feelings were warm and easily excited ; but 
 her pride and self-will had hitherto marred every better quality. 
 
 Margaret was very different: she was more inclined to be 
 gentle and yielding, but this rather from indolence than amiabi- 
 lity ; and her vanity and selfishness rendered her, perhaps, even 
 less agreeable than her sister, when she became more intimately 
 known. There was, indeed, one peculiarity about her, which, on 
 a fust acquaintance, was very winning — a great desire of gaining 
 the love of others ! and for this purpose she would use the most 
 affectionate expressions, and profess the greatest interest in their 
 happiness ; but her young companions soon found that she was 
 seldom willing to make the sacrifice of her own inclinations to 
 theirs ; and persons who were older, and could see deeper into 
 her character, discovered that her love of affection differed but 
 little from her love of admiration, as she only valued it because 
 it gained her attention ; and the same vanity which made her 
 delight in the praises of her delicate complexion, and fair hair, 
 and bright blue eyes, made her also take pleasure in knowing that 
 she was an object of interest and regard to those around her. 
 
 Such were probably to be Amy's companions for the next few 
 years of her life. Rose being too young to be considered of the 
 number ; and it was well for Mrs Herbert's happiness that sh"
 
 AMY HERBERT. 33 
 
 was little aware of their dispositions. Yet she had some fears as 
 to the principle on which her nieces had been educated; and she 
 could not but be thankful that she should, as she hoped, be at 
 hand for at least some time to come, to watch the effect of the 
 intimacy upon Amy's mind, and to warn her against any evil 
 which might result from it ; as she felt that, in the event of her 
 own death and her husband's prolonged absence, it would be 
 upon her brother's family alone that she could depend for friend- 
 ship and protection to her almost orphan child. 
 
 Amy herself, with all the thoughtlessness of her age, looked 
 forward to nothing but enjoyment ; and when the first rays of 
 the sun shone through her window, on the morning of the day 
 that was to witness her meeting with her cousins, and awakened 
 her from her quiet sleep and her peaceful dreams, it was only to 
 give her the expectation of a yet brighter reality. For the next 
 hour she lay awake, imagining the grandeur of Emmerton Hall iii 
 its best furniture, the delight of driving in her uncle's carriage, 
 and the probability that she might have beautiful presents made 
 her, — new books, or a watch, or a pony, or, what would be still 
 better, a pony-chaise for her mamma, now that she was unable 
 to walk far. She even went on to count up the books she should 
 wish for, and to settle the colour of the pony, not doubting that 
 her uncle would be willing to give her everything ; for she had 
 always been told he was very kind ; and a person who could live 
 at Emmerton, she was sure, must be able to purchase whatever he 
 desired. 
 
 ' O mamma, I am so happy!' was her first exclamation, as 
 she seated herself at the breakfast-table. ' Do see what a beau- 
 tiful day it is; and I have been awake so long this morning, 
 thinking over what we shall do in the afternoon. I am sure you 
 must be happy too.' 
 
 ' Happy to see you so, my love,' said Mrs Herbert, as she 
 kissed her. 
 
 ' But why not happy in yourself, mamma; are you ill?' and 
 she looked at Mrs Herbert anxiously ; then suddenly becoming 
 grave, she said, ' Dear mamma, it was very wrong in me, but I 
 did not think about poor Edward.' 
 
 * It was very natural, my dear, and you need not be distressed 
 because you cannot feel for him as I do, who knew him when he 
 was a healthy, merry child, the delight of every one.' 
 
 'Then there is no harm in being happy ?' said Amy ; 'but I 
 will try to be so to myself, though I should like you to sniile
 
 34 ^-'^^y HERBERT. 
 
 too ; but, perhaps, you will when you sec them quite settled at 
 Emmcrton.' 
 
 ' I hope every one will be reconciled to the loss in time,' 
 replied Mrs Heibcrt ; 'and, perhaps, Amy, it will be a greater 
 pleasure to me, by and by, to know that your uncle is so near 
 than it will be to you.' 
 
 ' O mamma ! how can that be ? you know you are so much 
 older ; and you always tell me that grown-up people do not enjoy 
 things so much as children.' 
 
 ' But supposing, my dear, that your cousins' being at Emmer- 
 ton should make you envious and discontented with your own 
 home, you would not be happy then ?' 
 
 For a few moments Amy did not speak ; a grave expression 
 came over her face ; and, allowing her breakfast to remain un- 
 touched, she sat apparently deep in thought. At last she said, 
 ' Mamma, people must be very unhappy w hen they are envious. 
 
 'Yes, indeed they must,' replied Mrs Herbert; 'for they 
 are always longing for things which God has not chosen to give 
 them, and are unthankful for those which they possess ; besides, 
 they often dislike the persons whom they fancy more blessed than 
 themselves.' 
 
 'And should you love me, mamma, if I were envious ?' con- 
 tinued Amy, looking intently at her mother as she spoke. 
 
 ' It would be a dreadful thing indeed, my love, which would 
 prevent me from loving you ; but I should be very, very sorry 
 to see you so.' 
 
 Again Amy was silent, and began eating her breakfast hastily ; 
 but it seemed an effort, and Mrs Herbert presently saw that the 
 tears were fast rolling down her cheeks. 
 
 ' Amy, my dear child, what is the matter ?' she exclaimed. 
 
 Amy tried to answer, but her voice failed her ; and rising 
 from her seat she hid her face on her mother's neck, and then said, 
 in a low tone, ' Mamma, I know I have been envious.' 
 
 ' If you have, my dear, you are, I am sure, very sorry for it 
 now ; and you must not vex yourself too much when you discover 
 you have a fault, since you know that if you pray to God He will 
 forgive you, and help you to overcome it.' 
 
 ' But, mamma,' said Amy, ' I did not think it was envy till 
 just now. It was the other evening when we came back Irom 
 Emmerton, and I was fancying how beautiful the house would 
 be when it was all furnished, and how I should like to live there ; 
 and then, when we got n€-T.r ho«ie, I did not like the cottage as
 
 AMY HERBERT. 35 
 
 much as I used to do, it appeared so small ; and I began to think 
 I should be happier if I were one of my cousins, and had a 
 carriage, and horses, and servants. But, O mamma ! it -was very 
 wicked' — and here Amy's tears again fell fast — 'for I forgot 
 that I had you.' 
 
 'The feeling was very natural,' said Mrs Herbert, 'though 
 I will not say it was right. I have often been afraid lest see- 
 ing your nearest relations so much richer than yourself might 
 make you uncomfortable ; but you know I told you before, that 
 God sends to each of us some particular trial or temptation, to 
 prove whether we will love and serve Him, or give way to our 
 own evil inclinations ; and this will probably be yours through 
 the greater part of your life. But when the feeling of envy 
 arises in )our heart, will you, my darling Amy, pray to God to 
 help you, and teach you to remember that at your baptism you 
 received the promise of infinitely greater happiness and glory than 
 any which this world can give ? And now you must finish your 
 breakfast, or you will make yourself quite ill and unfit for the 
 day's pleasure ; and, after our reading and your morning lessons, 
 we will have a very early dinner, so that we may have time to 
 call at Colworth parsonage before we go to Emmerton. Mrs 
 Saville has sent me word, that the story the poor girl told us the 
 other evening is quite true, and I should like to inquire how her 
 mother is.' 
 
 Amy reseated herself at the breakfast-table ; but she could not 
 easily recover her spirits, and during the whole morning there 
 was a grave tone in her voice, and a slight melancholy in her 
 countenance, which only disappeared when Mr Walton's carriage 
 came to the door at two o'clock, and she found herself actually on 
 the road to Emmerton to receive her cousins. The increased 
 distance by Colworth was about two miles, and, at another time, 
 it would have added to her enjoyment to go by a new road ; but 
 every moment's unnecessary delay now made her feel impatient, 
 and she was only quieted by her mamma's reminding her that 
 her uncle could not possibly arrive before half-past four or five 
 o'clock, and therefore it would be a pleasant way of spending the 
 intervening time. ' Besides,' said Mrs Herbert, ' we must not 
 forget others, Amy, because we are happy ourselves ; perhaps 
 v.-e may be of use to the poor woman.' Amy sighed, and wished 
 she could be like her mother, and never forget what was right ; 
 and the consciousness of one fault brought back the remembrance 
 pf another, and with it the morning's conversation ; and this
 
 36 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 again reminded her of their last evening at Enimcrton, and her 
 mamma's story, till her mind became so occupied that she forgot 
 the novelty of the road, and her impatience to be at the end of 
 her journey ; and when tlie carriage stopped at the gate at 
 Colworth, she was thinking of what Mrs Herbert had said about 
 her uncle Harrington, and the poor woman having the same 
 prospect for the future, and wondering whether they either of 
 them thought of it as her mamma seemed to do. 
 
 Mrs Saville was almost a stranger to Amy ; but her kind 
 manner quickly made her feel at ease, and she became much 
 interested in the account that was given of the poor woman's 
 suffierings, and the dutiful affection shown by her eldest girl. 
 
 'Is it the one, mamma, whom we saw at Emmerton?' whis- 
 pered Amy. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Mrs Saville, who had overheard the question ; 
 ' she came home that evening almost happy, notwithstanding 
 her mother's poverty and illness ; for it had been the first time 
 she had ever been obliged to beg, and she had begun to despair 
 of getting anything, when your mamma was so good to her. I 
 learned the whole story when she brought me the note, and 
 scolded her a little for not coming to me at once ; but we had 
 done something for her before, and she did not like to ask again. 
 I cannot think,' she continued, turning to Mrs Herbert, ' what the 
 children will do; for the mother is rapidly sinking in a decline ; 
 and she tells me they have no near relation, excepting a grand- 
 mother, who is old and in want.' 
 
 ' How far off is their parish ?' asked Mrs Herbert. 
 
 ' About ten miles ; it is impossible to think of their being 
 moved now ; for the poor woman can scarcely live more than a 
 {t\v days longer ; yet the eldest girl seems to have no notion of 
 her danger, and I dread the consequences of telling her, she is so 
 fond of her mother.' 
 
 ' I should like to go to the cottage, if it is near,' said Mrs 
 Herbert ; ' or, at least, I should be glad to see the girl ; for I 
 suppose her mother had better not be disturbed.' 
 
 ' It will be very easy, if you desire it,' replied Mrs Saville ; 
 ' for the children are kept in a separate room. I should wish 
 you to see the woman herself, if she were equal to the sight of a 
 stranger, for I am sure you would be pleased with her content- 
 ment and resignation.' 
 
 'May I go too.'' nsked Amy, when Mrs Saville left the 
 room.
 
 AMY HERBERT. 37 
 
 Mrs Herbert thought for a moment, and then replied, ' You 
 may, my dear, if you are willing to assist in helping these poor 
 people ; I mean by working for them, or doing anything else 
 which may be in your power ; but it never does any one good to 
 go and see people who are suffering, merely from curiosity.' 
 
 ' I think, mamma,' said Amy, ' I should be very willing to do 
 something for them, if you would tell me what it should be.' 
 
 ' We must see them before we are able to decide/ replied Mrs 
 Herbert ; ' but we shall soon know, for here is Mrs Saville ready 
 for her walk.' 
 
 The cottage was but a short distance from the parsonage, and 
 on the road to Emmerton, and the carriage was ordered to meet 
 them there, that Mrs Herbert might be spared any unnecessary 
 fatigue. Cottage it could not well be called, for it was little 
 more than a hovel, divided into two parts ; but it was the only 
 one vacant in the neighbourhood, and the poor woman had 
 gladly availed herself of any slielter when she became so ill ; and 
 though Mrs Saville's kindness had made it assume a more com- 
 fortable appearance than it had done at first, it was still very 
 destitute of furniture, and, to Amy's eyes, looked the picture of 
 wretchedness. The eldest girl was attending to her mother, 
 and the five younger ones playing before the door. At the 
 appearance of the strangers, they all rushed into the house ; but 
 Mrs Saville was an old friend, and, at her order. Amy's former 
 acquaintance, Susan Reynolds, was called in. At first, Amy 
 thought she should scarcely have known her again, — she was 
 looking so much neater than when she had seen her that even- 
 ing at Emmerton ; but she soon remembered her face, and the 
 frightened manner which she still retained. 
 
 Mrs Herbert made many inquiries as to the state of the 
 family, — who were their relations, what they intended to do, 
 and whether any of them had ever been to school ; and the girl 
 showed by her answers that she had no idea of her mother's 
 danger. When she got well, she said, they should all go home, 
 and live with grandmother, and go to school. She had learned 
 to read and write herself; but the little ones never had, only 
 sometimes she had tried to teach them ; but now her whole 
 time was taken up in nursing, and it was all she could do to 
 keep them out of mischief, and mend their clothes. 
 
 Amy looked with a wondering eye upon the poor girl, a? she 
 gave this account of herself, and thought how impossible it 
 would be for her to do as much ; and yet there seemed to be
 
 38 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 but a slight differeiice in their ages, and tlic advantages of 
 health and strength were all on her side. Mrs Herbert also 
 remarked Susan's sickly countenance, and asked some questions 
 as to her general health, but she could get very little informa- 
 tion. Susan's care was entirely given to others, and she thought 
 but little of her own feelings. At times, she said, she was very 
 tired, and she did not sleep well at night ; but then the baby 
 often cried, and she was anxious about her mother, and so it 
 was very natural. Again Amy felt surprised as she remembered 
 her comfortable bed, and her quiet sleep, and her mamma's 
 watchfulness on the slightest appearance of illness. 
 
 ' Docs it not make you very unhappy,' she asked, ' to see your 
 mother suffer so much ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Miss,' replied the girl ; 'but then I think of the time 
 when she will get well.' 
 
 ' But supposing she should never get well ? ' continued 
 Amy. 
 
 Poor Susan started, as if the idea had never entered her head 
 before ; her eyes filled v/ith tears ; and, after a great struggle, 
 she said, in a broken voice : ' Mother hopes to go to heaven.' 
 As she spoke, Mrs Herbert looked at her child, and Amy knew 
 what the look meant ; for it reminded her of the conversatior. at 
 Emmerton, and she understood how true her mamma's words on 
 that evening had been ; for her uncle Harrington, with .nil his 
 riches, could not expect a greater comfort than this for his death- 
 bed. Conscious, however, that she had been the cause of a great 
 deal of pain, her chief desire now was to make some amends ; 
 and, as they were about to go away, she whispered to her mamma, 
 ' I should like so much to do something for her.' 
 
 ' I will ask what Avould be most useful,' replied Mrs Herbert. 
 * This young lady,' she added, turning to Susan, ' wishes to 
 make something which may be of service to )-ou. Should you 
 like it to be a frock for yourself, or for one of the children ? ' 
 
 ' For Bessy, ma'am, if you please,' said Susan ; 'her frock i<i 
 all in rags, and it was quite old when she first had it.' Bessy, 
 who had run into the road to avoid the strangers, was summoned, 
 and her measure properly taken ; and Mrs Herbert, slipping a 
 shilling into Susan's hand, and telling her she should have the 
 frock in a few days, left the cottage, followed by Mrs Saville and 
 Amy. Mrs Saville promised to send word if any plan were 
 proposed which could be a comfort to the poor woman, or an 
 assistance to her children ; and then, wishing her good morning,
 
 AMV HERBERT. 39 
 
 Mrs Herbert and Amy stepped into the carriage, and were once 
 more on the way to Emmerton. 
 
 * My dear child,' said Mrs Herbert, finding that Amy made 
 no observation on what had passed, ' are you sorry that you went 
 with me ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no ! mamma,' excLiimed Amy ; ' but I am sorry that I 
 said anything to Susan about her mother not getting well. I am 
 afraid I made her very miserable.' 
 
 * It was thoughtless, my dear,' replied Mrs Herbert ; ' not but 
 what it is quite necessary that Susan should be prepared, but 
 then it would have been better for Mrs Saville to have broken it 
 to her gently. These things happen to us all, from our not re- 
 membering, when we talk to people, to put ourselves in their 
 situation. You would not have said it, if you had called to mind 
 what your own feelings would have been in a similar case.' 
 
 ' But, mamma, it is impossible to be always on the watch.' 
 
 ' It is very difficult, but not impossible,' said Mrs Herbert ; 
 ' habit will do wonders ; and the earlier we begin thinking about 
 other persons' feelings, the more easy it will be to us to do so 
 always ; and I wish you particularly to be careful now, my love, 
 because you will probably be thrown much more amongst 
 strangers than you have been ; and half the quarrels and un- 
 comfortable feelings that we witness in society, arise from some 
 little awkwardness cr thoughtlessness in speech without any 
 ofience being intended. Though you are so young, Amy, you 
 may soon learn, by a little obser\-ation, what things are likely to 
 pain people, and what are not.' 
 
 ' But,' said Amy, ' I thought it was always necessary to speak 
 the truth.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied her mother, ' it certainly is quite necessary 
 whenever you are called upon to do it ; for instance, if you had 
 been asked whether you thought it likely that Mrs Reynolds 
 would get well, it would have been quite right in you to say, no, 
 because you had heard so from Mrs Saville ; but there was no 
 occasion for you to make the observation of your own accord.' 
 
 ' I think I know what you mean, mamma,' said Amy ; ' but 
 will you tell me one thing more ? Why did you say it would do 
 me no good to see the poor woman, if I did not mean to help 
 her ? I am sure, whether I could have done anything or not, I 
 should have been very sorry for her.' 
 
 ' I should like to give a long answer to your question, my 
 dear,' answered Mrs Herbert ; ' but here we arc at the lodge
 
 40 AMY HERBERT, 
 
 j:^atp, nnd there is Stephen ready to welcome us, so we nnistlea\e 
 it till another time.' 
 
 'How quickly we have come!' exclaimed Amy. 'Do, 
 mamma, let me get out, and walk up to the house with Stephen ; 
 I want to hear what he says, and wliethcr he is as impatient as 
 I am.' 
 
 But it was only the quick glance of the eye that betrayed 
 Stephen's impatience, as he turned to look up the road by 
 which Mr Harrington's carriage was expected to arrive. He 
 seemed even little inclined for conversation, though Amy did 
 her best to draw him out, as she one moment walked quietly by 
 his side, then ran joyously before him, and then suddenly stopped 
 to ask him some questions about the preparations that had 
 been made. His dress, too, was different from what it usually 
 had been, excepting when he appeared at church on a Sunday; 
 and Amy saw the black crape round his hat, which told that he, 
 like her mamma, could not feel unmixed pleasure in the return 
 of his master's familv to their former home. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AS they entered the house, Amy's quick eye soon discovc-._-a 
 - the changes that had taken place since she was last there. 
 A detachment of servants and a large quantity of furniture had 
 arrived thi-ee days before ; and Airs Bridget was now in all her 
 glory, putting the finishing stroke to everything, moving tables 
 and chairs to suit her own taste, carefully effacing every 
 symptom of dust, and ordering servants in all directions, partly 
 because she thought they might as well be actively employed, 
 and partly because she felt it was so grand to command tall 
 men in livery. Her smart silk gown seemed to Amy's ears to 
 rustle more audibly than ever as she met her in the hall, and 
 there was a greater profusion of frills and ribbons about her 
 wide-spreading cap, and, ?.bove all, a mixture of importance and 
 bustle in her step, which, with the shrill voice and up-turned 
 nose and chin, showed that she felt herself, for the time being, 
 the superior of every one about her. Nevertheless, she received 
 Amy most graciously, told her that she had persuaded Mrs 
 Herbert to rest in the great drawing-room, and endeavoured to
 
 AJ/y HERBERT. 41 
 
 induce her to do the same ; but this was quite contrary to Amy's 
 inclinations, and the moment she could escape from Mj-s 
 Bridget's fine words, she ran off to see that her mamma was 
 comfortable, and the next minute her light step was heard as 
 she danced along the galleries exploring every room, new and 
 old, to see what alterations were made in them. This was not 
 quite according to Bridget's notions of propriety, and she 
 muttered to herself that it would not do by and by,— Miss Amy 
 would soon find out that the house was not hers ; but her 
 partiality got the better of her dignity, and Amy continued the 
 search, till, having satisfied her curiosity, she stationed herself 
 half way between the lodge and the house to watch for the 
 carriage. Every moment seemed now an age ; but she was not 
 long kept in suspense ; after about ten minutes, the rumbling of 
 wheels was distinctly heard, and almost immediately afterwards 
 the gates were thrown open, and a carriage and four drove 
 rapidly down the avenue. Amy's heart beat quickly; she stood 
 for a few moments looking at it, and then, half frightened as it 
 came nearer and nearer, she ran at full speed towards the house 
 that she might be the first to give the joyful intelligence to her 
 mother. But Mrs Herbert's anxious ear had already caught the 
 sound, and she was standing on the steps when her child flew 
 to her almost breathless. Even in that moment of excitement. 
 Amy could not help noticing the deadly paleness of her mother's 
 .' e ; but there was now no time for words, the carriage stopped 
 at the door, and Mrs Herbert making a great effort to command 
 her feelings, with a firni voice v.'elcomed her brother and his 
 family to Emmerton. Amy shrank behind her mamma, with 
 but one wish, to avoid being observed by the tall grave-looking 
 gentleman, whom she thought she never could call uncle ; and 
 Mrs Herbert, considering only her brother's painful feelings, 
 suffered him to pass with but very few words. Mrs Harrington 
 followed, and Amy scarcely remarked what her aunt was like, 
 her whole mind being occupied with wondering whether the two 
 fashionable-looking young ladies, who remained in the carriage 
 searching for their baskets and books, could possibly be her 
 own cousins. 
 
 'Which is Dora, mamma?' she whispered. 
 
 But Mrs Herbert moved forward, as her nieces ran up the 
 steps, saying, ' Your mamma has left me to introduce myself, my 
 dear girls. I can hardly imagine you have any remembrance 
 of your aunt Herbert and your cousin Amy. I suppose I shall
 
 4-' AMY HERBERT. 
 
 not be mistaken in calling you Dora,' she added, as she kissed the 
 one who, from her height and general appearance, was evidently 
 the eldest. 
 
 Amy's first curiosity was thus set at rest, but in its stead she 
 was seized with an overpowering feeling of shyness. Dora 
 looked almost as awful a person as her papa, whom she very 
 much resembled. There was the same high forehead, dark eye, 
 rather large nose, and haughty curl of the lip ; and her height, 
 which was unusual at her age, gave the idea of her being at 
 least two years older than she really was ; and Amy turned to 
 Margaret in despair of finding anything like a companion ; but 
 Margaret had a much younger face, and slighter figure, though 
 she also was tall ; and if her dress and manner had been less 
 like those of a grown-up person, Amy might, perhaps, have felt 
 more comfortable. 
 
 * You are quite right, aunt,' said Dora, in a sharp, loud voice, 
 which sounded disagreeably in Amy's ears, after the gentle 
 tones to which she had listened from her infancy ; ' I am Dora, 
 and this is Margaret, and there is little Rose behind.' 
 
 ' I begin to think,' said Mrs Herbert, ' that, after all, Rose 
 will be Amy's best playfellow ; we were neither of us quite pre- 
 pared for anything so tall and womanly, and Amy is such a tiny 
 child, you will think her more fit for the nursery than the school- 
 room, I suspect.' 
 
 ' Is this Amy ? ' said Dora, giving her first a patronising tap 
 on the shoulder, and then a hasty kiss ; ' I dare say we shall be very 
 good friends.' And without another word she ran into the house. 
 
 ' I am sure we shall,' said l\Iargaret, in a more affectionate 
 tone, and Amy, who had been chilled by Dora's manner, re- 
 turned her embrace most cordially. 
 
 ' I must give little Rose a kiss before we go into the drawing- 
 room,' said Mrs Herbert, 'and perhaps, Margaret, you will 
 introduce me to Miss ]\Iorton.' 
 
 Margaret stared, as if she did not quite understand her aunt's 
 meaning. ' Oh ! ' she said, ' there is no occasion for that, we 
 never do it with her ; but, to be sure,' she continued, seeing that 
 Mrs Herbert looked grave, ' if you like it. Simmons, help Miss 
 Morton down.' 
 
 The footman moved forward a few steps, lifted little Rose 
 from the carriage, and then held out his hand to Miss Morton, 
 who was seated by the side of the lady's maid. 
 
 ' Which is Miss Morton V asked Mrs Herbert, in a low voice.
 
 AMY HERBERT. 43 
 
 much puzzled between two silk gowns, two silk bonnets, and two 
 lace veils. 
 
 'Well, that is amusing!' exclaimed Margaret, pertly, and 
 bursting into a short, conceited laugh. ' Certainly Morris is 
 the nicest-looking of the two. Morris, my aunt did not know 
 you and Emily Morton apart.' 
 
 Amy felt very uncomfortable at this speech, though she 
 scarcely knew why ; and even Margaret, when the words were 
 uttered, seemed conscious they were wrong ; for, with a 
 heightened colour, and without waiting to introduce Mrs Her- 
 bert, she seized Amy's hand, and turned quickly away. 
 
 ' Miss IMorton will, I am sure, willingly pardon a mistake 
 which only distance could have caused,' said Mrs Herbert, as 
 she looked with interest at the delicate features and sweet ex- 
 pression of the peculiarly lady-like young girl, whose face had 
 become like crimson on hearing Margaret's thoughtless speech. 
 ' I ought to know you ; for I well remember seeing you some 
 years ago, when I was staying with my brother nt Wayland 
 Court ; but you were then such a child, that I confess I find a 
 considerable alteration.' 
 
 The answer to this was given in a low, hurried tone, for Emily 
 Morton had lately been so little accustomed to civility, that it 
 confused her almost as much as neglect. She seemed only 
 anxious to divert Mrs Herbert's attention from herself to little 
 Rose as soon as possible ; and whispering to the child to go with 
 her aunt into the drawing-room, she herself followed the lady's- 
 maid in a difterent direction. Amy was by this time rather 
 more at her ease ; and when Mrs Herbert entered, slie was 
 standing by her uncle, and had found courage to say a few 
 words. Mrs Harrington was leaning back on the sofa, taking 
 but slight notice of anything ; and Dora and Margaret were 
 examining the furniture, and making remarks which were far 
 from pleasing to Amy's ears. The room was so dark, and the 
 windows were so deep, and the furniture w^as so very old- 
 fashioned, they were quite sure they never could be happy in 
 such a strange place ; and after the first observations about the 
 journey were over, Amy began to feel still more uncomfortable ; 
 for she fancied that her mamma wished her to be away, that 
 she might talk to her uncle and aunt, and yet her cousins showed 
 no intention of leaving the room. At last, surprised at her own 
 boldness, she whispered to Dora, who was standing next her, 
 ' Should you not like to see the house up-stairs ?'
 
 44 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 Dora turned sharply round, and Amy could not quite under- 
 stand the tone of her voice, as she said, ' I suppose you wish to 
 do the honours.' 
 
 'Amy, my love,' said Mrs Herbert, who had overheard the 
 question and answer, 'you must recollect that your cousins are 
 at home ; they will go up-stairs when they please.' 
 
 Poor Amy felt puzzled and vexed ; she had meant no harm, 
 and yet both her mamma and Dora seemed annoyed. Slie did 
 not, however, venture to say anything further, and was quite 
 relieved when IMr Harrington remarked that it was a good notion, 
 the girls had better go and choose their rooms at once, and settle 
 themselves a little ; and by that time they wovdd be ready, per- 
 haps, for their tea, as they had all dined on the road quite 
 early. 
 
 Amy hung back, afraid of again doing something which her 
 cousin might not like ; but Margaret called to her to follow them, 
 and in a few moments she had forgotten her discomfort in the 
 pleasure of showing the different apartments, and pointing out 
 all their several advantages. But Dora and Margaret were very 
 difficult to please : one room was too small, another too large ; 
 one looked out at the back, and another at the side; one was too 
 near the drawing-room, and another too far off. Still Amy did 
 not care; for she had determined in her own mind that they 
 would decide upon the bedroom oriel, which was just over the 
 old schoolroom. 
 
 ' Well! this really does seem as if it would do,' said r\Iargarct, 
 as they entered. ' Do look, Dora; it is the prettiest room in the 
 whole house, and has the prettiest view, too ; and the dressing- 
 room is so large and nice.' 
 
 ' I care very little which room I have,' said Dora, who was 
 looking grave and unhappy. ' The house is so sad and 
 melancholy, it is all much the same; we shall never be happy 
 here.' 
 
 'Not happy!' said Amy. 'Oh yes! by and by you will ; it 
 never seems gloomy to mc.' 
 
 'That is because you have always been accustomed to it,' 
 replied Dora. ' If you had seen \Vayland Court, you would 
 think nothing of this.' 
 
 'Dora is determined not to be happy,' said Margaret; and 
 then she added, in a whisper to Amy, ' She was so very fond of 
 poor Edward.' 
 
 Dora evidently heard the words ; for the tears rushed to l-er
 
 AMY HERBERT, ■ 45 
 
 eyes, and she bit her lip and began walking about examining the 
 pictures ; but the painting which hung over the mantel-piece 
 quite overcame all attempt at composure. It was the picture of 
 Mr Harrington's grandfather, taken when a boy. He was re- 
 presented riding in the park, on a spirited pony; and both Dora 
 and Margaret saw in a moment the likeness to their brother. 
 It was not natural for Dora to give way to any display of feeling ; 
 but she had suffered very much during her brother's illness, — 
 and this, with her regret at leaving Wayland, the fatigue of the 
 journey, and what she considered to be the gloom of the house, 
 entirely overpowered her ; and Amy, who had never been 
 accustomed to the sight of any grief, except her mamma's quiet 
 tears, became frightened. Margaret, too, looked astonished, but 
 neither said nor did anything to assist or comfort her sister ; and 
 Amy, having exhausted all the kind expressions she could think 
 of, at last remembered Mrs Herbert's infallible remedy of a glass 
 of water, which soon enabled Dora, in some degree, to recover 
 herself. At first she took but little notice of Amy, who stood by 
 her side, begging her to try and be happy; in fact, like many 
 other proud persons, she felt annoyed that she had given way so 
 much before a mere child, as she considered her cousin to be ; 
 but there was no withstanding the winning tones of Amy's voice, 
 and the perfect sincerity of her manner ; and when, at last, she 
 became silent, and looked almost as unhappy as herself, Dora's 
 haughtiness was quite subdued, and she exclaimed, ' I must love 
 you, Amy ; for no one else would care whether I were miserable 
 or not.' 
 
 Amy was surprised at the idea of any person's seeing others 
 suffer and not feeling for them ; but, rejoicing in the success of 
 her efforts, she now tried to divert Dora's attention, by talking of 
 the conveniences of the room, and the view from the window. 
 It was, at length, quite decided that they should occupy it, and 
 the bell was forthwith rung to summon Morris. But the 
 summons was given in vain; no Morris appeared. Again and 
 again the rope was pulled, but no footsteps were heard in answer. 
 Dora became irritated and Margaret fretful; and, after a con- 
 siderable delay, Amy proposed that, as she knew the way to the 
 housekeeper's room, she should try and find out Morris, who was 
 very probably there. The thought of the strange servants w.ns 
 certainly alarming ; but then her cousins were in distress, and 
 she could help them ; and, overcoming her timidity, she set off 
 on what appeared to her quite an expedition. Boldly and quickly
 
 46 AMY IIERBIIRT. 
 
 she threaded her way throuL;h the dark, winding passages, every 
 turn of which had been fainihar to her from her childhood. 
 But when she stopped at the head of the back staircase, and 
 listened to the hubbub of voices in the servants' hall, her first 
 fears returned. Even Bridget's shrill tones were drowned in the 
 medley of sound, and Amy looked in vain, in the hope of seeing 
 her cross the passage. Atler a few moments, however, she felt 
 inclined to laugh at her own shyness, and ran quickly down, 
 determining to inquire for Morris of the first person she met. 
 The servants were rushing to and fro in every direction, in all 
 the important bustle of a first arrival, and one or two pushed by 
 without taking any notice of her; but Amy, having resolved not 
 to be daunted, still went on; and, as a door suddenly opened 
 immediately at her side, and a tall female servant (as she 
 imagined), dressed in deep mourning, entered the passage, she 
 turned eagerly to her, pulled her gown, and begged to know 
 where Morris was to be found. To her extreme consternation, 
 her aunt's voice answered quickly and angrily — 
 
 ' Who is this ? Amy here ! how very improper, amongst all 
 the servants ! Whv did vou not ring the bell, child ? Go awav, 
 this moment.' 
 
 Amy's first impulse was to obey as fast as possible ; but she 
 knew she was doing no harm ; and a few words, which her fright, 
 however, made it difficult to utter, soon explained to Mrs Har- 
 rington the cause of her appearance there. Morris was instantly 
 summoned, and Amy returned to her cousins to recount her 
 adventure. 
 
 'You don't mean to say mamma saw you amongst all the 
 servants ?' exclaimed Margaret. * Well ! I would not have been 
 you for something ; it is just the very thing she most objects to. 
 1 have heard her lecture by the hour about it ; we have never 
 been allowed to go within a mile of the kitchen ; and even little 
 Rose, though she is such a baby, is kept just as strict.' 
 
 'Well, but,' said Amy, ' why did you let me go, if you knew my 
 aunt would object ?' 
 
 'Oh !' said Margaret, ' you offered, and I thought mamma was 
 safe in the drawing-room.' 
 
 'And we wanted Morris,' interrupted Dora, 'I hate false 
 excuses.' 
 
 Amy felt rather angry, and thought she should not have done 
 the same by them ; but everything this evening was so very new 
 and strange, that she kept all her feelings to herself for the
 
 AMY HERBERT. 47 
 
 present, \o be talked over with her mamma when they got 
 home. 
 
 ' But were you not very much frightened ?' continued Margaret. 
 * What did you say when mamma spoke to you ?' 
 
 ' I xvas frightened just at first,' rephed Amy ; ' but then I 
 knew I was not doing anything wrong, and so I did not really 
 care.' 
 
 'Well, if you are not the boldest little thing I ever met with,' 
 said Margaret ; 'even Dora would have cared, if she had been 
 you.' 
 
 'It is no use to say any more,' exclaimed Dora, in rather an 
 irritated voice, for she prided herself upon caring for nobody ; 
 ' we must leave off talking now, and proceed to work. I am re- 
 solved to have all my things unpacked, and settled to-night ; so 
 I shall choose my drawers and closets, and say where I will 
 have them put, and then ]\Iorris may as well begin.' 
 
 'But it is so late. Miss,' said poor Morris, who was quite ex- 
 hausted with the packing of the previous night, and the fatigue 
 of the long day's journey; 'and yours and Miss Margaret's 
 things are mixed, many of them.' 
 
 Dora coloured, and said angrily, ' You forget yourself, Morris ; 
 I have told you that I choose to have my boxes unpacked to- 
 night.' 
 
 Amy longed to petition for a little mercy ; but she was be- 
 ginning to learn not to interfere where she had no power, and 
 Dora immediately walked round the room to examine drawers 
 and closets, and to give directions, while Morris stood by, the 
 picture of despairing fatigue. Margaret was too indolent to give 
 herself much trouble about the matter, and Amy was rather 
 astonished to see that Dora did not consult her in the least. She 
 chose the best of everything for herself; and when Morris in- 
 quired what Miss Margaret wished to have done, the only answer 
 she could get was, that it did not signify ; at any rate, to-morrow 
 would be quite soon enough to settle, for she was far too tired to 
 think about it now ; and Morris, thankful for even a partial 
 respite, asked for no more orders, but hastened away to make 
 the proper selection of trunks and imperials. Dora and Margaret 
 then arranged their dress and went down-stairs to tea, followed 
 by Amy, who felt alarmed as she thought of encountering her 
 aunt's eye after her misdemeanour. Mrs Harrington, however, 
 took but little notice of her ; she had in some degree recovered 
 her energy, and was able to exert herself at the tea-table : and
 
 48 /IJ/V HERBERT. 
 
 as whatever she did always occupied her whole attention, she 
 seemed to be quite engrossed in cups and saucers, milk and 
 cream; and Amy placed herself at the farthest distance from 
 her, taking care to have the urn between them, and reserving a 
 place at her side for her mamma, who was standing at the 
 window, talking in a low voice to JNIr Harrington. But when 
 the labour of tea-making was over, Mrs Harrington was able to 
 think of other things, and her first inquiry was, what the girls 
 thought of their rooms, and why they had been obliged to send 
 Amy into the servants' hall. 
 
 ' I suppose there is no bell, mamma,' said Dora ; ' for we rang 
 a great many times, but no one came.' 
 
 'Where was Miss Morton?' said Mrs Harrington ; 'she ought 
 to have been with you ; it would not signify her going amongst 
 the servants, but it was highly improper for your cousin.' 
 
 ' Emily Morton always thinks she has enough to do to take 
 care of herself,' said Margaret; 'she is not over-fond of helping 
 any one.' 
 
 This struck Amy as very unjust; for Miss Morton had not 
 been told where they were, and, of course, was not to blame. 
 She was not aware that it was usual with Mrs Harrington to put 
 upon Miss Morton everything that went wrong ; and that she 
 was expected to be at hand to assist Dora and Margaret on all 
 occasions, no one considering for an instant whether the expec- 
 tation were reasonable or unreasonable. 
 
 ' But, mamma,' said Dora, ' I must tell you that Emily did not 
 know we were gone to our rooms, so we ought not to find fault 
 with her.' 
 
 'But I do find fault with her, Dora,' replied Mrs Harrington; 
 ' she knows very well what is expected of her, and she ought to 
 have inquired whether she could be of any use to you.' 
 
 ' But, mamma,' — persisted Dora. 
 
 ' I will not hear any buts, Dora; I must be the best judge of 
 what Miss Morton's duties are ; you are not generally so apt to 
 take her part.' 
 
 ' Only I hate injustice,' muttered Dora, in a sulky tone. 
 
 'And I can't bear Emily Morton,' whispered Margaret, whc 
 was sitting next Amy. 
 
 ' Can't bear her ! ' exclaimed Amy. 
 
 'Hush! hush!' said Margaret; 'I don't want every one to 
 hear.' 
 
 Amy would have repeated her exclamation in a lower voice.
 
 AJfV HERBERT. 49 
 
 but Mrs Herbert now approached the tea-table, and began 
 asking questions of her nieces, and trying as much as possible 
 to make herself at home with them. Dora's answers were rather 
 pert, and Margaret's rather affected; but neither Mr nor Mrs 
 Harrington checked them in the least, and Amy felt annoyed at 
 hearing'them speak to her mamma almost as familiarly as if she 
 had been of their own age. She herself sat perfectly silent, too 
 much in awe of her aunt's grave looks to venture an observation, 
 and quite aniused with watching what passed, and remarking to 
 herself upon the magnificence of the silver tea-urn and its 
 appendages, and the profusion of things with which the table 
 was covered, so difterent from what she was accustomed to see 
 at the cottage. She was not sorry, however, when her mamma 
 proposed ordering the carriage ; for the novelty of everything 
 did not quite make up for the restraint she was nnder. She 
 was afraid not only of her uncle and aunt, but even of the 
 footmen when they came near, and she anxiously observed Dora 
 and Margaret, thinking she could not do wrong in imitating 
 them.' 
 
 *We shall see you to-morrow at the cottage, I hope,' said Mrs 
 Herbert to her brother, when the carriage was announced. 
 
 Mrs Harrington answered for him in a short, ungracious 
 manner — ' I don't know, indeed, there will be so much to 
 arrange ; perhaps the girls may manage it ; but Mr Harrington's 
 time and mine will be completely occupied.' 
 
 ' I shall come and see you as soon as possible, you may be 
 quite sure,' said Mr Harrington ; ' it is too great a pleasure to 
 talk over everything with you, for me not to seize all oppor- 
 tunities of doing so; though perhaps to-morrow, as Charlotte 
 says, I may be very busy.' 
 
 'Then we will expect the girls alone,' replied Mrs Herbert. 
 'Amy is longing to do the honours of the cottage; and, if 
 they come about one o'clock, they can have their luncheon 
 with us.' 
 
 Amy added her entreaties, and Margaret, with a great many 
 kisses, declared it would be the thing of all others she should 
 most enjoy: while Dora simply said, ' Good night,' and expressed 
 no pleasure about the matter. When Amy found herself alone 
 with her mamma, her first wish was to talk over all that had 
 passed, but Mrs Herbert was looking very pale and exhausted, 
 and her child had lately learned to watch every change in her 
 countenance, and to understand in a moment when it was 
 
 D
 
 50 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 necessary for her to be silent; she therefore said but little 
 during their drive home; and it was not till Mrs Herbert was 
 seated in the arm-chair in her own room, that Amy ventured to 
 express her feelings. ' I may talk to you now, mamma,' she 
 said, 'for there is no rumbling of the carriage to worry you; but 
 you did look so ill when we left Emmcrton, that I did not like 
 to do it.' 
 
 'Yes, my dear,' said Mrs Herbert, 'it has been a very trying 
 day; but you shall ease your mind before you go to sleep, and 
 tell me how you like your cousins, and everything you have been 
 doing, and saying, and feeling.' 
 
 'The doing and saying will be easy enough,' replied Amy; 
 * but, dear mamma, it was all so strange, I cannot tell at all what 
 I have been feeling; and then I cannot make up my mind about 
 anything, and that puzzles me. I always fancied I should be 
 able to tell at once what I liked and disliked ; but all the way 
 home I have been trying to find out which of my cousins is the 
 nicest ; and one moment I think one thing, and the next an- 
 other. And then the house was so changed with the different 
 furniture, that it seemed quite like another place ; only not quite 
 another either, more like what the cottage seems to me in my 
 dreams ; and then I am so afraid of my aunt, and I think I made 
 her angry — but I must tell you about that presently. I was so 
 frightened at the men-servants too, there were such a number ; 
 and that one with the black hair, who was not in livery, is so 
 like Mr Saville of Colworth, that I thought at first he was going 
 to speak to me.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert smiled. 'You have certainly contrived to get a 
 curious medley in your head, Amy ; but you will never be able 
 to talk over all these things to-night, it is getting so late,' 
 
 ' No, mamma,' said Amy, ' I feel as if there would be some- 
 thing to say if I were to go on till to-morrow ; but I should care 
 for nothing else if I could only make out which of my cousins I 
 like best.' 
 
 ' But,' said Mrs Herbert, ' it is hardly possible to settle such 
 a weighty matter, on so short an acquaintance ; probably if you 
 decided it to-night, you would change again to-morrow. I dare 
 say it will take some time before you can know them sufficiently 
 well, really to make up your mind.' 
 
 ' Well,' sighed Amy, * I suppose I must leave it. I thinlc, 
 though, I like Margaret, because she is affectionate ; and Dora, 
 because she seems to speak just what she means ; but I liked
 
 AMY HERBERT. 51 
 
 Margaret much better when we were alone, than when she was 
 talking to you, mamma ; her voice and all seemed quite 
 different.' 
 
 'And what did you think of Rose?' asked Mrs HerlDcrt. 
 
 ' Oh ! I only saw her for a moment ; she looked as if she must 
 be a darling little thing, she is so very pretty ; but, mamma, I 
 cannot understand about Miss Morton. Is she a lady?' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear, certainly ; she is the daughter of a clergyman.' 
 
 ' But, then, where was she all the evening ? She did not come 
 in at tea-time.' 
 
 ' I believe she generally spends the evenings alone,' replied 
 Mrs Herbert, 'as I told you the other day.' 
 
 'It seems so strange,' said Amy; 'and Margaret told me 
 she could not bear her, so I suppose she must be very disagree- 
 able.' 
 
 'You must not judge of people merely from what you hear, 
 but from what you see of them too,' said Mrs Herbert ; 'so don't 
 determine upon poor Miss Morton's being disagreeable till you 
 are more acquainted with her ; she seemed to me to be very 
 gentle and ladylike.' 
 
 'I feel as if I never should be able to decide about any one 
 now,' sighed Amy, ' I am so very puzzled ; and I am not quite 
 sure whether I have been happy to-night.' 
 
 Tvly dear child,' said Mrs Herbert, ' I must send you to bed, 
 for I am sure if you sit up thinking and talking any more you 
 will be unfit for everything to-morrow. I only wish you to 
 tell me what you could have done to make your aunt angry with 
 you.' 
 
 Amy repeated the history of her adventure, but JMrs Herbert 
 made no observation upon it ; and she was then sent to her room 
 to prepare for bed. 
 
 ' You will come back to me v/hen you are ready to read,' said 
 Mrs Herbert. And in about half ari'hour's time Amy reappeared 
 with her Bible. 
 
 ' It seems so nice and quiet,' she said, ' to be able to sit down 
 with you quite alone, mamma, after seeing so many people ; and 
 I think I shall go to sleep better when I have read my psalm as 
 usual.' 
 
 ' I hope you will always find it a blessing to read your Bible, 
 my dear ; and I know myself that it is peculiarly so when we 
 have been much excited ; there is something so calm and sooth- 
 ing in it.'
 
 52 AAfV HERBERT. 
 
 Amy read her psalm, and did not attempt to say anything 
 more about Emmerton, for she had ahvays been taught that her 
 last thoughts, before she slept, shouUi be of God and heaven 
 rather than of the things of earth ; only, as Mrs Herbert bent 
 over her, to give her the last kiss, she said, ' Mamma, may I tell 
 you one thing which came into my head to-night ? You know 
 I have read in the }5ible, and have heard people talk about the 
 world, and that there are temptations in it, and that we ought to 
 avoid it ; and I never could quite understand this, because it 
 seemed that I had no world, for you ahvays do what is right, 
 and there is no evil in the trees and flowers ; and one day you 
 said that the world was different to everybody, and that it meant 
 the things which tempted us to do wrong ; and to-night, when 
 I was saying my prayers, I recollected that I had felt angry 
 with my cousins, and that you had said, " that perhaps being 
 with them would make me envious ;" and then it came into my 
 head, that perhaps Emmerton will be my world — do you think 
 it will?' 
 
 ' Most probably it may be,' said Mrs Herbert. 
 
 ' But then, mamma, will it be right to go there ?' 
 
 ' It is not right to shut ourselves up from our relations, and so 
 lose opportunities of learning good from them, or setting them a 
 good example,' replied her mother. ' If your cousins are better 
 than yourself, they will, I hope, be of great use to you ; and if 
 they are not, you may try and benefit them. Your being envious 
 and angry is your fault, not theirs ; and if you were never to see 
 them again, you would still have the same bad feelings in your 
 mind. Renouncing the world does not mean shutting ourselves 
 up and never seeing any one, but it does mean trying to avoid 
 unnecessary occasions of temptation, as well as to overcome sin ; 
 and you will avoid the world, not by keeping away from your 
 cousins, but by striving against evil feelings and actions when 
 you are with them, and not allowing yourself to envy them be- 
 cause they are richer, and live in a larger house.' 
 
 ' I should like to talk a great deal more, mamma,' said Amy, 
 * only I am so sleepy.' 
 
 'We must have some more conversation to-morrow,' said Mrs 
 Herbert, as she left the room. And in two minutes Amy had 
 forgotten all her difficulties and all her pleasures, in the deep, 
 calm repose which few but children can enjoy.
 
 AMY HERBERT. 53 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE first impression on Amy's mind, after her introduction 
 to' her cousins, on their arrival at Emmerton, was that of 
 disappointment. The long-looked-for event had come and 
 passed, but it had not brought with it the pleasure that had been 
 anticipated. Her cousins were not at all what she had expected 
 to see ; and she felt as if they were more like strangers now than 
 when she had only pictured them to herself such as she desired. 
 And yet it was so strange to her to be unhappy or discontented, 
 that she did not long dwell upon the things which had annoyed her 
 in them, but turned with pleasure to the hope that it was her own 
 fault they did not seem more kind and agreeable, and that when 
 she knew them better she should find them all she could wish. 
 There was great enjoyment, too, in talking over everything with 
 her mamma at breakfast, which she could easily do now that the 
 fatigue and excitement were gone ; and so fully did Emmerton 
 engross her thoughts that she entirely forgot Susan Reynolds, 
 and the promised frock, till Mrs Herbert produced it, ready pre- 
 pared, after the lessons were finished, and begged her to do as 
 much as she could before her cousins' arrival. 
 
 ' It will not be much, I am afraid, mamma,' said Amy, ' foi 
 it is getting late, and they agreed to be here by one ; but I must 
 do more this evening.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mrs Herbert, ' I should be sorry if the poor child 
 were disappointed.' 
 
 ' So should I too, mamma. Now I have seen her, I really do 
 feel it will be a pleasure to help her. And will you tell me, whilst 
 I am working, what you had not time to speak about yesterday ? 
 I mean, why it never does people any good to go and see others 
 suft'er merely from curiosity.' 
 
 ' It not only does them no good, but it docs them harm,' replied 
 Mrs Herbert, ' and for this reason : God gives to almost every one, 
 and especially to young people, many kind, amiable feelings, as a 
 sort of treasure which they are carefully to keep. Now, these 
 kind feelings, as people grow older, gradually die away as they 
 get accustomed to the sight of suffering, and so at last they are 
 likely to become cold and hard-hearted ; and there is only one 
 sure way of preventing this, — by doing kind actions whenever 
 we are blessed v.ith kind feelings. Perhaps you would rather I 
 should explain myself more clearly,' added Mrs Herbert, as Amy
 
 £4 y?J/l' HERBERT. 
 
 laid down her work, and looked thoughtfully in her mother's 
 i'ace. When you saw Susan Reynolds yesterday you had com- 
 passion for her, and a great wish to help her : this was the good 
 feeling given you by God. But supposing you had thought that, 
 after all, it was too much trouble to w'ork for her, you would soon 
 have forgotten her, and the next time you saw her you would 
 probably have pitied her less, and the next timeless still ; and if 
 you had gone on so, you might have ended in becoming perfectly 
 cold and selfish. But by determining to do something, you have 
 kept up your interest ; and you will find that your kind feeling 
 will continue and increase, not only for her, but for other persons 
 you may see in distress.' 
 
 ' But, then, I have heard you say, mamma, that we ought not 
 to follow our feelings entirely.' 
 
 'No,' replied Mrs Herbert; 'because very often our feelings 
 are wrong, and therefore we must have some other rule to go by, 
 or we shall continually mistake our duties ; but when they are 
 right they are given us by God to make those duties easy and 
 pleasant ; and if we do not encourage them, we shall find when 
 we grow old that it will be very difficult, if not almost impossible, 
 to do right, however we may wish it.' 
 
 ' Then, mamma, if we had always good feelings there would 
 be no occasion to do anything but just what we felt inclined ; 
 how very nice that would be ! ' 
 
 ' There is but one way of getting these good feelings,' said 
 Mrs Herbert, ' and that is by doing what we know we ought, 
 whether we like it or not ; and only one way of keeping them 
 when we have got them, by taking care always to act upon them ; 
 and if we begin when we are young, it is astonishing how easy 
 it will soon become. I know you like an illustration, Amy, to 
 make you remember things ; so now I will give you one, to teach 
 you the difference between feelings and duty. Feelings are like 
 the horses which carry us quickly and easily along the road, only 
 sometimes they stumble, and sometimes they go wrong, and now 
 and then they will not move at all ; but duty is like the coach- 
 man 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 alwajs re- 
 member now. And here come my uncle's feelings down the lane, 
 — beautiful gray ones ; and there is duty on the coach-box 
 driving them.'
 
 A MY HERBER T 55 
 
 ' 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 grpat delight saw that it contained only her two cousins, 
 for her aunt's stern look was sufficiently impressed upon her re- 
 collection to make the idea of meeting her again disagreeable. 
 ' I am so glad you are come ! ' she exclaimed to IMargaret, 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 furni- 
 ture, 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 be- 
 sides.' 
 
 * 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 ; ^iwtyou are a lady — 
 you are our cousin.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Dora, ' it does not signify when people are ac- 
 customed to it. And now Amy will be able to come and see us 
 at Emmerton ; and she can walk about the grounds ; and some- 
 times, 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
 
 56 AJ/y HERBERT. 
 
 anything of the kind, for she remembered that only a week be- 
 fore she was able to walk all over Eninicrton, 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 Mar- 
 garet, 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 e\'e 
 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 relievedwhen 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 Her 
 bert ; ' for I suppose you dine very late.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! ' replied Dora, ' this will be our dinner ; mamma 
 always dislikes our being late.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 57 
 
 ' She says it makes us ill, and spoils our complexions,' added 
 Margaret, casting, at tlie 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 v.hen, 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 them- 
 selves 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, 1 can assure you we shall take 
 special care not to talk to you.' 
 
 'O 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 IMargaret : ' 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 1 said would be told over again ; and 
 therefore, if you will not promise, I will not talk, that is all'
 
 58 . AMY HERBERT. 
 
 And she threw herself bach, 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 immov- 
 able, 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, im- 
 mediately 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 Isy the interven- 
 tion of a pai'asol. 
 
 ' 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 }-ou all the time. I would have done it, only 
 1 knew it would come out if you had patience to wait.' 
 
 ' But,' replied Amy, in rather a timid voice, ' I hope you under- 
 stand, i\Iargaret, that I cannot make any promise about mamma.'
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 59 
 
 ' Why cion't you hear what she has to say fust,' 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 1 never mind now,' said INIargaret, ' 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 
 IMorton did last year on papa's birthday, and then I know you 
 \\ill 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 tell- 
 ing 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,' answ ered 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, except- 
 ing my name, and my old purple Bible and Prayer-book.' 
 
 ' O 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 sei-vice, and talks to me about it.'
 
 6o /LUV HERBERT. 
 
 ' Then it is very strange, that is all I can say,' replied Dora, 
 ' I never in my life before heard any one say that baptisni 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 wc 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 tliink 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 theyiV^/ 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 draw- 
 ings on papa's birthday, he would give us each a beautiful pic- 
 ture 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. 1 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 t/w///, 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 miser- 
 able, 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 tn
 
 AMY HERBERT. 6i 
 
 wonder vvhat we were talking about, and so I ran out of the 
 room, and then it .'^11 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, 'j'ou 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 riglit who is 
 unkind.' 
 
 'No,' said Amy, looking a little perplexed; 'but then it 
 would have been deceit.' 
 
 ' Deceit ! what deceit t ' 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 1 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- 
 henrted 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 docs. I shall teach her the difference between Miss Har- 
 rington 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
 
 62 AMV HERBERT, 
 
 agreed witli Mnrgaret 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 veiy particular herself 
 in everything she said, and had not yet learned to suspect her 
 cousins of exnggeration. 
 
 ' 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
 
 AMY HERBERT. fij 
 
 lias 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 talk- 
 ing 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 IMargaret gave Amy a kiss, which was very heartily re- 
 turned. Amy looked at Dora, expecting something of the same 
 kind from her ; but Dora wr,s 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 Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 '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 thought- 
 less ! ' 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 w-ould 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 centrivcd 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 coula 
 not urge Margaret to do anything she felt was wrong ; and, 
 after pondering in her own mind for some minutes what Mrs
 
 64 ylMV IIERBER7. 
 
 Haniiic^ton could possibly have said, she, as usual, quieted hei 
 uneasiness by detcrminiii;^ to talk to her mamma in the evening;. 
 
 ' The carriage is waitin;^- 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, oflering 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 some- 
 times 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
 
 AJIV BE J^ BERT. 65 
 
 had not been occupied with the contrast between the simplicity 
 of the rectory and the grandeur of Emmerton, and Margaret 
 with ridicuUng the curiously-cut coat, brown wig, and gold shoe- 
 buckles, which had been IMr 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 
 >vhich 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 con- 
 tinued 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.' 
 
 * 1 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 them- 
 selves, 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, 
 
 E
 
 66 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 as well as by the reproof which she knew was intended ; but she 
 put on an indiuercnt air, and, giving a hasty nod to Amy, and 
 a few parting w-ords 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 insignincance ; 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 wiih 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 diflerence 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, with- 
 out in the least diminishing her interest in everything that was 
 passing around her. Her mind, like her dress, seemed to be 
 totally dificrent 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.
 
 AMV HERBERT. 67 
 
 ' 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 for- 
 get you have a second purse at Emmcrton rectory if it should 
 be needed.' 
 
 ' I should be very ungrateful if I were to forget it,' replied 
 Mis Herbert, as she pressed the worn but delicate hand which 
 was held out to her ; ' though, nov/ 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 fe^e — 
 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 lierbert 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
 
 68 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 neighbouring village, and the account of which was in that day'd 
 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 licr 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, 
 lo 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 suftering ; 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 
 lo the subject of the war, and she then spoke of the proba- 
 bilities and dangers which it involved, w'ithout hesitation ; but 
 she was so much shaken by the unexpected news, that, notwith- 
 standing the disappointment to all parties, no objection was made 
 when she proposed returning home much earlier than usual. It 
 v/as 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, how- 
 ever, 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,
 
 yLUV HERBERT. 69 
 
 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 con- 
 vinced INIrs Herbert, more and more, that Dora and Margaret 
 were very different companions from those she would ha\'e 
 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 
 w^hich 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.
 
 70 A M V HERBER T. 
 
 The last letter she bad 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, con- 
 firmed 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 de- 
 spatches, 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 whicli 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 con- 
 scious 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 wa.s
 
 AMY HERDERf. 71 
 
 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, per- 
 haps, without me, to learn music and drawing of a stranger?' 
 
 'O 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 fust, 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 draw- 
 ing, 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 fioor 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 tlie mantel-
 
 72 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 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 embarrass- 
 ment 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 ihnn 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 Harring- 
 ton 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 
 nnkind! 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 difliculty 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 jironounced 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 think- 
 ing it very harsh. But Amy, though so young, was quite 
 capable of discovering the difference between firmness and 
 seventy, and did not at all dislike Miss Morton for being par- 
 ticular.
 
 AMY HERBERT. 73 
 
 'Indeed, you must be quick, Rose,' said INIiss Morton, as 
 Dora closed her book, and Margaret prepared to put up her 
 ■drawing; 'you see your sisters are ready for dinner, and we arc 
 to have it to-dny 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 ; Ijut 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, slie 
 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 cither,' said Dora. ' I never heard you 
 praise a pretty person yet. I don't think Emily Morton sucli an 
 angel as most people do ; but she is twenty times prettier than 
 you arc, 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, wliile the servants arc 
 bringing the dinner?' 
 
 Amy thouglit 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.
 
 74 ^L^fy IIERUERT. 
 
 During the short interval that clnpscd before their return, she 
 amused herself by endeavouring to fancy what Emmcrton used 
 to be, and comparing it w itli its present condition ; but she had 
 chosen a difficult task. All was so changed within a 'icw days, 
 that it seemed as if months had gone by since her last visit w ith 
 her mamma ; and when at last she liad succeeded in recollecting 
 exactly the position of the chairs and tables, and the cold, desolate 
 look of the oricl-rooni, slie was startled from her dream by the 
 voice of the gray-haired butler, who, in a very respectful maninr, 
 begged pardon for disturbing her, but wished to know if Miss 
 Harrington were ready for dinner ; and, after such an iiitenup- 
 tion, 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 rtmarked, 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 in- 
 ferior person. 
 
 •Will you all walk to Colworth this afternoon ?' asked Miss 
 Morton. ' Rose and I arc 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 tirst,' 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 I\Iiss Harrington Avould be ready to go out -.vith 
 her mamma at three o'clock. 
 
 ' I know what it is for ! ' exclaimed Dora ; ' we arc to crdl at
 
 A.UV HERBERT. 75 
 
 Rochford P.'.rk. Mamma wants me to gel acquainted with INIiss 
 Cunningham, and I am sure I don't want to know licr.' 
 
 ' Is not Lady Rochford a great invahd ?' asked Miss Morton, 
 anxious to divert Dora's attention. 
 
 ' Yes, and that is the reason mamma is going to see her. 
 I behcA'c 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 sec 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 sec what you have just as well at home ! It isall very natural 
 for people who li\e in cottages to v>ish to look at fine houses ; 
 but really it is I'ar too much trouble for me.' 
 
 ' It is not merely the seeing fine houses,' said Miss Morion. 
 ' but the grcamds and the scenery may be very different. 1 
 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 con- 
 servatory was the finest in the county.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Miss Morton ; ' but now yon are at Emmcrton, 
 it may be different.' 
 
 ' I never could sec any great pleasure in looking at other per- 
 sons' beautiful things,' continued Dora ; ' and really I don't 
 know Avhat right Lord Rochford has to have anything better 
 than papa. I heard mamma say yesterday, that our family was 
 much older tlian liis, and yet people make such a fuss about 
 him ; and he is going to be an earl soon, and then Miss Cun- 
 ningham will be lady something.' 
 
 ' Lady Lucy Cunningham,' said Margaret. 'Morris told me 
 about it this morning, and Bridget told her. 1 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 Mould 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. 
 
 ' Wc can scarcely help wishing for things,' replied Miss Mor- 
 ton ; ' I mean we can scarcely help the wish coming into our 
 minds; but I think it is Avrong not to try and get rid of it, and 
 be contented with the situation in which we are placed.'
 
 76 ^LUV HERBERT 
 
 Amy felt thnt this was exactly what her mamma would h.ivc 
 said, and she bcf^an to foi(;ct all that had been told her agaiiibt 
 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, Ijut 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 gentle- 
 man 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 ha\e 
 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 thice 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 con- 
 versation with Rose. 
 
 Margaret, however, insisted upon her keeping at a considerable 
 distance, whilst she again repeated the history of all she had 
 been accustomsd 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
 
 A3/V HERBERT. 77 
 
 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 Cohvorth 
 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, fol- 
 lowed 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 nuthing 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 Cohvorth.' 
 
 ' I am afraid,' said Mrs Saville, ' that it will be rather a difficult 
 tiling 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 
 ner. 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 otiicr 
 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 grand- 
 mother, who will take care of the younger children, will find them 
 quite a sufficient charge ; and if she should not suit Mrs Har- 
 rington, she can return to me at any moment. What she will
 
 78 ylMV HERBERT. 
 
 sny to the notion herself, I cannot tell, for just now she is so 
 overpowered with t;'rief, that she can think of nothinLj but her 
 mother. lUit 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 ex- 
 tremely 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.' 
 
 ' Ikit 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 Har- 
 rington, 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 bless- 
 ing 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 
 snme cause ; and then, in an instant, a scene w'hich was never 
 entirely banished from her mind, came vividly before her, — the 
 darkened chamber, the anxious faces, the tears of overpowering 
 Rorrovv, which were ever assocLated in her mind, with the recol-
 
 A.UV HERBERT. 79 
 
 lection of her own mother's deathbed; and, without making any 
 further objection, she foUowcd Amy to the spot where Susan was 
 standing, with a feehng of sympathy, which can only be experi- 
 enced 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 
 jMiss JMorton 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 sny. 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 iNIortoa 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, bo. 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 in- 
 difference; and Amy wondered how her cousin coidd have 
 learned such a strange way of thinking, and determined that she 
 would be the last person to whom she herself would go for com- 
 fort 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 
 I'ark was more beautiful tlian Wayland, But Dora was not in 
 a communicative mood ; she could make herself very agreeable
 
 8o AM]' IIERliF.RT. 
 
 when she chose, and could describe tilings in a very amusing 
 mnnncr; 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 IVIiss Cunningham was like the rest of the 
 world, only not so tall as she was, and that Lord Rochfird 
 talked of bringing her over to ICmmerton 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 
 iust as well have stayed at home.' 
 
 ' I am sure I wish I had,' replied Dora. ' It was very hot and 
 very dust}-, 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 sec any one put 
 themselves out of their way to help another, and she was con- 
 scious 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 up- 
 stairs. 
 
 ' 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 harsh- 
 ness 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.
 
 AJl/y HERBERT. 8i 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AFTER this visit Amy's prejudice against Miss Morton con- 
 siderably decreased ; and she made no objection, when 
 the arrangement was finally made, that she should go to 
 llmmerton 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 dis- 
 agreeables 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 occu- 
 pied. 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 sich light streamed through the painted glass of the cast 
 window, and chequered the marble floor and shone upon the 
 grotesque oak carving ; but there was no one to admire its radi- 
 ance. The splendidly-bound Bible lay uncared for upon the 
 desk ; the family-prayer books, moth-eaten and decayed, were 
 piled upon the scats ; and the only thing which bore the scmblanca 
 
 F
 
 8i AMV HERBERT. 
 
 of devotion in the place, once hallowed Ijy daily prayer, was the 
 marble figure of the first lord of Emmcrton, wlio, stretched upon 
 his tomb, with his clasped hands raised to heaven, seemed silently 
 lo 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 lime 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 i"egularly-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 soivic 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 dis- 
 covered. 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 cither for good or evil, 
 which would be her blessing or her curse for ever. vShe had told 
 her of the hrst sinful na-ture 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 dis- 
 positions — 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
 
 ASTY HERBERT. 83 
 
 more tlioughtful than is usual at her age, and made her pleasures 
 of a graver and quieter cast; but in reality it added to her happi- 
 ness far more than it apparently took away. It made her love the 
 l)]ue 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. 1 1 made her sensible of the holiness of those places 
 which were especinlly dedicated to the worship of God ; and the 
 silence of the bcautil'ul chapel at Emmerton had as great a charm 
 for her as the gay scenes which her cousins often described had 
 for them; and, above nil, it gave her that cpiietness and cheerful- 
 ness of mind which only those can possess who really try in every- 
 thing 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, thougli 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 enjo)-ment 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 
 fiush 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 hff 
 given for it, -either the heat, or a bad night, or the disappoint- 
 ment of not licaring 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 Httle 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
 
 84 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 had left it. lUit still her mother was not quite satisfied. Sl-.e 
 knew tliat while Amy had no rivals, the strength of the tcmpt.i- 
 lion was but slight. She went as a visitor, and, to a certain degree, 
 ii stranger, and her cousins were pleased to sec her, and in 
 general her wishes were consulted ; but Mrs Herbert looked 
 forward to the time when she might be obliged to live at Vaw- 
 mcrton 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. Mar- 
 garet'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 diftered, 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 w^ilh 
 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 affec- 
 tionate 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,
 
 AMY HERBERT. 85 
 
 yet Amy could not help the feeling. With Dora, however, it 
 was very difterent ; 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 humi- 
 lity, 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 her- 
 self, merely by the quiet, unobtrusive manner in which she per- 
 formed 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,
 
 86 AM]' ///■;av;/;a'7'. 
 
 tluit, to please her manuna, she would be more careful fcir tlic 
 future. And when the awe had subsided, Amy bej,^an 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' 
 ne;^Iect, 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 enjoy- 
 ments of her lonely life, and bestowed upon her a considerable 
 portion of the affection which had once been exclusively giver, 
 to little Rose. 
 
 It was some time, however, before Amy discovered that Miss 
 Morton wa.s 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 Avhen Dora and Margaret 
 were in the room, Emily seemed to shrink into herself, and 
 never to speak except when absolutely obliged. Froni 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 awkward- 
 ness, 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-com- 
 mand prevented its being shown ; and the suffering she had 
 undergone from the moment of her entrance into Mr Harring- 
 ton's family, it would be difficult to describe. At school she 
 had always felt herself on an equality with her young com- 
 panions, 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 teach- 
 ing 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 occa- 
 sions she was bound to obey her ; and Margaret envied her 
 beauty, and was angry \\ ith her straightforward simplicity ; 
 and when all this was gradually discovered, the feeling that
 
 AMY HERBERT. 87 
 
 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 bearcth 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 kind- 
 ness, till the calmness of her own mind became a sufficient re- 
 compense 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 liavc been very dif- 
 ferent but for little Rose. She was the one charm of her life, 
 the only thing that seemed yet lefc 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 lier ; 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 lier appearance, and still more 
 ^itli Mrs Saville's recommendation ; and although Bridget 
 rooked 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
 
 S8 A.l/V HERBERT. 
 
 the house found faull wiili the arrangement ; and even Morris, 
 tlie quickest, neatest, and most particular of her ]jarticuhxr race, 
 dechared she had never met with so clever and well-ljchaved a 
 girl for her age. 
 
 This was joyful news to Amy, who, of course, flmciod 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 fdled 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 sec 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.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 89 
 
 'All! 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 friend- 
 less 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 impossiljle.
 
 90 yhUV IIERBEKT. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 * \ T^^^^^-Aj' said Amy, as she returned from Emmcrton one 
 
 ■1- » J- bri<^lit afternoon in the bei^inning of September, 'Aunt 
 Harrington hopes that when I go to the Hall on Thursday, )oa 
 will go with mc ; for Lord Rochford is coming over with IMiss 
 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 s.ime age liere, and that the acquaintance was 
 very desirable. 15ut, 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 c[uite, 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 
 vou ever seen Miss Cunningham, and do you think I shall like 
 her?' 
 
 ' 1 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 u?
 
 AMY HERBERT. 91 
 
 is so great, that \vc luivc 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 Emmcr- 
 ton 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, evi- 
 dently 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, mucli 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 idle- 
 ness. Rose was playing with her doll, Islargaret engaged with 
 some fancy work for herself, and Dora deep in the contents of 
 an amusing book, while IMiss Morton, relieved from her usual 
 duties, had gone to her own room to enjoy quietness and soli- 
 tude. 
 
 ' 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 holi- 
 days ; 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.' 
 
 ' O Rose ! ' said a gentle voice behind her ; and Rose was im- 
 mediately sensible that she had been wrong ; and turning round 
 to Emily, who had just come into the room, she jumped upon a 
 cliair to kiss lier, 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
 
 92 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 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 Uora did not appear to observe what was pass- 
 ing 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 diffi- 
 cult 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 com- 
 mands 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 ; ' wc shall be back again presently^ and then
 
 AMV HERBERT. 93 
 
 you shall see ]\Iiss 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 con- 
 tented ; 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,' v.as 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 con- 
 science whispers when we are wrong ; and Amy, young as she 
 was, had too often heard her mother's wai-nings against envy 
 and covetousncss, not to be aware that she was at that moment 
 templed 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 after- 
 wards 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
 
 94 /?.!/}-• }1F.R1;F.RT. 
 
 rather prcUy mouth, and certainly was very unlike what Amy 
 had fancied in all Init her dress, which was peculiarly hand- 
 some. 
 
 'This is our schoolroom,' said Dora, when Miss Cunninijliam, 
 upon being told who Amy was, had shaken hands wilh 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 mv 'governess's sitting-room.' 
 
 'It does very well,' said Dora; 'but it is nothing like the 
 room wc had to ourselves at Wayland, Avhich 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 plcasnntcr 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 privati^ 
 and yet to have beautiful views between the trees.' 
 
 'I suppose,' said Dora, 'that when this house was Iniill, 
 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 ihcre^ 
 was it not ?'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 05 
 
 'Yes ; it was built by my grandfather, when he returned from 
 being ambassador to Turkey.' 
 
 * I think the newest pnrt of Enimcrton 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 fnmily 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, shortl3\ '?kly 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 tlie lip which portended a 
 storm. 
 
 Miss Cunningham stared at her, and tlicn went on with her 
 sentence : ' And my master told papa that my copies were aU 
 most equal to the original.' 
 
 ' I should like to see them very much,' said Margaret, wish- 
 ing 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 Misi
 
 96 A.UV HERBERT. 
 
 Cunningliam felt that she was no match for Dora in anything 
 but pretension; and her only resource was indifference. She 
 therefore went on talkin;^^ to Margaret, who proved herself a 
 willing listener. Drawings, music, lessons, dress, all were men- 
 tioned 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 
 pas!iing. 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 ex- 
 hausted. 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 Cunning- 
 ham. 
 
 ' Nothing that you will admire,' replied Dora, sarcastically. 
 
 But the emphasis on the you was quite lost. From her child- 
 hood, 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.
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 97 
 
 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 atten- 
 tion 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 Cunning- 
 ham 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 con- 
 sisted 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 ran- 
 sacked 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 da 
 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.
 
 98 AJ/V HERBERT. 
 
 'It is n 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 I^now 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 patli, 
 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, 
 Tvhen 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.'
 
 AJl/V HERBERT. 99 
 
 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 proposi- 
 tion ; 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 re- 
 assured 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.
 
 loo /f J/F HERBERT. 
 
 'Sad, sad, veiy sad,' muttered Lord Rochford to himself; 
 ' and the mother, too, so ill, I hear.' Then, seeinpj a tear glis- 
 tening 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 Har- 
 rington, in her haughtiest manner, ' but I must assure you, you 
 have met with one now. — What do yxu want?' she added, for 
 the first time perceiving the footman, who had answered the bell. 
 'Amy, you rang ; Jollifte 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. ' O 
 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 V said Miss Cunningham, 
 with a stare. 
 
 ' Don't you know what Amy means ?' asked Margaret, laugh- 
 ing ; ' 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
 
 AMY HERBERT. loi 
 
 yourself unhappy, Amy ; I know mamma better than you do j 
 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 suc'n a recollec- 
 tion 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. 
 
 ' \\'hat 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 bed- 
 rooms 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
 
 ioi Amy HERBERT. 
 
 month before I was confiimed, to get it perfect ; but since thcii 
 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 
 cut 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 gro\vn 
 up,' observed Margaret. 
 
 ' It is not what I should be called, but what I should feci,' 
 replied Amy. ' People, when they arc 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 Emmcrton. 
 
 ' 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 them- 
 selves?' 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 
 diiTerent at different times.' 
 
 ' They don't to me,' answered Miss Cunningham, shortly. ' If 
 I am told a girl is fourteen, I beheve 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 dis- 
 agreeable associated with a place which once had brought before
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. loj 
 
 her nothing but what was ddightful. Margaret and IMiss Cun- 
 ningham had seemed perfectly indifferent to \vhat 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 irre- 
 verence 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 pas- 
 sage, 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 iNIorton 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 Mai^garet, 
 (juite 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 ]\Iiss 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
 
 !04 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 father and niolhcr 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 her 
 self 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 docs she not ask 
 first ! ' INIiss 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 i' best 
 for you to stay, what will j-ou do then.'" 
 
 'Oh! of course,' said Amy, 'I should do as you thoi'ght 
 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 agc.iu 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 pro- 
 bably 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 bq the same which she had before known only as
 
 AA/V HERBERT. 105 
 
 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. 
 
 jNIiss 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 arc sorry she has been displeased, and ask her to for- 
 give 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; . 
 was only wrong because it was against 'your aunt's wishes. She 
 is very particular indeed about somethings; and this, of ring- 
 ing 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 ] had not gone away,' she 
 s^id ; ' it will be much worse going back again if she is there.
 
 io6 ^MV HERBERT. 
 
 *Yes,' replied Miss Morton, 'I can quilc understand that,; 
 but whether it be easy or difficult it does not make any differ- 
 ence 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 resolu- 
 tion 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 IMiss 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 her- 
 self from sight ; but she remembered Miss Morton's M'ords, 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
 
 AJ/y HERBERr. lo'j 
 
 u-ould 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, cjuickly. 
 '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 veiy 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 veiy 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. 
 1 hate scrapes, and always did, — never let I.ucy get into any, do 
 I, darling?"
 
 io8 AAfV HERBERT. 
 
 Miss Cunningham either did not hear, or did not think it 
 u'orth while to answer ; taking advantage of her father's prin- 
 ciple 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 up- 
 sets 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 Harring- 
 ton, as she remarked her disappointed countenance ; 'only try 
 and be more attentive, and then you will be sure to be re- 
 warded.' 
 
 ' 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 inlluence,' answered Mr Harring- 
 ton ; 'and with that you must be satistied.' 
 
 Lord Rochford declared he was not at all, but that he had no 
 time to argue the matter, for the carriage had been at the door 
 at least a quarter of an hour, so he should consider the thing as 
 settled. 
 
 The parting between Margaret and Miss Cunningham was 
 very affectionate ; and Amy, as she looked on, wondered how so 
 much love could have been inspired in so short a time, and felt 
 it quite a relief that Dora was contented with a cold shake of 
 the hand, since it allowed her to follow her example without 
 being particular. To have kissed Miss Cunningham would have 
 been almost as disagreeable as to be kissed by her aunt when 
 she was angry. 
 
 'That is the most unpleasant girl I ever saw,' exclaimed 
 Dora, when she '^^•as left alone vvith Amy, Margaret having
 
 A.UV HERBERT. 109 
 
 followed Miss Cunningham to the can-ia;:^e, *A proud, con- 
 ceited, forward thing, who thinks she may give herself any airs 
 she pleases. Now, Amy, don't look grave; I know you can't 
 endure her.' 
 
 ' I don't like her,' said Amy. 
 
 'Not like her ! You hate her, I am sure you do, — you must.' 
 
 ' I hope not,' replied Amy, laughing. ' I never hated any one 
 yet.' 
 
 'Then I am sorry for you,' said Dora. 'No one can be a 
 good lover who is not a good hater. I would rather have any 
 thing than lukewarmness.' 
 
 '.So would I,' replied Amy. 'I hope I am not lukewarm; 
 and I am sure I can love some people very dearly, — yes, more 
 than I could ever tell,' she added, as she thought of her mamma. 
 ' But I don't know whether I could hate ; I never met with any 
 one yet to try upon.' 
 
 'You can't have a better subject than that odious ISIiss 
 Cunningham. I could not think of her sandy hair, and her 
 ngly unmeaning eyes, for two minutes, without feeling that I 
 hated her.' 
 
 ' Please don't say so, Dora,' said Amy, earnestly, ' it makes 
 me so sorry.' 
 
 ' Does it ? I don't see why you should care what I say ; it 
 can make no difference to you.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, but indeed it does, for I think it is not right. I 
 don't mean to vex you,' continued Amy, seeing the expression 
 of her cousin's countenance change. I know you are older than 
 I am, and perhaps I ought not to say it, only I could not help 
 being sorry.' 
 
 ' I am not vexed,' said Dora ; ' but it cannot signify to you 
 whether I am right or wrong. It would be different if it were 
 yourself 
 
 ' If it were myself,' replied Amy, ' I could be sorry for myself, 
 and try not to do wrong any more ; but I cannot make you 
 sorry, and so it seems almost worse.' 
 
 ' Make me sorry ! ' exclaimed Dora, in a tone of surprise. 
 ' Of course you can't ; but why should you wish it ?' 
 
 ' I always wish every one to be sorry when they do wrong, 
 because, you know, no one is forgiven till they are.' 
 
 * But supposing they don't think it wrong, you would not have 
 them be sorry then, would you ? I see no harm in hating Miss 
 Cunningham.'
 
 no AMY HERBERT. 
 
 ' It may be wrong,' rcplicil Amy, 'ihougli you don't think so,' 
 
 ' Who is to judge ? ' asked Dora. 
 
 Amy was silent for a moment, and then said. * Would you 
 let me show you a verse in the Bible, Dora, about it? Mamma 
 made me read it one day when I said I hated some one, though 
 I know I did not really do it, and I have never forgotten it/ 
 
 'Well, let me see it,' said Dora, almost sulkily. Amy took a 
 Bible from the book-case, and pointed to the fifteenth verse of 
 the third chapter of St John's first epistle : — ' Whosoever hatcth 
 his brother is a murderer : and ye know that no murderer hath 
 eternal life abiding in him.' ' Oh ! ' exclaimed Dora, when she 
 had read it, 'that is so shocking. Of course, when I talk about 
 hating, I don't mean such hatred as that.' 
 
 'So I said,' replied Amy ; 'and then mamma told me that if 
 I did not mean it, I ought not to say it ; and that the very fact 
 of my using such expressions showed that I had a great dislike, 
 which I ought not to indulge ; and then she made me read a 
 great many more verses in this epistle, about its being our duty 
 to love people. But, Dora, I don't mean to teach you anything, 
 for I am sure you must know it all a great deal better than I do ; 
 only I wanted to tell you what mamma said to me.' 
 
 Amy would probably have been very much surprised if she 
 had known the feelings which passed through her cousin's mind 
 as she spoke. It had never entered her head that she could 
 give advice or instruction ; and yet, perhaps, no words from an 
 older person could have had half the effect of hers. Dora, 
 however, was not in the habit of showing what she felt, and Amy 
 was too simple to guess it, even when the exclamation escaped 
 her, ' I would give all I am worth to have lived with Aunt Her- 
 bert and you all my life. Amy.' 
 
 'Oh no!' exclaimed Amy, 'you cannot be serious. Think 
 of this house, and the beautiful grounds, and Wayland too, 
 where you used to be so happy ; you never would bear to live in 
 a cottage.' 
 
 ' I think sometimes it makes no difference where people live,' 
 answered Dora. ' I don't think I am at all happier for papa's 
 having a fine house.' 
 
 Amy thought of what Susan Reynolds had said, ' that eating, 
 and drinking, and fine clothes, did not make people happy;' and 
 it seemed strange that two persons so differently situated should 
 have thought so much alike ; but she had not time to talk any 
 longer to Dora, for the evening was closing in, and she was
 
 AMY HERBERT. in 
 
 obliged to return home, and, as she thought, without any atten- 
 dant except the man servant who usually took charge of her. But 
 just as she was settling herself upon her donkey, Bridget appeared 
 at the hall door with a request that Miss Herbert would be so 
 very kind as to wait one moment longer, for Stephen had been 
 in just before, to know if any of the ladies were going back with 
 her, for he wished very much to walk a little way if he might be 
 allowed. ' He is only gone up to the stable, Miss,' added Bridget, 
 ' if it is not too much trouble for you to stop. I can't think what 
 made him go away.' 
 
 ' Never mind,' said Amy, ' it is never any trouble to wait for 
 Stephen ; but it will not be long now — that must be he coming 
 down the chestnut walk.' 
 
 Stephen's hobbling pace was exchanged for a species of trot, 
 as he perceived Amy already mounted ; and he came up to her 
 with a thousand apologies for the delay. ' But you know, Miss 
 Amy, 'tis not very often I can see you now, so I thought I would 
 make bold for once. And please to tell me now how your 
 mamma is, for she doesn't come here as she used ; and the folks 
 in the village say she's getting as white as a sheet.' 
 
 ' I don't think mamma is as well or as strong as she used to 
 be, Stephen,' replied Amy ; ' but she does not complain much, 
 only she soon gets tired.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Stephen, shaking his head, ' India, India, — 'tis all 
 India, Miss Amy. Why English people shouldn't be contented 
 to stay on English ground is more than I can guess. A nice, 
 comfortable cottage in a good pasture country, such as this, with 
 a few ups and downs in it to make a variety, is all I should ever 
 wish to have. I want nothing that's to be got from foreiga 
 parts ; for it 's always been my maxim that one penny in England 
 is worth twenty out of it.' 
 
 ' But,' replied Amy, ' some people are obliged to go, Stephen. 
 I am sure papa would not have done it if he could have helped 
 it.' 
 
 'Help or no help, 'tis what I can't understand,' said Stephen. 
 ' Not that I mean any disrespect to the colonel. Miss Amy, but 
 it grieves me to hear the people talk about your poor mamma's 
 pale face.' 
 
 ' I don't think she looks so very pale,' said Amy, feeling un- 
 comfortable, and yet hardly owning it to herself. 
 
 'The dwellers in the same house are not those to see the 
 change,' replied the old man ; ' but I don't mean to be vexing
 
 112 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 your yount? heart before its time. Sorrow comes soon cnoiic;h 
 to all ; and,' he added, reverently, ' lie who sends it will send 
 His strength with it.' 
 
 ' That is what mamma says,' answered Amy, ' She is always 
 bec^ging me not to look forward ; but I do long to do it very 
 often ; and she would be so happy if she could be sure when 
 papa would come back.' 
 
 ' Look, Miss Amy,' said Stephen, gathering a daisy from the 
 grass, 'do you see that? Now, you might try, and so might I, 
 and so might all the great folks that ever lived, — we might all 
 try all our lives, and we never could make such a thing as that ; 
 and yet, you know, 'tis but a tiny ilower that nobody thinks 
 about ; and sometimes, when I get wishing that things were 
 different, I take up a daisy and look at it, till it seems most 
 wonderful how it should be made, and how it should live ; and 
 then it comes into my head how many millions there are like it, 
 and how many plants, and trees, and insects, and animals, and 
 living souls too, and that God made them all, — all that are here, 
 and all that are up above (for I suppose there is no harm in 
 thinking that there may be such) ; and so at last, do you see, I 
 don't only know^ but I c^n feel, that He is wise ; and my heart 
 gets quite light again, for I am sure that He knows what is best ; 
 and as He has not told us what is to come, 'tis but folly to wish 
 about it.' 
 
 'Well! Stephen,' said Amy, 'I really will try; but it is very 
 hard sometimes.' 
 
 ' Ah ! yes,' replied Stephen, ' we all have something hard. 
 Miss Amy ; young or old, there is always something. 'Twas 
 hard for me when the master went away and left the old house 
 to itself, as you may say ; and there are some things that are 
 hard now.' 
 
 ' What things ?' asked Amy, as she almost stopped her donkey, 
 and looked eagerly into the old steward's face. ' I thought you 
 never would be unhappy again when uncle Harrington came 
 back.' 
 
 ' 'Tis he, and 'tisn't he, that's come,' replied Stephen. ' There's 
 a change ; but 'twas the foolishness of an old man's heart to think 
 that it wouldn't be so.' 
 
 ' But what is changed ?' said Amy, 
 
 'Everything!' exclaimed Stephen; 'the master, and madam, 
 and the young ladies, and all ; only Mrs Bridget isn't a bit 
 different.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 113 
 
 'Oh, but Stephen, you know my cousins were so young when 
 they went away — of course they are altered.' 
 
 'To be sure. Miss Amy, I wasn't so foolish as not to expect 
 that ; but I did hope that the young ladies wouldn't be above 
 coming to see one, and talking a bit ; and that the young gentle- 
 man (God bless him and keep him, for he 's the only one) would 
 have been here, and that, perhaps, they would have wanted a 
 little teaching about the ponies. I had two of the little Welsh 
 ones brought in from the hills on purpose, and took a pleasure 
 in training them, but no one comes near me to look at them.' 
 
 'If you would only mention it,' said Amy, 'I am sure my 
 cousins would be delighted.' 
 
 'No,' replied Stephen, 'it's not in my way to put myself 
 forward so, for those who don't care to ask after me. If they 
 had come down to the cottage, and said a word to me or little 
 Nelly, and then noticed that the ponies were about there (for I 
 keep them in the field), 'twould have been all very Avell, and 
 natural like ; but I shall say nothing about it now ; only if 
 master should inquire after any, he can have them. And master 
 Frank, too — 'twill never be like the old times till there is a young 
 gentleman about the place.' 
 
 ' Frank is expected at Christmas,' said Amy ; ' he went to 
 stay with his uncle. Sir Henry Charlton, after poor Edward 
 died, because it was a change for him ; and he was so wretched; 
 and since then he has been at school.' 
 
 ' I 'm growing old. Miss Amy,' answered Stephen, 'and Christ- 
 mas is a long time to look forward to. I don't mean to complain, 
 only 'twould have been a comfort to have seen him here with 
 the rest, and perhaps have kept me from thinking so much 
 about him that 's gone : but it 's all right ; and,' he added, more 
 earnestly, as he brushed his hand hastily across his eyes, ' I 
 \vould not have him back again, — no, not if I could see him a 
 king upon his throne.' 
 
 'And does no one ever go to visit you, Stephen?' asked Amy, 
 rather sadly. 
 
 'Yes,' he replied, 'the young lady. Miss Morton, comes very 
 often ; and though she is not one of the family, yet it does one 
 good to see her, and talk to her ; and then, too, she brings the 
 little one with her; and sure enough she's the sweetest little 
 cherub that ever was born.' 
 
 'What, Rose?' said Amy. 'Is she not a darling little 
 thing?' 
 
 H
 
 114 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 ' I never saw but one Ijcforc thai I tlu)u,qht I could like 
 better,' said Stephen, laying his hard sun-burnt hand on Amy's 
 tiny fnigcrs ; 'and that one, I hope, God will bless, and keep 
 for many a long day. Hut I must not go on farther, for you 
 don't get on so fast when 1 am walking with you.' 
 
 Amy pressed the old man's hand affectionately, begging him 
 to come on only a little way, for she hardly ever saw him 
 now. 
 
 But Stephen was firm. He had gone to his usual point, a 
 splendid oak, commonly called the Baron's tree, from a tradition 
 that it had been planted when Emmcrton was built ; and it 
 seemed almost as if a cliarm would be broken if he went further. 
 Amy stopped, and watched him till he was out of sight, and 
 then pursued her ride through the forest with a sadder heart 
 than she had begun it. 
 
 ' You arc late to-night, my love,' said Mrs Herbert, as her 
 little girl dismounted from her donkey; 'you forget that the 
 days are beginning to close in ; and what makes you look so 
 unhappy ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! not much, mamma ; only please don't stand here in the 
 cold.' 
 
 ' You are so very suddenly careful of mc,' replied Mrs Her- 
 bert, smiling ; ' is this the last thing you learned at the Hall ?' 
 
 ' No,' answered Amy ; ' only Stephen says you look pale> 
 and all the village peojjlc say so too ; but I don't think you are 
 so now.' 
 
 ' I am much better to-night, my dear child,' said Mrs Herbert. 
 ' You must not listen to what every one says, and get frightened 
 without reason.' 
 
 ' Amy's spirits were revived in a moment, and she ran gaily 
 Into the cottage, and in a very short time was seated by the 
 fireside with her mamma, recounting the incidents of the day ; 
 Miss Cunningham, and her behaviour, her aunt's anger, and her 
 own conversations with Dora and old Stephen, furnishing quite 
 sufficient materials for a long storv. ' There were one or two 
 things that my aunt told me, which I could not quite understand,' 
 she said, after having rep.eated a great portion of the lecture she 
 had received. ' What did she mean, mamma, by my knowing 
 my position, and speaking of me as if I were not cae of the 
 family ? I am her niece.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Mrs Herbert ; ' but people think differently 
 about their families. Some persons consider that every one who
 
 AMY HERBERT. 115 
 
 Is any relation at all forms one of the family, and others only 
 call those so who arc their own children.' 
 
 ' But my position,' repeated Amy ; ' why is my position dif- 
 ferent from my cousins ? You are a lady, and papa is a gentle- 
 man.' 
 
 ' Compare this cottage with Emmerton,' replied Mrs Herbert, 
 ' and then you will see the diftcrence, and why people in general 
 would think more of your cousins than of you.'" 
 
 A sudden pang shot through Amy's heart. ' Dear mamma !' 
 she exclaimed, ' I wish you would not say so.' 
 
 'Why not, my dear.'' why must not that be said which is 
 true V 
 
 ' It makes me uncomfortable,' said Amy, ' and wicked too, I 
 am afraid. If papa -were to come home, should we be able to 
 live in a larger house ?' 
 
 ' I do not know,' answered her mother ; ' but if we could, I do 
 not think we should wish it.' 
 
 ' Ah ! mamma, that is because you are so much better than I 
 am. I never used to think so till I saw my cousins at Emmer- 
 ton ; but I should like very much to live in a place like that.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert looked grave, yet she felt thankful that her child 
 spoke openly of her feelings, as it enabled her so much better to 
 guide them. 
 
 ' It is not only the house that I should enjoy,' continued Amy, 
 'but I tliink people would love me better. Margaret did not 
 seem to think anything of me when Miss Cunningham was by ; 
 and w^hen Lord Rochford and my uncle cnme in, I thought every 
 one had more business there than I had. It was very kind in 
 him to look at my drawings, but still I felt nobody by the side 
 of Dora and Margaret.' 
 
 The conversation was here stopped by the entrance of Mr 
 Walton, who often came in at this time of the evening, on his 
 return from his visits in the parish. Amy was only half pleased 
 to sec him, for she would willingly have talked much longer to 
 lier mamma alone ; l)ut her mind was partly relieved by the con- 
 fession she had made of her foolish wishes ; and Mrs Herbcit's 
 countenance brightened so much at the sight of him, that she 
 was soon reconciled to the interruption. 
 
 Mr Walton brought as usual several tales of distress and 
 difficulty, which Mrs Herbert, notwithstanding her limited in- 
 come, was always the first to relieve ; and Amy, as she listened 
 to the account of a widow with six children, unable to pay her
 
 ii6 AMY IIKRnERT. 
 
 rent, a father on his sick bed, totally unable to provide for his 
 family, and other cases of a similar kind, and then looked round 
 upon the comfortable room in wiiicli she was silting, with its 
 bright curtains and carpet, its easy sofas and chairs, and the 
 preparations for tea upon the table, felt grieved and ashamed 
 that she should have allowed a pang of envy to render her for a 
 single moment insensible to her many blessings ; and perhaps Mr 
 Walton's parish tales produced a greater effect than even her 
 mother's words could have done, for she went to bed that 
 night far more contented than she had been on her return from 
 the Hall. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 NOTHING more was said about the proposed visit to Roch- 
 ford Park on Amy's two following visits to Emmcrton ; 
 and though her anxiety was great to know if she were to be in- 
 cluded in the parly, she only ventured once to ask Margaret two 
 or three questions, and then received a short, abrupt answer, 
 that nothing was settled, and that it could not be any concern of 
 hers. The fact was, that Margaret disliked the notice which 
 Lord Rochford had taken of Amy, on the day he had spent at 
 Emmerton ; for she had resolved in her own mind that she 
 would be Miss Cunningham's friend and companion, and her 
 fears of a rival were considerably excited. Of this, however, 
 there was no occasion to be afraid. Amy felt not the smallest 
 inclination to be intimate with her new acquaintance ; and her 
 only wish for being of the party ^^•as, that she might see Roch- 
 ford Park, which had always been described to her as one of the 
 finest places in England. Mrs Harrington did not appear at all 
 likely to give her any information, for whenever they met, which 
 was but seldom, she only said a few words more hastily and 
 sharply than she had done before, in order to show that she had 
 not quite forgotten Amy's offence ; and it was not till the even- 
 ing previous to the day which was at last fixed for going, that 
 any hope was given her of accompanying them. 
 
 'Take this note to your mamma,' said Mrs Harrington, 
 coming to the hall-door just as Amy was about to set off; and 
 if she should say yes to what I have asked, the carriage shall 
 call fi>r you at eleven ; if not, you had better come here by your-
 
 AMY HERBERT. 117 
 
 self, as usual ; and you shall go with us to Lord Rochford's ; 
 and we will take you home at night, though it will be consider- 
 ably out of our way.' 
 
 Am/s gratitude even was subdued in her aunt's presence ; 
 but she did manage to say something about being delighted ; 
 and then, carefully depositing the precious note in the pocket of 
 her saddle, she made her donkey move at its quickest pace down 
 the road. 
 
 Mrs Harrington turned away with the consciousness of having 
 done a disagreeable thing in a disagreeable manner. She had 
 fully determined upon not taking Amy, it would only crowd the 
 carriage ; and she did not wish it to be considered a necessary 
 thing, that where her daughters went, her niece should go too ; 
 but a note, which she had that morning received from Lord 
 Rochford, expressly mentioning Amy, and adding a hope that 
 Mrs Herbert would be prevailed on to comply with Lady Roch- 
 ford's wishes, and join the party, left her no choice ; and it was 
 happy for Amy that she did not know how very little her aunt 
 desired her presence. 
 
 Mrs Harrington's note enclosed Lady Rochford's invitation, 
 which Mrs Herbert decided at once it would be better not to 
 accept for herself; but she did not object to Amy's going, though 
 she feared that if Emmerton in its quietness, and almost 
 solemnity, excited her longings after riches and grandeur, Roch- 
 ford Park would probably have a still greater effect. Yet, even 
 if this were the case, she trusted that she should be able to check 
 the feeling ; and she knew that the same temptations were nearly 
 certain to arise in after-years, when she would not be at hand to 
 put Amy on her guard against them. 
 
 Amy's delight was unmeasured. Her aunt's harsh looks, and 
 Miss Cunningham's disagreeable manners, were quite forgotten 
 in the pleasure she anticipated in going to a new place ; and 
 long before her usual hour of rising she had been to the window 
 several times to see if the weather promised to be fine. The 
 calm, gray mist of the morning was hardly what she wcudd have 
 desired ; but there was a joyousness in her own spirit which 
 made almost everything appear bright, and when at length the 
 sun broke slowly through its veil of clouds, shedding a clear 
 line of light over the distant hills, and then bursting forth in 
 full radiance over the riclily-wooekcl country, and the cheerful 
 village, Amy's heart bounded within her, and again, as she 
 recollected her feelings of envy on her return from Emmerton.
 
 Il8 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 she sighed to think th:il she should have been so ungrateful as 
 to wish for anything beyond the enjoyments which God had 
 given her. 
 
 PunctuaHty was one of the virtues whicli Mrs Harrington 
 strictly enforced ; and Amy almost trembled when she heard the 
 clock strike eleven as she rode up to the lodge. She knew also, 
 that on this point her mamma and aunt entirely agreed ; and 
 she had received many injunctions on no account to delay on 
 the road, and so be the means of keeping the carriage waiting — 
 and to have vexed her mother would have been even worse 
 than to have excited Mrs Harrington's anger. Happily, how- 
 ever, there were some last orders to be given, which caused 
 a delay of about five minutes, and Amy had time to dis- 
 mount, and join her cousins in the schoolroom, before her aunt 
 appeared. 
 
 She seemed more inclined to be kind than before ; and Amy 
 felt so much reassured Ijy her change of manner, that, although 
 placed in tlie middle of the back seat, between Dora and 
 Margaret, and having Mrs Harrington's face nearly opposite, 
 she contrived to be extremely happy. It was only necessary to 
 be quite still and silent, to avoid giving offence ; and this to her 
 was no punishment. 
 
 From being so much alone, she had learned the secret of amus- 
 ing herself with her own thoughts, and found them far more 
 agreeable than the eflbrt of talking in a constrained way to her 
 cousins. Dora and Margaret willingly followed her example ; 
 the former from being rather in a sulky mood, and the latter 
 from finding her attempts at conversation useless. The drive 
 was consequently a quiet, but not a dull one ; and the distance 
 appeared very short to Amy, though Dora had yawned at least 
 four times, and at last muttered that she could never think Miss 
 Cunningham was worth coming so far to see. 
 
 ' I cannot say I want very much to see her either,' re- 
 plied Amy; 'only the place, — I would give anything to see 
 that.' 
 
 ' Then look,' said Dora, pointing to a long white building on 
 the nearest hill, ' there it is, just to your right.' 
 
 Amy looked eagerly, and fancied she saw something very 
 grand, though only the general outline could be discovered ; 
 but as she came nearer, still keeping her eyes fixed upon it, she 
 was quite satisfied that it must be what it had been described — 
 the most splendid nobleman's scat in the county. ' Oh ! ' she
 
 AMY HERBERT. 119 
 
 exclaimecl, jumping up in the carriage; 'it is, yes, it really is 
 more beautiful than Emmerton.' 
 
 * Sit still, pray,' said Dora ; 'you nearly trod upon my foot.' 
 
 Amy reseated herself, and felt rebuked ; but the next moment, 
 as she caught the full front of the house through an opening in 
 the trees, she forgot everything but her admiration, and again 
 began expatiating upon its beauty. 
 
 'Look, Dora! is it not lovely? it is so large, so much larger 
 than Emmerton, and then those beautiful pillars, and the broad 
 steps with the figures in front ; it is just like a palace.' 
 
 *A palace!' replied Dora; 'what nonsense you talk, only 
 because you have never seen anything else like it. It is a very 
 good gentleman's house ; but there are hundreds in England 
 just as fine.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said Mr Harrington ; ' there are very few 
 places which can in any degree compare witli it.' 
 
 ' Wayland was nearly as large, papa,' answered Dora, more 
 gently than usual ; for her father's mildness had a much greater 
 effect upon her than her mother's sharpness. 
 
 ]\Ir Harrington smiled. ' Your affection for Wayland,' he 
 said, ' causes you to magnify it in a strange manner. I suppose 
 it is scarcely more than half the size,' 
 
 Amy felt rather triumphant, and a little inclined to show it, 
 but she checked herself ; and as they had now reached the park 
 gate, a fresh interest was excited in her mind, and she had no 
 inclination to continue the discussion. 
 
 If the exterior of the house had appeared imposing at a dis- 
 tance, it lost none of its effect upon a nearer approach ; and 
 when, after driving a considerable way through the park, the 
 carriage at length stopped at the side front. Amy's expectations 
 were raised to the highest pitch, though something of fear 
 mingled with her pleasure as she thought of the strangers she 
 should probably see, and wondered whether she knew exactly 
 how it would be proper to behave. 
 
 Lord Rochford met them at the door, and expressed great 
 pleasure at their arrival ; but Amy felt a little disappointed that 
 he did not say anything in particular to her, as her mamma had 
 told her that he had sent her a special invitation ; but Lord 
 Rochford was at that moment too much occupied in doing the 
 honours of his house to JVIr and Mrs Harrington, and too anxious 
 to point out the improvements he had made, and hear them 
 pronounced perfect, to think of her.
 
 120 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 Poor Amy felt lost and bewildered as they entered the splcndiJ 
 hall, with its painted ceiling, and pillars of Italian marble, and 
 then passed on through long suites of rooms furnished in the 
 most sumptuous manner, some hung with delicate silk, and 
 glittering with gilded cornices and costly ornaments, and others 
 crowded with rare pictures and richly-bound books, while sofas, 
 ottomans, cabinets, and tables of the most exquisite workman- 
 ship gave an air of comfort to what would otherwise have 
 appeared only desolate grandeur. It seemed to her like fairy- 
 land. Emmerton, and its deep windows, and handsome but 
 sombre furniture, at once sank into insignificance ; and she no 
 longer wondered that Miss Cunningham had been little inclined 
 to admire anything there, when she could compare with it the 
 gorgeousness of her own home. 
 
 It seemed strange, too, that her uncle and aunt could see it 
 all without apparently noticing it. They walked quickly on, as 
 if only wishing that there were fewer rooms to go through ; 
 Dora followed, looking round certainly, but not giving any 
 symptoms of admiration ; and Amy found that her feelings 
 were shared by no one excepting Margaret, who, however, was 
 more engaged in spying out what she called 'odd things,' and 
 peeping into the books which lay on the table, than in anything 
 else. 
 
 ' I think I must leave you young ones here,' said Lord Roch- 
 ford, opening a door -which led into a small hall with French 
 windows frontin<f the pleasure-ground. ' These are Lucy's own 
 rooms ; and she and madame will take great care of you, while 
 Mrs Harrington pays a visit to Lady Rochford. I am afraid she 
 is not well enough this morning to receive you all.' 
 
 Amy wondered for an instant who madame could be ; but she 
 was not left long in doubt : for immediately behind Miss Cun- 
 ningham, who came forward to receive them, appeared her French 
 governess, a tall, thin, inelegant-looking person, with a good- 
 natured, merry face, a dress made in the newest Parisian fashion., 
 and a cap which seemed formed rather for the purpose of receiv- 
 ing a certain quantity of ribbon and artificial flowers, than as any 
 covering to the black wig which it only half concealed. Amy 
 felt very much amused, and would perhaps have smiled, had she 
 not remembered that there was something unfeeling, independent 
 of its being unladylike, in turning a foreigner into ridicule ; but 
 Margaret's merriment was almost audible, as madame placed 
 chairs for them, hoped in broken English they were not fatigued
 
 A M V HERBER T. 121 
 
 «-ith their drive, and then, with a swimming French curtsey, 
 vanished from the room. 
 
 'That is your governess, is it?' said Dora, ahnost before 
 the door was closed, in a tone which plainly spoke her opinion 
 of her. 
 
 'Yes,' replied Miss Cunningham, 'she is the most good- 
 natured creature in the world ; and I am so fond of her. She 
 speaks French beautifully.' 
 
 ' Not a first-rate qualiiication for a native,' said Dora. 
 
 ' Oh ! but she paints flowers, too, and sings.' 
 
 ' Sings !' repeated Margaret; ' but she is so old.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! no, she is not. She sings and plays the guitar ; and 
 she is teaching me — papa has just bought me a new one.' And 
 Miss Cunningham took up a richly-inlaid instrument, with a long 
 blue ribbon attached to it, and began striking some false notes 
 which she called chords. 
 
 ' I don't like the guitar,' said Dora, ' unless it is played beau- 
 tifully.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but madame is quite a superior performer ; and she says 
 I have made a wonderful proficiency, considering the few lessons 
 I have had. She practises a great deal, not in this room, for I 
 can't bear the twang, but in the next, which is her own. This is 
 my study, and the little one within I call my boudoir.' Here Miss 
 Cunningham looked round, apparently expecting some flattering 
 observation to be made ; and of course all eyes were immediately 
 directed to the room and its furniture. Dora's gaze was the most 
 fixed and earnest, and when it was ended, she played with her 
 parasol, and was silent ; but ?*Iargaret declared that everything 
 she saw was delightful — the chintz furniture such an extremely 
 pretty pattern, the tables so well placed, the piano so very hand- 
 some, and the view from the window so lovely — that Amy found 
 ihcrr. was nothing left for her to say ; and feeling a great dislike 
 to merely echoing Margaret's words, she contented herself with 
 expressing what she really thotight — 'that it looked very pretty 
 and comfortable '—and then amused herself with Margaret's 
 panegyrics. Miss Cunningham probably would have talked 
 long without wearinebi^ on this favourite topic ; but Dora's 
 patience was soon exhausted ; and she at last interrupted a ques- 
 tion of Margaret's, which she foresaw would lead to one of Miss 
 Cunningham's long dissertations upon herself and the splendour 
 of her family mansion, by asking whether they were to go out 
 before dinner.
 
 122 AJIV HERBERT. 
 
 ' We dine at four, altogether,' replied Miss Cunningham ; * 50 
 ••■7C had better, I suppose.' And then, turning to Margaret, she 
 oegan, as Dora had feared, not merely an answer, but a history. 
 There was no resource but to sit still and endure it ; and when 
 at length it ended, to Dora's great relief, IMiss Cunningham pre- 
 pared to show them through the grounds. 
 
 Amy soon found that the uncomfortable feelings she had ex- 
 perienced at Emmcrlon were beginning to return. She almost 
 envied Dora her proud indifference; for though Miss Cunning- 
 ham took little notice of her, it was quite evident that she did 
 not wish for attention ; but Amy could not be happy as one of 
 the party, when no one spoke to her, or even appeared to recol- 
 lect that she was present. The grounds were very extensive, and 
 something lovely opened at every turn ; but she felt neglected, 
 and not all the costly flowers and shrubs in the garden, or the 
 beautiful birds in the aviary, nor even the bright sunshine itself, 
 could make her forget that she was with persons who did not 
 think it worth while to interest themselves about her. 
 
 Perhaps the very charm of the place only increased her un- 
 easiness. It was so rich and brilliant, that it seemed more than 
 to realise all she could possibly desire ; but there was no hope 
 that her father would ever possess anything like it — it was to be 
 looked upon, but not to be enjoyed ; and as she remembered the 
 tale of Aladdin's lamp, she longed that it could be hers but for 
 one moment, that she might raise a palace, not for herself but 
 her mamma, which should be in every respect like Rochford 
 Park. These dreams so absorbed Amy's mind that she paid but 
 little attention to what passed between Margaret and Miss Cun- 
 ningham ; for they were the only two who conversed, Dora being 
 too grand to make any remarks beyond what were absolutely 
 necessary. At length, however, she was struck by Miss Cun- 
 ningham's exclaiming, in rather a more energetic tone than 
 usual, ' Pray, has your mamma mentioned anything to you about 
 the new plan ?' 
 
 ' Plan,' repeated Margaret. ' No. What do you mean ?* 
 
 ' Oh ! the plan about our going to London.' 
 
 'We can have nothing to do with that,' said Margaret. 
 
 ' Yes, you have ; it is your plan as well as ours.' 
 
 'But what do you mean,' continued Margaret; 'I never heard 
 a word about it before.' 
 
 'Why, you know,' said Miss Cunningham, 'that papa and my 
 brother generally go to town in the spring, and leave mamma.
 
 AMY HERBEK T. 1 23 
 
 and lae, and niadame, here, because there is some fancy about its 
 suiting mamma better ; and dreadfully dull it is. But now I am 
 growing so old, they think it quite right that I should have some 
 one better to teach me than poor madame ; and mamma has pro- 
 mised to let me go to London after Easter, and one of my aunts 
 is to be with me, and I am to see everything, and have lessons 
 in everything.' 
 
 'But that is no concern of ours,' said Margaret ; 'and Easter 
 is so far off.' 
 
 ' It does concern you, though,' replied Miss Cunningham, 'for 
 papa has got it into his head that I shall learn much better if I 
 can get some other girls to have lessons «vith me. He says it 
 will be much more amusing, and I shall like it better; and so be 
 has been trying to persuade your mamma to let you go up too, 
 and then the same masters will do for all.' 
 
 ' Then that is what Lord Rochford meant the other day,' said 
 Amy, ' when he talked about a plan, and begged aunt Harring- 
 ton to mention it to mamma.' 
 
 * Did he wish you to go too ?' asked Miss Cunningham. 
 
 The words of this question were very simple ; but the tone of 
 it showed plainly that the idea was not agreeable ; and Amy 
 felt quite abashed, and answered hurriedly, that she did not 
 know what was wished, for that no more had been said upon the 
 subject. 
 
 ' Won't it be delightful?' said Miss Cunningham to Margaret, 
 ' We shall be together so much, and shall go to the theatre ; and, 
 perhaps there will be some parties for girls of our age ; you 
 know there are such things.' 
 
 ' It would be all very nice if there were any chance of it,' re- 
 plied Margaret. 
 
 'And why should there not be?' exclaimed Miss Cunning- 
 ham, who had never dreamt of any obstacle to a wish of her 
 father's. 
 
 ' I^ecause,' said Margaret, ' mamma will not allow it.' 
 
 'And why not ? what objection can she have?' 
 
 'She will not let us go while Emily Morton is with us,' said 
 Margaret, 'because she does not think it necessary. Before she 
 came, I often used to hear her talk of taking us to London for 
 masters, but now she never mentions it ; and it was only yester- 
 day I heard her say that we had greater advantages at present 
 than we possiljly could have by any other means.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but that is all nonsense,' said Miss Cunningham, 'Just
 
 124 AMY 11 KR BERT. 
 
 let papa talk to her for ten minutes, and she will soon conit 
 round.' 
 
 ' You don't know mamma,' replied Dora, who, being very firm 
 and decided herself, particularly admired decision in others. 
 * If she does not approve of the plan, all the world might talk 
 to her, and it would have no effect.' 
 
 ' But why does Miss Morton stay wTth you ?' asked Miss Cun- 
 ningham. ' Are you very fond of her ? ' 
 
 ' Fond of her !' exclaimed Margaret. ' No, indeed ; it would 
 rejoice my heart to see her fairly out of the house.' 
 
 ' It would not mine,' said Amy, whose spirit was roused at 
 hearing a person she loved so mentioned. 
 
 A moment before Dora would have taken Miss Morton's part, 
 but she could not bear Amy to interfere as if it were her business ; 
 and, in an irritated voice, she asked, what it could possibly sig- 
 nify whether she liked Miss Morton or not. 
 
 ' Nothing,' replied Amy, gently ; ' only I am very fond of her? ' 
 
 ' Then I wish you would keep her,' said Margaret. ' I shall 
 dislike her more than ever, now ; for I shall always think she is 
 preventing us from going to London,' 
 
 ' But why don't you persuade your mamma to get rid of her?' 
 cxclaimtd Miss Cunningham. ' Madame would not stay an hour 
 in the house if I did not like her.' 
 
 'Ah, but it is very different with us,' replied Margaret. 
 ' Mamma will have her own way about it ; she knows very well 
 that we dislike Emily, and she is always finding fault with her, 
 herself; but when it came to the point I am certain she would 
 say no. And then, too, both papa and mamma hate London, and 
 would be very glad of an excuse for not going.' 
 
 ' But do you really think,' asked Miss Cunningham, ' that if it 
 were not for Miss Morton they would be obliged to do it ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; at least they always said so before Emily came.' 
 
 ' Well ! if you are c[uitc sure of that, I can sec no reason why 
 we should not try and manage the matter between us.' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' exclaimed Margaret, who observed that Amy seemed 
 quite aghast at the cool way in which this was said; 'there is 
 no use in speaking about it now. Is that your dinner-bell?' 
 
 'Yes; but there is no hurry; do promise to talk to youi 
 mamma. I am sure papa will do all he can — we should be so 
 happy together in London.' 
 
 ' Without Emily Morton,' said Margaret ; ' it would drive mc 
 wild to feel she was always tacked on to me.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 125 
 
 *0 Margaret! how unkind you are!' exclaimed Amy. 'You 
 know Miss Morton is always trying to please every one, and she 
 never gets out of temper.' 
 
 ' i\Iiss Morton pets you till she makes you as disagreeable as 
 she is herself,' said Margaret, angrily. 
 
 Amy for an instant was strongly inclined to retort ; but she 
 did not give way to the feeling, and, preferring to walk behind 
 with Dora, did not speak again till they reached the house. 
 ^Margaret and Miss Cunningham immediately began a low, and 
 apparently a very interesting conversation ; for it was continued 
 at intervals even when they were dressing for dinner, though, 
 v/henever Dora or Amy approached them, they broke off 
 abruptly, looking very mysterious, as if the fate of the world 
 depended on no person's knowing what they were talking of. 
 But Amy thought little about them, being entirely engrossed 
 with the dread of dining for the first time at what appeared to 
 her a regular party. The feeling had been lurking in her mind 
 during the whole day, but the novelty of all she had seen had 
 distracted her attention. Now, however, the awful moment was 
 drawing near ; and even her desire to see everything, and her 
 admiration of the house and furniture, could not prevent her 
 from wishing that she could transport herself back to the 
 cottage just till dinner was over. She felt also quite over- 
 powered by Miss Cunningham's dress, and the profusion of 
 brooches and chains, with which she adorned herself, turning 
 them over one by one, with an air of the utmost indifference ; 
 and then, finding that her visitors did not make any observation, 
 caUing to them to ask their opinion as to which suited her best. 
 Dora took care to object to almost all, or to compare them with 
 something more splendid belonging to other people ; but Amy, 
 who had never yet seen such beautiful things worn by a person 
 so young, expressed her admiration very openly ; and then, as 
 she caught sight of her plain silk frock in the large looking- 
 glass, wondered whether Lady Rochford would think it very 
 strange that she was not dressed equally well. 
 
 ' Itlay I sit by you, Dora?' she whispered, as they went down- 
 stairs. 
 
 ' I can't tell,' replied Dora ; * it will depend upon how we go 
 in to dinner.' 
 
 ' But what shall I do ? ' asked Amy. * Do you tliink any "one 
 will speak to me ?' Dora laughed ; but when she looked at her 
 cousin, she saw that her eyes were almost filled with tears. 'I
 
 126 A M Y IIERBER T. 
 
 am so frightened,' continued Amy, 'I know I shall do something 
 very wrong, and then every one will stare at me. If I might 
 only stay in the drawing-room ' 
 
 'Every one would stare at you a great deal more then,' 
 replied Dora ; ' besides, there is no party ; there will be only 
 Lord and Lady Rochford, and Mr Cunningham and ourselves.' 
 
 ' Mr Cunningham ! ' said Amy. ' Is he very old ?' 
 
 'Oh yes, quite grown up,' rephcd Dora. ' But you need not 
 trouble yourself about him, for I daresay he will not speak to 
 you ; and, if he does, you won't understand him.' 
 
 Amy recollected having heard Dora mention Mr Cunning- 
 ham's peculiar voice before ; and slie was on the point of asking 
 her to explain what was the matter with it, but they were stand- 
 ing at the drawing-room door, and there was no time. 
 
 Lady Rochford was seated on the sofa, talking to Mrs Har- 
 rington ; and Amy was instantly struck with tlie likeness be- 
 tween her and her daughter. There was the same sandy hair, 
 the same dull eye, the same fair complexion, the only difference 
 being in the greater softness of expression, and the lines which 
 continual illness and additional years had worn in lier face. 
 Her dress, too, was very youtliful ; and it was difficult for a 
 stranger to believe that she could possibly be the mother of the 
 tall, gentlemanly young man, who stood by her side, apparently 
 intent upon examining the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Lady 
 Rochford's manner, however, had none of Miss Cunningham's 
 scornfulness ; her temper -w as very sweet, and it was her wish to 
 make everyone about her happy ; and if she did sometimes fail, 
 it was more from over attention, and insisting upon their enjoy- 
 ing themselves in her way rather than in their own, than from 
 any other cause. Amy felt relieved by the kindness with which 
 she spoke to her, and almost happy when she had contrived to 
 hide herself behind Dora, and could look at what was going on 
 without being observed ; and dinner being announced almost 
 immediately, she kept close by her side, hoping that, after all, 
 she might not find it as terrible as she had expected. But her 
 hope was soon crushed. There was a slight confusion as tliey 
 went into the dining-room ; no one seemed to know exactly where 
 to place themselves ; and Amy was obliged to leave Dora, and 
 take the vacant seat between her aunt Harrington and Mr 
 Cunningham. 
 
 ' George, you will take care of your little neighbour,' said Lord 
 Rochford ; ' do find out what she would like to have.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. nj 
 
 The silent Mr Cunningham turned to Amy, and spoke ; but 
 whether his words were Enghsh, French, or German, it v/ould 
 have been impossible for her in her fright to have told. By 
 persons who were well acquainted with him, he was very easily 
 understood ; but, in consequence of a defect in tire formation of 
 his mouth, his articulation was so indistinct, as to be almost un- 
 intelligible to strangers ; and Amy looked at him, with mingled 
 fear and surprise. Again he endeavoured to render his meaning 
 clear ; but not a word could Amy comprehend, though, guessing 
 what he would say, she faltered, ' Chicken, if you please,' and 
 then looked at her aunt, and blushed painfully, from the idea that 
 she had done exactly the very thing she ought not. Rlr Cun- 
 ningham apparently was very desirous of seeing her comfortable; 
 for, during dinner, he made a point of offering her everything on 
 the talkie which he thought she might like ; and each time he 
 opened his lips Amy's distress revived. But the climax of misery 
 was, when, after the dessert being placed on tlie table, he seemed 
 inclined to enter into conversation with her. Happily she caught 
 the words, 'live at Emmerton,' in his first sentence, and contrived 
 to answer it correctly ; but as he went on, the confusion of 
 sound increased, and, perfectly bewildered between endeavour- 
 ing to make out the meaning of the last question and the dread 
 of hearing a new one, she continued to repeat 'Yes' and 'No,' 
 at regular intervals, resolving in her own mind that it would be 
 belter to live at the cottage all her life, even if it were twice as 
 small, and she were never to see any one, than be condemned to 
 tlie penance of talking to Mr Cunningham. 
 
 Her cousins, from the opposite side of the table, watched her 
 with considerable amusement, though, after a short time, Dora's 
 compassion was much excited, and once or twice she attempted 
 to help her, by partly repeating the question when she understood 
 it better than Amy ; but this only served to increase Mr Cun- 
 ningham's desire to make himself intelligible, and the eagerness 
 w ilh which he went over the ground again, rendered the sounds 
 only the more perplexing, so that Dora was obliged to resign 
 Amy to her fate, and wait with patience till Lady Rochford should 
 move. 
 
 The lookcd-for moment did at last arrive, and Amy's spirits 
 rose like lliose of a prisoner released from captivity ; for nearly at 
 the last moment, having answered ' Yes,' when she ought to have 
 said ' No,' she found a large bunch of grapes placed upon hei 
 plate, and. not liking to confess she had misunderstood, and still
 
 1-^8 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 lc5S likin.c; to cat them, slic wns obli.^^cd to leave them, and went 
 out, woiKlcrin;,^ whether Mr Cunniiif,diain would remark it, and, 
 if he did, what he would think of her. 
 
 The evening was but short, and to Amy it was rather stupid. 
 Margaret and Miss Cunningliam left the room together soon 
 after dinner, and only appeared again when they were summoned 
 to tea. Lady Rochford talked a good deal to Dora, and asked 
 her to play and sing ; but she said very little to Amy, except 
 that observing her interested in a book of prints, which Miss 
 Cunningham had brought before dinner for Margaret to sec, she 
 declared that it must be much more agreeable to her to look at 
 a cabinet of minerals ; and, taking the book away, Amy was 
 obliged, for the next half hour, to turn over a number of drawers 
 filled with odd-shaped stones, and pieces of iron and copper, 
 about which she knew nothing, and cared less. 
 
 There was some pleasure, nothwithstanding, for there was no 
 necessity to admire them, and she could stand with them in her 
 hand, and amuse herself with the other things in the room, since 
 no one took any notice of her ; but the marked difference be- 
 tween herself and her cousins, had never been so observable 
 before. Even the servants overlooked her, and forgot to oifcr 
 her any coffee ; and her wishes of the morning returned with 
 redoubled vigour. Not that she would have been Miss Cun- 
 ningham, for her own mother was a treasure beyond all price ; 
 she would only willingly have given her an equal share of the 
 world's riches and grandeur. Mr Cunningham did not come 
 into the drawing-room till tea was nearly over ; but Lord Roch- 
 ford and Mr Harrington soon joined them, and the former im- 
 mediately began urging upon Mrs Harrington the importance 
 of acceding to the plan he had mentioned at Emmcrton. 
 
 Amy saw that her aunt was annoyed by the subject being 
 named so openly, for she remarked immediately that it was time 
 for them to prepare for returning ; and though Dora and Margaret 
 lingered as long as they could to hear what was said, she pre- 
 served perfect silence until they were gone. 
 
 ' IVIamma will say no,' exclaimed RLargarct ; ' I could sec it by 
 the way she bit her lip.' 
 
 'And papa will make her say yes,' replied Miss Cunningham. 
 ' He never gives up anything he has set his heart on.' 
 
 ' Then there is one good thing,' said Dora ; ' they will have a 
 subject of interest to discuss for the remainder of their lives. 
 You might just as easily move this wall as mamma.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 129 
 
 * I shall never rest till it is settled,' continued Miss Cunning- 
 ham ; 'fancy the delight of being in London, and driving about 
 in the parks, and seeing all the shops, and buying whatever one 
 likes. I shall give all my old dresses to my maid ; for I am deter- 
 mined to have quite a new set of my own choosing.' 
 
 'It would be very nice,' said Margaret, with a sigh of hopeless 
 regret; 'and to think that that pale-faced, black-haired Emily 
 Morton should be the only thing to stand in the way.' 
 
 * Ah ! ' said Miss Cunningham, significantly, ' we will see about 
 that,' and some more whispering went on between her and 
 Margaret. 
 
 Amy did not remark this conversation ; but she said in a low 
 voice to Dora, ' Does Mr Cunningham go to town with them 
 always ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Dora, laughing ; ' and you must go to town 
 too, to learn his language. French, Italian, German, and double- 
 Dutch, — what an accomplished person you will be ! ' 
 
 ' I don't mean to be unkind to him,' said Amy ; ' but it would 
 take off a great deal of my pleasure.' 
 
 ' Oh no, it would not ; it is only because you are not accus- 
 tomed to him — every one in the house understands him.' 
 
 ' Do they ? but then they are older. O Dora ! you cannot 
 think how frightened I was. I was so afraid he would think me 
 rude and unfeeling.' 
 
 * I should have been afraid of laughing,' said Dora ; ' I never 
 heard such an extraordinary voice in my life.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I might have laughed if he had not been so kind ; 
 and then it vexes mamma so, if I ever ridicule a person's misfor- 
 tunes ; she says that we never can tell when the same things 
 may be sent to ourselves.' 
 
 Dora ^\as thoughtful for a minute ; at length she said, ' You 
 r.re so grave about things, Amy ; it is not human nature not to 
 laugh at such oddities.' 
 
 ' But,' replied Amy, ' mamma says we have two natures, a 
 good one and a bad one, and that human nature is the bad 
 one.' 
 
 'Two natures ! ' exclaimed Dora, ' what can you mean ?' 
 
 ' I wish you would ask mamma some day,' answered Amy ; 
 ' she would tell you so much better than I can.' 
 
 * She would find it so much trouble,' said Dora, sadly ; ' I 
 have not been taught like you.' And she turned hastily away, 
 and, scolding Margaret for being sc slow in getting ready, 
 
 I
 
 130 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 declared it would not do to wait any longer, and ran down- 
 stairs. 
 
 It was a happy thing for Amy that her dread of Mr Cunning- 
 ham prevented her from indulging to its full extent the wish of 
 accompanying her cousins to London, if Mr Harrington should 
 consent to their going ; but the incidents of the day had been 
 cjuite sufficient to excite her imagination to the utmost. The 
 magnificence of Rochford Park had realised many of her gayest 
 dreams ; and while her uncle and aunt, and her cousins, giving 
 way to the weariness consequent on a long day, composed them- 
 selves to sleep, she felt quite at liberty to build a castle in the 
 air, which should have all the splendour of the princely mansion 
 they had left, without the drawback of its inhabitants. In a fcv/ 
 moments she was living at a park, with her father returned from 
 India, her mother in perfect health and happiness, and her 
 cousins and Emily Morton on a visit to them. The house was 
 filled with company ; there were pleasant drives and rides, a 
 pony for herself and a pony-chaise for her mamma, handsome 
 dinners, and amusements of every kind for her father's visitors ; 
 and the chapel was also thought of, but it seemed inconsistent 
 with her other dreams, and she could not decide upon its being 
 used every day — perhaps once a-week would be sufficient. 
 Then again the scene changed to London — to handsome shops, 
 and beautiful dresses, and rich ornaments, just like Miss Cun- 
 ningham's ; and the delight of going to a play when she liked, 
 having constantly new books, and being able to make presents 
 to all her friends ; and in the midst of this vision of grandeur, 
 the carriage stopped at the little white gate of Emmerton 
 cottage. Her mother's voice recalled her to herself; but even 
 its much-loved gentle tone could not at that instant entirely 
 content her. A feeling of dissatisfaction with everything had 
 taken possession of her mind, and the gaiety of her spirit was 
 fled. 
 
 But few words passed between Mrs Herbert and her brother, 
 Mrs Harrington complaining of being extremely cold, and ob- 
 jecting to the horses being kept standing ; and Amy was not 
 sorry for this, as she longed to be quiet with her mamma after 
 the excitement of the day. Her spirits, however, were too 
 much depressed to be again roused even by the interest of 
 talking over all she had done and seen ; and after a few attempts 
 at answering her mamma's questions, she gave it up in despaii, 
 and burst into tears. Mrs Herbert guessed directly what v/as
 
 AJ/V HERiiERT. 131 
 
 the matter, on finding that Amy could assign no reason for 
 her distress. Her cousins had not been unkind, her aunt had 
 not been angry, she had seen everything she expected ; but she 
 was quite tired, and this was the only account she could give. 
 ' I suspect a night's rest will be the most certain means of 
 making you feel happy again, my love,' said Mrs Herbert ; 
 ' suppose you prepare to go to bed, and I will hear all you can 
 tell me to-morrow.' 
 
 ' I should like very much to talk to you to-night,' replied 
 Amy, almost sobbing ; ' I am very unhappy, but I cannot tell why.' 
 
 '■ At any rate,' continued her mother, ' it would be better to 
 wait a little while, and when you are ready to read, you shall 
 come to my room, and then you can say all you wish, and go to 
 bed afterwards with your mind at ease.' 
 
 'But I would rather say it now,' answered Amy, ' if I only 
 knew how to begin. I don't think, mamma, it makes me happy 
 seeing fine places.' 
 
 ' Because you wish they were your own ; is that the reason .'' ' 
 
 ' I long for them very much,' replied Amy ; ' but, mamma, I 
 have told you all about it before.' 
 
 'Yes, my dear child, so you have; but knowing that you have 
 told me before, will not ease your mind now.' 
 
 ' Only that I don't like repeating it all over again,' said Amy ; 
 ' it seems as if all you had said had done me no good.' 
 
 *It takes a very long time to make any one good,' answered 
 her mother, ' so you must not be disheartened even if you do find 
 the same bad feelings returning again and again. I daresay you 
 have been dreaming of having a large house like Rochford Park, 
 and quantities of money to spend just as you please; and now, 
 when you find you must be contented with a small house, and 
 very little money, you are unhappy.' 
 
 ' I don't want it all for myself,' said Amy. 
 
 'But even for others,* replied Mrs Herbert; 'you desire to 
 give them something that God has thought fit they should not 
 have ; which do you think knows best what is good ? ' 
 
 ' O mamma ! indeed I am sure that God is wiser than any 
 one ; but I cannot help wishing.' 
 
 ' Do you remember. Amy, the promise you have so often re- 
 peated to me ; I mean the promise made for you at your bap- 
 tism ; that you would renounce " the pomps and vanities of this 
 wicked world } " ' 
 
 * But, mamma, I do not want any pomp; I should not care to
 
 J 32 .-^.1/1' HERBERT. 
 
 be a queen; and it would make me miserable to have anythin^'j 
 to do with what was wicked.' 
 
 ' My dear,' said Mrs Herbert, 'the pomps and vanities of the 
 world are different to different people. H" Susan Reynolds, for 
 instance, were anxious to live in this cottage, and wear a silk 
 dress like yours, she would be longing for pomps and vanities, 
 because she would be coveting something beyond her station ; 
 and so, when you are desiring to live at Emmerton or Rochford 
 Park, you are equally wrong.' 
 
 ' Then why does my uncle live at such a large place, and have 
 50 many servants and carriages, if he has promised to renounce 
 them ?' asked Amy. ' Is it wicked ?' 
 
 * No,' answered Mrs Herbert, ' it is not wicked in him, 
 because they are things proper to the station in which God has 
 placed him. A king must live in grandeur, so must a nobleman, 
 — it is befitting their dignity; and private gentlemen, when they 
 have large fortunes, are obliged to do the same, only in a less 
 degree. But such persons have a very difficult task assigned 
 them, as it is almost incumbent upon them to maintain a cer- 
 tain degree of splendour in their style of living; and yet God will 
 assuredly one day call them strictly to account for any wilful 
 extravagance or self-indulgence.' 
 
 ' But why was the promise made for them, if they never can 
 keep it ?' said Amy. 
 
 ' Because,' replied her mother, ' renouncing does not mean that 
 we are to give up all the blessings which God has bestowed 
 upon us; but it does mean that we are not to pride ourselves 
 upon them, or rest our happiness on them, or covet more than 
 we possess. It means that we should use them entirely for the 
 benefit of our fellow-creatures, that we should be perfectly willing 
 to part with them if God were to require it, and should be as 
 happy in a cottage with only bread to eat, as we should be in a 
 palace.' 
 
 ' O mamma! no one can feel so.' 
 
 ' Look, Amy,' said Mrs Herbert, taking up the Bible which 
 she had been reading during her child's absence ; ' have you 
 never seen this before? "How hardly shall they that have 
 riches enter into the kingdom of God !" and " It is easier for a 
 camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter 
 into the kingdom of God " (Luke xviii. 24, 25). These are our 
 Saviour's words ; do you think that any one who really believed 
 they were true could wish for riche"; ?
 
 AMY HERBERT. 133 
 
 Amy hid her face on her mother's shoulder, and her tears 
 again fell fast. Mrs Herbert went on. ' It is quite necessary, 
 my dear child,' she said, ' that you should learn what you wish 
 for, before you indulge in any dreams of greatness. You are 
 desiring what, our Saviour says, makes it almost impossible for 
 a person to enter into heaven ; and you yourself have just 
 acknowledged that it must be the case. I told you the disposi- 
 tion of mind which God requires of us ; that, if we have riches, 
 we should be ready in a moment to part with them, and be quite 
 contented without them, and you immediately exclaimed that it 
 could not be ; and yet God will not own us as His children 
 unless we have this spirit, or at least strive very hard to obtain 
 it.' 
 
 ' Mamma,' said Aniy, in a low voice, ' indeed, I will try not to 
 wish any more.' 
 
 ' I am sure you will, my love,' replied her mother ; ' and I am 
 sure, also, that if you pray to God, He will assist you ; but it 
 v.'ill require very many attempts before you can succeed. And 
 will yon remember, also, how vain and foolish it is for those who 
 are the children of God, and look forward to living with Him in 
 heaven, to set their hearts upon anything this world can give? 
 You would laugh if you saw a person who was one day to possess 
 a kingdom, sighing for a little cottage, or a small garden ; but 
 the most glorious kingdom that could be given us here, even the 
 world itself, is nothing when compared with what God has pro- 
 mised us hereafter.' 
 
 ' If I could but see it for one moment,' said Amy, ' I should 
 never wish again.' 
 
 * Yes,' answered her mother, * if we were to see it, our diffi- 
 culty would be at an end ; but God has placed us here to try us, 
 to prove whether v.e will believe that we shall have what He has 
 promised, though whilst we are on earth it is hidden from us. 
 If I told you that to-morrow you would have a splendid present 
 made you, but that I could not show it to you to-day, would you 
 not believe me "i ' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' replied Amy, ' you always keep your word.' 
 
 'And if I read to you in God's Word, the description of the 
 beautiful home in which, our Saviour tells us, we shall one day 
 live, will you not believe Him ?' But Amy did not answer, for 
 her heart was full. ' I will not talk any more to you now, my 
 dear child,' continued Mrs Herbert: 'but I will read to you 
 presently those two concluding chapters in the last book in the
 
 i.'^l /l.UV HERBERT. 
 
 Bible, which you have only occasionally heard. They will do 
 far more to calm your mind than anything I can say.' 
 
 Amy went to her room ; and the last sound that mingled with 
 her dreams, was her mother's gentle voice, as she sat by the bed- 
 side, describing to her, in the words of the Bible, the blessed- 
 ness of that glorious city, which shall have no ' need of the sun, 
 neither of the moon, to shine in it ; for the glory of God shall 
 lighten it, and the Lamb shall be the light thereof.' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE autumn months passed quickly away, and brought but 
 little change in Amy's life, except that her visits to Emmer- 
 ton became less frequent, as the uncertainty of the weather 
 obliged her to depend more upon her uncle's carriage ; but 
 she still practised her music under her mother's direction, 
 and copied Miss Morton's drawings at home, and made up 
 by diligence for the superior advantages which her cousins 
 enjoyed. The London plan had been often mentioned, but, 
 as Margaret foretold, Mrs Harrington was decidedly opposed 
 to it, and became at last quite annoyed whenever any reference 
 was made to it ; and the idea would probably have com- 
 pletely died away, had it not been for Miss Cunningham, who, 
 notwithstanding the distance between Emmerton and the 
 Park, contrived to be a very constant visitor ; and when- 
 ever she appeared, London was invariably the theme of con- 
 versation. There needed no description, however, to excite 
 Margaret's wishes, and Dora would have been equally anxious, 
 if her dislike to Miss Cunningham had not prevented her from 
 entering into any scheme of enjoyment in which she was to parti- 
 cipate. But Miss Cunningham's earnestness on the subject did 
 not exhaust itself in mere words. Her first object had been to 
 induce her papa to urge the scheme on Mrs Harrington as often 
 as they met, and when, after many trials, this was found to fail, 
 the only thing that remained was to get rid of the one great 
 obstacle, Emily Morton. Lord Rochford v/as persuaded to criti- 
 cise her drawings, to find fault with her style of playing, and 
 to declare that her voice was extremely indifferent, in the hope 
 tliat Mrs Harrington might at last yield to the necessity of
 
 AMY HERBERT, 135 
 
 having better instruction for her daughters. But Mrs Harring- 
 ton was not so easily deceived ; she was far too good a judge of 
 both music and drawing, to be influenced by what Lord Roch- 
 ford said, and only answered him with cool indifterence in public, 
 and laughed at his ignorance in private. Yet Margaret and her 
 friend did not despair. There was one resource left ; though 
 Mrs Harrington could not be persuaded to part with Miss 
 Morton, Miss Morton might be induced to leave Mrs Harrington ; 
 and when this notion entered their heads, a series of petty per- 
 secutions commenced according to a plan that had been deter- 
 mined on at Rochford Park, which, with any other disposition, 
 could hardly have failed of success. But Miss Morton was in- 
 vulnerable ; she felt that it was her duty to remain at Emmerton ; 
 and without paying any attention to looks and inuendoes, or even 
 open words, she pursued her round of daily duties with the same 
 unruffled temper, the same cheerful smile, as if her life had been 
 one of uninterrupted happiness. The only difference observable 
 was during ]\Iiss Cunningham's visits, when she generally spent 
 as much of her time with Rose in her own room as was possible ; 
 and this, quite as much on the little girl's account as on her own; 
 for Miss Cunningham, having just cleverness sufficient to discover 
 that Rose was Miss Morton's great interest and anxiety, endea- 
 voured to interfere with her in every possible way, distracting 
 her attention from anything in which she might be engaged, and 
 teazing her so much, that even Dora's indignation was at length 
 roused. Of all this, Amy saw but little. The days were now so 
 short that she had only time to take her lesson and return home; 
 but she could not help observing it occasionally, and then longed 
 to be Miss Morton's friend, and to be a comfort to her ; and still 
 more did she wish that Emily could be often with her mamma, 
 and be enabled to tell her all she was suffering. But to this 
 there was an obstacle, which Miss Morton would have felt, 
 though Amy was not sensible of it. To have repeated all that 
 passed at Emmerton, would have been in her eyes betraying the 
 secrecy in some degree necessary in private life, and to Mrs 
 Harrington's sister it would have been quite impossible. If 
 there was a complaint to be made, Mrs Harrington was the 
 person to whom to apply for the remedy ; and if she did not 
 choose to do this, it could not be right to seek assistance from 
 any other person ; and thus, day after day, Emily bore silently 
 and meekly the scorn of folly and ignorance, with but one Friend 
 to guide her, one hope to cheer her, and yet feeling that that
 
 136 A.]/y HERBERT. 
 
 Kriend and that hope were sufficient in all things for her com- 
 fort. Mrs Herbert's interest in Miss Morton had been much 
 excited by Amy's account, and she was induced to think over 
 many plans that might render her Ufc happier. The undertaking, 
 however, was a difficult one, for it was impossible to intrude on 
 her confidence ; and there were few opportunities for gaining it, 
 as Mrs Harrington always made some objection to her going to 
 the cottage. Perhaps she feared that Miss Morton's history of 
 her life at Emmerton might not sound favourably in her sister's 
 ears ; but, whatever might be the cause, the dislike became so 
 apparent, that Mrs Herbert gave up all hope of being useful, 
 until the idea of an introduction to Mrs Walton suggested itself 
 to her mind. In her Miss Morton would find everything that 
 she could require ; warm affection, superior judgment, and the 
 advice and sympathy which Mrs Herbert's position rendered it 
 impossible to give ; and with such a friend at hand, there would 
 be comparatively little to fear for Emily's comfort. 
 
 Of Mrs Walton's willingness to cultivate the acquaintance, 
 Mrs Herbert had no doubt. It seemed impossible, indeed, that 
 any one could look at Emily Morton with5ut feeling the deepest 
 interest in her ; yet the charm was not that of mere personal 
 beauty ; many might have criticised the colour of her hair and 
 eyes, and found fault with her pale, transparent complexion, but 
 none could be insensible to the simple grace of her manner, the 
 musical sweetness of her voice, and, above all, the calm, soft, ex- 
 pression of countenance, which was but the outward sign of that 
 * meek and quiet spirit,' which, the I'ible says, ' is in the sight of 
 God of great price.' Witiiout Mrs Herbert's recommendation 
 Emily would have been a welcome visitor at the rectory ; but 
 with it, Mrs Walton's feelings were so much excited in her 
 favour, that even Amy was quite satisfied as to her being pro- 
 perly appreciated, though she still longed that her mamma could 
 know her more intimately. 
 
 But Miss Morton was not Amy's only object of compassion at 
 the Hall. As Christmas approached, Dora's spirits evidently 
 sank ; she became more silent and abstracted, took little interest 
 in what was passing, and, if any remark was made upon her low 
 spirits, either roused herself to a forced gaiety, or shut herself 
 up in her own room, and remained there for a considerable time. 
 Amy longed to ask what was the matter, but she did n6t dare ; 
 and they now met so seldom, that the hope of discovering it 
 seemed vain. It was therefore a cause of satisfaction lo her, in-
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 137 
 
 tlependent of her own enjojment, to hear that it was Mr Har- 
 rington's wish, that the week before and the week after Christmas 
 should be spent by her mamma and herself at Emmerton, as she 
 was certain the arrangement would give pleasure to Emily 
 Morton, and thought it possible that her mamma might be 
 some comfort to her cousin. Dora was the first to give her the 
 intelligence ; but although she declared it would be very nice 
 to have Amy staying there, and expressed a hope that her aunt 
 would be comfortable, she did not really seem to care much 
 about it. 
 
 'It will not be gay as it used to be at Wayland,' she said ; 
 'there we always had the house full of people, but now there are 
 only a few coming, whom 1 know nothing about. 1 believe we 
 are to have some boys and two or three girls, but we have scarcely 
 ever seen them. Two of the boys are the young Dornfords, and, 
 besides, there will be the Miss Stanleys, and Mary Warner, and 
 the little Danvers ; but I shall hate it, for I don't know what we 
 shall do with them.' 
 
 ' Frank will amuse ]Mr Dornford's boys,' said Amy, who knew 
 all their names, though she had never been accustomed to visit 
 in the neighbourhood, 
 
 ' Yes ! but Frank is not used to it.' 
 
 ' Don't look so very unhappy, dear Dora,' replied Amy, ' I can- 
 not bear to see it ; you always seem out of spirits now, and 1 
 would give anything in the world if I could help you.' 
 
 'Would you?' said Dora, looking at her earnestly; 'that is 
 more than half the people I know would say,' 
 
 ' But it is true ; only, of course, I cannot be any good to you.' 
 
 'No one can be any good to me now; I knew I should be 
 wretched when Christmas came,' 
 
 ' But why ? ' asked Amy. 
 
 ' Oh ! never mind,' said Dora, rather hastily, ' I cannot talk 
 about it ; please don't say anything to anybody.' 
 
 'But if you would talk to some one else, would not that help 
 you?' 
 
 'Whom should I talk to?' said Dora. 
 
 'Do you never tell your mamma when you are unhappy?' 
 continued Amy, though she felt that to have asked for sympathy 
 from Mrs Harrington in her own case would have been impos- 
 sible, 
 
 « Talk to mamma ! ' exclaimed Dora ; ' why, I could more 
 easily be miserable all the days of my life ; besides,' she added,
 
 /j8 AMV JIERIIERT. 
 
 ' I said no one could help me ; no one can bring back / tlie 
 
 sentence remained unfinished, for her voice was choked, and 
 her eyes were blinded with tears. 
 
 Amy had always hitherto felt in a certain degree afraid of 
 showing any affection to Dora — her manner was in general so 
 cold, that she never knew how far it would be returned ; but the 
 sight of her present distress was quite sufficient to overcome 
 every feeling of the kind, and, putting her arm round her cousin's 
 neck, she said very gently, ' But he is so happy now.' 
 
 Dora hid her face in her Jiands, and did not answer for several 
 minutes ; at last, rousing herself with a great effort, she said, 
 ' Amy, I am very cross to you sometimes.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! ' replied Amy, 'don't think about that ; you know wc 
 are all cross occasionally.' 
 
 * He was never cross to any one,' said Dora, in a voice so low, 
 that it sounded as if she were speaking to herself 
 
 'Miss Morton told me how good and kind he was,' replied 
 Amy, 'and how miserable you were when he was taken ill.' 
 
 'Did she?' exclaimed Dora, with interest; 'I did not know 
 she ever thought about me.' 
 
 ' O Dora ! indeed, I am sure she does think about you a 
 great deal, and would love you very much, if ' 
 
 * If what ? why should you be afraid of speaking out ? ' 
 
 * If you would love her,' continued Amy, hesitatingly. 
 
 'It would be no use if I did,' rephed Dora ; 'she is as cold 
 as a stone to every one but Rose and you, and as proud as a 
 queen.' 
 
 ' But she spoke of you so kindly the other day, and said that 
 she could not bear to see you in such bad spirits, and that she 
 was so sorry about poor Edward ; and then she told me that in 
 some things she thought you were like him.' 
 
 ' Me ! no indeed, nobody could think that ; he was like no 
 one else.' 
 
 'Not Frank?' asked Amy, anxious to make her cousin con- 
 verse upon the subject she knew was uppermost in her thoughts. 
 
 ' No,' replied Dora ; ' Frank is thoughtless and hasty, but he 
 never said a harsh word to any one, not to me even ! ' 
 
 * It would have been hard to speak crossly to you, when you 
 were so fond of him,' said Amy. 
 
 ' Ah ! you don't know,' answered Dora, while a host of recol- 
 lections flashed across her mind, of taunting looks, and angry 
 words, and selfish actions, which at the time were thought of as
 
 AMV HERBERT. 139 
 
 nothing, but which now stood forth in their true hght. For a 
 short time she was silent ; and then, turning abruptly to Amy, 
 she said, * Then you will come next Monday — aunt Herbert is to 
 have the green room and the boudoir, and you are to have the 
 dressing-room.' 
 
 Amy was vexed ; she longed to continue the conversation 
 about Edward, and she was always pleased and interested when 
 Dora spoke of her own feelings, for it seemed as if she were then 
 admitted to a secret which no one else was allowed to share. ' I 
 shall hke it very much if mamma will consent, and if you will be 
 happy,' she said ; '' only I wish there were to be no strangers.' 
 
 ' Don't think about me,' replied Dora, ' and pray don't say 
 anything about my being out of spirits ; I shall do very well 
 by and by.' 
 
 * I wish Frank were here,' said Amy. 
 
 ' Frank will do no good, only make a noise ; but I shall be 
 happy again after Christmas. I did not think half so much about 
 it a month ago, and not even when first I came here, because every- 
 thing was new ; but he always came home about this time, and 
 I used to look forward to it so — at last I quite counted the days.' 
 
 Amy saw how hopeless it was to attempt to comfort her 
 cousin. She could only show by looks and manner the pain she 
 felt at her unhappiness ; and with this Dora was quite satisfied. 
 Amy's silent sympathy was consoling, where words would have 
 distressed her ; but it was not natural to her to speak much of 
 her ovv-n feelings, and again she turned the conversation to the 
 intended visit. 
 
 ' If you come on Monday,' she said, ' we shall have a few days 
 to ourselves, for no one is to be here till after Friday, which is 
 Christmas-day.' 
 
 ' And will they all come together ? ' asked Amy. 
 
 ' No ; that is what provokes me so. If there were a good 
 many, they would entertain each other ; but I can't imagine 
 what we shall do with two or three. I think I shall try again 
 to make mamma alter the plan.' 
 
 ' But you will have Margaret to help you.' 
 
 ' She will be worse than nothing ; for Lord Rochford and 
 Miss Cunningham are to come on Saturday, and you know 
 very well that, when they are here, Margaret will think of 
 nothing else.' 
 
 'Is Miss Cunningham really coming ? ' asked Amy, looking 
 very blank.
 
 140 AMY 
 
 Dora jaughed. ' Vou should not let your face tell such talej. 
 Amy ; now I speak out at once, and say, I can't endure her, 
 and you had much better do the same.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Amy, ' I don't like to do it unless I am obliged, 
 and I dare say a great deal of the fault is my own ; but I care 
 much more about Miss IMcrton than anything else — Miss Cun- 
 ningham treats her so ill.' 
 
 ' Yes, she makes even me angry sometimes, and you know I 
 am not in love with your dear Emily.' 
 
 'You like her better than you will own, though,' said Amy^ 
 looking gaily in her cousin's face, ' and a great deal better than 
 
 vou did; 
 
 ' I don't know ; I don't dislike her always ; and I cannot bear 
 to see that Lucy Cunningham tormenting her so.' 
 
 ' And to-morrow you will not dislike her at all,' continued 
 Amy ; ' and the next day you will take her part, and the day 
 after you will quite love her.' 
 
 ' No, I shall never love her. I am sure I am much more 
 given to hating than loving. I am not like you. Amy, who seem 
 to care for everything, and everybody.' 
 
 ' Not everything,' said Amy, laughing ; ' your ugly tabby cat, 
 for instance, Dora, I never could love that.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that is compassion ; I only pet her because all the rest 
 abuse her.' 
 
 ' And Miss Morton, it is just the same with her.' 
 
 Dora shook her head. ' It is no use. Amy,' she answered. 
 ' You know very well, that if I were to begin loving Emily 
 Morton now, and to go on for the rest of my life, she never could 
 like me in return.' 
 
 ' And why not ? ' 
 
 ' Because — because — I cannot tell why ; but I am sure she 
 could not.' 
 
 ' O Dora ! ' said Amy, ' I do not think you can guess how 
 good Miss Morton is, or how easily she would forgive.' 
 
 ' Forgive I ' exclaimed Dora, quickly, ' what should she for- 
 give ? ' 
 
 Amy blushed deeply; 'I beg your pardon, Dora, only I thought 
 you meant ' 
 
 ' Well ! go on ; meant what .' ' 
 
 * Don't be angry with me, dear Dora, only I thought, perhaps, 
 you fancied that Miss Morton would not like you, because some- 
 times, you know, j-ou show that you do not like her.'
 
 A.lfV HERBERT. 141 
 
 * Vcu had better say it in plain words,' exclaimed Dora, 
 whilst the working of her forehead showed the storm that was 
 gathering ; ' because sometimes — no — very often, you know you 
 are very cross.' 
 
 ' No, Dora,' replied Amy, gently ; ' I do not wish to say it 
 in any other \\ords ; it would be wrong in me, for you know it 
 is not my place to tell you you are cross ; and, besides, I am 
 often cross myself 
 
 ' But you meant it, I know you meant it ; just say now wiiether 
 you did.' 
 
 ' I wish you would not ask me anything about it ; I did not 
 mean to vex you, and I was careless when I spoke.' 
 
 'You were, indeed,' said Dora ; 'and. perhaps, the next time, 
 you will think twice before > ou accuse persons who are older 
 than yourself.' 
 
 Amy was about to vindicate herself, but she had learned from 
 Miss Morton to bear an unjust accusation patiently, when she 
 knew that excuses would only increase anger ; and again beg- 
 ging Dora's pardon, and saying she was very sorry for having 
 annoyed her, she began putting her drawing materials together, 
 and preparing to return home. Dora's first impulse was to leave 
 the room ; but she was so well aware of having been harsh, 
 that she could not quite make up her mind to go, and she 
 lingered about, first taking up a book, and then looking out of 
 the window, and longing for Amy to say something, though it 
 was too great an effort to do so herself. Amy, however, still 
 continued silent ; and at length, when everything was collected, 
 vv-ent up-stairs to put on her bonnet and cloak. Dora, lately, 
 had been in the habit of assisting her ; but now, instead of 
 accompanying her, she seated herself by the fire, and tried to 
 read, though without being able to fix her attention. In a few 
 minutes Amy reappeared, and holding out her hand to her 
 cousin, told her that her donkey was at the door, and she must 
 go directly. 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said Dora, in a cold, constrained voice, which 
 gave no symptom of the struggle within. 
 
 Amy looked distressed. 'Are you angry with me, still.''' she 
 a?ked. 
 
 'Angry ! why should I be angry ?' 
 
 ' Because I spoke so thoughtlessly.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Dora, ' it is not worth while to be angry at such a 
 trifle. Good-bye-'
 
 142 AJ/V HERBERT. 
 
 ' I cannot go in this way ; it makes me so unhappy not to be 
 forgiven,' said Amy. 
 
 ' Well ! ' replied Dora, '1 forgive you ; are you satisfied now ?' 
 
 ' No,' said Amy, sadly, ' because I don't think it is real for- 
 giveness ; I wish I could do anything to show you that I am 
 sorry.' 
 
 'Will you kiss me?' asked Dora, whose proud spirit was 
 almost entirely subdued by her cousin's meekness, though she 
 could not yet bring herself to confess she had been in fault. 
 Amy's answer was a kiss, so hearty, that Dora's impulse was to 
 return it equally ; and then, for almost the first time in her life, 
 she said voluntarily, ' Amy, you were right and I was wrong.' 
 
 Amy felt this was true, though she would not say so at such a 
 moment ; it would have seemed too much like a triumph. ' We 
 can settle that ne.xt time I come,' she answered, smiling ; I care 
 for nothing now, but keeping Stephen and my donkey waiting 
 in the cold ; give me one more kiss.' The kiss was given, and 
 Amy ran off quite happy, whilst Dora, though not equally light- 
 hearted, felt as if a burden had been taken from her mind ; and 
 after waiting for a few moments enjoying the unusual luxury of 
 humilitv, she followed her cousin to see that she was carefullv 
 protected against the cold. Mrs Bridget came forward to offer 
 her services, but Dora wished to do everything herself; and 
 Amy declared herself so comfortable, she thought her ride would 
 be really enjoyable, notwithstanding the north wind. There was 
 one disappointment, however, awaiting her. Stephen had been 
 attacked by his old enemy, the gout, and was kept a prisoner to 
 his cottage, so that she had no resource but her own thoughts, 
 the man servant who attended, keeping at a distance, and only 
 approaching to open the gates, move away the straggling boughs 
 of the trees in the forest, or help to wrap the cloak more closely 
 around her, when the keen blast, which seemed to meet them in 
 every direction, blew with more than ordinary violence. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ON the day which Dora had named, Mrs Herbert and Amy 
 were established at the Hall. Amy, in great delight, 
 looked round upon the preparations that had been made for her
 
 A'JIV HERBERT. 
 
 HI 
 
 mamma's comfort; and could not doubt, as she felt that some 
 of her first wishes were realised in the prospect of spending so 
 many days at Emmerton together, that Mrs Herbert would 
 enjoy it equally with herself. And certainly, if luxury could con- 
 stitute a person's happiness, there would have been nothing to 
 desire. ' O mamma ! ' she said, drawing the easy chair close 
 to the fire, 'there is everything we want here, just the same as 
 at the cottage ; I can make you so comfortable when you are 
 tired ; and you can lie down, and look out at that beautiful view. 
 There is the spire of Emmerton church just in front ; it seems 
 almost prettier now, when the snow is on the ground, than it 
 was in the summer.' 
 
 'Your aunt has been very thoughtful,' replied Mrs Herbert ; 
 ' but I hope I shall feel well enough to be much with her ; only 
 we can spend the morning together, just as if we v.ere at home.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Amy ; 'and you will be able to see J\Iiss Morton 
 whenever you wish it ; and perhaps IMargaret and Dora will 
 come and sit with us sometimes. O mamma ! it will be so 
 nice ! ' 
 
 ' Look, Amy,' said ]\Irs Herbert, pointing to the well-filled 
 book-shelves : ' there will be occupation for us both, when we 
 have nothing else to do.' 
 
 Amy began examining the books with interest, and suddenly 
 exclaimed, ' Mamma, it must be Dora who has made everything 
 so comfortable for us ; here are all the books that I like best ; 
 and I remember the last day I came to Emmerton she made 
 me tell her the names of a great many, and I could not imagine 
 why.' 
 
 ' And these flowers, are they the result of Dora's care, do you 
 think?' said Mrs Herbert; 'she must have gathered all there 
 were in the conservatory ; it is quite strange to see them when 
 the snow is on the ground.' 
 
 ' It must be Dora,' replied Amy ; ' I don't think aunt Harring- 
 ton or Margaret ever even look at flowers. I never saw Margaret 
 take one in her hand, except to pull it to pieces ; and there is 
 Dora's own letter case, and the beautiful inkstand her uncle 
 Henry gave her.' 
 
 ' I wish Dora would come and sec the pleasure she has given 
 us,' said Mrs Herbert. 
 
 ' I think she went away,' answered Amy, * because she fancied 
 you were tired, and would rather be alone with me at first ; for she 
 begged I would come to her in the schoolroom when I left you.'
 
 U\ A.UY HERBERT, 
 
 ■ I should like to rest now,' replied Mrs Herbert ; ' so you may 
 go and tell her how comfortable I am, and then, by and by, I 
 will thank her myself.' 
 
 Amy quitted the room, and Mrs Herbert endeavoured to com- 
 pose herself to sleep ; but her thoughts were too busy. What- 
 ever might be Amy's pleasure at coming to Emmerton, she could 
 not, herself, entirely sympathise with it ; and yet, with her per- 
 fect freedom from selfishness, she would have imposed any 
 restraint uj^on her own feelings rather then mar the enjoyment 
 of her child. Dora's thoughtfulness brought vividly to her 
 remembrance the days of her childhood, when she and her sister 
 Edith had delighted in attending to the conifort of others in a 
 similar manner ; and visions of those sunny days passed before 
 her, one after the other, recalling forms and faces, even voices 
 and words, which had since been almost forgotten. A gentle 
 knock at the door interrupted her reverie, and Mr Harrington 
 begged for admittance. He came to see that everything had 
 been provided for his sister's comfort, and expressed great satis- 
 faction at Dora's care ; and then seating himself by her side, 
 they enjoyed for the next half-hour the pleasure of talking to- 
 gether of their early days ; and notwithstanding the melancholy 
 reflections which naturally arose from the conversation, the 
 relief of his sympathy with her present feelings was so great, 
 that Mrs Herbert felt more comforted and refreshed when he 
 left her, than she could have been by any other means. 
 
 Amy, during this time, had found her way to the school- 
 loom, and expressed her gratitude to Dora in the warmest 
 terms ; but the subject did not appear quite agreeable to her, 
 for she turned it off quickly, though a close observer might have 
 discovered, from the expression of her countenance, that she 
 really felt extreme pleasure. Margaret welcomed her cousin 
 most aft'ectionately, as she always did when no one else was 
 near to attract her attention ; but, by this time, Amy had learned 
 the true value of her words and caresses, and withdrew herself 
 as soon as possible, feeling that Dora's coldness, even if it were 
 real, was infinitely preferable to Margaret's warmth. 
 
 * I have been begging mamma to have all the stupid people 
 together next week,' said Dora, when Amy began inquiring what 
 had been decided on since she was last there, 'and she is almost 
 inclined to do it ; if they would come on Monday, and stay till 
 Thursday, it would not be so bad ; and if she would ask two or 
 three more, I am sure we should get on better.'
 
 AA/V HERBERT. 145 
 
 * I will tell you who is coming on Saturday,' said i\Iargaret ; 
 * somebody you will be delighted to see.' 
 
 ' Me ! ' exclaimed Amy, in astonishment. ' Why, I don't know 
 any one.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but you do. What do you say to your friend, Air 
 Cunningham .'' ' Poor Amy looked very uncomfortable. ' Yes,' 
 continued Margaret, laughing ; ' and you will have to talk to 
 him all day long, for Lucy says he has taken such a fancy to 
 you ; he declares you are the best-mannered little thing he ever 
 met with ; and, you know, it is so rare a thing for him to see 
 any one who is well mannered to him, that he will be sure to 
 seize upon you all the time he is here.' 
 
 * And how long does he stay ? ' asked Amy. 
 
 ' As long as Lord Rochford does ; it will be a week at least.' 
 
 ' You had better go back to the cottage. Amy,' said Dora ; 
 ' there will be no comfort for you here. I can just im.agine how 
 Mr Cunningham will pet you, and talk to you, and how frightened 
 you will look. If it were not for your annoyance, I should quite 
 enjoy the thoughts of seeing you together.' 
 
 ' One thing I like him for,' said Amy, ' he has so much good 
 nature.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Dora; 'he seems to have taken so much, that 
 there is none left for his sister ; and now. Amy, she will be worse 
 than ever to you, for she hates you cordially, because her brother 
 said, after you were gone, that he thought being with you would 
 do her a great deal of good.' 
 
 ' I don't see what business Mr Cunningham has to think 
 anything of the kind,' said Margaret. ' I don't mean to be ill- 
 natured, Amy ; but really the idea of your being of use to Miss 
 Cunningham is rather too absurd.' 
 
 ' I think so, too,' replied Amy ; ' but I dare say he was only in 
 Joke.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! he was not ; he was quite sincere ; and he told Lucy 
 that if the London plan came to anything, he hoped an arrange- 
 ment would be made for you to be of the party.' 
 
 'And so Miss Cunningham is your enemy for life,' said Dora; 
 'not that there is any fear of the London plan, for mamma i3 
 more strongly set against it than ever.' 
 
 ' It is half your fault, Dora,' observed Margaret ; ' I am sure 
 there would be less difficulty, if you were to say you liked it ; 
 but you are always speaking against it, and lately, too, you have 
 tuken to upholding Kmilv Morton.'
 
 146 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 * 1 don't see,' replied Doia, ' why I should say what is not 
 true for any one, least of all for Miss Cunninejham, who knows 
 quite well how to do it for herself.' Amy looked vexed, and 
 Dora's conscience immediately told her she was wrong. ' I 
 don't mean to say,' she continued, ' that Lucy Cunningham 
 tells stories exactly, but she often twists and turns things to 
 suit her own purpose, and she can exaggerate without the 
 smallest difficulty.' 
 
 ' Lucy Cunningham is very much obliged to you for your 
 opinion of her,' said Margaret, sharply ; ' and I shall take care 
 to tell her what a friend she has in you.' 
 
 ' As you please ; but she is not worth quarrelling about. I 
 shall be quite glad when she is gone to London, and then we 
 shall hear no more about her. I hate having nothing but Lucy 
 Cunningham dinned into my ears from morning till night.' 
 
 ' It is better than Emily Morton, at any rate,' said Margaret, 
 with a half contemptuous glance at Amy. ' One is a lady.' 
 
 ' O Margaret ! ' exclaimed Amy, while the colour rushed to 
 her face ; ' you don't mean to say that Miss Morton is not a 
 lady ? ' 
 
 ' I mean that she is not half so much of a lady as Lucy Cun- 
 ningham ; of course she must be something like one, or mamma 
 would not let her be with us.' 
 
 ' But indeed, Margaret,' replied Amy, trying to speak calmly, 
 ' I do think you must be wrong. I am sure if a stranger saw 
 them together, they would say directly there was no comparison 
 between them.' 
 
 'But what has that to do with it?' said Margaret, 'It 
 cannot alter the case. Lucy Cunningham is the daughter of a 
 nobleman.' 
 
 ' Yes, but that is not everything.' 
 
 ' And Emily Morton is a governess,' continued Margaret, in 
 a decided tone, as if there could be no arguing against such a 
 truth. 
 
 'Yes,' again repeated Amy; 'and yet, if Miss Cunningham 
 were a princess, it would make no difference in my feelings.' 
 
 ' Then your feelings must be wrong, and all the world would 
 say the same.' 
 
 ' I am sure Miss Morton is more of a lady, because she is so 
 gentle and kind,' said Amy ; ' and she always thinks of other 
 people before herself, and never gets out of temper, and never 
 boasts of anything.'
 
 AMV HERBERT. 147 
 
 ' Well ! but those are virtues ; you talk so foolishly, Amy. 
 Susan Reynolds or Morris may be all that, but they would not 
 be at all the more ladies.' 
 
 ' No,' said Dora, coming to Amy's assistance ; ' they would 
 not be ladies, because they would still have clumsy, awkward 
 ways of doing things, and of speaking.' 
 
 * Of course, that is just what I was saying ! ' exclaimed Mar- 
 garet, triumphantly. 
 
 ' No ; but Margaret,' persisted Amy, ' indeed that is not what 
 you were saying ; for I am sure Miss Cunningham is much more 
 awkward than Miss Morton, and yet you say that all the world 
 would consider her superior.' 
 
 ' So they would,' replied Margaret. 
 
 Amy was silent for a few minutes ; at length she said, 
 'Mamma told me one day that we ought not to think as the 
 world thinks, because the world means generally a great many 
 vain, silly persons.' 
 
 ' Then you would set up to be wiser and better than every- 
 body else, I suppose,' said Margaret. 
 
 Dora again interposed, for she thought she saw what her 
 cousin meant. ' Amy is right, I am sure ; it would be only 
 silly people who would think so much more of Lucy Cunning- 
 ham's birth than of other things. Not all the rank in the world 
 will make persons ladies and gentlemen without manners.' 
 
 'But I mean something besides manners,' said Amy; 'because, 
 what I like in Miss Morton is not quite manner ; it is her being 
 good that helps to make her a lady, I think.' 
 
 Dora laughed. ' That is one of your strange notions, Amy. 
 I believe you think, that what you call being good is to make 
 a person everything — rich, and happy, and ladylike, and 
 beautiful.' 
 
 'No, not beautiful,' replied Amy; 'and yet,' she added, 'I 
 remember once going with mamma to see a poor woman who 
 was very ill ; and she was almost ugly, till she began to talk, 
 and thank mamma for being kind to her, and then her face 
 quite changed ; and mamma told me it was her being so grate- 
 ful and contented that made her look so nice.' 
 
 ' I do think. Amy, you will go out of your senses some day,' 
 said Margaret. 'You talk so differently from every one else.' 
 
 ' Do 1 ? That is very strange ; for all the persons I care for 
 tell me the same things.' 
 
 'Docs Emilv Morton?' asked Dora.
 
 148 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 'Yes, whenever I am quite alone with lier, and ask her 
 about anythin-^ — grave things, I mean.' 
 
 'Well, Amy,' said Dora, I must say that you are the merriest 
 grave girl I ever met with. I don't think any one who heaTd 
 you laugh would fancy you really so demure as you are.' 
 
 'No one ever said I was grave, except you,' answered .Amy. 
 * I am sure I don't know what I am myself ; but I must not stay 
 here now, for I want so much to sec Miss Morton, and then I 
 must go back to mamma.' 
 
 'Always Emily Morton,' said Margaret, as Amy ran out of 
 the room. 
 
 'Always Lucy Cunningham,' retorted Dora. 
 
 ' No more of that, pray, Dora. You know very well tliat the 
 reason you laugh is because you are jealous of her being fonder 
 of me than of you.' 
 
 'Jealous! Me jealous of her! with her sandy hair and 
 freckled ' but here Dora stopped. 
 
 'Well,' exclaimed Margaret, who always felt a secret satis- 
 faction at Miss Cunningham's plain face, though she would not 
 acknowledge it to herself; ' I thought you professed not to care 
 about beauty — to be sure, Lucy is not lovely.' 
 
 ' I do not wish to say anything more about her,' said Dora ; 
 ' for I generally get angry ; only I would give something if she 
 were not coming here on Saturday.' 
 
 Margaret had not time to reply before Dora was gone, for 
 she had lately learned to distrust her powers of self-command, 
 and to think silence preferable to argument. The next few days 
 were spent by Amy in great enjoyment — everything went 
 smoothly and pleasantly. Dora was thoughtful and kind, Mar- 
 garet in good humour, her uncle aftectionatc, and her aunt 
 seldom in her way ; and, above all, Emily Morton was admitted 
 to her mamma's room, and from their long conversations, and 
 Emily's expressions of gratitude and interest, it was quite evi- 
 dent that she began to consider >frs Herbert in the light of a 
 real friend. Not that the conversations which passed between 
 them were at all such as Amy imagined. There was very little 
 said about Emmerton, still less about Mrs Harrington ; but Mrs 
 Herbert led Emily to talk of her father and mother, her aunt, 
 her early home, and her childish days ; and gave her some 
 valuable advice as to the manner in which persons in her 
 position should conduct themselves, without obliging her to 
 make complaint-:, which considering her own near connec-
 
 AMY HERBERT. I49 
 
 tion with Mrs Harrington, would have been awkward and 
 >vrong. 
 
 Amongst Amy's pleasures during this happy time, one of the 
 greatest was a visit to the rectory with Miss Morton, on the 
 afternoon preceding Christmas-day. Their reception was even 
 more affectionate than usual ; and as they walked home, the 
 distance seemed only too short, whilst she listened to Emily's 
 praises of the persons v.hom, next to her mammn, she most 
 loved and venerated. 
 
 ' To-morrow will be Christmas-day,' she said, as she lingered 
 in Miss Morton's room on her return ; 'and the next day Miss 
 Cunningham will be here ; so I suppose we shall not be able to 
 get a walk to the rectory again, yet ; but if you would tell me 
 when you go out, that I may be with you if I can, I should be 
 so verj' glad. You know I like you so much better than Miss 
 Cunningham.' 
 
 ' I doubt if Miss Cunningham is a favourite with any one 
 but your cousin Margaret,' was the reply; 'but she has so 
 much to spoil her, that I do not think we ought to be hard 
 upon her.' 
 
 ' It is so odd that you should pity her, as you always do,' 
 said Amy. ' Now I should like so much to be her, — that is, 
 not herself, but to be my own self, with her rank and fortune ; 
 and then I would get such a pretty little room for you, and you 
 should come and live with me, if you would.' 
 
 'And do nothing all day but amuse myself?' 
 
 ' No, not that. I know you never would bear to do nothing; 
 but you should teach me music and drawing as you do now, and 
 we might have Rose with us too — it would be so nice.' 
 
 'And it is so nice to teach )ou music and drawing, and to 
 have Rose with mc, and to live in a comfortable little room. 
 You see, I have it ali.' 
 
 'Ah, yes!' said Amy; 'but then there are some things, now — 
 tiresome, dreadful things — which ) ou never should have to bear 
 if you lived with me. And I would love you so dearly, so very 
 dearly.' 
 
 Miss Morton drew Amy more closely to her, and gave her 
 one of those kisses which she had lately begun to value far more 
 than words. 
 
 ' I should grieve very much,' she said, ' if I did not think 
 you loved mc dearly now— there arc but few left in the world 
 who do.'
 
 ISO AMY HERBERT. 
 
 'But you have mnmma to love you besides,' said Amy; 'and 
 Mrs Walton, I am sure she must be fond of you ; and some- 
 times, perhaps, she will ask you to stay at the rectory; and 
 mamma and I can go there too, and then there will be no one 
 to interrupt. I am so glad Miss Cunningham does not know 
 Mrs Walton.' 
 
 ' PerhnpSj so am I too,' said Emily, smiling ; ' but we must try 
 and be agreeable to her on Saturday.' 
 
 *Ah! Saturday,' repeated Amy, sighing; 'all my pleasure will 
 be over then — real, quiet pleasure, I mean. On Monday the 
 other people come, and Dora says, that as I am her cousin, I 
 shall be e.xpected to help to entertain them. But I never did 
 entertain any one in my life ; I don't quite know what it means. 
 I suppose it is talking and showing pictures ; but one can't do 
 that all day.' 
 
 * Your cousin Frank comes to-night,' replied Emily, laughing ; 
 'and he is so merry, that he will take half the trouble off your 
 hands,' 
 
 Amy's face brightened. ' I forgot that ; but then they are 
 girls — boys cannot entertain girls. I do tliink, if I had but a 
 fairy's wand, I should strike them all as they came into the 
 house, and change them into boys, and set them to play at 
 football and leapfrog, and all the trouble would be over. But I 
 am not Dora; and if they are dull they will not complain 
 of me.' 
 
 Susan Reynolds here interrupted them with a message from 
 Mrs Herbert; and Amy left Miss Morton with her mind in an 
 uncomfortable state, having forgotten the pleasure of her visit 
 to the rectory, and thinking only of the difficulties of the next 
 week, and of all the strange faces she was to see. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE morning of Christmas-day was in every respect as 
 bright and beautiful as Amy could possibly have desired. 
 The clear sky was unclouded, and its brilliant blue was rendered 
 only the more lovely from its contrast with the leafless branches 
 which were pencilled against it. The lawn glittered like a sheet 
 of silver, and the dark hues of the holly and the laurel exhibited
 
 JMV HERBER7\ 151 
 
 In full perfection the richness of the crimson berries, and the 
 delicacy of the pure hoar-frost with which they were covered. 
 There was an elastic feehng in the air, which would have given 
 strength and refreshment even to the weary watcher by the bed 
 of sickness. All nature seemed to rejoice, and Amy awoke to 
 rejoice also. Too young to have anxiety for the future, or 
 sorrow for the past, she felt only that she was in the place she 
 most delighted in, under the care of the mother whose only wish 
 was for her happiness, and surrounded by all the means of 
 enjoyment that wealth could give. True, the wealth was not her 
 own; but it was, at that moment, entirely devoted to her com- 
 fort, and the present was too full of pleasure to leave any space 
 for envy and discontent. Even the remembrance of her father 
 could not check the gaiety of her spirit, for she had not yet 
 learned to feel that 'hope deferred maketh the heart sick.' 
 Every day brought with it the expectation of hearing from him ; 
 and when the expectation was disappointed, there was left in its 
 stead, not the wretchedness of doubt, but the blessing of hope 
 for the morrow. 
 
 Her first thought on that morning was given to her mother; 
 the next to her cousin Frank. He had arrived late the night 
 before, so late, that she had been only able to remark the mix- 
 ture of delight at his return home, and sad recollection of the 
 one missing, who ought to have welcomed him, which had been 
 shown by all, and by none more than Dora; and JMrs Herbert, 
 unwilling to be any restraint upon them, had sent Amy to bed, 
 and soon after retired herself. 
 
 This had been rather disappointing ; but Amy had satisfied 
 herself that he seemed very lively, and was more like Margaret 
 than Dora ; and for any further knowledge she was obliged to 
 wait in patience till the breakfast-hour. It was usual for her 
 cousins to breakfast in the schoolroom with Miss Morton; but 
 on Christmas-day there was an exception to almost every 
 general rule, and they were all to be together, even Miss Morton 
 being admitted as one of the party, although the little attention 
 that was shown her, nothing indeed beyond the merest civility, 
 made it an occasion of far more pain than pleasure. 
 
 Frank, when he appeared, was in the highest possible spirit, 
 full of his school adventures, and the characters of his playfellows, 
 and told several stories in the regular school-boy slang, which 
 Amy could not at all understand ; but his presence took off much 
 of the stiffness and restraint which every one else seemed to feel
 
 152 AM]' HERBEKT, 
 
 before Mrs Harrington ; and she herself occasionally relaxtV 
 into something like a smile as she listened to his merry laugh. 
 Amy had rather dreaded the society of a boy — she had nevei 
 been accustomed to it, and imagined he must be boisterous and 
 rude; but with all his spirits, Frank Harrington was still so 
 gentlemanly that she soon felt at ease. 
 
 'Will the carriage be wanted to go to church this morning?' 
 said Mr Harrington. ' Amy, my dear, do you think your 
 mamma will venture out this cold weather?' 
 
 Amy was afraid not ; she had been to her mamma's room, 
 and had found her so tired and unwell, that it was most pro- 
 bable she would not come down-stairs till the middle of the 
 day. 
 
 An expression of anxiety and disappointment came over Mr 
 Harrington's countenance. ' That is bad news for Christmas- 
 day,' he said. ' I would give a great deal, Amy, to procure your 
 dear mamma such a bright colour as you have. I well re- 
 member the time when she would have walked to Emmerton 
 church and back twice, and laughed at the notion of being tired 
 afterwards.' 
 
 ' Every one in these days is grown weak and sickly,' said Mrs 
 Harrington, in her usual severe manner; 'that is, if they are 
 not so really, they fancy it.' 
 
 Amy thought this might be meant for her mamma : and she 
 would certainly have said something in reply, but for the fear of 
 being disrespectful. 
 
 Mr Harrington, however, had no such fear ; and answered, 
 that he should be very glad to believe Mrs Herbert's illness 
 imaginary, for it would take a most painful load off his mind. 
 
 * But she is better, a great deal, than she was, uncle,' said 
 Amy ; ' she walked several times round the shrubbery at the 
 cottage, the day before wc came here, and did not seem at all 
 tired afterwards.' 
 
 ' Several times round a shrubbery, Amy !' exclaimed Frank; 
 * why that must be a walk for a snail. What do you say to a 
 walk of six miles and back before breakfast ? I knew a boy 
 who did it just to buy a new cricket-bat ; and a fine scrape he 
 got into when he was found out.' 
 
 Amy looked all proper surprise at such a wondeiful feat ; and 
 Frank, delighted at finding a new auditor, kept her for the next 
 quarter of an hour, repeating his most extraordinary adventures, 
 with such spirit, that Am} at last began to think there would be
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. ^53 
 
 more amusement in being a boy, and going to a public school, 
 than even in the possession of all the splendour which usually 
 formed the subject of her day-dreams. The church bells pre- 
 vented any further conversation, and she was glad to escape 
 from Frank's merriment for the enjoyment of a quiet walk with 
 Miss Morton, who had more than ordinary pleasure in being 
 with her on this morning, from having felt so much alone in the 
 midst of a family party. Christmas-day had never been to her 
 what it is to many, for she had never known the happiness of 
 having all her relations about her; but she could recollect the 
 time when it was spent at home, with her father and mother, 
 and she sighed now to think how little the blessing had then 
 been valued. 
 
 Amy was walking with her cousins in the rectory garden, 
 which adjoined the churchyard, when Mr Walton came to her, 
 after the conclusion of the service, to inquire for her mamma. 
 
 'And your uncle, too, my dear,' he said, ' I want very much 
 to see him ; what can have become of him ? ' 
 
 ' There he is,' said Amy, pointing to a group of persons 
 standing by the gate ; ' he is talking to Mr Dornford, and 
 Frank is with him.' 
 
 ' He must introduce Frank to me,' said Mr Walton. 
 ' Besides, 1 have something particular to say to him. How did 
 you tell me your mamma was to-day.^' 
 
 'Very weak and poorly,' replied Amy; 'but she seemed 
 better when I left her.' 
 
 'Ah !' said Mr Walton, half muttering to himself; 'I doubt 
 if it will be right; it may only excite a false hope — there will be 
 no harm in delay.' 
 
 'What?' exclaimed Amy, who just caught the last words, 
 ' delay, did you say? — what delay?' 
 
 'Nothing, nothing,' answered Mr Walton, hastily. 'I wibh 
 \our uncle would not make me delay here ; he does not generally 
 speak to any one when he leaves the church, but to-day he is 
 having quite a conversation. 
 
 Amy looked earnestly at Mr Walton, with the conviction that 
 this was only said to distract her attention ; and an indefinable 
 feeling of mingled dread and curiosity took possession of her mind. 
 But there was nothing to satisfy her. The expression of Mr 
 Walton's countenance was cheerful as usual ; and Amy, though 
 very (|uick in perception, was not quite old enough to perceive a 
 trace of ihoughtfulncss beneath it. She did notice, however, the
 
 154 yl^^y HERBERT. 
 
 quick, impatient glances which he cast towards the churchyard 
 gate, and the restlessness of his manner as he paced up and down 
 the httle walk leading' to it, venting his uneasiness by kicking 
 away the leaves and broken sticks lying in his path. In another 
 person it would not have been remarkable ; but she was so accus- 
 tomed to see I\Ir Walton perfectly composed, that in an instant it 
 a\\akened her attention. The parting words were at last said ; 
 Mr Dornford walked away ; and Amy hoped that in a few 
 minutes her curiosity might be set at rest. But she was disap- 
 pointed. Mr Walton eagerly seized her uncle's arm, and drew 
 him aside. A short conversation ensued ; and then Mr Harring- 
 ton called out that they had better not wait for him, but walk 
 home alone, and he would follow. Amy really felt uneasy, and 
 yet she could hardly tell why, but her mamma's constant anxiety 
 had in some degree infected her ; and anything like mystery im- 
 mediately made her think of Colonel Herbert, Miss Morton 
 listened to her fears with interest, and did her utmost to calm her 
 mind, telling her that, in all probability, Mr Walton's business 
 was something connected with his parish, and that it was un- 
 likely, almost impossible, he could have heard anything from 
 India ; but she advised her not to mention her notions to her 
 mamma till after her uncle's return, as it would only make her 
 needlessly uncomfortable ; and if there were anything to be told, 
 she would not be kept long in suspense. Amy hearkened, and 
 tried to believe ; and had been so used to depend upon the 
 opinions of others, as to be almost persuaded she had been fanciful 
 without reason, while she readily promised to say nothing of her 
 anxiety ; but she could not recover her usual happy spirits ; and 
 when they reached Emmerton, instead of going immediately to 
 Mrs Herbert's room, she petitioned Miss INIorton to walk once 
 more with her to the lodge gate, that they might see when her 
 uncle arrived. He waited, however, so long, that Amy herself 
 grew weary of watching, and was the first to propose returning 
 to the house. 
 
 'You will be tired,' she said to Miss Morton, 'and then we 
 shall not be able to go and see Mrs Walton this afternoon. You 
 know, you promised you would, if you could manage it, because 
 you did not like to wait behind after church ; and I should be so 
 sorry to miss it, for we always used to dine with her on Christmas- 
 day ; and she will be so vexed if she does not see either mamma 
 or me.' 
 
 Miss Morton acknowledged herself cold, though not tired ;
 
 AJfV HERBERT. 155 
 
 £.nd, at any rate, it was useless to stand longer at the gate, for, 
 after all, there might be nothing to hear ; and Amy repeated for 
 the twentieth time, that she did not really think there was any- 
 thing, though, at the same instant, she ran a few steps down the 
 road, just to look once more round the corner. 
 
 Mrs Herbert was dressed, and more comfortable, and had many 
 questions to ask, as to whether Amy had had a pleasant walk, 
 whether she had spoken to Mr Walton, and whether Mrs Walton 
 found her rheumatism worse than usual ; and Amy, seated by the 
 window, endeavoured to answer them all, with her mind wander- 
 ing to other things, when the sudden appearance of Mr Walton 
 and her uncle, on the terrace below, made her stop short and ex- 
 claim, ' There they are, both of them. I think there must be 
 something.' 
 
 The next moment brought her to recollection ; but there was 
 no retracting what had been said, — she was obliged to explain ; 
 and the change in her mother's countenance, and the subdued 
 tremulousness of her voice, soon gave her reason to repent her 
 incautiousness. 
 
 'This will not do,' said Mrs Herbert, endeavouring to com- 
 mand herself. ' Amy, my love, tell your uncle I should wish to 
 speak to him immediately.' 
 
 The message was, however, unnecessary. Mr Harrington had 
 seen Amy at the window, and now, pausing in his walk, begged 
 to know if he might be allowed to come up. ' And Mr Walton is 
 with me,' he added. ' May he come too ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, directly,' was Amy's reply. Her mamma was just wish- 
 ing to see them both ; and in a few minutes their steps were 
 heard along the gallery. 
 
 Mrs Herbert turned very pale; and Amy stood by her, 
 kissing her forehead, and trying to soothe the agitation she had 
 so inconsiderately excited. 
 
 'It is quite unnatural,' said Mr Walton, as he entered, 'to 
 pay you a visit on Christmas-day ; — a sad falling off from former 
 times. I have been half quarrelling with Mr Harrington for not 
 allowing you to adhere to the ancient fashion, and dine with us; 
 but he declares I am very unreasonable.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert attempted to smile, but the effort was too great. 
 
 * You are feeling ill to-day, my dear Ellen ?' said Mr Harring- 
 ton, kindly, taking her hand. 
 
 ' No, not ill,' replied Mrs Herbert, faintly ; ' that is, not 
 worse than usual, but anxious — very anxious. O Charles ! '
 
 )5C- AMY HERBERT. 
 
 she added, looking eagerly in her brother's face, as if wishing to 
 read there all she longed to know, ' have you anything to tell 
 me ? In pity, do not keep me in suspense.' 
 
 The tone in which this was spoken prevented anything like 
 further delay. 
 
 ' It is nothing,' bad,' replied Mr Harrington ; ' and yet it is 
 not so decidedly good as to allow one to build upon it. l\Ir 
 Walton has had a letter from a friend in India, in which he says, 
 that the accounts of the war have been greatly exaggerated ; for, 
 in fact, there has been nothing more than an insurrection in one 
 of the provinces, which is now quelled ; and there was a report 
 that Colonel Herbert had joined his regiment, which had been 
 sent some way up the country.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert did not speak in answer ; she drew one long 
 breath, as if her mind had been relieved from a dreadful weight ; 
 a calm, sweet smile of deep happiness passed across her yet 
 beautiful features ; and then, covering her face with her hands, 
 she silently blessed God for His great mercy. ' May I see the 
 letter .? ' was the first question she asked when the effect of the 
 intelligence had a little subsided. 
 
 Mr Walton produced it instantly, saying that he had brought 
 it for the express purpose of showing it to her. ' Not,' he con- 
 tinued, ' that there is anything in it beyond what Mr Harring- 
 ton has just told you. The circumstance is mentioned in the 
 light careless way in which we all speak of things of no import- 
 ance to ourselves, but which may, perhaps, affect even the lives 
 of our fellow-creatures. My friend Campbell had no notion 
 how deeply it would interest me.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert seized the letter, and read the sentences again 
 and again ; but, as Mr Walton had stated, there was nothing 
 further to be gained from them, though every word was examined 
 and weighed ; as yet, it was only report ; and t\-ith this Mrs 
 Herbert was obliged to be contented. ' I see,' she said, looking 
 at her brother, who was evidently wishing, yet afraid to speak, 
 'you are anxious lest I should build too much upon this ; but I 
 hope I shall not. Whatever trial may be in store, it would be 
 almost cruel to deprive me of a few weeks of hope.' 
 
 ' I am only afraid of the consequences of a disappointment,' 
 replied Mr Harrington ; 'but I cannot give sermons to any one, 
 especially to you, so I shall leave you with Mr Walton ; his 
 advice will be much more efficacious than mine.' 
 
 ' Here is a better sermon than anv words !' said Mr Walton,
 
 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 :>/ 
 
 as he pntted Amy's head, when her uncle was gone. ' For your 
 child's sake, you will not, I am sure, allow either hope or fear to 
 have too powerful an effect upon you. I do not think either of 
 you is well fitted to bear any great excitement.' 
 
 Amy's countenance certainly showed that Mr Walton's words 
 were true ; every tinge of colour had faded from her cheek, and 
 her bright dark eyes were dimmed with tears, which she was 
 using her utmost efforts to I'epress. She had been silent, for she 
 /elt too much for words ; her hope was far more certain than her 
 mother's, since it had not been so often chilled by disappoint- 
 ment ; and the dreams of happiness which filled her mind were 
 for the present without a cloud. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mrs Herbert, in reply to Mr \\'alton's observa- 
 tion, ' Amy is indeed a motive for every exertion ; it would be a 
 hard thing to cause her anxiety for both her parents.' 
 
 Amy tried to speak ; and hardly understanding her own feel- 
 ings, was almost ashamed to find that her tears were more ready 
 than her smiles at this moment of happiness. ' Dear, dear 
 mamma,' she exclaimed, ' we shnll never be anxious now. And 
 you think he will be here soon 1' 
 
 'We Iiope everything that is delightful,' said Mr Walton, 
 ' but we do not thiJik certainly about anything ; so, my dear 
 child, you must be contented as yet to go on just as you have 
 done for the last twelve months ; and you must let me talk a 
 little to your mamma alone. I am sure she will never be able 
 to reason calmly while that little earnest face of yours is before 
 her.' 
 
 Amy felt slightly inclined to rebel, as it seemed almost wrong 
 that she should be sent av/ay from licr mother at such a time ; 
 but she had never been accustomed to dispute Mr Walton's 
 wishes ; and left the room to make Miss Morton and Dora 
 acquainted with the intelligence her mother had received. 
 
 Miss Morton's room was the first place she sought ; and the 
 next quarter of an hour was spent in telling her of all that was 
 to be done when Colonel Herbert returned,— how they were to 
 talk, and ride, and walk, and the alterations that were to be 
 made at the cottage, and the places he was to take her to see ; 
 and Emily, though feeling that the foundation of all this happi- 
 ness was insecure, could not make up her mind to check sucli 
 simple, innocent hopes. The same things were again repeated 
 to Dora in the schoolroom ; and Margaret would have had her 
 sliarc also, but the indifferent tone in which she said, ' Dear me !
 
 iS8 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 how strange !' when informed of the tidings from India, quite 
 chilled Amy's flow of spirits ; and she hastened away to iind a 
 more sympathising listener, Dora's interest in her cousin, and 
 all that concerned her, had lately so much increased, that it 
 was no cftort to her to listen as long as Amy felt inclined to talk ; 
 and she was sorry when Miss Morton appeared, to remind her 
 of the intended walk to the rectory, and to ask whether she 
 still wished to go. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! ' said Amy, ' if mamma does not care about my 
 leaving her. I do so long to see Mrs Walton now more than 
 ever ; but I will just go to mamma's room and ask her.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert's conversation with Mr Walton had been long 
 and engrossing ; and this, added to the previous excitement, had 
 so fatigued her, that she was looking much worse than in the 
 morning ; and Amy resolved at first not to mention the walk, 
 and took up a book as if not wishing to go out. But Mrs Her- 
 bert never forgot the pleasures of others, and would not for an 
 instant allow her to think of remaining at home, declaring that 
 rest and solitude would be better than any society, and that it 
 would be a much greater pleasure to hear an account of the visit 
 on their return than to keep her by her side during the whole 
 afternoon. Amy was only half-satisfied ; but it was in vain to 
 say that it was only the thought of the morning, and she was 
 very much pleased with her book, and should be quite happy 
 in reading it. Mrs Herbert insisted, and she went. 
 
 Mrs Walton's disposition was more sanguine than her hus- 
 band's. She had seen less of the world, and had heard and 
 known less of its disappointments ; and her fondness for Mrs 
 Herbert made her seize upon every prospect of comfort for her, 
 so eagerly, that there was no fear of Amy's hopes being again 
 damped by any warning ; and, perhaps, that hour's visit was as 
 full of delight to her as it was to the happy child, who, seated at 
 her feet, looked up with a face so innocent and gay, that it 
 seemed impossible to dread lest any evil should be near to mar 
 her enjoyment. There was also a charm to Mrs Walton in 
 watching Miss Morton's interest in her little companion. She 
 had a quick perception of character, and was peculiarly sensible 
 of anything like selfishness of feeling; and she had often ob- 
 served that, when persons have suffered much themselves, they 
 seem unable to enter into the pleasures of others. But afiflictioa 
 had produced a very different effect upon Emily Morton ; and 
 now, though she had lost both her parents, had been obliged to
 
 AMY HERBERT. 159 
 
 leave her home, and had no prospect for the future but one of 
 painful dependence, she still smiled as cheerfully, and spoke as 
 hopefully to Amy, as if no thought of the difference in their 
 situations had ever crossed her mind. 
 
 ' You must take care of your dear mamma,' were Mrs Walton's 
 parting words. ' Colonel Herbert will look very blank if he re- 
 turns to see the pale cheek she has now ; for his sake, tell her 
 she must endeavour to get strong.' 
 
 Amy promised to be very watchful, and had no doubt that 
 everything would be right. But Mrs Walton was not so well 
 satisfied, and drew Miss Morton aside, to ask more particularly 
 how Mrs Herbert had borne the intelligence. Miss Morton 
 could give her little information, but undertook to send a note to 
 the rectory in the evening to ease her mind ; though at the time 
 the request was made ]Mrs Walton acknowledged that it was 
 apparently absurd to be so anxious. 
 
 * You would not wonder at it, however,' she said, ' if you knew 
 all that Mrs Herbert has been to me for many years ; even 
 during the lifetime of my own child, she was almost equally dear 
 to me, and since that great loss, I have, felt as if she were left to 
 be my special treasure. I need not say to yoic that she is de- 
 serving of all, and more than all, the affection I can give.' 
 
 ' And her child is exactly similar to her,' replied Miss Morton. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mrs Walton ; ' how could the child of such parents 
 be different ? There is but one thing in which she does not 
 resemble her mother — her disposition is naturally more lively 
 and hopeful. It would require, probably, very much affliction 
 to destroy the buoyancy of her spirits ; and I would willingly 
 pray that many years may pass before she is so tried, unless it 
 should be required for her good, for it would be a bitter thing to 
 lose the sound of her merry laugh, and the brightness of her smile.' 
 
 ' It would make Emmerton very different to me,' said Miss 
 Morton. ' As I have often told you, I could hardly have 
 supposed before, how much interest and pleasure may be added 
 to life by one so young ; — a mere child, as she really is, and yet 
 with thoughtfulness and consideration which make me fancy her 
 much older. My most earnest wish is, that Rose may one day 
 be like her.' 
 
 Amy's approach interrupted the conversation ; and Mrs 
 Walton parted from Emily Morton with a warmer feeling of 
 affection, from the entire correspondence of their feelings 
 lo-.vards her
 
 i6o AMY HERBERT. 
 
 Tlic happiness of Amy's mind was a peculiar blessing at Eni. 
 merton on that day. It was Christmas-day; and every one knew 
 that it was a time for especial enjoyment, though, perhaps, few 
 of the party could have satisfactorily explained the reason why, 
 and fewer still could have entered into the joy which none but a 
 Christian can feel on the celebration of the Birth of their Re- 
 deemer. It was a duty to be cheerful, and yet almost every one 
 had a secret grief which prevented them from being so. Mr and 
 Mrs Harrington could not forget all that had passed within the 
 last twelvemonth ; and Dora and Frank sighed many times as 
 they missed their favourite companion ; — even Margaret, though 
 she had suffered much less than the others when Edward died, 
 could not be insensible to the change in the family, and wan- 
 dered about the house complaining that it was not at all what 
 Christmas-day used to be ; but Amy had no such recollections 
 to sadden her, and soon enlivened her cousins by the influence 
 of her own gaiety, notwithstanding the shade which was occa- 
 sionally cast over it, when Dora reminded her that by that time 
 on the following day she would probably be occupied in trying 
 to understand ^Ir Cunningham's unintelligible language. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 S-- 
 
 \TURDAY came, and with it the expected guests ; and at 
 a very awkward hour, just about twelve o'clock, when 
 there was a long afternoon before them, with nothing to be done. 
 Amy had made up her mind that they could not possibly arrive 
 before four or five. It was some distance from Rochford Park 
 to Emmerton ; and she was sure there must be a great deal to 
 do before they set off, and, in consequence, she had calculated 
 upon seeing very little of either Mr or Miss Cunningham on 
 that day. Her dismay, therefore, was extreme, as she watched from 
 the gallery window, and saw the carriage slowly driving down the 
 avenue. She was not, however, required to entertain them, for 
 it was her duty to attend upon her mamma ; and in the afternoon 
 there was an engagement to walk with Miss Morton and Rose 
 to Stephen's cottage, to inquire how he was getting on after his 
 attack of gout, and carry him a new flannel-vs^aistcoat, which 
 Rose h'jd taken great delight in helping to make. There was.
 
 AMY HERBERT. i5i 
 
 therefore, no fear, she thought, of seeing much of Miss Cun- 
 ningham, except at dinner-time ; and as for her brother, he 
 would probably not come in the way at all. Aiid having thus 
 relieved her mind, Amy returned to her mamma's room, de- 
 lighting more than ever in its quietness and privacy. 
 
 ]\Irs Herbert was still very unwell ; she had passed a sleepless, 
 anxious night, at one moment anticipating Colonel Herbert's re- 
 turn with the utmost confidence, and the next picturing to her- 
 self all the bitterness of disappointment ; but she made many 
 efforts against this distrust, and tried to feel, what she knew to 
 be true, that whatever might happen, it would be for her good, 
 and that she should be supported under it. 
 
 I\Iiss Cunningham appeared in the schoolroom in all the 
 splendour of her new winter dress, made after the last Parisian 
 fashion, and, for the first time, regretted that Amy was not 
 present to be overpowered by such magnificence. Dora was 
 the only person there, and it was useless attempting to make 
 an impression upon her ; she had no eyes for anything belong- 
 ing to Miss Cunningham ; and her arrival at such an early hour 
 was so unexpected and disagreeable, that it rec[uired some effort 
 to be civil to her. ' We did not expect you till dinner-time,' she 
 said, after the first greeting was over, in a tone which plainly 
 meant, ' and we did not want you.' 
 
 'Oh!' replied Miss Cunningham, ' papa had some business 
 in the neighbourhood, and so he insisted upon our setting off at 
 eleven ; and a great bore it was. I am sure Warren niust have 
 spoiled half my dresses by packing them in such a hurry. M} 
 new-worked muslin, I suspect, will be quite unwearable, and 
 the French gray silk not much better ; and as for the white 
 silk, and the pink crape, and my morning dresses, I am quite 
 unhappy about them. The only two which I feel at all sure of 
 are the figured lilac satinet, and the pale green poplin — those I 
 saw her put in myself.' 
 
 The tone of pretended indifference in which this was spoken 
 ' irritated Dora almost beyond endurance ; perhaps the more so, 
 because she was sensible of having been at times guilty of the 
 same folly. ' I have no doubt the dresses will do very well,' she 
 answered. ' A lady's-maid always understands how to pack ; 
 and if they should be injured, it will not signify, as far as the 
 appearance goes, for there is no one coming here who will take 
 the smallest notice of v.'hat you have on.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham looked and fflt extremely mortified, and 
 
 L
 
 r62 A.UV HERBERT. 
 
 evidently showed it by llic tone in which she said, ' I thought 
 you were going to have a large party, and a dance, and all sons 
 of things.' 
 
 ' What a strange idea ! ' exclaimed Dora. ' What should we 
 have a dance for .'' ' 
 
 ' I thought everybody had dances when they asked their 
 friends at Christmas,' said Miss Cunningham ; 'that is to say, we 
 have been accustomed to it when we have visited people of our 
 own rank in the county ; but I suppose it is not the custom 
 amongst common people.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not,' replied Dora. * Of course, we can tell nothing 
 about them ; but whether it is the custom or not, it would make 
 no difference to us. Papa and mamma generally do as they 
 choose, without caring about the rest of the world.' 
 
 'And will there be nobody, then ?' asked Miss Cunningham, 
 with a sudden pang, as she thought of the green poplin, and the 
 white silk, and the pink crape, wasting their splendour upon Mr 
 and Mrs Harrington. 
 
 'Just a few people,' was the reply; 'the young Dornfords, 
 and their papa, and one or two others.' 
 
 'What, boys! school-boys !' exclaimed Miss Cunningham, in 
 horror ; and before Dora could answer, Margaret came into the 
 room in particularly good spirits, and with a manner which 
 formed a singular contrast to her sister's. The embraces were 
 so fervent, the expressions of affection so warm, that a common 
 observer might have supposed, with reason, that this was the 
 first meeting after an absence of several years, between very 
 dear friends, while Dora looked on with a curling lip, and a 
 contracted brow, and a secret rejoicing that she was not in 
 Margaret's place. 
 
 'When you have done kissing, Margaret,' she said, at length, 
 'perhaps you will just listen to me. Amy wishes to dine to- 
 day at half-past one ; and mamma has no objection, and so it 
 is to be.' 
 
 ' Really, Dora,' replied Margaret, ' it is very rude to attend 
 to Amy's wishes instead of Lucy's. I always thought relations 
 were to be thought of last.' 
 
 'Amy wishes to dine at half-past one; and mamma has no 
 objection, and so it is to be,' repeated Dora, with a manner 
 which she intended to be dignified, though it was only very 
 cross. 
 
 'Don't mind her,' half whispered Margaret to Miss Cunning™
 
 AAfy HERBERT. 163 
 
 ham ; ' it is only her foolish way ; we need not dine earlier than 
 we choose for Amy. It really is too absurd to think of giving up 
 to her, and I shall speak to mamma about it.' 
 
 Dora pretended not to hear this speech, and left the room 
 satisfied with having exhibited her authority and carelessness of 
 Miss Cunningham's feelings, and dissatisfied, in her secret heart, 
 by the consciousness of having been extremely unamiable. She 
 met Amy on the stairs ; and the sight of her gay, innocent face, 
 which seemed quite a reproach, had seldom been so unwelcome ; 
 but it was impossible to vent any anger upon her, and hastily 
 passing, Dora shut herself up in her own room ; while Amy, who 
 had lately been quite unused to such a manner from her cousin, 
 could only wonder in silence what had happened to discompose 
 her. 
 
 Miss Cunningham, in the meantime, relieved from Dora's 
 presence, felt no scruple in giving way to her expressions of 
 dislike to Amy ; and, with great earnestness, endeavoured to 
 inspire Margaret with similar feelings. It was so strange, so 
 unusual — such a very great liberty, for a cousin to think of 
 choosing what time every one else should dine ; really, she 
 could not have imagined that Mrs Harrington would allow it ; 
 but she had always observed that Amy Herbert was very much 
 at her ease ; in a little time she would have everything her own 
 way. ' Of course, I don't mean to speak against her,' she 
 continued; 'only I know a family just like yours, Margaret, 
 where there was a cousin brought up, and at last her uncle and 
 aunt really became fonder of her than they were of their own 
 children.' 
 
 'There is no fear of that with mamma,' replied Margaret ; 'I 
 am sure she does not care a straw for Amy. Papa is different. 
 I do think, sometimes, he takes a good deal of notice of her ; 
 but then, you know, she is not brought up with us ; she is only 
 here on a visit.' 
 
 ' That does not make any diflerence ; I am quite sure, if you 
 do not take care she will stand in your way in everything. Papa 
 said, the other day, that he thought Mrs Harrington would have 
 consented to our going to London, only she remembered your 
 cousin ; and then she declared, as she should feel obliged to take 
 her, the plan would not do.' 
 
 Margaret's vexation was very great, yet she could not entirely 
 enter into her companion's antipathy ; she had felt too much 
 the charm of Amy's s\veet temper and obliging disposition to
 
 i6.i .^.1/]' HERBERT. 
 
 be able cordially to abuse licr. But Miss Cunningham loved 
 the sound of her own voice too well to require an answer ; and 
 the expression of her own likings and dislikings was all that 
 was important to her. ' George provokes me so,' she said, * he 
 does nothing, now, but lecture me from morning till night, and 
 Avish I was like her. Really, I think he might find some one my 
 own equal in rank for me to imitate, if he is so dissatisfied. I 
 told him, as we were coming here, that if he said anything about 
 her being with us in London, 1 would not go till next year ; and 
 I may have quite my own way about it. so I ha\-e put a stop to 
 that.' 
 
 Margaret was annoyed, though she did not like to appear so. 
 Miss Cunningham's superior age and rank kept her always con- 
 siderably in awe ; but she was painfully struck by the want of 
 ladylike feeling, which had induced her friend to speak in such 
 terms of so near a relation. 
 
 Miss Cunningham, however, could never discover when she 
 had said or done anything amiss. From her childhood her 
 perception on such subjects had been singularly obtuse ; and 
 nothing in her education had served to quicken her knowledge 
 of character ; she went on, therefore, in the same tone, with the 
 full impression that all her observations must be agreeable. 
 ' Dora tells me that there is no one invited here but a parcel of 
 school-boys and girls ; and really, I must say, it was hardly 
 worth while to come six miles this cold weather merely for 
 them — of course, I thought there was to be a dance.' 
 
 Margaret endeavoured to explain her sister's statement. There 
 were to be some boys, certainly, as companions for Frank — but 
 there were to be other people besides ; and, indeed, her mamma 
 had sent out some more notes only this morning, because Dora 
 said that she would rather have a great many to entertain than 
 a few, 
 
 ' Then there will be a dance,' said Miss Cunningham. '■ How 
 are you to amuse yourselves else?' 
 
 ' It would be very nice,' replied Margaret ; 'but I don't quite 
 think papa and mamma have any notion of it. You know 
 Christmas is not now what it was last year, when Edward was 
 alive.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; to be sure — I know all that. Of course, you were 
 all very miserable, and cried a great deal at the time. I re- 
 member I was dreadfully wretched when my little brother 
 William died. Indeed, niainma said she never knew any one
 
 AMY HERBERT. 165 
 
 v/iih such strong feelings in her hie. But, then, it is all past 
 now ; and it is right to be cheerful, and try and forget it.' 
 
 ' I wish )'ou would ask mamma,' said Margaret, ' She would 
 listen to j-ou, at any rate ; and she could not be angry at any 
 proposal from you. It certainly would be a good way of amus- 
 ing them,' 
 
 ' I don't mind, in the least, asking,' answered Miss Cunning- 
 ham. ' I never did mind it, from a child. Mamma says it sur- 
 prises her to see bow little of the stupid shyness I have, which 
 makes other girls so disagreeable. Let me see, — I shall wear 
 my white silk, I think ; there is a blonde fall to go with it, which 
 makes it look beautiful. That or the pink crape. Pink suits 
 my complexion best ; but then it is not quite so dressy. There 
 is a picture of some great lady in the saloon at Rochford, 
 which papa says is just like me in my pink crape. Mary 
 Queen of Scots, I think it is, or Queen Elizabeth — I don't 
 know which ; only it is a queen of some kind. What shall you 
 wear?' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Margaret, sadly, ' you know we are not yet out 
 of mourning, so we can have nothing but white ; only I wish 
 m.amma would give us new dresses,' 
 
 ' Of course she will. You can't possibly have a dance without 
 a new dress ; nobody ever heard of such a thing. i\Iy white silk 
 is quite new ; and the pink crape I only put on one evening for 
 papa to see. We shall dance, I suppose, in the hall. And how 
 many persons do you think there will be ? ' 
 
 Margaret had some difficulty in following the sv.iftness of her 
 companion's imagination. It was very delightful to picture the 
 hall, brilliantly lighted up and filled with company, and herself 
 exciting every one's admiration by the side of her plain friends 
 But then came another idea, not quite so agreeable, — Mrs Har- 
 rington's stern features and look of surprise, when the plan should 
 be first proposed, Margaret trembled as she thought of it ; and, 
 but for Miss Cunningham's unshrinking courage, the wish for 
 the ball would soon have passed away. When a fancy, howe\er, 
 takes possession of a weak, selfish mind, there is but little room 
 left for any other consideration. Miss Cunningham's mind was 
 of this description ; it was seldom capable of retaining more 
 than one idea at a time, and whatever that might be, it was all- 
 engrossing. A little while ago, the journey to London had 
 occupied every thought ; now, her only wish was, that a dance 
 tiiould be given at Emmerlon ; and she was so firmly resolved
 
 1 66 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 that it must take place, that every obstacle, every notion o/ 
 propriety, sank into nothing. 
 
 Margaret listened, and wondered, and wished, and at last 
 ended in agreeing that a dance was quite necessary for their 
 happiness, and for the happiness of each of the other members 
 of the family, Mrs Harrington included ; and that the only way 
 to manage it was for Miss Cunningham to talk to her mamma 
 about it that very day. 
 
 The first thing that startled Margaret from her new dream of 
 enjoyment was Dora's look of astonishment when informed at 
 dinner of their intentions. * Do you really mean,' she said, turn- 
 ing to Miss Cunningham, 'that you are going to tell mamma we 
 ought to have a dance this Christmas ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' was the reply. 'I half thought of talking to papa 
 about it first ; but he might make some objection ; and George 
 might say no — so it is best to go at once to Mrs Harrington.' 
 
 'And do you recommend Miss Cunningham to do it.'^' asked 
 Dora, looking at her sister. 
 
 ' Yes, why should I not ? ' said Margaret, half frightened. ' Do 
 you think mamma will be angry ? ' 
 
 ' Try, that is all,' replied Dora. 
 
 'Perhaps,' said Miss Morton, 'Miss Cunningham is not quite 
 aware of the painful circumstances which might make Mrs Har- 
 rington unwilling, at this time, to give so large a party.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham looked, in answer, astonished at hearing 
 such an observation from Emily Morton in her presence. She 
 did not, however, think the remark worthy of reply in words, 
 and continued her account of what she thought ought to be 
 done, and then again repeated her intentions with regard to her 
 dress, ending by saying to Amy, ' I suppose you have a white 
 muslin ; that will be well enough, as you are such a child.' 
 
 Dora's amazement at Miss Cunningham's boldness was so 
 great that she made no attempt to prevent her following her own 
 inclinations ; besides, she rather enjoyed the thought of her 
 being put down by Mrs Harrington, and therefore ate her dinner 
 in dignified silence ; whilst Amy, whose astonishment was not 
 less than her cousin's, felt she had no right to interfere, though 
 she did hope something would be said to induce Miss Cunning- 
 ham to refrain from taking so great a liberty. 
 
 But, perhaps, Margaret was the person who felt most uncom- 
 fortable. At first the notion of a dance had been so agreeable 
 that every objection was overlooked ; but Dora's manner had
 
 AMY HERBERT. 167 
 
 recalled her to herself, and she began heartily to wish that the 
 thing had never been mentioned ; for if her mamma were spoken 
 to, her name was sure to be brought forward ; and when dinner 
 was over, she endeavoured most anxiously to inspire her friend 
 with a little awe, by hinting at her own fears, and Mrs Harring- 
 ton's particularities. But she hinted in vain. Nothing but the 
 plainest meaning in the plainest language could ever be under- 
 stood by Miss Cunningham ; and Margaret was at last obliged to 
 beg that she would speak to her papa, and get the plan suggested 
 by him. 
 
 Dora was in the room whilst this was passing, and still secretly 
 desired that the original intention might be persisted in ; and at 
 first there appeared every probability of it ; for Miss Cunning- 
 ham stared, pouted, and seemed quite puzzled at the idea that 
 anything she could say could be taken amiss. However, if 
 Margaret were really silly enough to be afraid about such a trifle, 
 she would do as she wished, but merely to please her ; she only 
 rejoiced that she was not kept in such leading-strings herself. 
 
 ' It would be a good thing if you were,' muttered Dora, as she 
 sat by the window, looking with a careless eye upon the quiet, 
 wintry beauty of the garden. 
 
 It would have appeared lovely and peaceful had the tone of 
 her mind been the same ; but the contrast was too great to please 
 her. The bright sky brought no cheerfulness to a heart discon- 
 tented with itself; it only caused a sigh for the vanished pleasures 
 of the summer ; and the white frost, which still hung on the 
 evergreens, called forth nothing but an exclamation against the 
 miserable cold weather, and the desolation, wretchedness, and 
 dulness of everything and everybody in the month of December. 
 Amy was gone for her walk with Miss Morton ; Frank had set 
 out for a ramble with his papa ; they were stupid and disagree- 
 able, and to be pardoned for leaving her behind, after she had 
 refused the entreaties of both to go with them, only when they 
 were compared with Margaret and Miss Cunningham, who was 
 at that moment more unendurable than ever. She really could 
 not remain any longer listening to her never-ending chattering ; 
 and in the most desperate fit of ill-humour, with which she had 
 been afflicted for weeks, Dora put on her bonnet and cloak, and 
 sallied forth for a solitary walk. In which direction to go she 
 was undecided ; the shrubbery was dull, the hill was cold, the 
 park not fit for a winter's walk, and the terrace far too near the 
 house to be agreeable ; and, as a last resource, she determined
 
 1 58 AMY HERBERT, 
 
 on finding her way to Slephcn's cottaye, in the hope of n'.celing 
 Amy, though she had never before taken the trouble to visit it. 
 
 The path led along the side of the hill, which was covered by 
 the Emmcrton plantations, and then emerged into some open 
 fields, tlnough one of which flowed the deep, rapid stream, which 
 at Emmerton almost expanded into a lake. A wooden bridge 
 across the M-atcr, and a narrow lane, then led to Stephen's cot- 
 tage, which stood alone in its small, neat garden, showing, even 
 in winter, symptoms of the care and taste bestowed upon it. The 
 beauty of the walk was, however, wholly lost upon Dora ; she 
 only felt that it was very cold, and would have returned home 
 could anything have been found within doors at all more alluring 
 than the severity of the weather without. The sound of approach- 
 ing voices first roused her from her discontented reverie ; and, 
 as she looked hastily round, she perceived her papa and Frank 
 coming down the hill. 
 
 Jvlr Harrington expressed surprise at finding her alone so far 
 fiom the house, and objected to her proceeding farther, laying 
 some blame on Miss Morton for not having accompanied her. 
 Dora's ill-humour did not interfere with her usual quick sense of 
 justice ; and lately she had become peculiarly sensible to the 
 habit which prevailed at Emmerton, of making Miss IMorton beat 
 the burden of other people's faults ; perhaps, too, some compunc- 
 tion for having occasionally been guilty of the same oficnce, 
 though not in an equal degree, made her now very desirous of 
 explaining the truth. Mr Harrington was easily satisfied ; he 
 had rather an interest in Miss Morton ; she was so quiet and 
 unobtrusive and lady-like, and never troubled him with com- 
 plaints ; but he insisted upon Frank's accompanying his sister, 
 if she still wished to go farther ; and though Dora declared there 
 was no doubt of meeting Miss Morton in a few minutes, he would 
 not hear of her being left alone — and Frank, much against his 
 inclination, was obliged to remain. 
 
 CHAPTEPv XV. 
 
 * "W J^' ^^^ better go at once to the cottage, Frank,' said Dora, 
 V V when her father was gone ; ' we shall be sure to find 
 them there ; and I dare say they have been kept longer than they 
 intended, talking to old Stepheri.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 169 
 
 * And who is Stephen ? ' said Frank. 
 
 ' Oh ! I am sure, I don't know,' replied Dora ; ' only an old 
 sort of servant of grandpapa's, who always has the gout. He 
 was steward, I believe, once. I never trouble my head much 
 about him ; but Amy talks a good deal of him.' 
 
 'And what makes you go and see l)im, then .?' said Frank. 
 
 ' Nothing at all, but because I wanted something to do, and 
 Amy and Miss Morton were gone, and 1 could not bear staying 
 at home with Miss Cunningham.' 
 
 ' How you sigh ! Dora,' said Frank ; ' and how grave you 
 look. 1 don't think you have laughed heartily once since I came 
 home.' 
 
 ' There is nothing to make one laugh that I can see,' said 
 Dora, ' in this gloomy old place, and the dull, cold weather.' 
 
 ' We were never dull at Wayland,' replied Frank ; ' and the 
 weather was much worse there last winter than it is now.' 
 
 ' Well, 1 don"t know what it is,' said Dora ; ' but everybody is 
 grown so cross here, there is no bearing it ; and it is not at all 
 like Christmas time.' 
 
 ' Wait till Monday,' answered Frank ; ' we shall be meny 
 enough then ; the young Dornfords are coming here quite early, 
 that we may have some skating on the lake.' 
 
 ' Young Dornfords, indeed ! ' exclaimed Dora ; ' what good will 
 that be to me 1 I shall not skate.' 
 
 ' But you used to like watching us,' said Frank, in a disap- 
 pointed tone. 
 
 ' Times are changed,' answered Dora, shortly ; ' I shall not like 
 it now.' 
 
 Frank turned away from his sister, and walked some paces off, 
 thinking all the time how disagreeable she was, and how much 
 pleasanter the walk home with his papa would have been. His 
 own disposition was so happy, that he could neither understand 
 nor endure one which was the reverse, and Dora's age and char- 
 acter made him always feel rather in av,-e ; so that he could not 
 tell her, what he saw was the fact, that the fault of everything 
 lay in herself, and her own discontent. Silently and sulkily Dora 
 walked on to the cottage ; as they passed the window, she had a 
 full view of what was going on within — and as she looked, her 
 feeling cf dissatisfaction increased. The room was small, but 
 extremely neat, and ornamented with a few prints and pictures, 
 and some wooden shelves, on which were ranged all Stephen's 
 rr.ost valuable treasures — a large Bible, in two volumes, which
 
 170 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 had descended to him from his ^irandfather, ' Tlie Whole Duty 
 of Man/ given him by Mrs Herbert's mother, and several other 
 books of a similar kind — all presents from different members of 
 the family ; some curious old cups and saucers, presents likewise, 
 a wooden knife, made from the horn of the first buck which he had 
 seen killed, the handlcof the first whip he had used when he became 
 coachman at Emmerton, and, above all, the leading rein with 
 which he had taught all the young gentlemen and ladies to ride. 
 There was a story attached to each of these relics — and Amy, 
 though she had heard them a hundred times, still listened with 
 pleasure as they were repeated again and again ; and when Dora 
 looked, she saw her seated on a low stool by Stephen's side, with 
 her hand resting on his knee, while he was explaining to Miss 
 Morton how nearly Mr Harrington had met with a serious acci- 
 dent when he first mounted his Shetland pony. There was 
 poverty in the cottage (or what at least seemed such to Dora), 
 and sickness, and pain, for Stephen had been very ill, and was 
 even then suffering considerably ; and yet she could not look 
 upon it without something like a feeling of envy. Stephen was 
 resigned to his illness, and grateful for its alleviation. Amy had 
 forgotten herself entirely, and was watching with delight the in- 
 terest Emily Morton took in hearing her old friend talk ; and Emily 
 was thinking of the many blessings which God has granted to 
 soften the trials of life, and was learning a lesson of cheerful 
 resignation, which none but herself would have imagined she 
 required. Dora was young, and she had never been taught to 
 think ; but there was something in the general appearance of the 
 cottage, and in the expression of the old man's countenance, 
 which spoke more forcibly than any words. She had youth, 
 health, and riohes ; he had age, sickness, and poverty — how was 
 it that he could smile while she sighed, that he could be grateful 
 when she was discontented ? She did not put the question into 
 words, but the feeling was so painful that she could not wait to 
 think about it, and hastily knocking at the door, hardly awaited 
 for an answer before she entered. Amy uttered an exclamation 
 ofsuprise and pleasure, and Stephen half rose irom his seat to do 
 honour to his unexpected visitor. 
 
 ' I hardly thought ever to have seen you here, Miss Harring- 
 ton,' he said, trying to be cordial, and yet not able entirely to 
 conceal his sense of the neglect which he had experienced. 
 "Tis so long since the master came back to the Hall, and none 
 of you young ladies have found your way here before, that I
 
 AJIV HERBERT. 171 
 
 began to think it wasn't the fashion now to go about as it used 
 10 be.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know,' rephed Dora, who would willingly have 
 been indifferent to the reproof which she felt was implied ; 
 * your cottage is so far off, Stephen, and the days are getting so 
 short,' 
 
 ' So they are, so they are,' answered Stephen ; ' 'tis all very 
 true, Miss Harrington ; but somehow in the old times people 
 did not think about far off and short days ; — not that I mean to 
 complain ; for you know the Bible tells us we are not to ask " why 
 the former days were better than these." ' 
 
 ' Here is my brother come to see you, too,' said Dora, turning 
 to the door to look for Frank, who had lingered on the outside. 
 ' You cannot find fault with him, for he only arrived on Thurs- 
 day.' 
 
 ' Master Frank ! ' exclaimed the old man, while his clear, gray 
 eyes were lighted up with an unusual expression of pleasure ; ' but 
 you don't mean he is here, only coming?' 
 
 *No, not coming,' said Amy; 'really here; I saw him just 
 now.' 
 
 Stephen tried to move from his chair in his impatience to 
 ascertain if her words were true ; but he was not able to walk 
 without assistance, and sank back again with a half-uttered 
 expression of regret, which made him the next instant murmur 
 to himself, ' 'Tis God's will ; and 'tis fit we should learn to bear 
 it.' 
 
 ' Here he is, really ! ' exclaimed Amy, as Dora re-entered the 
 cottage, followed by Frank. ' I am sure, Stephen, you did not 
 quite believe us.' 
 
 Stephen only answered by taking Frank's hand in his, while, 
 for a few moments, he fixed a deep, earnest gaze upon every 
 feature of his countenance. 
 
 * Yes, it 's like, very like,' at length he said, in a low voice, as 
 if speaking to himself ; 'like his mother, like all her family ; but 
 I could have loved it better if it had been different.' 
 
 ' O Stephen ! ' exclaimed Amy, who had caught the words, 
 notwithstanding the tone in which they were spoken, ' if you say 
 so, Frank will think you are not glad to see him.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Stephen, ' there was never one of the name of 
 Harrington that could think that yet. Miss Amy. The young 
 gentleman will learn soon enough that it does my very heart good 
 to look at him ; but 'tis natural for an old man to think most of
 
 V]i AMY HERBERT. 
 
 them that are gone — and, somehow, 'twas a foolish fancy, but I 
 thought that maybe he might luive his father's face too ; but he 
 hasn't not half so much as the young lady there ; and she must 
 be like Master Edward, for the people at the Hall tell me he was 
 the very image of the master.' 
 
 Dora had moved to the window on the first allusion to her 
 brother, but, struck with Stephen's manner, she now came for- 
 ward, and said, ' Do you remember what any of us were like, 
 Stephen, when we left Emmerton ? ' 
 
 ' Remember ! ' repeated the old man. ' Who \\'ouldn't remem- 
 ber those who were as his own children .'' Ah ! Miss Harrington, 
 'twas a sad day when the master told me he was going ; but 
 'twould have been still more sad if I had known that there was 
 one who was never to return.' 
 
 Dora tried to restrain the tears which glistened in her eyes ; 
 and again she would have turned away, but Stephen prevented 
 her. ' And did you love him then so much .'' ' he said, earnestly, 
 forgetting, at the sight of her distress, the neglect and indifference 
 which he had so much felt. ' Ah ! 'twas right and natural, for he 
 was the flower of all ; and bitter it must have been to lose him, 
 for 'tw^as your first sorrow ; but if God should spare you to live 
 as many years as I have done, Miss Harrington, you will learn, 
 when you lay your treasures in the cold earth, to thank God for 
 taking them out of a sinful world.' 
 
 ' It is hard for Miss Harrington to tliink so now, Stephen,' 
 said Miss Morton, fearing lest his words and manner might in- 
 crease Dora's grief. * At her age there is so much to hope for, 
 that it is impossible to expect it.' 
 
 'And I don't expect it,' said Stephen ; * I only tell her so now, 
 that she may think of my words when I am gone ; and I know 
 that they are true, for I have felt it. I had four once, and I loved 
 them all as my own life. The master himself and the family 
 were not nearer to me, nor so near as they were ; and when the 
 tlrst of them was carried to his grave, I thought that my heart 
 ■would have broke ; but God gave me to think better afterwards, 
 for He sent me many a hard trial ; and so, when my spirit was 
 turned in a manner from the earth. He called for all the rest, one 
 after another ; and I watched them till the hour of their death, 
 and heard that their trust was in Him ; and then I laid them to 
 their rest, and blessed Him for His mercy, for I knew that sick- 
 ness and sorrow might knock at my door, but they could never 
 knock at theirs.'
 
 AMV HERBERT. 173 
 
 There was a moment's pause after the old steward had spoken, 
 for none but Miss Morton entirely understood his meaning — even 
 Amy, though she had often heard him talk in the same way be- 
 fore, thought it strange ; and she stood looking in his face, and 
 wondering whether it could be possible for herself or her cousins 
 ever to feel like him. Stephen smiled as he watched the expres- 
 sion of her countenance. ' You don't half believe me, Miss Amy,' 
 he said, ' any more than I believed you when you said the young 
 gentleman was come to see me ; and, perhaps, 'tis as well you 
 don't ; only 'tis fit for us all to think betimes that we are not to 
 stay here for ever, and to expect to find things hard as we grow 
 old ; for so we learn to look above, and then it may be God may 
 see good to spare us a long trial, and call us early to Himself.' 
 
 ' To die ! ' exclaimed Amy, in a half- frightened tone. 
 
 ' It sounds hard,' said Stephen ; ' and yet God only knows how 
 great a blessing it may be. But you need not look so sad, Miss 
 Amy, the time maybe very far off ; and, when it comes, you may 
 have learned to think like me ; and there maybe many a happy 
 day in store for you all, only it may be near too,— aye, near even 
 to that little one there, who looks as if she had never known 
 what sickness was.' 
 
 Amy looked at Rose ; and certainly it did seem more difficult 
 than ever to believe the truth of Stephen's words. She had left 
 the rest of the party, not caring for what was passing, and was 
 standing by the door, amusing herself with the antics of a young 
 kitten, as it tried to catch the piece of cork which she held just 
 out of its reach. Her bonnet had fallen back, and her bright, 
 chestnut hair hung in clustering ringlets about her neck ; the 
 glow of health and happiness was on her cheek, and her dark 
 eyes sparkled with delight, and her little hands were clapped in 
 ecstasy at every fresh movement of the kitten ; and, as Stephen 
 spoke, she burst into a merry laugh, when the tiny animal, show- 
 ing unusual agility, seized upon the cork, and, to her great sur- 
 prise, carried it off in triumph. 
 
 * You will make us all melancholy, Stephen,' said Miss Morton, 
 as she watched the thoughtful expression of Dora's face. ' My 
 little pet has never known an hour's real illness from the day of 
 her birth, so we will not begin fearing for her now.' 
 
 ' No, not fear,' replied Stephen ; 'only,' he added, in a lower 
 tone, ' 'tis an angel's face ; and at times I have thought that it 
 was fitter for heaven than for earth. But I didn't mean,' he con- 
 tinued, aloud, 'to talk about such grave things just the first day
 
 J74 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 of the young gentleman's visit. It isn't my way, Master Frank, 
 in general, and so you shall know if you will come and see me 
 again ; and please God I get strong upon my legs, I shall hope 
 to show you a good many things I 've got together down here. 
 There 's the goats, that are as tame as children, and the old 
 hunter that's been turned out to grass for these half-dozen years, 
 — there isn't such another beauty in all the country round ; and 
 then there are the ponies that I had brought from the hills to 
 train for the young ladies,— maybe you 'd like to see them now ; 
 my grand-daughter will show you where they arc.' 
 
 Frank, who had felt strange and uncomfortable during the 
 last quarter of an hour, gladly seized upon the idea, and the whole 
 party immediately proceeded to inspect the ponies, followed by 
 Stephen's lamentations that he could not exhibit them himself. 
 Frank was just beginning to fancy he understood the merits and 
 demerits of horses, and therefore examined them with a critical 
 eye, and with every wish to show his knowledge by finding fault ; 
 but there was very little to be said against them — in colour and 
 shape, they were almost perfect of their kind ; and Frank's admi- 
 ration, and Dora's earnest entreaties that they might be sent im- 
 mediately to the Hall to be tried, soon recompensed Stephen for 
 the disappointment he had at first felt respecting them. 'To be 
 sure, they are very well,' was his reply to Amy's question, if he 
 did not think them more beautiful than any he had ever seen 
 before ; ' but they don't come up to the old ones, Miss Amy. 
 There was the chestnut, that your own mamma used to ride when 
 she was no bigger than you ; that was worth looking at ; not but 
 \vhat these are very well,— very well, indeed, for those who never 
 Saw any better.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Stephen, that is so tiresome of you,' exclaimed Amy, 
 half laughing and half vexed ; 'you always will bring up something 
 or other to make one discontented ; you never can think that 
 anything now is as good as it used to be.' 
 
 ' Well, so it is,' said Stephen ; 'and when you come to my age, 
 Miss Amy, you '11 feel the same ; not but what there is one thing 
 which I like better now than all, and that's your own dear little 
 merry face ; 'tis always a comfort to look at it ; and in the old 
 times I didn't want comfort as I do now.' 
 
 'And Dora, and Frank, and IMargaret, will all come and see 
 you now,' said Amy, ' and Miss Morton and Rose too. You will 
 have so many visitors, Stephen, I am afraid you will get tired of 
 them.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 175 
 
 'They'll be welcome — all welcome, at all hours/ answered 
 Stephen, * any of the family ; and if, please God, the Colonel 
 should come back, as they say he will, why I think I shall begin 
 my life over again, — 'twill all seem so old and natural.' 
 
 Amy's eyes brightened at the idea. ' I wMnt some one to tell 
 me how long it will be before he can be here,' she said, ' that I 
 may count the days ; but they all say it is uncertain, and I must 
 not think about it ; but I do think about it all day long, and so 
 does mamma, though she does not say much.' 
 
 ' 'Twill be a blessed day,' said Stej^hen, ' when it does come ; 
 and if it please God, I pray that I may live to see it. Sometimes 
 I have thought I could die more happy if I could see young 
 madam smile as she used to do.' 
 
 ' Well, Stephen,' interrupted Frank, who was becoming im- 
 patient, ' you will send the ponies up the first thing to-morrow, 
 won't you .'' No, not to-morrow though ; to-morrow is Sunday; 
 let them come up to-night.' 
 
 ' Why, Frank,' said Dora, 'what good can that do.'' Monday 
 morning will be quite early enough ; you cannot possibly try 
 them before.' 
 
 ' But 'tis his wish. Miss Harrington,' said Stephen, 'and 'tis 
 the first thing he has asked of me ; so, if there's no offence to 
 you, 'twould be a pleasure to me to have them up at the Hall 
 to-night, and one of the grooms can quite easily come to fetch 
 them.' 
 
 Frank's smile spoke his thanks ; and Dora, pleased at any- 
 thing w'hich made his holidays happier than she had feared they 
 would be, took a most cordial leave of Stephen, and left his 
 cottage in a much better mood than she had entered it. 
 
 ' I think,' she said to Amy, as they walked home, ' that there 
 must be something very pleasant in going to visit poor people 
 when they are comfortably off, like Stephen ; they must be so 
 glad to see one, and there is nothing to make one melancholy ; 
 but I can't say I should like getting into those dirty holes which 
 some people have such a fancy for.' 
 
 ' O Dora ! ' exclaimed Amy, ' I can't think any one really likes 
 dirty holes, as you call them ; but, you know, if no one were to 
 look after them, there would be nothing done for the people who 
 live in them.' 
 
 'But why do they live there.^' said Dora; 'why don't they 
 have neat cottages like Stephen's, and look cheerful and be grate- 
 ful for what is gi^-en them ? I have heard people say that it is
 
 176 AJr]' IIERBF.RT. 
 
 all their own fault being so miserably off, and that there is r.a 
 good in doing anything for them.' 
 
 ' Only,' replied Amy, * a good many people have no work, and 
 then of course they have nothing to live on.' 
 
 * How do you know ? ' asked Dora ; ' do you ever go and see 
 any of them but Stephen ? ' 
 
 ' Oh dear, yes !' replied Amy, in a tone of surprise ; 'all the 
 people in the village I know quite well ; mamma always takes 
 me with her to their cottages.' 
 
 'And does aunt Herbert like going .?' said Dora. 
 
 ' Yes, very much, except when she is tired and ill ; but she 
 goes just the same ; and they are so fond of her.' 
 
 Dora looked thoughtful, and said that it must be a great deal 
 of trouble. 
 
 'Sometimes it is,' said Amy; 'but mamma always seems 
 better when she comes back.' 
 
 ' There is not anything done for rich people when they are 
 unhappy,' said Dora ; ' no one thinks of trying to give them 
 pleasure.' 
 
 'Do you think that is quite the case.'' asked Miss Morton. 
 ' I should have said that there was care and kindness shown to 
 every one every day of their lives.' 
 
 ' Not to me,' said Dora, ' excepting, of course, from papa and 
 mamma.' 
 
 ' I fear,' said Miss Morton, ' we should be very badly off if our 
 parents' care were all that we had to depend on.' 
 
 ' I know what you mean.' replied Dora, thinking for a moment ; 
 ' but then the blessings which God sends are so different from 
 the trouble which people say rich persons ought to take about 
 the poor. Of course. He can do everything.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Miss Morton ; 'and when we think of His infinite 
 power, we can hardly imagine that His actions can be any ex- 
 ample for us ; but there was a time when He condescended to 
 live upon the earth ; and we do not find then that He shrunk 
 from taking trouble, as we call it, to do good.' 
 
 Dora was silent and uncomfortable ; she was beginning to get 
 a faint notion of the extent of her duties, and of the care and 
 thought which she ought to bestow upon her fellow-creatures as 
 v.-ell as herself; and she turned from the idea in something like 
 despair, fearing that it would be quite useless to attempt fulfilling 
 them. 
 
 Amy watched her, and saw that something was amiss ; and
 
 ^:JV HERBERT. 117 
 
 leaving Miss Morton, she went to the other side, and put her 
 hand within her cousin's without speaking. 
 
 The action was understood ; and again Dora felt self-reproach, 
 as she noticed the gentle consideration of one so young, and 
 thought of her own piide and selfishness. ' I should like to go 
 with you some day,' she said, 'when aunt Herbert takes you 
 amongst the cottagers, just to know what you say to them, and 
 how you behave.' 
 
 ' I never say anything,' replied Amy, ' except, perhaps, just 
 to ask them if they are better ; but I like hearing mamma talk 
 to them.' 
 
 ' But there can be nothing said that you can care about,' 
 observed Dora. 
 
 'Yes, indeed, there is, generally,' answered Amy. ' I like 
 to hear about all their children, and I like to hear them tell 
 niamma about their being ill and poor. 1 don't mean that I 
 wish them to be ill and poor, but it is very nice to see how 
 mamma comforts them, and it gives me pleasure to hear her 
 talk to Mr Walton about them ; and when I go home, the 
 cottage always seems so much larger and more comfortable 
 than it did before. I never wish then that we had a larger house 
 and more servants,' 
 
 'And do you ever wish so now ?' asked Dora. 
 
 Amy blushed, but answered without hesitation : ' I am afraid 
 I do wish it very often ; but I know it is so wrong that it makes 
 me very unhappy.' 
 
 'Wrong!' exclaimed Dora; 'how can it be wrong? Every 
 one in the world wishes for something or another ; not that 
 you would be one bit better oft". Amy, if you were to live at 
 Emmerton to-morrow ; at least, I think you are much happier 
 than I am.' 
 
 'Mamma says the same,' replied Amy, 'and of course she 
 knows best ; only it does not seem so— but I know it is wicked 
 in me to indulge such feelings.' 
 
 ' That is so silly,' said Dora ; ' how can it be wicked when 
 everybody has them ? Don't you think now, Emily, that every 
 one wishes for something better than what they possess ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Miss Morton, 'but some persons wish for things 
 that are right and good, and others for those which are wrong, 
 and this makes all the difference.' 
 
 'There can be no harm in houses and servants,' said Dora. 
 
 'Only,' said Miss Morton, 'that tliey are apt to make us think 
 
 M
 
 r7S AArV HERBERT. 
 
 proudly of ourselves, and despise those who are without ihetn ; 
 and that at our baptism we promised to renounce the pomps and 
 vanities of the world.' 
 
 'Then what would you have people think of and long for?' 
 asked Dora. 
 
 Amy looked at her cousin with a slight feeling of surprise at 
 the question ; but Miss Morton did not appear to consider it 
 strange, for she answered immediately : ' I think if persons were 
 quite good as they ought to be, all their wishes would be for the 
 blessings which are promised us in the Bible, and that they 
 would care no more for earthly grandeur than a person who is 
 passing through a foreign country does for what he may see 
 there, when he has much better things at home.' 
 
 'What/ exclaimed Dora, 'not think about having comfortable 
 houses, and pretty places, and plenty of money ! we might just 
 as well all be poor at once.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Miss Morton, ' you may remember a verse in 
 the New Testament, which says that the poor are blessed. It 
 is very hard to believe, but if the Bible tells us so, it must be 
 true.' 
 
 ' That is just what mamma would say,' observed Amy ; ' but 
 I don't think I quite like to hear grown-up people talk so, because 
 I am sure it is right to think it ; and yet it seems quite impos- 
 sible, and as if it would make one always melancholy ; only you 
 are not melancholy,' she added, looking at Miss Morton. 
 
 ' It would not be possible for any one at your age to feel like 
 a grown-up person who has had a great many trials,' replied 
 Emily ; ' but it is quite right for you to try at once to overcome 
 your longing for grandeur and riches, because it is one of the 
 lessons which we are sent into the world to learn, and one of the 
 best ways of learning it, is by doing what Miss Harrington men- 
 tioned just now, — going amongst poor people, I mean.' 
 
 ' I don't see what that has to do with it,' said Dora. 
 
 * If the poor people we visit are happy,' replied Emily, ' we 
 shall see that God has given them pleasures quite independent 
 of those we value so much, and we shall learn to think them of 
 less importance ; and if they are unhappy, we shall thank God 
 for having placed us in a different situation ; and whatever may 
 be our trials, we shall bear them with far greater patience, when 
 we see what the poor are forced to endure. A visit to a sick 
 person, in want, will often do more to make us contented and 
 grateful than all the sermons that e\'er were preached.'
 
 AMV HERBERT. 179 
 
 * Do you really think so?' said Dorn, gravely; 'I wontkr 
 whether it would make me happier.' 
 
 ' Will you try ? ' asked Miss Morton, eagerly. 'Will you, if 
 Mrs Harrington has no objection, go with me some day, and 
 see the poor people ? Mr Walton has often said he wished you 
 would.' 
 
 ' O Dora! do go,' exclaimed Amy; 'I should be so delighted 
 if you knew them all, as mamma and I do.' 
 
 * I don't know,' answered Dora ; ' mamma will object, I am 
 sure.' 
 
 ' But just try,' persisted Amy ; ' never mind if she does say 
 No ; there is no harm in asking.' 
 
 'Ah! but mamma's "No" is different from aunt Herbert's,* 
 replied Dora ; 'it always means she is angry.' 
 
 Amy felt this was true, and could not urge her cousin to do 
 what she knew would be so alarming to herself; and Miss 
 Morton's experience of Dora's disposition was sufficient to render 
 her aware, that to urge anything was the most certain method of 
 making her determine upon not doing it. She, therefore, was 
 silent, and the conversation dropped, for they had now nearly 
 reached the Hall ; but it did not pass from Dora's mind. It had 
 given her a new idea of duty, and a hope of increased pleasure 
 and interest, in a way which was not only innocent but good ; 
 and before she again met Miss Morton she had determined 
 upon making the request to her mamma, that she might be 
 allowed to go into the village, even at the risk of encountering 
 her awful frown, and very decided ' No.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE visit to Stephen's cottage had so engrossed Amy's mind, 
 that she had for the time entirely forgotten Miss Cunning- 
 ham and the dance, and even the dread of Mr Cunningham's 
 conversation ; but when the evening came, and they were to 
 appear in the drawing-room, she felt a considerable degree of 
 trepidation, and dressed herself much more reluctantly than 
 usual, lingering in her room, in her anxiety to delay the awful 
 moment, till she found that her cousins had left her to go down 
 stairs alone. Mrs Herbert was tired, and proposed remaining
 
 i8o AMY HER PERT. 
 
 by herself all the evening ; and there was, therefore, no alterna- 
 tive for Amy, but to summon all her courage, and earnestly 
 hope that no one would take any notice of her. This hope, how- 
 ever, was vain, for Mr Cunningham perceived her instantly, 
 and seemed as much determined as before to enter into con- 
 versation. Perhaps he might have had more compassion, 
 had he known what was passing in Amy's mind, and how 
 anxiously she longed to be seated by Dora, at the other end of 
 the room ; but he was so accustomed to be understood by his 
 own family, that he was not aware of the pain he inflicted upon 
 strangers, especially upon a shy, timid child, and his only wish 
 was to take notice of one whom he fancied others, and especially 
 his sister, were inclined to neglect. Amy stood by his side, 
 blushing and trembling, and trying to understand, and feeling 
 really grateful for his kindness in troubling himself about her, 
 but, at the same time, strongly inclined to laugh, as she watched 
 his strange grimaces. Once, however, she caught Margaret's 
 eye, and saw her slily attempting to imitate him, and in an 
 instant she recovered herself, and making a greater effort to 
 comprehend what he was saying, soon found it comparatively 
 easy. After a few observations on indifferent subjects, Mr 
 Cunningham made some inquiries about Colonel Herbert ; and 
 Amy's heart was quite won when he told her that he recollected 
 him before he went to India, and that every one loved and 
 esteemed him, and that he looked forward now with much pleasure 
 to his return ; and she then ventured to ask the question to which 
 she had not been able hitherto to obtain an answer — how long it 
 would be before her papa could arrive. Mr Cunningham, with 
 great good-nature, began calculating probabilities ; and Amy was 
 more than recompensed for her previous attention, when he said 
 that, now the insurrection was over, there was no doubt Colonel 
 Herbert would be able to leave India immediately, and that, 
 probably, he would be with them almost as soon as a letter could 
 reach them to announce his return ; he might even be in England 
 before they heard from him ; and as he spoke. Amy turned to the 
 door on the entrance of a servant, with a vague fancy that even 
 then her father might be near. Her cousins observed, with surprise, 
 the notice that was taken of her ; Dora felt pleasure, and Margaret 
 envy ; for she recollected her conversation in the morning, and 
 already began to imagine that Amy would be put before her in 
 everything ; but Miss Cunningham would have disliked it more 
 than any one, if she had not been occuoied in watching for an
 
 A.h'V HERBERT. l8i 
 
 opportunity to speak to her papa upon the subject of the dance. 
 Margaret had suggested that it would be an inconvenient mo- 
 ment ; but Miss Cunningham never allowed time or propriety 
 to interfere with her wishes, and eagerly seizing Lord Rochford's 
 arm as he finished his conversation with Mr Harrington, she 
 drew him aside, and in an audible whisper commenced her 
 entreaties. Lord Rochford listened, and smiled, and patted her 
 shoulder, and called her his pet and his darling, but at first did 
 not seem quite inclined to agree with her, and all that she could 
 obtain was the promise that he would think about it. This, 
 however, did not satisfy her impatience, and she declared she 
 would not let him go till he had really promised to mention it. 
 Lord Rochford saw the impropriety of the idea, and the objec- 
 tions which Mr and Mrs Harrington might very naturally make 
 to it ; but his daughter's will was all-powerful with him, and he 
 hesitated, and half consented, and then looked at Mrs Harring- 
 ton, and retracted, till Miss Cunningham, seeing her advantage, 
 l^ecame so very urgent that the attention of every one was 
 directed to her. Mrs Harrington could not help perceiving that 
 the subject under discussion was one in which she was interested, 
 yet she sat immovable, with her eyes fixed upon her work, think- 
 ing it contrary to all the rules of propriety to interfere ; but Mr 
 Harrington was not so particular. 
 
 * You have a most indefatigable petitioner there,' he said, as 
 he caught Lord Rochford's eye. ' I wonder you have not yielded 
 long ago, from mere weariness.' 
 
 * Clever girl, clever girl,' said Lord Rochford ; * knows her own 
 power ; but it is not my affair, or she would have had her own 
 way before this, I am afraid.' 
 
 'Miss Cunningham looks as if it were something in which I 
 am concerned,' said Mr Harrington. ' I should be most happy 
 to give her pleasure.' 
 
 'Yes, now, did I not say so, papa?' exclaimed Miss Cunning- 
 ham. 'I knew Mr Harrington could have no objection. It is 
 only that we all want a dance this Christmas, like every one. 
 else. There is the hall, which will do so beautifully for it, and 
 every one will enjoy it so much ; and I brought a dress here on 
 purpose.' 
 
 Dora's countenance betrayed her vexation, when she found 
 lierself included in the general 'we,' and she turned with anxiety 
 to her mother's, when the proposition was made. Mrs Harring- 
 ton still kept her eyes on her embroidery, and appeared not to
 
 i82 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 remark what was passing ; but Dora saw that she bit her lip, 
 and contracted her brow, and she well knew that a storm was at 
 hand. Mr Harrington only looked grave and pained. 
 
 'I do not think,' he said, 'this is quite the time for such an 
 entertainment ; and I should have hoped that Dora and Mar- 
 garet's feelings would have prevented their wishing it. It is a 
 different thing having a few friends in the house, to whom 
 we are desirous of showing a little attention, and giving such a 
 party as you mention. Even if we felt the inclination, which we 
 are \'ery far from doing, common propriety would be against 
 it.' 
 
 This was rather too long a speech for Miss Cunningham to 
 listen to attentively; but she discovered that it meant ';/^/' and, 
 unmindful of the annoyance expressed in Lord Rochford's face, 
 and his muttered 'Yes, yes, to be sure, I told her so — girls are 
 so obstinate,' she hardly waited till it was ended, before she 
 was at Mrs Harrington's side, asking her most earnestly to 
 consent. 
 
 Mrs Harrington slowly raised her eyes from her work, and, in 
 a voice which sounded in Dora's ears like the murmuring roll of 
 distant thunder, begged to be informed what it was she wished 
 her to do. 
 
 'To have a dance,' exclaimed Miss Cunningham, even then 
 feeling but little doubt of her success : ' a delightful dance in the 
 hall ; just such a one as Sir Francis Egerton gave at Tweeddale 
 Park last year.' 
 
 'And may I ask,' inquired Mrs Harrington, calmly, 'who Sir 
 Francis Egerton is, and why his actions arc to be an example 
 to me ?' 
 
 'Oh, he is a cousin of ours,' replied Miss Cunningham. 
 '■■ Mary Egerton is just my age ; and she opened the ball.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! then, in my opinion, she would have been much 
 better employed with her studies in the schoolroom.' 
 
 ' You cannot really be in earnest,' persisted Miss Cunningham; 
 ' it was the most charming thing in the world ; and every one 
 was so happy.' 
 
 'Very probably,' replied Mrs Harrington, again returning to 
 her work. 
 
 'That is so kind of you,' said Miss Cunningham ; 'then you 
 will have no objection. When shall it be ?' 
 
 ' Never, with my consent,' answered Mrs Harrington, rising 
 in extreme indignation at what she considered impertinence and
 
 AMV HERBERT. 183 
 
 want of feeling. ' My daughters have been strangely forgetful 
 to allow such a thing to be mentioned, Dora, at your age, I 
 should have thought you would have known better/ 
 
 Dora instantly commenced an excuse, but stopped short in the 
 middle, feeling the awkwardness of laying all the blame upon 
 her sister, and her visitor; and jNIrs Harrington, who had at first 
 listened with the quiet determined air of a person resolved be- 
 forehand to accept no apology, turned from her, and began 
 assuring Lord Rochford that she was cpiite aware that Miss 
 Cunningham had nothing really to do with the business — she 
 merely acted as spokeswoman for the rest. Of course, no young 
 lady of her age would venture to make suggestions of the kind 
 without being supported by others ; adding, ' I blame my own 
 children, not her.' 
 
 This was more than Amy could endure. She had been stand-, 
 ing by Mr Cunningham's side during the discussion, with all the 
 unpleasant sensations of being herself guilty ; and her colour 
 went and came, in the dread every moment that her aunt would 
 include her in the reprimand. Margaret had quitted the room 
 upon the first symptom of a storm ; and there was no one but 
 herself to vindicate Dora. It was a great effort, but she felt that 
 it must be made ; and, walking up to Mrs Harrington, she said, 
 in a low frightened voice, 'Indeed, aunt, I heard Dora, at dinner- 
 time, telling them you would not like it.' 
 
 'That is right,' said INIr Harrington; 'never let anyone be 
 accused unjustly. I was sure Dora could not wish it. As for 
 Margaret, she is so young and thoughtless, that it is not to be 
 wondered at.' 
 
 'It is all very well,' said Mrs Harrington, who was far too angry 
 to allow of any justification ; 'but Dora should have_prevented 
 its being named. She is the eldest ; and Amy, too, though so 
 much younger, is quite old enough to know better.' 
 
 Poor Amy, for the moment, heartily repented having spoken, 
 and returned to her former position with the thought that she 
 had only made matters worse by interfering; but she remembered 
 afterwards that she meant to do rightly, and that it was better to 
 be blamed wrongly than really to be in fault. Miss Cunningham, 
 in the meanwhile, satisfied with finding that she had escaped 
 censure, cared little what any one else might be feeling, and 
 carelessly taking up a book of prints which lay upon t'he table, 
 began turning over the leaves with an indifferent air, much to 
 the increase of Mrs Harrington's anger, which was in reality as
 
 1 84 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 much directed ngainst her as against her own daughters, though 
 politeness had induced her to conceal it. 
 
 The pause that ensued was felt by every one to be extremely 
 awkward. Mr Cunnin;^diam wished to make some excuse for 
 his sister ; but liis nervous anxiety rendered his articulation 
 more difficult than usual, and after several efforts he coloured 
 deeply, and gave up the attempt. 
 
 Lord Rochford fidgeted, first on one foot and then on the other, 
 and at last walked across the room to get out of the reach of 
 Mrs Harrington, who still stood looking as if she considered some 
 one ought to make apologies ; and seeing that something was 
 expected from him, returned again to say that it was a thoughtless 
 thing, perhaps, of the young people, but it would not do to be 
 too hard upon them ; they meant no harm. 
 
 ' The excuse for everything,' was all Mrs Harrington's reply; 
 and Lord Rochford moved away with thoughts which it would 
 have been uncivil to utter. 
 
 'Come,' exclaimed IMr Harrington, feeling rather ashamed 
 that so much had been said; 'I quite agree with Lord Rochford, 
 that no harm was intended. You know, Charlotte, they could 
 not be expected to feel as you and I do ; and besides, after all, 
 we had thought of giving them something like an e^•ening's 
 amusement, though not quite what Miss Cunningham proposed. 
 There is a celebrated conjurer just arrived in the neighbourhood, 
 and we had settled that he should come here on Wednesday to 
 exhibit, if the young people fancied it ; and then afterwards, if 
 they choose to get up a quadrille just among themselves, I dare- 
 say Miss Morton will play to thein.' 
 
 Amy felt very much relieved at the turn which this was likely 
 to give to the conversation, though siic little cared what amuse- 
 ment was proposed, if she could only see her aunt resume her 
 seat and her work ; but Mrs Harrington appeared to be struck 
 by the idea of a fresh person with whom to find fault, for she 
 repeated quickly to herself ' Emily Morton ! yes, she ought to 
 have prevented it,' and immediately left the room. Her absence 
 at once caused a sensation of freedom and relief. Miss Cunning- 
 ham, though inclined to imagine that conjuring tricks were 
 rather vulgar, still felt sufficient curiosity to make some inquiries 
 about them ; and Amy, to whom all things of the kind were 
 entirely new, began expressing her pleasure to Dora, and when 
 Mrs Harrington returned, followed by Miss Morton, the storm 
 had apparently passed awav. Miss I^Iorton's countenance was
 
 AMY HERBERT. 185 
 
 as gentle and calm as usual ; but there was a slight nervous 
 agitation in her manner, which Amy had learned to notice as the 
 consequence of one of Mrs Harrington's lectures ; and, when at 
 Lord Rochford's request, she sat down to the piano, to perform 
 her thankless task of playing and singing for the general amuse- 
 ment, her voice trembled so much as to oblige her to give up 
 the song which had been asked for, and only attempt an instru- 
 mental piece. 
 
 Amy stole quietly to her side, and, with a look and voice which 
 were fully understood, asked if she might be allowed to stand by 
 her and turn over the leaves. There was a tear in Miss Morton's 
 eye, though she smiled and thanked her, but Amy's attention gave 
 her at that moment all that she required — the consciousness that 
 some one was near who could feel for her ; and in a short time 
 she had recovered her self-command. 
 
 ' ^\"ho was it I heard playing the airs in the last new opera, 
 this morning.'" said Mr Harrington, when Miss I^Iorton had 
 finished her piece. ' Whoever it was seemed to me to be getting 
 on extremely well.' 
 
 Amy was going to answer, but Miss Cunningham prevented 
 her. ' I was trying them over after dinner,' she said ; ' but I 
 had never seen them before, and therefore, of course, I made one 
 or two false notes.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' exclaimed Dora, ' there must be some mistake ; Tor if 
 you remember, you were at the piano just before I went out 
 for my walk, and I heard you say you found them so difficult, 
 you wondered any one could take the trouble to learn them. 
 It must have been Amy— she has been regularly practising 
 them.' 
 
 ' I don't know, indeed,' replied Miss Cunningham, angrily ; ' I 
 never heard her.' 
 
 ' I dare say Dora may be wrong,' said jMr Harrington ; ' sup- 
 ]>ose you were to favour us now.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham hesitated a little ; but her self-confidence 
 induced her to make the attempt, though it did not prevent her 
 from blundering so sadly, that Mr Cunningham, in despair at 
 the discordant sounds, at length walked to the piano, closed the 
 book, and said in a low, stern voice, ' Pray, Lucy, spare us any 
 more ; you must have known you could not play it in the least.' 
 There was no reply ; for Miss Cunningham feared and re- 
 spected her brother more than any one in the world, and saw 
 that he was very much annoyed. ]\Ir Harrington began to
 
 I So AMY HERBERT. 
 
 make excuses for her, and was unwilling that Amy should play 
 instead ; but he was forced tu yield to Mr Cunningham's wish, 
 and she was sent to the instrument ; and, notwithstanding her 
 alarm, satisfied every one that her talent for music was of a 
 very superior kind. Even Lord Rochford, though vexed at his 
 daughtei-'s failure, could not help exclaiming, 'Very good, very 
 good, indeed — very correct time — who taught her, Harring- 
 ton ? ' 
 
 ' Her mamma was her only instructress for several years,' 
 replied Mr Harrington ; ' but latterly Miss Morton has taken 
 her in hand, and I must say she docs her infinite credit.' 
 
 ' Yes, certainly,' said Lord Rochford, ' very great credit indeed. 
 What should you say, Lucy, to persuading Mrs Harrington to 
 let you benetit a little by Miss Morton now, as a preparation for 
 London .'' She would improve you, I dare say, even in these 
 few days, and then when we were in London she might give you 
 some hints as she saw you wanted them.' 
 
 ' Really,' said Mrs Harrington, who thought this a very strange 
 mode of appropriating the time and talents which were intended 
 for the benefit of her own children, ' it is quite useless to form 
 any plans for London ; I have every reason to be satisfied with 
 the progress my children are making in the country, and shall 
 not think of London masters at present ; I have expressed my 
 determination to your lordship in a very decided way from the 
 first.' 
 
 ' True, quite true,' replied Lord Rochford, feeling that the 
 refusal had been very decided ; ' only people change ; but we 
 won't talk of London, you don't wish it, I see ; but I should like 
 this young lady to hear Lucy play over a piece or two while we 
 are here.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham's countenance expressed anything but 
 amiability ; and she gave her father a look which had often 
 been found efficacious in preventing disagreeable plans, but his 
 head was turned away, and she looked in vain ; and the next 
 moment he was at Miss Morton's side, praising her music, and 
 begging, as a great favour, that she would take a little pains 
 with Lucy, and hear her play occasionally ; in fact, as Mr Har- 
 rington had said, take her in hand for a few days. 
 
 Dora could scarcely forbear smiling, as she observed the ex- 
 pression of Miss Cunningham's face — it told of pride, mortifi- 
 cation, and anger ; and Amy noticed it also, but she was not 
 amused ; she was sorr,y for both parties ; for whatever might
 
 AMV HERBERT. 187 
 
 be Lucy Cunningham's disinclination to become Miss Morton's 
 pupil, it certainly could not exceed Emily Morton's unwillingness 
 to become her instructress. Lord Rochford shared his daughter's 
 dulness of perception ; and to complete the unpleasantness of 
 the proposition, he spoke to Amy, hoping that she and Miss 
 Cunningham would learn a few duets together. Poor Amy 
 blushed, and tried, thougli with difficulty, to express acquies- 
 cence; and Mrs Harrington, observing her hesitation, reproved 
 her for her rudeness, and assured Lord Rochford that Dora and 
 Margaret would practise with Miss Cunningham whenever she 
 wished it. It would be a more convenient arrangement, as Amy 
 was only an occasional visitor; and though she had played 
 tolerably well once, she had not received by any means the same 
 advantages as her cousins. Amy could almost have cried with 
 annoyance, but painful as it was to be so undervalued and mis- 
 understood on every occasion, it was, in this instance, a very 
 useful lesson to her, for it prevented the indulgence of vanity at 
 being brought forward in so unusual a manner ; and when she 
 saw how Emily Morton was slighted, and remembered her meek, 
 uncomplaining temper, she could only feel vexed with herself for 
 caring so much about it, and long to possess a spirit as humble 
 as hers. The events of the evening, though trifling in themselves, 
 were not so in their consequence. Miss Cunningham went to 
 bed angry with her father, angry with herself, and, above all, 
 angry with Emily Morton and Amy. Of the afi'air of the dance, 
 she thought but little, for she was not aware that any blame had 
 been attached to her ; but she had been foolish in attempting to 
 play, and her father still more so, she decided, in teasing her with 
 lessons, and making a fuss about Miss Morton, instead of depre- 
 ciating her, and so increasing the difficulties in the way of the 
 London expedition. Amy had been made her rival, and had 
 gained approbation which might have been hers, and, above all, 
 had been noticed by Mr Cunningham, whose last words, as he 
 wished his sister good-night, were, that it would make him entirely 
 contented to see her as sweet-tempered, humble, and unafl'ccted 
 as Amy Herbert. With these feelings the idea of their both 
 going with the rest of the family to London, in case Lord Roch- 
 ford gained his point, was most provoking ; and very earnestly 
 did Miss Cunningham hope that something might occur within 
 the next two months to remove P2mily Morton from Emmerton. 
 In her absence, Amy was too much of a child to be cared for, 
 but together they would form a very considerable drawback to
 
 (88 X.I/r HERnERT, 
 
 the pleasure she expected; and slie thought it would be prefer- 
 able to give up the journey at once, than to be continually 
 troubled with IMiss Morton as an instructress, and Amy Herbert 
 as an example. Amy went to her mother as usual, not quite 
 satisfied with herself. The first elation had subsided, and she 
 was aware of the evil feeling that had arisen in her mind, and at 
 once acknowledged it to Mrs Herbert; and then, referring to the 
 dance, slie wondered that Miss Cunningham could have been so 
 blind to the impropriety of the suggestion. 
 
 ' I should have thought, mamma,' she said, ' that Dora's face 
 would have shown her she was wrong.' 
 
 'It does not surprise me,' replied Mrs Herbert, 'because the 
 same thing happens continually with every one. Whatever we 
 wish for we easily persuade ourselves is allowable.' 
 
 ' But there cannot really be any harm in wishing, can there?' 
 snid Amy. 
 
 * Only so far harm as it is the seed of all evil,' answered her 
 mother. 'If our wishes were good, our actions would be good 
 also.' 
 
 ' But there are a great many wishes which are neither good 
 nor bad, mamma — wishes, I mean, that are of no consequence.' 
 
 ' I tliink that is a mistake, my dear; we are so ignorant that 
 we never can tell whether even a passing thought may not be of 
 consequence; and, with regard to our wishes, the moment we see 
 that we shall not be permitted to indulge them, we must try and 
 get rid of them.' 
 
 ' I do not quite see why it is necessary,' said Amy. 
 
 ' Because,' replied her mother, ' our will ceases then to be the 
 same as the will of God. There is a very fearful lesson given us 
 in the Bible on this subject in the history of Balaam. He wished 
 to go with the prince of Moab in the expectation of receiving a 
 great reward, and God forbade him. His duty then was to 
 conquer his inclination ; but, instead of this, he only obeyed out- 
 wardly and still continued to wish, and at last he was permittea 
 to follow his own way; but we are told that the anger of God 
 was kindled against him.' 
 
 ' I see that he was wrong,' said Am)', ' but must we not wish 
 for little things ?' 
 
 ' If we were quite good, we should never do so, my love; we 
 sl-iould see plainly that even the smallest events of our lives are. 
 ordered for our good ; and it is better to begin with controlling 
 our wishes in trifles, and then wc shall not be led astray by them
 
 AMV HERBERT. iSg 
 
 in great things. Of course there is no harm in \\ ishing for inno- 
 cent things, as long as it is permitted us to enjoy them ; but 
 when they are put beyond our reach our wishes must cease.' 
 
 Amy was too tired to converse more ; but, although she felt 
 that the idea was a difficult one to realise, she did not the less 
 resolve on putting it in practice. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 * T WISH Frank would not make such a fuss about those stupid 
 
 -L boys who are coming to-day,' said Dora, as he left the 
 room when breakfast was ended, expressing his great delight 
 that Monday morning was at length arrived, and begging them 
 all to make a point of coming down to the lake in the afternoon 
 to see the sk.iting ; ' it is bad enough to have a number of strange 
 girls here, but really to be worried with rude boys is more than 
 any one can bear.' 
 
 ' Perhaps they are not rude,' said Amy. 
 
 'Yes, but they are,' replied Dora. ' I am sure they must be 
 rude and awkward ; I cannot bear them.' 
 
 ' But Frank, you can bear him.' 
 
 'Oh, that is quite a dift'erent thing — not but what he is a tor- 
 ment sometimes ; but I do not want to talk about them now. 
 Margaret, please, don't go away ; just help me to settle how we 
 are to amuse ourselves when the people come. I have had such 
 a lecture from mamma this morning about making ourselves 
 agreeable.' 
 
 ' Dear me, I don't know,' said Margaret ; ' let them take care 
 of themselves ; I daresay they will find something to do.' 
 
 ' There is the conjurer for Wednesday,' observed Dora, 
 tlioughtfully ; ' but there are two days to that, and w hat shall 
 we do with them till then ? ' 
 
 'Really,' said Miss Cunningham, 'I should think there would 
 be quite sufficient amusement in being here and seeing the 
 house ; for you told me the other day they none of them lived 
 in such a large place.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Margaret, 'to be sure they can go over the house, 
 and round the grounds.' 
 
 'Round the grounds !' exclaimed Dora; ' why it is going to 
 snow hard.'
 
 ipo AMV HERBERT. 
 
 ' Well,' replied Margaret, ' I should never trouble myself 
 about it beforehand ; when they come they will amuse them- 
 selves, and if they do not like it they need not come ngain.' 
 
 'That is not my way,' continued Dora; 'it would not be 
 very agreeable to be told they had had a stupid visit at the house 
 of the first gentleman in the county. We must have more ways 
 of entertaining them than they can have at home.' 
 
 ' I can't think, though, what they are,' said Amy ; ' but I 
 daresay you will recollect something when the time comes ; and 
 you know, Dora, though I could not talk to any one of them as 
 you can, I could play with the little ones.' 
 
 'Ah! but I do not mind the little ones,' said Dora; 'tlicy 
 will be very happy with a doll, and Emily Morton will take care 
 of them ; but there are two or three great ones, the Miss Stan- 
 leys and Miss Warner, who have always been at school ; I have 
 not seen them, and I know they are coming early ; people always 
 do come early when one does not want them ; ' and Dora looked 
 at Miss Cunningham, and thought of the last Saturday 
 morning. 
 
 'We might talk for ever,' said Margaret, 'and it would be no 
 good, and really I have no time to think about it now. Do, 
 Lucy, come to my room, and look at that dress which you said 
 could be altered like yours. Morris will have no time if it is not 
 given her this morning, and I must go and talk to mamma before 
 it is begun.' 
 
 'That is just like you, Margaret,' said Dora, 'you never will 
 help me ; but mamma says you must try this afternoon, so it 
 will be no use for you and Lucy to shut yourselves up in your 
 room ; you must come down, or she will be very angry.' 
 
 Amy saw that Dora was gradually becoming extremely an- 
 noyed, and earnestly longed to soothe her, but she was rather 
 afraid to interfere ; she did, hoM-ever, venture to say, that perhaps 
 some of them might be fond of reading, and then there would 
 be less trouble. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! ' exclaimed Margaret, who did not quite like to go 
 and yet was very unwilling to stay, 'that will just do. Amy; 
 they shall read, and then they will all be quite comfortable, and 
 we may go our own way ; I am so glad that matter is settled, I 
 do so hate trouble and fuss.' 
 
 ' So we do all,' said Dora, angrily, as Margaret hastily ran out 
 of the room ; 'only some people are forced to take it. That plan 
 of yours will not do at all, Amy, and I cannot think how you
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. I<)I 
 
 could be so silly as to propose it. School-girls never like read- 
 ing, and if they do, they can have enough of it at home. What 
 they ought to have here should be something to mark the place, 
 something they should remember, something, in short, quite dif- 
 ferent from what they could find anywhere else.' 
 
 Amy did her best to think, but it was all to no purpose; and 
 Dora at last could only sigh and moan, and walk to the window 
 and watch the weather, and wish that the snow would come 
 down and keep them all at home. 
 
 'And snow Miss Cunningham in,' said Amy, laughing. 
 
 ' To be sure,' answered Dora, ' that would be rather odious. 
 What a goose she made of herself last night, Amy, and how 
 delighted I was when you had all the praise.' 
 
 ' So was I too,' said Amy ; ' but I don't think I was right. I am 
 sure, indeed, I was not ; for I spoke to mamma about it afterwards, 
 and she told me it was vanity.' 
 
 'As for that,' said Doi-a, 'every one is vain.' 
 
 'But then,' said Amy, 'we promised at our baptism that we 
 would not be so ; and mamma says that persons who are vain 
 soon become envious, and that envy leads to very great crimes, 
 and that if we indulge in vanity, we can never tell how wicked 
 we shall become by and by.' 
 
 ' I cannot understand why you are always talking of baptism. 
 Amy,' said Dora ; ' it seems as if it had something to do with 
 everything, according to your notions.' 
 
 ' According to mamma's notions, you mean ; she reminds me 
 of it so often that I cannot possibly forget it.' 
 
 ' But there is no one in the world who has kept the promise,' 
 said Dora ; ' and then they say we have such a wicked nature ; 
 what is the use of thinking about being good when we have no 
 power to be so ? ' 
 
 ' I do not think I understand it quite,' replied Amy, ' and I 
 am sure, Dora, I cannot teach you, but I could tell you what 
 mamma tells me.' 
 
 'And what is that ?' asked Dora. 
 
 ' Mamma says,' answered Amy, ' that when we are born we 
 all have very wicked natures ; but that, when we are baptized, 
 God gives us a new nature which is good ; and that, when we 
 grow up, we can do right if wc really wish to do it, because we 
 have the Holy Spirit always to help us ; and once, when I made 
 an excuse for something I had done wrong, by saying that it 
 was natural, and I could not help it, she told me that it miglit
 
 192 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 have been an excuse if I hnd not been baptized, but that now it 
 was no excuse at all.' 
 
 'Then what are we to do?' said Dora; 'no person really 
 keeps their promise. How wicked we must all be ! ' 
 
 ' Mamma says we are,' replied Amy ; ' and that we ought to 
 be so very careful about our smallest actions, and our words and 
 thoughts, because it is so dangerous to do wrong now.' 
 
 ' But,' said Dora, ' I cannot see why people should be baptized, 
 if it only makes them worse off than they were before.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but indeed, Dora,' exclaimed Amy, looking rather 
 shocked, ' it makes us better off than we were before, — a great 
 deal better off; for you know the service about baptism says 
 that we are made God's children, really His children ; and that, 
 when we die, we shall go to heaven, if we try and do right 
 now, and beg Him to forgive us when we do wrong, for our 
 Saviour's sake.' 
 
 ' I do not understand it,' said Dora ; ' and I never heard any 
 one talk about it till I came to Emmerton.' 
 
 ' I did not understand it half as well,' replied Amy, ' till 
 mamma told me a story about uncle Harrington's birthday, and 
 said that, when we were baptized, we were made heirs of heaven, 
 just as he was heir to this place and all the property ; and even 
 now it puzzles me very much, and very often I cannot believe 
 that it is all true ; but I try to do so, because mamma says it is, 
 and shows me where it is written in the Bible.' 
 
 ' But how can we tell that we have a good nature given us at 
 our baptism ? ' said Dora ; ' I never feel it ; I don't think I do 
 anything that is right all day long; you may have a good nature, 
 Amy, and I think you have, but I know I have not.' 
 
 ' Mamma says," answered Amy, ' that being sorry for our 
 faults and wishing to do better is a sign of it ; and you know, 
 Dora, you often tell me how much you wish to do right, and 
 sometimes, when I have had a great many wrong feelings — vain 
 feelings, I mean, and angry and envious ones — the only thing that 
 makes me at all happy again, is because I feel sorry for it.' 
 
 Dora sighed deeply. ' I wish,' she said, ' that the bad nature 
 would go all at once, I am so tired of wishing to do good, and 
 always doing wrong, and then 1 begin to think there is no use in 
 trying. It would be easier if I could believe that it was true 
 about baptism, because then it would appear as if there was 
 something to help me ; but I have always heard people talk about 
 having such a very wicked nature, till at last it seemed foolish to
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 193 
 
 hope to be good, as if it were impossible ; not but what I do try 
 sometimes, Amy,' she continued, with a sudden impulse to be 
 unresei-ved, which she had occasionally felt when talking to her 
 cousin since their little disagreement ; ' I do try sometimes, 
 though I daresay you will not believe it, because I am so cross. 
 I meant to have tried this morning, only Lucy Cunningham made 
 me so angry by the way she twisted her head about, and the 
 nonsense she talked at breakfast, that I could not help becoming 
 out of humour with every one ; and when once I am annoyed in 
 the morning, I go on so all day ; but you cannot understand 
 that, it is so unlike you.' 
 
 ' I can, though,' replied Amy, ' for I very often am provoked 
 when I watch Miss Cunningham, and hear her talk ; but I try 
 not to look at her, and to think of something else.' 
 
 'I cannot do that,' said Dora; 'when she is in the room, I 
 find myself watching her and listening to her, though I would give 
 the world not to do it ; for I am always longing to stop her, or say 
 something sharp ; and yet, when I do, I am so vexed with myself 
 for it. I know nothing will ever go right while she is with us.' 
 
 * Then you will not be uncomfortable long,' replied Amy. 
 
 ' But,' said Dora, ' I know very well that it is no use feeling 
 properly only when everything goes as you like; what I wish is 
 to have the power of being good always. There are some people 
 who are never put out of humour — aunt Herbert for one; I long 
 to be like her.' 
 
 ' So do I,' exclaimed Amy, eagerly; 'but then she is so very, 
 very good; I don't think it is possible to be what she is; Mrs 
 Walton says she never met with any one like her.' 
 
 ' That is Avhat disheartens me ; good people are so up in the 
 clouds, where one can never get at them.' 
 
 ' I suppose, though,' answered Amy, ' they were not always so 
 good. jNIamma often says she did a great many naughty things 
 when she was my age.' 
 
 ' I wish she would tell me what made her better, then,' said 
 Dora. ' Did she ever tell you?' 
 
 'No,' replied Amy; 'all that she ever told me was what I 
 ought to do myself to cure my faults; and she said that she 
 would pray to God to help me.' 
 
 ' No one will ever promise that for me,' observed Dora, sighing. 
 
 'But mamma will, I am sure,' exclaimed Amy, eagerly; 'and 
 I ' 
 
 ' Why do you stop.'' said Dora.
 
 194 AMY If KR BERT, 
 
 * Mamma tells me to mention all your names in my prayers/ 
 replied Amy ; ' but I don't mean that that would be the same as 
 her doing so, because she is so much better.' 
 
 * I cannot see what difference that can make. I should like 
 very much to think you did it always for me; but it must be 
 such a trouble to remember.' 
 
 ' Oh no, Dora, it would seem so unkind not to do it ; and if I 
 thought you cared, I never could forget ; but some day or other, 
 when I am quite good, it will be of much more use.' 
 
 'Does aunt Herbert think that no one must pray for others 
 but those who never do anything wrong?' asked Dora, in u tone 
 of surprise. 
 
 ' No ; she says we all ought to pray for each other, and that it 
 is quite our duty. But we are told in the Bible that very good 
 persons' prayers are heard particularly; and so mamma says 
 that is one reason for trying to conquer our faults ; because God 
 will be more likely to attend to us then.' 
 
 'I cannot think you ever had any faults to cure; you never 
 could have been ill-tempered.' 
 
 ' O Dora! pray don't say so; it makes me think I must be 
 so deceitful, for I am often ill-tempered, and I used to be so 
 every day at my lessons.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Dora, ' you can tell me just what I want to know. 
 What did you do to make yourself better?' 
 
 'I used to talk about it to mamma,' replied Amy; 'and one 
 day particular!)', I remember, I was very unhappy, and thought 
 I should be cross all my life ; and then she showed me a prayer 
 which she had written out for me. It was taken from the 
 Collects and the Psalms; and she begged me to repeat it every 
 morning and evening, and once in the middle of the day, too, 
 and try to think about it ; and she marked some verses in the 
 Bible, and gave me a short prayer besides — ^just a few words to 
 say to myself when I felt that I was becoming out of temper ; 
 and she advised me, when I knew I had been doing wrong, in 
 that or anything else, to go to my room instantly, and pray 
 to God to forgive me ; and after I had done as she desired for 
 some time, and really tried very hard not to speak when I was 
 angry, and to give up to whatever mamma wished, I found it 
 much easier to be good-tempered.' 
 
 'But,' said Dora, 'that is so much to do. I never heard 
 before of any one saying their prayers in the middle of the day. 
 Why should it be necessary?'
 
 AMV HERBERT. 195 
 
 'Oh!' replied Amy, 'if people do not pray, they never can 
 have any help from God; and the Holy Spirit, which was given 
 them at their baptism, will go away from them, and they will 
 become dreadfully wicked.' 
 
 ' It is right for people to say their prayers every morning and 
 evening, of course,' said Dora ; ' but I must say again, I never 
 heard of any persons doing it in the middle of the day.' 
 
 ' I thought a great many people did ; at least I know I have 
 read in the old times of some who said them seven times, and in 
 the Bible it is mentioned. Don't you remember one of the lessons 
 they read in the church about Daniel, and how he prayed three 
 times every day?' 
 
 ' Ah, yes ! in the Bible ; but then in the Bible every one does 
 what is right. I never think the persons we read of there could 
 be like us.' 
 
 ' They did not always do right, though,' answered Amy, ' be- 
 cause it very often says that God was displeased with them. You 
 know how angry Moses was once, and how he was not allowed 
 to go with the Israelites. Whenever I read that, I always think 
 that I should have felt exactly like him.' 
 
 ' I cannot say I ever thought much about it,' said Dora. ' One 
 hears it all in church ; but I always am so sleepy on a Sunday, 
 that I cannot attend.' 
 
 ' But I suppose you are not always sleepy v/hen you read at 
 home.' 
 
 ' I never do read at home now ; we used to do it when we were 
 cliildren, for mamma taught us to read like every one else out 
 of the Bible, but I thought of nothing but the hard words, and it 
 ahva) s appeared a lesson book, and so I never looked at it after- 
 wards. I forgot, though, on a Sunday we were accustomed to 
 read a chapter, but we have left off that lately — I don't quite 
 know why, except that we are too old.' 
 
 'Too old to read the Bible !' repeated Amy, with a feeling of 
 painful surprise that her cousin should have such ideas, 
 
 ' I don't mean too old to read it at all,' replied Dora, 'but too 
 old to be forced to do it.' 
 
 ' Mamma does not force me to do it,' said Amy ; 'but it seems 
 to come naturally ; the day would be quite strange if we missed 
 it.' 
 
 Do you mean to say that you read it every day, or only on 
 Sundays ?' 
 
 'Every day,' replied Amy ' We always read the psalms and
 
 196 AMY IlI'.RnilRT. 
 
 lessons the first thing after breakfast, except on Wednesdays and 
 Fridays, and Saints' days, when we go to church.' 
 
 'Go to church on the week-days!' exclaimed Dora; 'who 
 ever heard of such a thing ? ' 
 
 ' I thought it was what ahiiost every one did,' replied Amy ; 
 * and I always fancied you would if you were not so far from the 
 church.' 
 
 ' I cannot imagine what the good of it all is,' said Dora. 
 
 ' But it is ordered,' replied Amy, ' in the Prayer Book.' 
 
 * I do not see that is any reason for it ; its being ordered does 
 not make it good.' 
 
 ' I once asked mamma some questions about it,' said Amy, 
 ' and she told me that the Prayer Book was put together by very 
 good men, who know a great deal better than we do what was 
 right ; and that it was composed from the prayers which were 
 used a great, great many years before, just in the time after our 
 Saviour died, and that they had made all the rules about the 
 service and the Saints' days, according to the old customs ; and 
 so now, it was the law of the Church in England, and every one 
 ought to attend to it.' 
 
 ' Every one docs not attend to it, though,' replied Dora ; ' at 
 Wayland, no person ever thought of going to church except on 
 Sundays.' 
 
 'I believe,' said Amy, 'the Prayer Book says there ought to 
 be service every day ; and there are regular psalms and lessons 
 marked in the calendar.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so ; but I am sure if people were to go to church as 
 often as you say, there would be no time for anything else.' 
 
 ' We generally manage to do very much the same on Wednes- 
 days and Fridays as on other days ; it is merely doing things at 
 different hours.' 
 
 ' If I could only see the good of it, I should not care,' said 
 Dora; 'but it is so strange to be always thinking so much of 
 one thing ; prayers at home, and reading the Bible, and going to 
 church every day — I should get so tired of it.' 
 
 'You would not be tired if you were accustomed to it, because 
 it would come to you naturally, like eating, and drinking, and sleep- 
 ing; and, besides, it prevents one from going on wrong all day.' 
 
 ' How do you mean ? ' asked Dora. 
 
 'Don't you know,' replied Amy, 'that when things are dis- 
 agreeable in the morning, and one is put out of temper, it seems 
 as if nothing would put one right again ?'
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 197 
 
 'Well, yes ! ' said Dora, rather impatiently ; 'go on.' 
 
 'Then,' continued Amy, ' if I am cross, and the time comes 
 for reading the psalms and lessons, or going to church, or saying 
 the prayer mamma gave me for the middle of the day, it stops 
 me ; because it seems so much more wicked to be cross in church, 
 or when one is reading the Bible, than at any other time ; and 
 then I get better, and set off again fresh.' 
 
 'That is the reason, I suppose,' said Dora, 'that you are never 
 angry a whole day together, as a great many people are ; but I 
 cannot understand where you get the time for it all ; does it 
 never interfere with your walking or your lessons ? ' 
 
 ' No,' replied Amy, ' because we reckon upon it beforehand ; 
 and when we are thinking of what is to be done in the day, we 
 always remember that we shall be sometime in church or reading 
 the psalms and lessons ; and mamma arranges so as not to let it 
 interfere.' 
 
 ' But still you must be tired of it,' persisted Dora ; ' it is quite 
 impossible that you should go on, day after day, and not wish 
 for a change. I am sure I get quite tired of going to church on 
 Sundays ; and I do not know what I should do if I were obliged 
 to go every day.' 
 
 ' I don't like it always,' replied Amy, while the colour mounted 
 to her cheek ; ' and I know I do not attend half as I ought ; but 
 I am sure it makes the day go right, and mamma tells me 
 it will be pleasanter to me every year ; besides, I know that 
 if it were not for going to church and reading with mamma, 
 and all that sort of thing, I should be so much more ill-tem- 
 pered, and envious, and vain, than I am now, and then I 
 should be wretched ; ibr you don't know, Dora, what very 
 bad feelings I have sometimes;' and the tears started into 
 Amy's eyes as she spoke, at the recollection of the last Saturday 
 evening. 
 
 Dora was silent ; her own faults were so much greater than 
 her cousin's, that Amy's self-reproach was more bitter than any 
 reproof could possibly have been. If Amy were so grieved at 
 the remembrance of an impatient word, or a passing thought of 
 vanity, what ought she to feel whose whole life had been one of 
 pride and self-will? She felt, too, as if she had no right to 
 attempt to comfort one who was so much better than herself; 
 and stood for several moments looking at Amy with wonder and 
 interest, till the striking of the clock recalled her to herself, and, 
 starling at the time they had spent tngciher, she declared the
 
 198 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 day was half ;^onc already, and there were a hundred things to 
 be done before the people came, 
 
 * I had quite forgotten them,' said Amy ; ' I think, Dora, I 
 forget a great many things when I am talking to you.' 
 
 ' Do you ?' said Dora, turning suddenly round to kiss her ; ' it 
 cannot be any use to you to talk to me, because you have aunt 
 Herbert to go to.' 
 
 ' I do like it, though, so very much,' answered Amy, ' and I 
 think about it afterwards ; but I wish I could help you in amus- 
 ing every one.' 
 
 ' I must leave them to their fate,' said Dora, preparing to leave 
 the room, 'for mamma wants me, I know ; but Amy,' she added, 
 stopping, and apparently desirous, yet unwilling to say more ; 
 ' I wish no, never mind now.' 
 
 ' Oh ! do tell it me,' said Amy ; 'is it anything I can do for 
 you ? I should be so glad.' 
 
 ' No, nothing, nothing,' hastily repeated Dora, though her 
 manner was at variance with her words. 
 
 ' But you must tell me,' said Amy, seizing her dress to prevent 
 her going ; ' I am sure you mean something ; can I look out 
 some books, or put the room in order, or get anything for you ?' 
 
 ' No, nothing of that kind; but. Amy, should you — should you 
 very much mind letting me see the prayer aunt Herbert gave 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! if you would but let me give it you,' exclaimed Amy, 
 * for it is in mamma's handwriting ; and I think you would like 
 it all the better for that, and it is such a nice one ; shall I go and 
 fetch it?' 
 
 ' I must not wait now,' said Dora, ' for I am after my time 
 with mamma \ but if you will put it in my room by and by, I 
 should thank >'ou so very much ; and I shall always think of 
 you when I look at it.' 
 
 'And of mamma,' said Amy ; 'and some day, perhaps, Dora, 
 you will be able to talk to her as I do, and ask her anything you 
 want to know.' 
 
 Dora shook her head, for she beheved she never could be un- 
 reserved with any one but her cousin, and hastened to her 
 mamma's room, with a longing desire that she could go to her 
 for advice as Amy did to Mrs Herbert.
 
 AiUy HERBERT. 199 
 
 CHAPTER XV II I. 
 
 DORA'S time was so fully occupied for the rest of the morn- 
 ing that she was quite unable to form any scheme of 
 amusement ; and three o'clock arrived, and with it carriage after 
 carriage, each bringing an importation of visitors, before she had 
 at all decided upon what was to be done with them. Frank had 
 gone out with the young Dornfords, who came early, according 
 to their engagement ; and the three boys who arrived afterwards 
 were immediately despatched to the lake to find him, and amuse 
 themselves with skating, 
 
 ' Boys are no trouble,' thought Dora ; ' they always go out of 
 
 doors, and take care of themselves ; but girls ' and she 
 
 sighed as she looked upon the five young ladies who, dressed in 
 their best silks and gayest bonnets, stood each by the side of 
 her mamma, very silent, very shy, and very uncomfortable. 
 
 ' You will take your young friends into the schoolroom, Dora,' 
 said Mrs Harrington, in her most gentle tone. ' I suppose none 
 of them will like walking such a cold afternoon as this ; but you 
 will find plenty of entertainment for them there ; and with Mar- 
 garet, and Miss Cunningham, and Amy, you will make quite a 
 pleasant little party.' 
 
 ' There can be no doubt of that,' said a tall, good-natured look- 
 ing lady, who had brought her two little girls to pay their first 
 visit from home. ' In a house like this there is always something 
 agreeable to be done ; and then it is so pleasant for young people 
 to be together. I\Iy children live in such retirement that it is an 
 especial treat to them to have companions.' 
 
 The two little girls clung more closely to their mother's side 
 as she spoke, apparently thinking that the greatest treat at that 
 moment would be to remain under her protection ; but Dora led 
 the way to the door, and they were obliged to follow, hand in 
 hand, and casting imploring looks upon their mamma to per- 
 suade her to go with them. She half rose from her seat, but 
 Mrs Harrington stopped her. * You need not be uneasy. 
 Mrs Danvers,' she said ; ' Dora will take care of them.' 
 
 'Oh yes ! of course, of course,' repeated Mrs Danvers; 'but 
 they are so shy, poor children ; I should just like to see how 
 they manage to go on amongst so many strangers.' 
 
 'Certainly,' replied Mrs Harrington; 'we will look in upon 
 them by and by. Would you like to take a little walk before
 
 i.'oo AMV HERBERT. 
 
 dini'.ci-, or bhould you prefer rcm:iiiiiny in the house, as it is so 
 cold ?' 
 
 'I should be glad to know what ihc children will do,' said 
 poor ?Jrs Danvers, in a fever of anxiety for their enjoyment, the 
 moment they wore out of her sight. 
 
 *\Ve will inquire presently,' persisted Mrs Harrington, who 
 was always firm, even in trilling matters ; and had made up her 
 mind they should be left to themselves at first, to become ac- 
 fpiaintcd with the rest of the party. 
 
 ' If I could just ask them,' said Mrs Danvers ; 'I dare say I 
 could easily find my way to the schoolroom— where is it?' 
 
 'At the other end of the house,' replied Mrs Harrington. 
 
 'Oh, just along the passages that we passed as we came in, I 
 dare say.' 
 
 'No, quite in a contrary direction. If you wish to know what 
 your children prefer doing, Thomson shall ask for you.' 
 
 Mrs Harrington rang the bell, and Thomson was sent to the 
 schoolroom, while Mrs Danvers sat pondering upon the extreme 
 unpleasantness of being a visitor in the house of any lady who 
 was determined to have her own way. 
 
 Amy was in the schoolroom, waiting for her cousins, and a 
 little time was spent in introductions, and in discussing whether 
 it was a pleasant afternoon, and whether the snow would be dis- 
 agreeable if they went out on the terrace; and when at last it 
 was decided to be very cold, and that they had thin shoes on, 
 and that one was rather liable to cold, and another to cough, &c., 
 Dora found they were resolutely bent on an afternoon in the 
 house, and all that was to be done was to show them to their 
 respective apartments to take oft" their bonnets and shawls, and 
 to wish heartily that they would remain there till summoned to 
 the drawing-room for the evening. Quickly, much more quickly 
 than Dora had supposed jjossible, they appeared again, full of 
 expectation that something was to happen which was to give them 
 very great pleasure. The visit to Emmerton had been talked of 
 for weeks before ; it had been the subject of their thoughts by day 
 and their dreams by night ; and the three school-girls (Dora's 
 particular dread) had exulted when they announced to their com- 
 panions that a portion of the Christmas holidays was to be passed 
 at Emmerton Hall. In former days Mr Harrington's family had 
 been not only the richest, but the gayest in the county, and every 
 one associated with the name of Emmerton visions of breakfast- 
 parties, dinner-parties, riding-parties, music, balls, and every
 
 AMV HERBERT. 2or 
 
 kind of festivity ; and thougli too young to be admitted to all these 
 pleasures, the young ladies had still a bright, but somewhat in- 
 distinct notion, that a visit at Emmerton must be the height of 
 human enjoyment ; whilst poor Dora was expected to realise all 
 these gay expectations when she was dissatisfied with herself, 
 unhappy at the recollection ofWayland and her brother Edward, 
 and with no one but Amy to assist in making every one comfort- 
 able. 
 
 A faint, despairing smile passed over her face as they entered, 
 one after the other ; and she cast a hopeless glance at Amy. Mar- 
 garet had promised to appear, but Miss Cunningham considered 
 it necessary to make some change in her dress, and her insepar- 
 able companion could not possibly leave her. 
 
 ' You must have had a very cold drive,' said Dora to the eldest 
 Miss Stanley, a girl about her own age, — quiet, timid, and awed 
 by the strangeness of everything about her. It was the fourth 
 time the observation had been made ; and for the fourth time 
 the same low, half-hesitating 'Yes,' was given in reply ; and there 
 the conversation ended, and Dora turned to her other visitors, 
 hoping to find them more communicative. Unhappily her man- 
 ner was such as to repel instead of encouraging them ; she really 
 wished to be kind and agreeable, but she did not for a moment 
 forget that she was Miss Harrington of Emmerton Hall ; and her 
 ett'orts to be polite were so evident, and she was so very conde- 
 scending in everything she did and said, that it was impossible 
 for the poor girls to be at ease. 
 
 Amy saw that her cousin was very different from what she 
 usually was, but could not comprehend in what the change con- 
 sisted, and only longed for her to leave off asking them if they 
 liked music and drawing, and whether they preferred home or 
 school, and how many brothers and sisters they had, and talk 
 of something more interesting. Anything w^ould have been pre- 
 ferable to the formality of asking a string of questions ; even she 
 herself wns a little chilled by Dora's manner, and only ventured 
 to say a few words in an undertone to a rather pretty, delicate 
 girl, who stood by the fire near her. This most disagreeable 
 constraint had lasted about ten minutes, when, to Amy's extreme 
 satisfaction, Miss Morton's voice was heard in the passage, and 
 almost immediately afterwards she entered, followed by Rose, 
 laden with a dull nearly as large as herself, which she was only 
 allowed to play with occasionally. She ran into the room with 
 great glee, to exhibit her treasure to .Amy, but shrank away on
 
 20Z AMY HERBERT. 
 
 seeing so many strange faces ; every one, however, seemed to feel 
 her appearance an indescribable relief; the shy Miss Stanley 
 stooped to kiss her, and ask how old she was ; her sister begged 
 to know the name of the doll ; and Amy's friend was delighted 
 to find in her a reseml)lance to a sister of about the same age ; 
 while the two younger children looked with envy and admiration 
 upon the handsome pink frock and bright blue bonnet, which 
 was always the holiday dress of the beautiful doll. Ikit a greater 
 charm than Rose and her doll was soon found in Emily Morton's 
 manner. She went from one to the other, saying something kind 
 to each, in a voice so sweet that it would have made even a 
 commonplace expression agreeable ; and after a few trifling 
 questions, which gave her some idea of their peculiar tastes and 
 dispositions, she managed, by making observations of her own, 
 to induce them to do the same ; and listening with real and not 
 forced interest to whatever was said, she led them on to describe 
 their companions and their school life, till Dora found, to her 
 surprise, that Hester Stanley, whom she had decided in her own 
 mind to be almost devoid of intellect, and certainly unutterably 
 dull, was a good French and Italian scholar, very fond of draw- 
 ing, and farther advanced than herself in her acquaintance with 
 books in general; that her sister was extremely amusing ; and 
 that Mary Warner had tra^•clled on the Continent, and had many 
 stories to tell of the peculiarities of foreign manners and customs. 
 The younger children looked at Rose for a few minutes without 
 speaking, then ventured to touch the doll, and at last, with one 
 consent, seemed to resolve on being sociable, and retired into a 
 corner of the room to enact the parts of mamma, nurse, and 
 doctor to the poor doll, who, in spite of her brilliant colour, was 
 pronounced to be in a most dangerous state of health, and to 
 require instant advice ; while tlie party collected round the fire, 
 growing bolder and bolder as the noise in the room increased, 
 began at last so entirely to enjoy themselves, that when the dusk 
 of the evening had stolen on them, and a proposition was made 
 by the children for candles, there was a general petition for a 
 few moments' respite, that they might have the luxury and free- 
 dom of talking by firelight prolonged. It was a strange contrast 
 to the stiffness of the first half-hour ; and Dora hardly knew 
 Avhether she quite approved of it ; it seemed to throw her so 
 completely in the background ; but to Amy it was delightful. 
 It was so new, and so interesting to hear a description of a school 
 life, that she thought she could have listened forever ; and even
 
 AMY HERBEkf. 203 
 
 Jvlargaret and Miss Cunningham, who came into the room in the 
 middle of one of Julia Stanley's most amusing stories, appeared 
 to take some pleasure in what was passing. ]\Iargaret's interest 
 was real; but Miss Cunningham's satisfaction arose from the 
 comparison which she could make in her own mind between the 
 splendour of Rochford Park and the very ordinary style of living 
 to which her new acquaintances had been accustomed ; and at 
 eveiy possible opportunity she broke out into exclamations of 
 ' Dear me ! how strange ! how very shabby ! what a wretched 
 place your school must be!' till she hoped she had fully con- 
 vinced them of the fact, that the habits in which she had been 
 brought up were immeasurably superior to theirs. Julia Stanley, 
 however, WMS not at all awed by Miss Cunningham's grandeur ; 
 she continued her stories, talking very fast, and laughing heartily, 
 and caring little what was thought as long as she could make 
 others laugh also ; but her sister was not equally insensible ; and 
 every now and then she endeavoured to check the flow of Julia's 
 spirits, and to suggest that the customs of their school were not 
 entirely as she had represented. 
 
 ' You must not believe everything Julia tells you exactly,' she 
 said, turning to Miss Cunningham, who seemed quite unable to 
 comprehend the fact of any young ladies being so ill-treated as 
 to have no second course at dinner, no curtains to their beds, nor 
 fires in their rooms. ' She runs on so fast that she forgets. We 
 always have puddings on Saturdays; and we have fires when we 
 are ill ; and there are curtains in the largest room, only we have 
 never slept there.' 
 
 'Well, then, bad is the best, is all that I can say for your 
 school,' said Miss Cunningham ; ' and as for ladies being brought 
 up in such a way, how is it possible for them ever to know how 
 to behave, if they are not taken more care of.'" 
 
 'It must be very uncomfortable,' said Dora; 'but really I 
 cannot see what a second course, and curtains, and fires, have to 
 do with manners.' 
 
 'To be sure not,' exclaimed Julia ; 'v>hat does it signify? It 
 is very hard and disagreeable sometimes, and we cry a good deal 
 when first we go there — that is, sonic of the little ones do ; but 
 after a few weeks it is all right, and we eat our cold rice pudding, 
 and tliink it delicious.' 
 
 ' Cold rice pudding ! ' repeated Amy, who had a peculiar 
 dislike to it; 'do you never have anything but cold rice pud- 
 ding?'
 
 204 AM y HERBERT. 
 
 ' Not very often,' replied Julia ; 'Ijut, as I said before, it rord!'; 
 docs not signify. I assure you, if you were up at six o'clock every 
 day, as we are, and had nothing but hard lessons from morning 
 vill night, you would think cold rice pudding one of the nicest 
 things you had ever tasted. I don't think I ever like anything 
 we have at home half as well.' 
 
 Well !' exclaimed Miss Cunningham, 'I never heard of such 
 a school before ; all my notions were, that young ladies lived 
 together, and learned a few lessons, and had French and drawing 
 masters, and ladies' maids, and carriages — that would be agree- 
 able enough ; but you might just as well be cottagei's' children, 
 if you live so shabbily ; and what a difference it must make after 
 )our home ! How you must miss your carriage and servants 1' 
 
 ' I do not,' said Mary Warner ; ' we have no carriage.' 
 
 ' Not keep a carriage ! ' exclaimed Miss Cunningham ; ' then 
 how do you manage to get from one place to another .''' 
 
 ' Really,' interrupted Dorj, ' I do not think you should cross- 
 question any one in that way. Of course, there are carriages to 
 be had, even if people do not choose to keep them.' 
 
 ' There are coaches always passing near us,' said Mary ; 'and 
 so it is very convenient.' 
 
 ' Coaches ! — you mean stage coaches, I suppose,' said Miss 
 Cunningham. 
 
 Yes,' replied I\Iary ; 'one of them goes to Sandham, where 
 our school is ; so there is no difticulty about my travelling.' 
 
 'That is the strangest thing of all,' said Miss Cunningham. 
 ' Do you mean really that your papa and mamma allow you to 
 travel about the country in a stage coach ?' 
 
 The tone in which this was said sounded even more disagree- 
 able than the words ; and Julia Stanley instantly took offence. 
 ' And why not ! ' she exclaimed ; ' why should not people ride in 
 stage coaches if they like it ? ' 
 
 ' Of course, if they like it,' said Margaret, who was always 
 willing to side with her friend ; ' but liking it is a very difi'erent 
 thing from being obliged to do it.' 
 
 'So it may be,' replied Julia ; 'but almost every one does it 
 now.' 
 
 ' I never do,' said Miss Cunningham, pointedly. 
 
 'Very likely,' answered Julia; 'but then you are only one 
 person ; and almost all those I know go in stage coaches 
 constantly ; so you need not be so much surprised at Mary 
 Warner.'
 
 .4J/F HERBERT. 205 
 
 Miss Cunningham pouted and drew up her head, and thought 
 Julia one of the most forward, impertinent girls she had ever met 
 with ; and Hester began to fear there must be something very 
 derogatory to the dignity of a lady in travelling by a public con- 
 veyance ; and yet remembering that once, when their own horses 
 were lame, she had been obliged to avail herself of it, she could 
 not with a clear conscience deny her acquaintance with them ; 
 she could, however, abuse them heartily, and lament the neces- 
 sity which had induced their papa to allow it — quite agreeing 
 with Margaret and Miss Cunningham, that it was not a common 
 thing for people to do, 
 
 'Nonsense, Hester,' exclaimed Julia ; 'you know as well as I 
 do, that it is the most probable thing in the world that we shall 
 go back to school by the coach ; and what will your pride say to 
 that?' 
 
 ' Oh, papa mentioned something about it one day,' replied 
 Hester ; 'but of course he was not in earnest.' 
 
 ' Jkit he was,' answered Julia. ' He said that now our cousins 
 had left school, it would be a great expense for us to travel by 
 ourselves, and that he should certainly put us into the stage coach, 
 and let William take care of us, and then there would be no 
 trouble about the matter. I wish,' she added, turning to Amy, 
 who stood next her, ' that Hester would not try, as she always 
 does, to make herself as' grand and as fine as the people she is 
 with.' 
 
 Amy felt a slight pang of self-reproach as Julia spoke this ; for 
 w hen the conversation had first begun, she felt she should not like 
 to say, as Mary Warner had done, that her papa and mamma 
 did not keep a carriage ; and it appeared almost like deception 
 to blame another for a fault slie was conscious of herself. ' I 
 think,' she said, in reply to Julia's observation, 'that it is not 
 right to wish to be just the same as other people ; but I am afraid 
 I should like it ; and I am sure, indeed,' she added, with an eftbrt, 
 ' that I should be glad to have a carriage to take me wherever 1 
 wanted to go.' 
 
 'Then you have not one,' said Julia; 'that seems strange, 
 being Mr Harrington's niece.' 
 
 ' My uncle's being rich does not make any difference to us,' 
 was the answer, 'except when we arc staying here, and have the 
 use of his things; but I tliink I should almost prefer being with- 
 out them, because then I should not miss them.' 
 
 ' I used to think,' said Julia, still sjjcaking in a tone only to
 
 206 AMY Iir.RIU-.RT. 
 
 be heard by Amy, 'that it signified a great deal about the way 
 ill which people lived till I knew Mary Warner; but she had 
 such different notions that she made me think differently too.' 
 'What notions?' asked Amy. 
 
 ' Oh, I c.innot tell you all now; but her papa was very rich — 
 vciy rich indeed, and lived in a beautiful place; but in some way 
 — I cannot quite understand how — he lost all his money, and was 
 obliged to sell his property, and live in a much smaller house. If 
 he had chosen, he might have had it all back again ; but he is a 
 very good man, and would not do something which he thought 
 was not quite honourable ; and so they continue living in the 
 same inferior way, though no one, of course, thinks the worse of 
 him for it, because every one says he has acted so nobly. This 
 makes jMary care little for the change. She says her papa is so 
 respected, and she is so fond of him, that it seems better to her 
 than if they had all the fine places in the world.' 
 
 Amy looked with interest at Mary as she heard this; but she 
 was not able to continue the conversation, for the servant entered 
 with candles, and tea immediately followed; and after tea they 
 were all to dress for the evening. 
 
 To Dora's satisfaction, it had been decided that the boys were 
 to dine late, so she was spared the task of keeping them in order ; 
 and, finding that every one was beginning to feel comfortable 
 and at home, her own dignity a little relaxed, and she began to 
 think that, after all, the infliction of a three days' visit from the 
 school-girls might not be so very unendurable. 
 
 Amy hastened to her mother's room as soon as tea was over, 
 in the hope of finding her there ; for she had intended dining by 
 herself, and appearing in the drawing-room only in the evening. 
 * I must talk to you one minute, dear mamma,' she said, as she 
 entered. ' We have been getting on so nicely in the schoolroom 
 ' — so much better than I expected, only it was dreadful just at 
 first. They were so silent, and Dora looked like a duchess. If 
 I had not been her cousin I should have laughed; but I fancied 
 they would think I ought to entertain them, and that made me 
 feel more shy than ever; and then they all spoke in such a low 
 voice that every word I said was heard.' 
 
 'Well !' answered Mrs Herbert; 'but who broke the spell?' 
 ' Miss Morton, mamma,' replied Amy; 'and I should like to 
 understand what made her so different from Dora,' 
 
 ' She is much older,' said Mrs Herhert; ' naturally that would 
 make a di^erence.'
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 207 
 
 'It was not quite that,' continued Amy ; ' for if it had been 
 my aunt Harrington, I don't think we should have ventured to 
 speak a word ; but there was something in Miss Morton's manner 
 that made every one appear at ease. Can vou tell me what it 
 was ?' 
 
 ' You must imagine me to be a fairy. How can I possibly 
 judge of what Miss jNIorton did when I was not present.'" 
 
 ' But can you not guess from her character 1 ' asked Amy. 
 ' Vou have seen so much more of her lately, that I think you 
 must know.' 
 
 'At least, you are determined, as usual,' said Mrs Herbert, 
 smiling, ' that I shall give you a reason for everything which 
 you cannot quite comprehend. I suspect, in the present instance, 
 the secret consisted in Dora's thinking of herself all the time she 
 was talking, and Miss IMorton's thinking of others.' 
 
 ' That is not quite clear, mamma,' replied Amy. ' Does 
 thinking of one's self make one stift' and formal ?' 
 
 ' Generally, either stiff or affected,' replied Mrs Herbert; 'yet 
 it is very difficult to avoid doing it. You will often hear persons 
 speaking of what are sometimes called " company manners," — 
 not meaning exactly affectation, but a manner approaching to 
 it, which is not quite natural ; and it almost always arises from 
 this same cause. It is, in fact, very nearly allied to selfishness; 
 for we care so much more for ourselves than others, that we take 
 a greater interest in thinking of ourselves than of them, and so 
 we become disagreeable.' 
 
 ' But how can we help it?' asked Amy. 
 
 ' By trying, every day of our lives, to consult the happiness of 
 those we live with,' answered Mrs Herbert. ' I mean, in the 
 merest trifles, such as giving up a pleasant seat, or an amusing 
 book, or fetching things for them to save them trouble, or 
 listening to them when they wish to talk to us. By these 
 means we can acquire a habit of forgetting ourselves which will 
 remain with us whether we are in company, or only with our 
 own family.' 
 
 Amy listened to her mother with an earnest wish to follow her 
 advice ; and when she joined the party in the drawing-room she 
 found immediate opportunities of putting it in practice. 
 
 The evening was a cheerful one, for Mr Harrington proposed 
 some Christmas games, and insisted upon every one's joining 
 Ihcm ; and although Dora and Miss Cunningham held back, 
 and thought themselves too old, and too dignified, they were at
 
 2o8 AMY HERBERT 
 
 lenc;th obliged to yield ; and the rest of the party were so ineny 
 that they did not notice their grave looks and slow nio\cments. 
 Amy enjoyed herself thoroughly ; and when her gay laugh caught 
 Mrs Herbert's ear, it gave her more happiness than she had felt 
 for many months, since she coidd now venture to dwell on the 
 delight which Colonel Herbert would experience on seeing her 
 so entirely what he couUl most have desired his child to be. 
 Dora was almost jealous as she noticed the regard which Amy 
 attracted, and wondered what the secret could be. Perhaps, if 
 she had followed her cousin's example, and given up a seat to 
 Mary Warner when she was tired, and assisted Hester Stanley 
 when her sandal broke, and soothed one of the children when 
 she fell down and was frightened, she too might have been a 
 favourite ; but without intending to be unkind, she managed so 
 openly to show her dislike to what was going on, that every one 
 endeavoured to keep aloof from her ; and if they did speak, the 
 answer was so cold, and the manner so proud, that the wish to 
 make another attempt was impossible. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 WHEN Amy met her new acquaintance the next morning, 
 after having thought them over attentively while she was 
 dressing, she had quite decided on the one she liked best. Julia 
 Stanley had at first amused her so much, and was so very lively 
 and good-tempered, that it seemed impossible not to give the 
 preference to her ; but even then there was something in her 
 quick manner and hasty expressions which rather annoyed Amy's 
 feelings, when contrasted with Miss Morton's gentleness and 
 refinement ; and in the course of the evening, as she observed 
 her more narrowly, her conduct to ]Miss Cunningham had struck 
 her as peculiarly disagreeable. It required but very little time 
 to perceive Miss Cunningham's deficiencies ; and Julia, who was 
 remarkably quick and clever, had not been in her company for 
 half an hour before she had discovered them ; and her great 
 amusement was to turn everything she said into ridicule. For 
 the first few minutes Amy had been amused ; but afterwards an 
 endeavour of Emily Morton's to check some satirical observa- 
 iions, had shown her that she was wrong ; and a sense of polite^
 
 A3/V HERBERT. 209 
 
 ncss soon made her aware that Julia allowed cleverness mid high 
 spirits to carry her beyond the bounds of propriety. When 
 Dora gave Miss Cunningham what Frank would have called 'a 
 set down,' it was done in a lady-like way, as far as manner was 
 concerned. She delighted in saying the most pointed things in 
 the most pointed tone, yet she would on no account have ne- 
 glected the little attentions which Miss Cunningham's position 
 demanded ; but Julia Stanley, feeling herself infinitely superior 
 to Lord Rochford's daughter in intellect and accomplishments, 
 considered that she was, on this account, freed from any demands 
 upon her politeness ; and had made no scruple of pushing into a 
 room before her, interrupting her when speaking, and endeavour- 
 ing to show that she did not consider her as entitled to any 
 respect or attention. All this was peculiarly disagreeable to 
 Amy, who, having always lived with persons who were polite 
 upon Christian principles, could not in the least comprehend the 
 rudeness of self-conceit ; and if Julia had offended her in one 
 way, her sister's manner had been equally unpleasant in another. 
 She had been Miss Cunningham's shadow and echo; she had 
 followed her from place to place, admiring her dress and her 
 ornaments, and begging her to describe Rochford Park, and 
 hinting how much she should like to see it; and once or twice 
 she had turned to Amy to extort her admiration also, when sin- 
 cerity had obliged her entirely to differ. 
 
 A little of the same flattery had also been bestowed upon Dora, 
 but it was received so coolly, that there was no temptation to 
 repeat it a second time ; for Dora, though she loved praise and 
 flattery, still required it to be administered delicately, through 
 the medium of a third person ; and fancied herself insensible to 
 it, because she never encouraged any one to tell her, in direct 
 terms, that she was beautiful and clever. Mary Warner's manner 
 resembled neither ; it was not quite so polished as Ajny would 
 have liked, but it was simple and straightforward. She had 
 never seen any place so beautiful as Emmerton, and she said so 
 plainly ; but she also said that she thought there were too many 
 trees about it, and she should have preferred the house being 
 built higher. It was the same with everything else — she ex- 
 pressed her opinion when asked without reserve ; but she did 
 not, like Julia, intrude disagreeable observations uncalled for, 
 nor, like Hester, pretend to see beauties where there was nothing 
 to admire. The uprightness of her father's character seemed to 
 have descended to her ; and Amy willingly forgave any little 
 
 o
 
 210 ,UIY HERBERT. 
 
 awkward 11CSI5 of manner when she saw JNIary's nrmncss and 
 simplicity ; while even Dora was rather won by the imconcern 
 with which she listened to Miss Cunningham's impertinences, 
 and the openness with which she acknowIe(l;:;cd the inferiority of 
 her own home to Emmcrton — appnrcntly thinking it a matter of 
 indifference whether she lived in a large house or a small one. 
 It was a point of character which Dora could appreciate and 
 admire, though it was not one she thought it necessary to imitate. 
 But Miss Cunningham felt very differently; and her good-humour 
 was not at all increased by the failure of her endeavours to 
 inspire both Julia and Mary with awe and admiration ; and to 
 complete her discomfort, when breakfast was over, Miss Morton 
 gently proposed her practising for half-an-hour ; adding that 
 Lord Rochford had again mentioned the subject, and begged 
 that she would assist her in perfecting the piece she had been 
 trying, so that it might be played in the evening. Miss Cunning- 
 ham did not speak, but she looked her thoughts, and yet she did 
 not venture to rebel ; for Lord Rochford, with all his fondness, 
 had some peculiarities ; and the arrangement of his daughter's 
 studies was his peculiar hobby. It seemed, however, as if she had 
 secretly resolved that the pleasures of a London journey should 
 not be marred by any progress she might make under Miss 
 Morton's tuition ; and bad as her performance had been before, 
 it was much worse this morning. Miss Morton, with unwearied 
 patience, corrected her false notes, asked her to repeat the 
 difficult passages, and showed her again and again how they 
 were to be played ; but tlwi long, stiff fingers appeared to possess 
 some innate spirit of obstinacy ; they would move exactly in the 
 w-ay in which they should not have moved ; they would play 
 sharps for flats, and turn crotchets into quavers, and minims 
 into crotchets ; until Amy, who, with the exception of Julia 
 Stanley, was the only person present besides, wondered how it 
 was possible for Miss Morton to persevere, and Julia, after a 
 pretended attempt to conceal her amusement, laughed aloud. 
 Miss Cunningham heard the laugh, and felt it keenly, and for- 
 getting everything but her annoyance, she jumped up from her 
 seat, closed the book, and without speaking, rushed out of the 
 room. 
 
 ' Well ! that is delightful,' exclaimed Julia ; ' I would have 
 laughed before, if I had thought it would bring matters to a con- 
 clusion.' 
 
 Amy wished to say something, but she felt painfully shy, for
 
 AMY HERBERT. 2\\ 
 
 STiZ had begun to dread Julia's satire ; and, happily for her, 
 Emily Morton spoke instead. 
 
 ' I should be very sorry,' she said, ' to believe you in earnest, 
 you would hardly acknowledge so openly that you took pleasure 
 in hurting the feelings of another.' 
 
 ' Only she took pleasure in hurting my ears,' replied Julia, 
 
 ' Not intentionally,' said Miss Morton ; ' but I am sure you 
 cannot really mean what you say ; you must be sorry for having 
 given pain.' 
 
 ']\Iiss Cunningham is so very silly,' persisted Julia, who was 
 never willing to confess herself in the wrong ; ' it 'really is im- 
 possible to help laughing at her. You know there can be no 
 harm in being amused at people's folly.' 
 
 ' I cannot agree with you at all,' said Emily; ' and as to Miss 
 Cunningham's sense, it is not her own choice to be less clever 
 than others.' 
 
 ' To be sure not,' exclaimed Julia, pertly ; ' who would be 
 stupid if they could help it ? But it does not make people at all 
 the less absurd, because it is not their own fault.' 
 
 * There again I must differ from you,' replied Emily. ' It 
 makes all the difference possible. Self-conceit, and vanity, and 
 pride may be ridiculous, but not mere deficiency of under- 
 standing; it is the appointment of God, just as much as poverty 
 or illness maybe ; and I think, from something I heard you say 
 yesterday, you would not be at all inclined to laugh at any one 
 who had less money than yourself.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! certainly not,' said Julia ; ' but cleverness is quite a 
 different thing. I do so like bright, clever people ; and I do so 
 delight in laughing at stupid ones. All the world thinks more 
 of cleverness than of anything else.' 
 
 ' But it docs not follow that all the world are right,' replied 
 Emily. 
 
 ' But a great many strict people that I know think so,' said 
 Julia. ' I very often hear some friends of ours say — such a 
 person is not quite right, but then he is so clever ; and it does 
 make up for a great many things ; you must own that.' 
 
 ' Indeed I cannot own it,' replied Emaly : ' I do not see that it 
 makes up for anything.' 
 
 * But don't you like it ? ' asked Julia, in a tone of great surprise. 
 'Yes, very much— just as I like to see a pretty face, or tO' 
 
 listen to beautiful music ; but I do not esteem it. I mean,' she' 
 ailded, observing that Julia continued silent from astonishment;-
 
 212 AAJy llERliERT. 
 
 ' that I do not think it forms part of a person's character, any 
 more than his houses or his clothes do.' 
 
 * But have you no vahie at all for it ? ' said Julia, 
 
 * Yes,' replied Emily; 'and so I have for riches — both may 
 be made the instruments of good; but I do not value a person 
 who is rich, because he is rich — neither do I value a jjerson wjio 
 is clever, because he is clever. If the rich man turns his riches 
 to good account, I value him for his generosity and self-denial ; 
 and if the clever man uses his talents well, I value him because 
 I sec he is trying to serve God ; but I should have just as much 
 esteem for a poor man, or a man with inferior understanding, if 
 they were equally good.' 
 
 'But,' said Julia, 'all the celebrated people one reads of were 
 not good, and yet there is just as much fuss made about them now 
 as if they were angels — every one talks of them and praises them.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Miss Morton, gravely, and then paused as if lost 
 in her own thoughts. 
 
 'What were you going to say ?' asked Amy. 
 
 ' I did not like to say what was in my mind,' replied Emily ; 
 ' it is so very painful ; but, you know, the opinions of men can 
 be nothing when a person is dead.' 
 
 Julia seemed struck with the observation, but did not speak, 
 for she began to feel ashamed, and was endeavouring to summon 
 courage to confess herself in the wrong. ' I wish you would go 
 on talking,' she said, after the silence had continued for several 
 minutes ; ' but then you think me so rude that perhaps you ^\ ill 
 not take the trouble.' 
 
 ' It is not what I think, but what Miss Cunningham thinks, 
 which is of importance,' replied Miss Morton; 'you have not 
 been rude to me.' 
 
 ' Well ! I was not quite polite perhaps, only really I could not 
 help it. Shall I beg her pardon ? ' 
 
 ' No ! ' exclaimed Emily, ' pray do not do that ; it would only 
 make matters worse, because you must own then that you thought 
 her ridiculous.' 
 
 ' But what shall I do ? ' asked Julia. 
 
 ' Will you let me tell you without thinking I am interfering ? ' 
 said Emily. 
 
 ' Oh yes, pray do. You know, at school every one speaks 
 tiicir mind, so I am quite accustomed to it.' 
 
 ' Well, then ! I should recommend you to begin by keeping a 
 strict guard over yourself for the rest of the <Jay, that you niay
 
 AMV HERBERT. 213 
 
 not be guilty of the same fault again, and not to force yourself 
 upon ]\Iiss Cunningham, but to show her quietly a few little 
 attentions ; and if she is proud and annoyed, to try and feel that 
 it is only what you have brought upon yourself, and therefore 
 not to be angry with her.' 
 
 'But that is not the least in my way,' said Julia ; ' I could go 
 just at this minute and say I am sorry, because I am in the 
 humour ; and I should be rather glad to make it up and be friends 
 again, though she is so silly; but as for going on all day paying 
 little attentions to a person who has not a single idea in her 
 head, is what I never did and never can do.' 
 
 ' Never will, you mean,' replied Miss Morton. 'We often say 
 can, when we ought to say ivill' 
 
 ' Well ! can or will,' exclaimed Julia ; ' it is all the same. Only 
 if I may beg Miss Cunningham's pardon now, I don't care ; but 
 if I must not do that, she must take her chance ; and if she makes 
 herself ridiculous, I must laugh at her.' 
 
 ' Because you think yourself cleverer,' said Miss Morton ; ' is 
 not that the reason ? ' 
 
 Julia blushed deeply. She was not accustomed to have her 
 self-conceit brought before her so plainly, and yet she was too 
 candid not to see the truth of what was said. 
 
 ' I do not mean to pain you,' continued INIiss Morton, very 
 kindly. ' Perhaps it is not my place to interfere ; but you pro- 
 mised not to be annoyed ; and you must forgive me if I remind 
 you, that in the sight of God the most trifling act of self-denial 
 from a really high motive — I mean, of course, from a wish to 
 please Him— is infinitely more valuable than the cleverest thing 
 that has ever been said or done since the world was made.' 
 
 Still Julia was silent — her cleverness did not at that moment 
 come to her aid ; and after gazing attentively upon the fire, play- 
 ing with the ornaments on the mantelpiece, and turning over the 
 leaves of one or two books, she found herself so very uncomfort- 
 able, that, hastily exclaiming she must go and look for her sister, 
 she left Amy and Miss Morton alone. 
 
 'Arc you vexed?' asked Amy, as soon as the door was closed. 
 ' You look so.' 
 
 ' I am rather,' said Miss Morton, ' for I am half afraid I have 
 done more harm than good ; and I am hurt especially about Miss 
 Cunningham, because I know it was very disagreeable to her to 
 have any lesson at all, and such a one as this will make her dis- 
 like it more than ever.'
 
 214 AMY IIERnKRT. 
 
 ' lUit not you/ observed Amy ; * she cannot blame you for 
 another person's rudeness.' 
 
 ' Onlv it is difficult,' said IMiss Morton, 'to feel kindly towards 
 those who have been the cause of placing us in awkward situa- 
 tions ; and I do not suspect I have ever been a favourite with 
 Miss Cunningham.' 
 
 ' I wish Miss Stanley had kept to her own rooni this morn- 
 ing,' said Amy. ' I am afraid she will spoil our pleasure all 
 day.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! she will soon forget it all ; and I do not think she 
 will take Miss Cunningham's anger much to heart; it will rather 
 amuse her than otherwise.' 
 
 ' I should not like her to be amused at me,' said Amy ; ' slie 
 frightens me dreadfully. I felt just now as if I could not have 
 ventured to speak before her.' 
 
 ' I must give you a lecture too,' said Emily, smiling. ' Why 
 should you be afraid of people merely because they are clever, 
 and say sharp things .'' It is making cleverness of as much con- 
 sequence as Miss Stanley does ; besides being a dangerous feel- 
 ing, and one which often jarevents us from doing our duty.' 
 
 'Ah! but,' said Amy, 'I cannot feel quite as you do. I 
 always have thought a great deal about it, and longed to be very 
 clever myself, and for every one to admire me, and look up to 
 me.' 
 
 ' And I have done the same,' said Emily. ' I will not say that 
 I never do so now; but it is very contrary to what the Bible 
 commands.' 
 
 * Do you really think so ?' inciuired Amy, looking much dis- 
 tressed. 'Yet it seems so natural; and cleverness is diiicrcnt 
 from riches, or rank, or anything of that kind.' 
 
 ' Can you recollect any part of the Bible in which it is said 
 that God takes pleasure in it ?' asked Emily. 
 
 ' There is a great deal about wisdom in the Book of Proverbs,' 
 answered Amy ; ' and it is said to be better than anything else.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Emily ; ' but then, you know, we ought to com- 
 pare different parts of the Bible together, if we wish to know its 
 real meaning. And there is a verse at the end of a very beautiful 
 chapter in the Book of Job, which tells us what wisdom really is. 
 Perhaps you may remember it. It says, *' The fear of the Lord, 
 that is wisdom ; and to depart from evil is understanding-'" 
 Now, a poor man, who cannot even read, may have just as much 
 of this wisdom as the most learned man that ever lived.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 215 
 
 'Then,' said Amy, 'there is no use in trying to learn things.' 
 
 'Indeed,* replied Miss Morton, 'there is. It is our duty to 
 improve the understanding God has given us to the utmost, by 
 exercising it in every right way. Our Saviour's parable of the 
 talents gives a most impressive warning to us on this point, 
 though talents there mean likewise advantages of every kind ; 
 and besides, the more we know, the more we are able to teach 
 others.' 
 
 Amy still looked unconvinced, and Emily continued, ' You 
 will see what I mean, if you will think of being clever in the same 
 way as you do of being rich. We all know that it is the way of 
 the world to value people for their money, but common sense 
 tells us that it is very absurd ; and yet no one would deny that 
 riches may be made of great use to our fellow-creatures, though 
 they do not make us in the smallest degree more acceptable in 
 the eye of God. I wish I could explain myself more clearly. 
 Perhaps, if I were very clever, I might be able to do it ; and 
 then, you see, my knowledge would be of use to you, though it 
 would not make me either better or worse in myself.' 
 
 ' I think that is clever,' said Amy, laughing ; ' for I can un- 
 derstand you much better now, though I am afraid I shall never 
 learn to think rightly about everything.' 
 
 'You must not say that,' said Emily. 'You know you are 
 not very old yet ; and if we thought about everything rightly at 
 the beginning of our life, it would not be necessary for us to have 
 so many years to learn in. As long as we are not standing still, 
 we may be tolerably happy, though we do happen to blunder in 
 the dark way.' 
 
 ' I think I am always blundering,' said Amy ; ' at least I know 
 I am always wishing for something which mamma and you tell 
 me I ought not to wish for. But I think it is because I hear 
 Dora and Margaret and Miss Cunningham talking so much 
 about such things. You know Dora makes a great deal of being 
 clever, and INIiss Cunningham is always speaking of rank and 
 riches, and Margaret is so pleased to be pretty. I know it is 
 really all nothing ; but when I hear them I cannot help longing 
 for it all, and thinking that it must be of consequence.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Miss Morton, ' it is very natural. This place is to 
 vou just what the world is to grown-up people.' 
 
 ' I remember,' replied Amy, ' thinking something just like that 
 the very first night my cousins came ; but I did not imagine, 
 she added, 'that there would be any one in my world hkc you.'
 
 2 1 6 AJl/V HERBER T. 
 
 Miss Morton could Iiave answered, with truth, that she had 
 never expected to meet with any one Hke Amy at Emmcrton ; 
 but at that moment Dora and the rest of the party entered, and 
 Miss Cunningham with them. 
 
 ' Must you go ?' whispered Amy, as Miss Morton prepared to 
 leave the room. 
 
 Emily replied that she had letters to write, which would keep 
 her engaged the whole morning ; and Amy scarcely wished her to 
 remain, when she observed the expression of Miss Cunningham's 
 face, and saw that her good-humour was by no means restored. 
 
 It was not indeed a very easy task at any time ; and Julia 
 Stanley seemed resolved that this morning it should be more 
 difficult than ever. She had given up the idea of confessing her 
 fault, and trying to make amends, because she could not have 
 her own way as to the manner in which it should be done, and 
 had become angry with herself, and, as a natural consequence, 
 angry with every one else. There was, in fact, a regular feud 
 between her and Miss Cunningham ; and Dora soon saw that 
 to preserve peace would be a difficult matter. Julia's manner 
 was more sharp and abrupt than ever, as she took every oppor- 
 tunity of repeating Miss Cunningham's words, and turning them 
 into ridicule ; while Miss Cunningham, on her part, endeavoured 
 to make sneers and scornful looks as effective as words. Amy 
 was very uncomfortable, and once or twice tried to divert their 
 attention by talking to the younger children, and making them 
 bring their dolls and playthings to the table where the elder 
 girls were working. But her efforts were in vain ; and, as a last 
 hope, she ventured to suggest to Dora, that perhaps it might be 
 pleasant if some one were to read out. The idea was the 
 greatest possible relief to poor Dora, for all her antipathy to 
 strange school-girls, and three days' visits, was returning in full 
 force ; and having asked, as a matter of form, whether any one 
 would dislike it, she quickly produced half-a-dozen volumes to 
 choose from. 
 
 The choice being settled, the next question to be decided was, 
 who should read. There was a general burst of excuses as the 
 inquiry was made. Every one would read, only there was a 
 piece of work to be finished, or a drawing to be begun, or some 
 beads to be threaded, or they v/ere so soon tired that it was 
 quite useless to begin, or they were suffering from a cold and 
 hoarseness, which would make it disagreeable for the rest to 
 listen. Dora put down the book on the table, considering it, as
 
 AJ/V HERBER T. 217 
 
 a matter o: course, that she should not be obliged to do it. She 
 had seldom been called on to give up her own will for others, 
 but had always ordered and managed, and told others their 
 duty ; and when this was done, her part was considered finished. 
 So, in the present instance, she had decided it would be a good 
 thing to read, and had chosen the book, and supposed that 
 some one would easily be found willing to amuse the rest. But 
 Dora was mistaken. 
 
 The only person who had not excused herself was the only 
 one whose excuse would have been really a good one. Poor 
 Amy's heart beat fast as she thought that it might fall to her lot 
 to read. She had never read aloud to any one but her mamma ; 
 and she was the youngest of the party ; and, moreover, she knew 
 that in the book which had been fixed on there were some long 
 French quotations, which must be pronounced or translated, 
 either alternative being equally disagreeable. ' I wish I could 
 read/ she whispered to Margaret, who was sitting next her; 
 ' but I am so frightened.' 
 
 * Oh ! it does not signify,' answered Margaret, aloud ; ' there 
 is no occasion for us to trouble ourselves — Emily ^Morton will 
 come directly ; I have known her go on for hours when mamma 
 has been ill.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Dora, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she spoke, 
 'she is much more used to it than we are. Rose, go and tell 
 Emily Morton that we should be very much obliged if she could 
 read out to us this morning whilst we are working.' 
 
 The message was more civil than it would have been some 
 months before ; and Dora's conscience was rather relieved ; but 
 to Amy it seemed only selfish and thoughtless, 
 
 ' Miss Morton told me she had letters to write, Dora,' she 
 snid, timidly. ' Don't you think reading to us would be an in- 
 terruption to her.''' 
 
 ' Not more than giving us our usual lessons,' observed Mar- 
 garet ; ' it is only occupying the same time in a different way.' 
 
 'But,' replied Amy, 'indeed I think the letters are of conse- 
 quence ; and the post goes out so early.' 
 
 'Well, then, Amy,' said Dora, rather sharply, 'if you will in- 
 sist upon our not sending for Emily, you must read yourself, for 
 you are the only one of us all who is not busy.' 
 
 Amy was busy finishing a purse to be given to Mrs Walton 
 on her birthday ; but anything was better than to allow Miss 
 Morton's time to be intruded on; and although the slight trcm-
 
 2.S AMY HERBERT. 
 
 blin;^ of her hand, and the brigiit crimson spot on licr cheek, 
 showed the greatness of the effort, she did manage to begin, and 
 even to get through the first long French sentence without break- 
 ing down. Dora hstencd to the words, but they made very httle 
 impression ; she was thinking all the time of her own selfishness, 
 and how easy it was to make good resolutions, and how very 
 difficult to keep them. It was only on that very day that she 
 had been reflecting on her conduct to JMiss Morton, and had 
 determined to be more thoughtful for her comfort ; and now, on 
 the first temptation, she had weakly given way, and, but for 
 Amy, would have sacrificed Miss Morton's whole morning merely 
 to gratify her own fancy for work. Happily, Dora's was not a 
 mind to be contented with the bare acknowledgment of having 
 been wrong ; it was too active and energetic to rest in fruitless 
 \vishes for amendment ; and now, finding that Amy's voice was 
 Ijccoming weak, and that she read with difiiculty, she threw down 
 her work just as she was about to put the finishing stroke to it, 
 and offered to read instead. It was but a trifling action, but it 
 made Dora feel happier than she had been before ; it proved to 
 herself that she was in earnest ; and when she had made one 
 endeavour it was much easier to make another. Her manner 
 grew softer, her thoughtfulness for others increased ; and before 
 the morning was over, she had even taken Miss Cunningham's 
 part against Julia Stanley, when she had made an observation on 
 the book they were reading, and had given up her seat near the 
 fire, fearing she might be cold. The book was so interesting, and 
 the oriel-room so comfortable, that no one thought of the time or 
 the weather ; and when Mrs Harrington made her appearance 
 with Mrs Danvers, and begged them all to go out before dinner 
 that they might not lose the best part of the day, there was a 
 slight murmur of disapprobation. Mrs Danvers sympathised, 
 and pitied, and declared the room looked so warm and cheerful, 
 it was almost impossible to leave it ; now she had once found 
 her way there, she should be a frequent visitor. 
 
 ' I always think young people manage best when left to them- 
 selves,' said Mrs Harrington. ' Dora, you must be quick, and 
 go out ; and as many of your young friends as choose to go with 
 you had better get ready also.' 
 
 The sending them out did not seem like leaving them to them- 
 selves ; but Mrs Harrington's manner prevented almost every 
 one from differing from her ; and Mrs Danvers, who was rather 
 young, and soon awed, said nothing, but began fondling her little
 
 A J/ V HERDER T. 219 
 
 girls, and proposing to stay and play with them if they liked it 
 better than going for a walk ; whilst Dora, who knew the exact 
 meaning of every word and tone of her mothei-'s, hastily put up 
 her work, and prepared to obey. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ' A T ARGARET,' said ]\Iiss Cunningham, who had joined the 
 iV X. walk'ing party merely from not knowing how to employ 
 her time satisfactorily while they were away, ' I v/ant you to talk 
 to me a little ; never mind the rest, they will manage very well ; 
 and really what I have to say is of consequence.' 
 
 'Is it, indeed?' replied Margaret, who dearly loved a little 
 mystery ; ' but you must be quick, for Dora said so much to me, 
 before we came out, about being attentive to them all' 
 
 ' It cannot signify what Dora says ; she is not to rule every 
 one ; at least I am sure she shall not rule me. But what I 
 wanted to say to you was about London. I talked to papa this 
 morning ; and he says, after all, he thinks there is a chance of 
 your going.' 
 
 * Oh no ! he cannot really mean it ; mamma was so very 
 positive the other night.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know that ; but it is something about Mrs Herbert 
 
 which makes the difference. Your papa thinks her very ill, and 
 
 he wants to have advice for her ; and if Dr Bailey does not give 
 
 /a good report, he will try and persuade her to go, and then all 
 
 the family are to go too.' 
 
 *Well, that would be delightful ; but the time would not suit 
 you — it will be so soon.' 
 
 * But if you were to go at once, papa would not object to being 
 there earlier himself, for he is determined that we shall have 
 lessons together.' 
 
 ' So then it is all settled,' said Margaret, her eyes sparkling 
 with pleasure. ' To be sure, I am sorry for poor Amy, Init I 
 daresay there is nothing very much the matter ; and with a 
 London physician Aunt Herbert will soon get well.' 
 
 ' I don't think it is settled at all,' answered Miss Cunningham ; 
 ' for I can tell you one thing, Margaret, — I never will go to 
 London to be pestered by Miss Morton; she must stay at home.
 
 220 A.lfV HERBERT. 
 
 or 1 must. If you had only seen how she behaved this morninc^; 
 she found as much fauh wilh my phiyhig- as if I had been a 
 mere baby.' 
 
 ' But,' said Margaret, looking much perplexed, ' there is no 
 help for it ; she must go with us ; only it docs not follow that 
 you should learn of her.' 
 
 ' It does follow, though,' replied Miss Cunningham, angrily ; 
 'how can you be so stupid, Margaret? I have told you a 
 hundred and fifty times before, that if papa once has a thing in 
 his head, not all the world can drive it out ; and he said this 
 morningf that I should have lessons of her besides the other 
 masters ; but I won't — no, that I won't.' 
 
 'That is right,' said Margaret ; 'if you make a fuss about it, 
 you will be sure to have your own way.' 
 
 ' But my way is to stay at home ; I can do that if I choose, 
 for mamma will like it ; but I will never go near London to be 
 laughed at by rude, vulgar people as I v/as this morning ; so you 
 may manage as well as you can without me.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham walked on a few steps with her head 
 raised, rapidly twisting the bag she held in her hand — a sure 
 sign that she was working herself into a passion. Margaret 
 followed, appearing very downcast, and feeling that Lucy's 
 determination would prove the destruction of all her bright 
 castles in the air. London, with only her own family, would be 
 nearly as bad as Emmerton. 'What do you wish me to do?' 
 she said, anxiously. 
 
 ' Nothing,' was the reply ; ' but make up your mind to go 
 without me, for I am quite determined ; I can be as obstinate 
 as pnpa, sometimes.' 
 
 This could not be doubted ; but it was no satisfaction to 
 Margaret. 'It is very unkind of you, Lucy,' she said. 'You 
 sometimes tell me you love me ; and yet you don't seem inclined 
 to put yourself in the least out of your way to please me. You 
 know very well that there will be no pleasure in London if you 
 are away ; we shall go nowhere and see nothing.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know it ; but it can't be helped.' 
 
 'That odious Emily Morton ! ' exclaimed Margaret ; 'she has 
 been a torment in one way or another ever since she entered the 
 house.' 
 
 ' And she will never be anything else,' said Miss Cunningaam ; 
 ' I wish you joy of her.' 
 
 *But is there nothing to be done?' again asked Margaret,
 
 AJiy HERBERT. ?2i 
 
 whilst several most impracticable plans passed quickly through 
 her mind, all having for their object the removal of this serious 
 obstacle to her enjoyment. 
 
 ' I can see nothing,' was the answer ; ' unless you can make 
 her go and see her friends whilst you are absent.' 
 
 'I don't think she has any friends,' said Margaret, 'except 
 an aunt, who is abroad ; that is, she has never asked to go away, 
 so I suppose she has no place to go to.' 
 
 'That makes the case a great deal worse. If she has no 
 friends you may depend upon it you will be burdened with her 
 for ever.' 
 
 'I believe, though,' said Margaret, 'there is a Mrs or Miss 
 Somebody, who was her governess once, who could keep her 
 for some time ; but then, you know, it is no use talking about it ; 
 there is no chance of our being able to do anything.' 
 
 'The loss will be more yours than mine,' replied Miss Cun- 
 ningham ; ' it will be just the same to me next year ; but jou 
 will miss everything.' 
 
 ' Yes, everything,' sighed Margaret. 
 
 'You would have gone to the opera, certainly; papa would 
 have taken you there, and you would have been out half the day 
 shopping, and driving in the parks ; and you would have seen 
 everything, and bought anything you wished, — for, of course, 
 your papa would have given you plenty of money to do as you 
 liked with ; and then my aunt would have taken us to some 
 delightful parties. But it is not worth while to think about it 
 now ; because if you go for your aunt's illness, and have no one 
 to take you about, you will be at your lessons half the day, and 
 staying at home with her the other half; and there will be nothing 
 to be seen, because you must choose such a very quiet part of 
 the town for an invalid.' 
 
 ' O Lucy ! ' said Margaret, ' I wish you would not talk so. 
 It is very unkind ; for you know it will be all your doing.' 
 
 'My doing! No, indeed I can't help it. Get rid of Miss 
 Morton, and I will go directly. And now I have said all I 
 wished, and so I think I shall turn back, for you told me you 
 wanted to go to Dora ; and really I have had quite enough of 
 those school-girls this morning.' 
 
 Margaret did not press her to stay, for she was becoming very 
 indignant ; but neither was she inclined to make any exertions 
 to be agreeable ; and, soon persuading herself tliat the walking 
 parly had advanced too faa- for her to overtake them, she rather
 
 22 2 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 sulkily turned back and followed Miss Cunningham, keeping, 
 however, at a convenient distance, that she might be able to 
 think over the conversation, and find some arguments which 
 should induce her to break the resolution she had formed. 
 
 Amy in the meantime, enjoyed her walk with her companions 
 in perfect unconsciousness that anything was near to disturb her 
 happiness. She laughed at Julia Stanley's strange stories, till 
 she forgot by degrees she had been afraid of her ; and although 
 every tree and stone were familiar, there was a pleasure in 
 pointing out to strangers all the beauties of the grounds, even in 
 their wintry dress ; and good-humour being proverbially infec- 
 tious, the whole party returned home in all the better spirits 
 that they had been spared Miss Cunningham's sulkiness and 
 pride. The first news, however, that awaited Amy upon enter- 
 ing the house, was the information from Susan Reynolds that 
 Mr Harrington had prevailed on her mamma to see Dr Bailey. 
 Amy started and turned pale, and anxiously asked if her mamma 
 v/ere very ill' 
 
 'Oh, dear! no,' replied Susan, frightened in her turn ; 'but 
 I thought you would be glad to know your mamma M'as going 
 to see a doctor, because then, perhaps, she will get strong 
 again.' 
 
 'Yes; but she must be worse, I am sure,' said Amy ; 'she 
 never would send for any one unless she were very ill indeed.' 
 And without waiting to hear more, she hastily ran to Mrs Her- 
 bert's room. But her fears were soon calmed. Mrs Herbert 
 was looking much the same as usual, and seemed in tolerable 
 spirits, and quite laughed at Amy's alarm. 
 
 * I have only consented to see Dr Bailey,' she said, 'just to 
 satisfy your uncle ; and it was very foolish in any one to frighten 
 you, my dear child, so unnecessarily ; so now go to your dinner, 
 and forget me, and be happy.' 
 
 'That would not be the way to be happy, mamma. I never 
 enjoy anything till I have remembered that I can tell you about 
 it. But arc you sure you are not very ill ?' 
 
 ' I am quite sure that I am not feeling worse than I have done 
 for the last six weeks,' replied Mrs Herbert ; 'and I suspect the 
 sight of your papa's handwriting would do more tov.'ards my 
 cure than all the physicians in the world. I hoped to ha\e 
 heard from him by the same mail which brought the news of 
 peace.' 
 
 ' Pet haps,' said Amy, ' the letter will come to-morrow.'
 
 AMV HERBERT. 223 
 
 'Oh no!' replied Mrs Herbert; 'it is scarcely possible— I 
 must be contented to wait. But you had better go now, Amy — 
 there is the second dinner-bell.' 
 
 Amy left the room much relieved. A natural buoyancy of 
 disposition seldom allowed her to be unnecessarily anxious. She 
 was too young to form any judgment of her own respecting the 
 state of her mother's health ; and Mrs Herbert's assurances out- 
 weighed the passing influence of her uncle's misgivings. She 
 did, however, look oftener than ever to the door during the 
 evening, with a vague expectation that her father would appear : 
 and she persuaded Mr Cunningham to repeat again to her all he 
 had before said of the probability of his arrival at any moment ; 
 while i\Irs Herbert, also, listened eagerly, and laughed at herself 
 for being as fanciful as Amy, though her heart beat quickly at 
 the slightest unusual sound in the house. 
 
 'There is the second day happily over. Amy,' said Dora, as 
 she bade her good night : ' and now I have no more fears ; we 
 shall do very well to-morrow. Frank has been proposing for us 
 all to assist in ornamenting the outer saloon for the conjurer, 
 and Mary Warner can show us how to make artificial flowers — 
 GO M-e shall have plenty of occupation ; and in the evening I 
 really think we may make up a quadrille. You know there 
 are several people coming besides ; and Emily Morton will play 
 as long as we like. The only thing that worries me is about 
 Julia and Lucy Cunningham ; they are exactly like cat and dog.' 
 
 ' I daresay we can manage to keep theni separate,' replied 
 Amy. 'If Margaret will take care of Miss Cunningham, there 
 will be no difficulty at all.' 
 
 ' But they will get together,' said Dora. 'And really, though 
 I do cordially dislike — not hate, remember. Amy, — though I do 
 cordially dislike Lucy Cunningham, yet I must say Julia behaves 
 infamously ; she has been snapping at her the whole evening ; 
 and, moreover, almost laughed at Mr Cunningham to her face.' 
 
 'Oh no !' exclaimed Amy, 'she could not do that ; it would 
 be so dreadfully unfeeling.' 
 
 ' But she could, though ; she could do that or anything else 
 that came to her head. You know she sets up for being clever, 
 and thinks she may have everything her own way. I wish you 
 would talk to her, Amy.' 
 
 'Me !' repeated Amy, in a tone of the utmost surprise ; 'you 
 are laughing at me, Dora.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, I never was more in earnest in my life. I heard
 
 224 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 her sr.y to-day she thought you knew more of what was right 
 than any one else in the house, and had more courage too.' 
 
 Amy was silent from astonishment. 
 
 * It is your quiet way, Amy, which strikes her so, I am sure,' 
 continued Dora; 'you never make a fuss about being good- 
 natured, and yet you always do everything for everybody ; and 
 I am sure they must all see it, and love it too^at least if they 
 are like me. There is always a difficulty when any one else is 
 goodnatured, they seem to have achieved something.' 
 
 'You know, Dora,' replied Amy, gravely, 'that I always ask 
 you not to say such things to me, but you will forget. I don't 
 mean that I don't like it, because I do very much ; but mamma 
 would rather I should not hear them, and so it vexes me.' 
 
 'Vex you!' exclaimed Dora, earnestly; 'if you knew half I 
 \\-ould do to please you, Amy, you would not talk of my vexing 
 you, at least not willingly; I never could have believed, before I 
 came to Emmerton, how painful I should find it to be unkind to 
 any one ; but now I can never forgive myself when I have been 
 cross to you.' 
 
 The tears rose to Amy's eyes as she wished her cousin good 
 night and hastened away ; but the expression of Dora's affection 
 amply rewarded her for any impatience she had repressed, or 
 self-denial she had practised. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 DORA was quite satisfied the next morning when she saw 
 the whole party engaged in decorating the saloon for the 
 evening's amusement. Frank and his companions, indeed, were 
 at times rather more troublesome than useful, from the very zeal 
 with which they engaged in the work. They would put up 
 boughs of evergreens where they were not needed, and insist on 
 driving in a superabundance of nails ; and they would also strew 
 the floor with enormous branches, which only served as stum- 
 bling-blocks for every one who moved. Cut these were minor 
 evils; all talked fast, and laughed merrily, and looked happy; 
 and those who have ever had the responsibility of entertaining 
 others, must be aware that no symptoms can be so encouraging 
 as these. Miss Cunningham might perhaps have been con-
 
 AMV HERBERT. 225 
 
 sii'iered nn exception ; for there was something hke a sneer on 
 her lip, as she seated herself by Margaret's side at the table that 
 had been placed for the flower-makers, and began turning over 
 the collection of roses, tulips, and lilies of every form and colour, 
 which far out-shone in variety any that nature has produced. 
 'I should like to know,' she said, 'what is the use of your all 
 wasting time in this way? What will be the good of it when 
 you have done?' 
 
 ' It is for our pleasure,' replied Julia Stanley, sharply; 'and as 
 ic wasting time, why it is better than doing nothing.' 
 
 ' Such common, vulgar work, too,' continued Miss Cunning- 
 nam ; ' and all for a conjurer.' 
 
 ' Who said we were working for the conjurer?' asked Julia. 
 ' I said we were working to please ourselves.' 
 
 'Then it seems to me very absurd to find pleasure in such 
 nonsense,' said Miss Cunningham. 
 
 ' That is as people think ; I see no difference between cutting 
 out flowers and threading beads, which I think you were doing 
 all yesterday ; and if you do not like the work, you need not look 
 at it.' 
 
 ' I am sure I do not want to look at that or the conjurer, or 
 anything else,' said Miss Cunningham; 'tricks are far too vulgar 
 10 please me.' 
 
 ' But what do you mean by vulgar?' asked Dora. 
 
 'Vulgar? — why vulgar means — every one knows what ' it 
 
 means.' 
 
 'No,' said Mary Warner, in her quick, decided tone ; 'every 
 one does not know what it means, because no two people in the 
 world think quite alike about it.' 
 
 'Dear me! how silly you are!' exclaimed Miss Cunningham; 
 'vulgar? — vulgar means common, I suppose.' 
 
 'Then the conjurer is not vulgar, because his tricks are un- 
 common,' said Julia. 
 
 Miss Cunningham bit her lips and was silent; and Amy, who 
 was becoming interested in the discussion, turned to Miss 
 Morton, who had just entered the room, and asked her to tell 
 ihem what things she thought were vulgar. 
 
 'What a request!' said Julia; 'Miss Morton might go on all 
 day, and she would not be able to answer it. You have not been 
 taught to ask questions, that is quite clear.' 
 
 Poor Amy looked confused, and said, timidly, that she thought 
 she had expressed herself badly.
 
 226 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 'I know what you mean, though,' rcphcd Miss Morton, who 
 had of late ventured more openly to express her opinions, espe- 
 cially when called forth by Amy ; ' I don't think anything vulgar 
 in itself, but only when it is not befitting the rank and station of 
 the person concerned.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham opened her eyes widely, and looked as if 
 she would willingly have understood; and Amy begged Miss 
 Morton to explain herself more clearly. 
 
 * C«^njuring tricks,' she asked, 'are they vulgar?' 
 
 ]\liss Morton smiled. ' I hope,' she said, ' you are not growing 
 too proud to be amused; why should such a notion enter your 
 head?' 
 
 'Miss Cunningham thinks them so,' replied Amy. 
 
 • If Miss Cunningham were to exhibit them herself to any 
 people that might choose to come and look at them,' answered 
 M'ss Morton, ' I should have reason to think her vulgar ; but 
 the poor conjurer is a common person who gains his livelihood 
 'ly his ingenuity. There can be nothing more vulgar in his 
 sxhibition of tricks (if they are proper ones, I mean), than in a 
 carpenter's making a table, or a tailor's making a coat.' 
 
 ' Really,' exclaimed INIiss Cunningham, ' you have most extra- 
 ordinary ideas. I exhibit conjuring tricks, indeed ? I wonder 
 how the notion could ever have entered your head.' 
 
 'It is strange,' said Julia Stanley, quietly: 'conjurers are 
 generally clever.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham did not immediately perceive what was 
 intended, but Hester did, and in her endeavour to be polite in 
 contrast to her sister, contrived to make the meaning perfectly 
 clear. ' I do not see why you should think that, Julia,' she said, 
 ' of course a person of Miss Cunningham's rank would never 
 do anything of the kind, but it is wrong to say she could not 
 do it.' 
 
 ' No one said so, of course,' exclaimed Miss Cunningham. 
 
 'Oh dear! no,' replied Julia; 'all that I said was, that con- 
 jurers were clever.' 
 
 Amy looked at Miss Cunningham, and saw that for once in her 
 life she understood ; and anxious if possible to preserve peace, 
 she returned again to the subject of vulgarity; saying she wished 
 she could comprehend it better, 
 
 ' You will comprehend it very well when you are older and 
 have seen more of the world,' replied Emily ; ' but I think now 
 if you observe what things strike you as vulgar in persons, you
 
 AMY HERBERT. 227 
 
 \r,'ili find they are always those which arise from a wish to be 
 thought richer or cleverer, or higher in rank than they really 
 are, or else from their having the manners and habits of a class 
 who are inferior to themselves. Bad grammar is very natural in 
 a labouring man, and very vulgar in a nobleman ; a splendid 
 dress is very proper for a queen, and very vulgar for the wife of 
 a tradesman. All persons who go out of their station, or pretend 
 to be what they are not, must be vulgar, whether they are princes 
 or peasants. You often hear of persons of no education, who 
 have made great fortunes from a very low beginning, trying to 
 vie with those born to rank and riches, and then they are laughed 
 at as vulgar. If they had kept to their own station, they might 
 have had precisely the same manners ; but they would have 
 escaped ridicule, because then there would have been no pretence 
 about them.' 
 
 ' But it is in little things that I am puzzled,' said Amy. ' Are 
 persons vulgar \Aho make pies and puddings, and mend their 
 own clothes ? ' 
 
 ' To be sure they are. Amy,' said Frank, who had great notions 
 of having every one belonging to him very refined and superior; 
 ' I hope you never intend to do such things, or you had better 
 set up a dame-school at once.' 
 
 ' But do you think so, too.?' asked Amy, looking earnestly at 
 Miss Morton. 
 
 ' No ! indeed, I do not,' replied Emily ; ' I think the more we 
 know of common, useful things, the better, as long as we are not 
 ashamed of them. It is the doing them in private, and pretend- 
 ing to be ignorant of them in public, which constitutes the 
 vulgarity.' 
 
 ' I am always afraid of not knowing what I ought to do when 
 I am with people,' said Amy, ' and I should be so sorry to do 
 vulgar things.' 
 
 Miss Morton smiled, as she looked at Amy's sweet face, and 
 listened to her peculiarly ladylike pronunciation, and thought how 
 impossible it would be for her to appear anything but a lady. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Miss Cunningham, ' it is quite out of the question 
 for people who live always in the country to understand what 
 things are proper and fashionable, and what are not. I should 
 never have known myself if my aunt had not told me ; and of 
 course she knows, because she goes out constantly in London.' 
 
 ' Really,' said Julia, satirically, ' that quite surprises me ; but 
 then I am very ignorant, I have never even been in London.'
 
 228 AJfV HERBERT. 
 
 ' Do you think I shall ever learn to be fashionable?' asked 
 Amy of r\liss Morton, 
 
 ' I hope not,' said Emily, regardless of Miss Cunningham's 
 contemptuous smile. 
 
 'Why?' asked Margaret, 'do you not wish her to be lady- 
 like?' ' - ■ 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Emily ; 'but it does not follow that to be lady- 
 like it is necessary to be fashionable. A fashionable manner is 
 a manner put on ; a really ladylike manner arises from a really 
 ladylike mind — one is sincere, the other generally is affected; 
 and when persons strive to be fashionable, they often end in 
 becoming vulgar.' 
 
 'Then what do you think we should try to be?' asked Mary 
 Warner. 
 
 'Nothing,' replied Emily; 'those who possess a cultivated 
 mind, and a gentle, humble disposition, need not try to be any- 
 thing ; they may be quite sure of not being vulgar ; and as for 
 being elegant and graceful, they will never become so by 
 thinking about it ; the very endeavour must make them con- 
 strained.' 
 
 ' But I should so like to be elegant,' said Margaret. 
 
 ' So would many others,' answered Emily ; ' and they would 
 like to be beautiful too, but they cannot make themselves so. 
 Elesrance is a gift as much as beautv.' 
 
 A conscious smile passed over Margaret's countenance ; she 
 felt that one gift at least she possessed, and the sight of Miss 
 Cunningham's plain face was more agreeable to her than ever ; 
 she was sure it must be such a contrast to her own. 
 
 ' Then,' said Mary Warner, ' you would not advise any person 
 to imitate the manners of another ? ' 
 
 ' No,' replied Emily ; ' because persons' manners ought to suit 
 with their minds ; and as all persons have different minds, so 
 they must, to a certain degree, have different manners. Manners 
 should be the veil through which the mind is seen, not the cover- 
 ing by which it is hidden.' 
 
 ' Come, Frank! ' exclaimed Henry Dornford, who was tired of 
 having to labour alone ; ' do leave all the young ladies to discuss 
 their manners by themselves ; it can be nothing to you, and I 
 want you dreadfully.' 
 
 ' Coming, coming,' said Frank, hastily, ' only I must say one 
 thing, that 1 know I can see some persons' minds in theii 
 manners quite plainly. Yours, Dora, for instance ; any one
 
 AMV HERBERT. 229 
 
 might see you arc as proud as a queen by the way you march 
 into a room.' 
 
 ' O Frank ! ' half whispered Amy, as she saw the angry flush 
 on Dora's check, ' do not say such things as that ; you have 
 \exed Dora, I am sure.' 
 
 ' I did not mean any harm,' said Frank, ' only it is a truth ; 
 now I will just ask every one, don't you all think I am right ? ' 
 
 Poor Dora's dignity was shocked beyond expression at the 
 idea of this public criticism ; but she tried to laugh as her only 
 resource. Every one looked and felt awkward ; and Frank, who 
 had spoken thoughtlessly from the impulse of the moment, wished 
 his words unsaid. Happily Henry Dornford broke the silence 
 by calling again to him to leave them ; and Frank this time had 
 no wish for any more last words. Dora strove to recover her 
 equanimity, but in vain ; she fancied every one must be think- 
 ing of and judging her, and she knew that what Frank had said 
 was true. Perhaps, if he had expressed himself differently, her 
 annoyance might have been less ; for she had always imagined 
 it dignified and suitable to her position to have rather proud 
 manners — it kept people at a distance, and made them recollect 
 who she was, and she fancied that pride and dignity must go 
 together. But to hear her manners discussed in her presence by 
 school-girls and school-boys, was a very different thing ; and 
 after a few efforts to appear unconcerned, she left the party to 
 themselves, and retired to her own room. Amy saw by her 
 countenance what was passing in her mind; but she did not 
 like to follow her, for she knew there were times when pity and 
 sympathy would be more distasteful to Dora than anything. 
 When her cousin was unhappy, Amy had no hesitation in 
 endeavouring to comfort her ; but when she had done wrong, 
 it would have seemed interfering improperly to take any notice 
 of it, for Amy never forgot that Dora was her superior in age, 
 and in the knowledge of many things she had acquired by being 
 the eldest of the family, and by having been brought forward far 
 beyond her years. 
 
 Dora's absence was not much regretted, and the work went on 
 so quickly and merrily, that the sound of the dinner-bell was 
 pronounced by all to be very unwelcome ; but dinner was quickly 
 ended, and Henry Dornford again summoned them to put the 
 finishing stroke to the whole, and to say if anything more were 
 needed. The question went round in rotation ; and, being a little 
 tired, they felt no inclination to suggest further improvements.
 
 230 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 T5ut Amy, pcrcei\inc;- that Dora was not there, immediately pro- 
 posed that her opinion should be asked. 
 
 * Oh, nonsense ! ' exclaimed Margaret. ' What will it signify 
 what Dora says? We cannot all set to work again to please 
 her. Why will yon always interfere, Amy?' 
 
 ' I did not mean to interfere indeed, Margaret,' replied Amy; 
 * but you know Dora never likes anything to be decided without 
 her, and she has been the chief manager of this.' 
 
 ' She is the chief manager of everything, I think,' said Miss 
 Cunningham ; ' at least, she would be if she could.' 
 
 ' But she is the eldest,' said Amy. 
 
 ' She is not so old as I am ; and if she wei'e, I do not sec why 
 we are all to give up our taste to hers. If she wants to give an 
 opinion, why does she go away ?' 
 
 ' She did not know that it would be all finished so soon, per- 
 haps,' answered Amy. ' I wish I might go and tell her.' 
 
 ' There is no reason against it that I can see,' said Frank ; 
 ' only she must not expect us to begin working again, merely foi 
 her pleasure.' 
 
 *I daresay,' replied Amy, 'she will think it does very nicely: 
 but I am sure she would like to be asked, and it would be a pity 
 she should be vexed twice in the day.' 
 
 Frank's good-nature immediately took the hint ; and without 
 saying another ivord, he ran off himself to find Dora, and, if 
 possible to soothe her feelings by making her the principal per- 
 son in the business. A few months before, Dora's irritation 
 would have continued a whole day after such a severe trial to her 
 temper, and solitude would only have increased her annoyance, 
 by giving her more time to reflect upon its cause ; but since she 
 had known Amy, and could contrasthcr gentleness, meekness,and 
 constant cheerfulness, with things in her own character so much 
 the reverse, she had for the first time felt her defects, and longed 
 to correct them ; and having earnestly and resolutely determined 
 to realise those longings by putting in practice the rules she had 
 laid down to aid her improvement, she was now beginning to feel 
 all the benefit of them ; for she had learned, as the first step, to 
 distrust her own powers, and to ask for a higher strength. 
 Happily Dora was gifted with an energy of mind which pre- 
 vented her from delaying her duty when once it had been clearly 
 pointed out ; and the time spent by herself had been so well em- 
 ployed, that all traces of irritation had vanished even before 
 dinner, very much to Frank's and Margaret's astonishment: and
 
 AMY HERBERT. 231 
 
 now, with apparently the most perfect good-humour, she gave 
 her opinion as to what was required to complete the adornment 
 of the saloon ; and then, finding that no one was disposed to agree 
 with her, relinquished her own idea, and declared herself willing 
 to abide by the decision of the majority. 
 
 Amy noticed the change, and asked herself whether she could 
 have been equally good-humoured ; and Margaret remarked it 
 also, in so loud a whisper to Miss Cunningham, that it was im- 
 possible for Dora not to overhear it. The heightened colour told 
 in an instant that she did ; but she had conquered her temper 
 once that day, and the second trial was comparatively easy ; it 
 required but one moment of recollection, and a slight effort at 
 self-control, and to all appearance she was perfectly unrufiled. 
 
 The party separated almost immediately afterwards ; and Amy 
 went to her mother's room. Mr Harrington was with her, and 
 they were talking, as usual, of India, Colonel Herbert, and the 
 probability of hearing from him. The same things had been 
 repeated again and again ; but this subject was now the only 
 one in which Mrs Herbert could take any real interest, and her 
 brother's affection prevented him from ever feeling it wearisome. 
 
 'And do you really think, then,' were the words Amy heard 
 as she entered the room, ' do you really think that it is possible 
 there may be a letter by the last mail.?' 
 
 ' Only just possible,' replied Mr Harrington, 'as this place is 
 so retired, and my own letters sometimes go astray ; but you 
 must feel that such a hope as that is a mere shadow. I earnestly 
 wish you could make up your mind not to think about it. The 
 anxiety is doing you more harm than you can imagine.' 
 
 ' Dr Bailey will be here this evening, I suppose,' said Mrs 
 HerlDert, with a smile ; 'and then he will set your mind at ease 
 about me. I have felt so much better since I have had some- 
 thing like a certain hope to build on, that I have very little fear 
 for myself now.' 
 
 ' 13ut the suspense,' replied Mr Harrington; 'no mind can 
 bear that, and the constant dwelling upon one subject. If you 
 could only divert your thoughts, I am sure it will help you.' 
 
 ' I do try, indeed I do,' said Mrs Herbert ; ' for your sake, 
 and for Amy's, I make the cflbrt continually ; but the one idea 
 will remain ; and even when I believe I am interested in what I 
 am doing, I find that the slightest unusual sound, or the sudden 
 opening of a door, will make my heart beat violently, and bring 
 on the faintness to which I am subject, so as completely to take
 
 232 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 away my strength. But I am not going to give way to this, you 
 may be quite sure,' she added, seeing that Mr Harrington looked 
 very grave ; ' and to prove it, I intend to make Amy tell me all 
 blie has been doing this afternoon.' 
 
 Mr Harrington went away, and Amy did her utmost to amuse 
 her mother, and found so much to relate, that she had scarcely 
 time to dress before she was summoned to tea. The conjurer 
 was expected to arrive about seven o'clock, and Dora had 
 arranged everything satisfactorily to licr own wishes, with Mrs 
 Harrington's consent, for their having a dance when the exhibi- 
 tion was over ; and even Miss Cunningham condescended to say, 
 on hearing it, that she expected to have a very pleasant even- 
 ing. 
 
 Amy rather shrank from the idea of dancing before strangers, 
 and wished that the few persons invited for the evening would 
 hnd some reason for staying at home ; but her anticipations of 
 pleasure were still great, and when the party adjourned to the 
 saloon to await the conjurer's arrival, there were few whose 
 eyes sparkled as brightly, or whose laugh was as joyous as 
 hers. 
 
 ' Who has ever seen a conjurer? ' asked Henry Dornford, as 
 they stood round the fire. 
 
 l\Iary Warner was the only one who had been so Ibrlunate, and 
 the exhibition she had witnessed was but an indifferent one. 
 
 'Well, then !' exclaimed Henry, proud of his superior know- 
 ledge, ' I advise you all to take care of yourselves, or you will 
 lose your senses.' 
 
 ' Why should we do that ?' said Julia. ' Is the conjurer going 
 to steal them ? I shall congratulate him on the treasure he will 
 get from some of us at least ;' and she looked round to see if Miss 
 Cunningham were near ; but she had not yet made her appear- 
 ance, and Julia's satire was lost. 
 
 * I really am afraid for the little ones,' continued Henry. ' Con- 
 jurers do such wonderful things, and they generally dress them- 
 selves up in an outlandish way ; and the one I saw talked a sort 
 of double Dutch, just to make us think that he came from Tim- 
 buctoo.' 
 
 ' If that be a qualification for a conjurer,' said Julia, 'we had 
 better get poor Mr Cunningham to exhibit. I defy any one to 
 know wliat part of the world he comes from.' 
 
 ' So he would make a capital conjurer,' said Henry Dornford; 
 ' and he would not want a mask either ; for he can twist his face
 
 JJ/V HERBERT. 233 
 
 5nto a hundred and twenty different shapes in a minute. Just 
 look, I am sure I can do it exactly Uke him.' 
 
 'Ah : but can you talk too ?' said Julia: ' it is nothing without 
 the stammering and stuttering.' 
 
 * But he does not stammer,' observed Mary Warner. 
 ' Never mind,' said Henry. ' Listen— yet wait— I will go out of 
 the room, and come in again in his blind way, with a glass to 
 my eye, and then speak, and you shall tell me if you would have 
 known us apart.' 
 
 Julia laughed heartily at the idea, and Henry wasjust going 
 when he was stopped by Amy. 
 
 ' 1 wish,' she said, timidly, * you would not do it, because' 
 
 and here she paused. 
 
 ' Because what V asked Henry, in great astonishment. 
 ' Because,' said Amy, more firmly, 'it is not quite right, is it, 
 to laugh at people and mimic them ?' 
 
 ' Not right to laugh at people !' exclaimed Henry; ' what a girl's 
 notion that is ! — why, half the fun in the world would be gone if 
 we >Yere not allowed to laugh at any one.' 
 ' I don't think that makes it right,' said Amy. 
 ' Oh nonsense, nonsense ! ' was the reply. ' I will soon teach you 
 to think difterently from that ; now, just look at me, and see if it 
 is not capital sport.' 
 
 Henry ran to the door, and then re-entered, with a manner and 
 voice so exactly like Mr Cunningham's, that all burst into aloud 
 laugh ;— all, except Amy, who tried very hard to prevent even a 
 smile ; and when she found this was impossible, began blaming 
 herself, and anxiously repeating her request that Henry would 
 not do it. 
 
 ' It is quite Mr Cunningham's misfortune,' she said ; ' and he 
 is so good and kind — he has been so very kind to me.' 
 
 The peculiar sound which always preceded Mr Cunningham's 
 sentences was heard when Amy had spoken, and some one said 
 ' Thank you ;' but it was not Henry Dornford, for he looked com- 
 pletely frightened, and fixed his eyes on the door. No one ven- 
 tured to utter another word, and in the silence retreating foot- 
 steps were heard along the passage. 
 
 ' Do you think he heard all we were saying ?' asked Henry. 
 'Don't say wc,' replied Hester Stanley ; you knov/ no one had 
 anything to do with it but yourself. Why did you not tnke care 
 to shut the door?' 
 
 ' I daresay he only caught the last words,' said Julia ; 'and if
 
 234 ^^'^^y HERDERT. 
 
 so, '.here is no harm done ; besides, listeners never hear any f^oorl 
 of themselves. It is his own fault ; people who don't know how 
 to talk sliould stay at home.' 
 
 * I think it served us rii;ht,' said Mary Warner. ' I felt it was 
 wrong all the time, only it amused me so.' 
 
 * Well ! there is no use in troubling ourselves about it,' said 
 Julia; 'he is neither father, brother, nor cousin to any of us, and 
 most probaljly we shall never see him again after to-morrow ; so 
 do let the matter rest.' 
 
 Amy thought that the never seeing him again could not 
 make any difference in the action ; but it v/as not her place to 
 speak. She only felt glad that Mr Cunningham would not con- 
 sider her unfeeling and forgetful of his kindness, and wondered 
 at Julia's appearing so indiffei'ent to the thought of having given 
 pain, for she continued laughing and talking as before, and 
 trying to make the others do the same. Her efforts, however, 
 were not quite successful ; the circumstance had cast a blank 
 over their enjoyment, and many anxious eyes were turned to the 
 door to see if Mr Cunningham were likely to appear again, and 
 all felt relieved when the conjurer was announced, and the rest 
 of the company came into the room. Mr Cunningham was with 
 them, but their thoughts were now diverted from him, though 
 they all remarked that he took especial notice of Amy, and 
 placed her by his side in the best position for seeing everything. 
 
 Amy was grateful for his kindness, but wished it had been 
 differently shown. At first she felt uneasy in her rather elevated 
 situation, and she dreaded very much lest he should begin talk- 
 ing, and especially lest he should refer to what had passed ; but 
 this evening he was peculiarly silent ; and Amy soon forgot 
 everything but the delight of seeing flowers grow out of egg- 
 shells, chickens hatched in a gentleman's hat, rings and brooches 
 found in the possession of every one but their right owners, and 
 all the other wonders which made the conjurer appear to possess 
 some unearthly power. She hardly wished for an explanation 
 of them, and felt quite vexed when she heard Henry Dornford 
 whisper to Frank that some of the tricks were quite nonsense — 
 things he could do himself; while Mr Cunningham rose in her 
 favour when he told her that great part of the exhibition was 
 beyond his comprehension, and that what Henry had said was 
 merely a school-boy's boast. It seemed now less difficult to 
 believe the marvellous stones of fairies and genii which she had 
 so often read, and she was considering in her own mind whether
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 235 
 
 Aladdin's lamp might not actually be in existence at that mo- 
 ment, when the green curtain fell, and they were again left to 
 the realities of every-day life. There was an exclamation of 
 regret from all the party, with the exception of Miss Cunningham, 
 who said she was tired of sitting in a dark room. Even little 
 Rose, though she rubbed her eyes, and was almost inclined to 
 cry from mere weariness, begged that the funny man might come 
 back again, or that at least she might have one of the eggs with 
 the pretty flowers in it ; and Amy secretly wished the same 
 thing, though she was ashamed to own it when she found every 
 body laughing at Rose and promising her sugar plums and 
 sweetmeats to pacify her. 
 
 Miss Cunningham was the first to follow Mrs Harrington to 
 the drawing-room, and to propose that they should begin dancing 
 immediately — a proceeding which excited considerable surprise 
 in Amy's mind, and induced jMr Cunningham to take his sister 
 aside, and beg her to remember that she was not in her own 
 house, and therefore it could not be her place to make sugges- 
 tions. Dancing did, however, commence almost immediately. 
 Emily Morton was placed at the piano, and no one but Amy 
 appeared to consider that the trouble given required either 
 thanks or apolog}% It was her business and her duty ; and 
 whether agreeable or not, it was a subject of trifling moment. 
 Amy indeed had more leisure to think about it than the rest ; 
 for the number of dancers being unequal, she was the only one 
 left out. Dora and Margaret had been first thought of by every 
 one, and Mrs Harrington had taken care of the visitors ; but 
 Amy had no claim; she was looked upon as sufficiently at home 
 to be left to herself, and not of consequence enough to be noticed ; 
 and the quadrille was formed, and the music had begun, before 
 any one recollected her. Not to dance was rather a relief, but 
 not to be asked v/as a neglect to which poor Amy was peculiarly 
 alive. The occupations of the last few days had been too varied 
 and interesting to leave much time for her old feelings to return, 
 and she had fancied that they would never trouble her again ; 
 but now, as she stood by Miss Morton's side, the only one of the 
 young party who was disengaged, they pressed upon her mind 
 most painfully. Had her mother been in the room, she would 
 have felt it much less ; but Mrs Herbert seldom came down 
 when so many persons were present, and Amy in consequence 
 was completely alone. It was the gayest scene she had ever 
 witnessed, and the bright lights and the joyous music alone,
 
 23(5 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 would at auoihcr time have given her thorough enjoyment ; but 
 now they w-ere only a source of discontent, for they were looked 
 upon as intended for others and not for her. She w-atched Dora, 
 and thought how delightful it would be to be like her, the object 
 of general attention, and she listened to the whispered admira- 
 tion of Margaret's beauty, till she fancied for the moment that 
 to be beautiful must constitute happiness. But Amy's delusion 
 did not last long ; she turned from her cousins to Emily INIorton, 
 and the sight of her in some measure recalled better feelings. 
 With beauty, elegance, and goodness, she was as unnoticed as 
 herself. She had no mother, no friends ; her daily life was one 
 of wearying mortitication and self-denial ; and yet Emily Morton 
 had never been heard to utter a single murmur. She had never 
 been known to compare her lot with others, or to wonder why 
 she was deprived of the comforts enjoyed by them ; and her 
 heart was a perpetual well-spring of quiet gratitude, which made 
 the heaviest trials of her life sources of improvement to herself, 
 and of blessing to those around her. Even at that moment, her 
 sweet smile and cheerful voice, as she begged to be told whether 
 she was playing to please them, were a lesson which Amy could 
 not but profit by, for she knew that in Emily's place she should 
 have felt very differently ; and she sighed, as the thought crossed 
 her mind how difficult it would be to imitate her. She did, 
 however, make the effort at once, and, when Dora approached, 
 tried to speak gaily and to overcome her vexation ; but a second 
 and a third quadrille were formed, and still she was not asked to 
 dance; and then the tears rushed to her eyes, and she longed to 
 steal away unobserved, and go to her mamma for the remainder 
 of the evening. Yet she was too shy to venture across the room 
 by herself, and nothing was to be done but to sit quietly in the 
 corner, watching the others, and trying not to be envious of them. 
 Mr Cunningham would willingly have done his utmost to amuse 
 her; but he was obliged to dance himself to make up the set, and 
 it was not till the termination of the third tjuadrille that he came 
 to her and began talking. Amy w^as getting accustomed to his 
 voice, and found his conversation such a relief to her loneliness, 
 that it restored her to a feeling of something like pleasure. She 
 was certain also, from his manner, that he had overheard what 
 had passed in the saloon ; for, although his behaviour to Henry 
 Dornford, and the rest of the party, was exactly the satr.c as 
 usual, yet he was evidently more anxious to please her than he 
 had ever been before, and she felt his kindness peculiarly after
 
 AlffV HERBERT. 2yj 
 
 the disappointment she had suftered. She could not, however, 
 Quite recover her accustomed cheerfuhiess even when at length 
 she did join the quadrille ; and the enjoyment of the evening 
 was almost lost, especially when she thought how she had looked 
 forward to it, and compared her brilliant expectations with the 
 unlooked-for reality. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 BUT there was a greater trial awaiting poor Amy's feelings, 
 on that evening, than any she could suffer from neglect. 
 Tired with dancing, she had seated herself in the most retired part 
 of the room, and was half hidden by the window-curtain, when Airs 
 Danvers and another lady approached, and, without observing 
 who was near, began to remark aloud upon what was going on. 
 At first Amy was amused ; she supposed, from their speaking so 
 openly, that they had no wish for privacy, and all they said was 
 of so triiling a nature, and mentioned so good-naturedly, that 
 no pain could have been excited, even if it had been repeated 
 publicly. 
 
 The conversation continued for some time, and Amy, feeling 
 weary of her position, was wishing to move, when there was a 
 general press towards the door near which she was standing, and 
 which led into the library, where refreshments had been pre- 
 pared ; and as she stepped aside to make room for others to pass 
 on, it became necessary for her to remain where she was till they 
 were all gone. Mrs Danvers and her friend \\ere nearly in the 
 same situation, and still continued talking, as if perfectly careless 
 whether they were overheard or not. 
 
 ' Did you see that little girl,' said Mrs Danvers, * who danced 
 the last quadrille with Frank Harrington ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' was the reply ; ' I had not noticed her before all the 
 evening. Who is she?' 
 
 'A niece, I believe, of Mr Harrington's,' said Mrs Danvers ; 
 ' there is nothing very remarkable aljout her, only she interests 
 me from circumstances.' 
 
 'What circumstances?' inquired her friend. 
 
 'Her father is in India,' answered Mrs Danvers, 'and they 
 liave had no letters for a long time ; and though there has been
 
 238 AA/V HERBERT. 
 
 some rumour of him latclj-, and he may be returning home, it is 
 very uncertain ; and Mrs Herbert is in such a dreadful state of 
 anxiety in consequence, that she is extremely ill ; and if any- 
 thing should happen to her, of course the poor child will live 
 here.' 
 
 ' She will have a comfortable home, at all events,' observed 
 her companion. 
 
 Mrs Danvers looked grave, and replied, ' It will be a very 
 different thing from what it is now. Mrs Harrington is so proud, 
 and her eldest girl so exactly like her, that it will be a stale of 
 miserable dependence.' 
 
 ' But is there no liope for Mrs Herbert?' 
 
 'None at all, as far as I can understand. She has been get- 
 ting worse and worse for the last six months, and, in fact, I 
 believe myself that she is dying.' 
 
 Amy heard the last words, and it seemed as if all power of 
 motion or utterance had been taken from her. For months she 
 had felt at times a vague fear that her mother might be worse 
 than she would acknowledge ; but the interest of passing events 
 had quickly dispelled her apprehension, and she had gone on till 
 that hour without allowing herself to imagine that it could be 
 actually possible ; and now, in one moment, the dreadful truth had 
 flashed upon her mind — truth at least it seemed to her, for it had 
 been asserted so confidently, and by persons so much her supe- 
 riors, that she could not bring herself to doubt it. Her mother's 
 pale face, her uncle's anxious looks, his wish that a physician 
 should be consulted, all returned to her remembrance, and all con- 
 firmed Mrs Danvers' words. Her senses nearly forsook her, her 
 head grew giddy, the lights, the people, the music, seemed to have 
 passed away, and the only thing of which she was sensible was a 
 burthen of intolerable misery. Even tears did not come to her 
 relief ; for she was stunned by the suddenness of the shock, and, 
 silent and motionless, she remained unnoticed and unthought of 
 till the company had passed into the library ; and then, with a 
 sudden impulse to escape from the brilliant room and the sound 
 of gaiety, she ran up-stairs towards her mother's chamber. Still, 
 however, she had sufficient self-possession to feel that she might 
 be wrong to venture there suddenly ; and passing the room, she 
 continued her way along the gallery, with but one wish — that of 
 finding some place where she might be undiscovered. The sound 
 of footsteps only quickened her movements, and, almost uncon- 
 scious of her actions, she opened the first door that presented
 
 AMY HERBERT. 239 
 
 itself, and found herself alone in the chapel. The cold light of the 
 moon was shining full into the building, touching with its clear 
 rays the deep moulding of the arches and the rich tracery of the 
 windows, and bringing out into an unnatural distinctness the 
 sculptured figure of the old Baron of Emmerton, whose still 
 features seemed to retain, even in death, the holy, humble spirit 
 \Ahich, it was said, had animated them in life. At another time 
 Amy might have felt frightened, but the one overpowering idea 
 in her mind prevented the entrance of every other, and there was 
 a quietness and holiness in the place, which in some degree 
 restored her to herself, for it brought vividly before her the 
 remembrance of Him to whom it had been dedicated, and who at 
 that moment she knew was watching over her. She had, how- 
 ever, but a few moments for reflection, when the door opened, and 
 some one entered the private gallery. Amy tried to hide herself, 
 but Miss Morton's voice in an instant gave her ease and comfort ; 
 and, unable to speak, she threw herself upon her neck, and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 'Amy ! my dear, dear Amy !' exclaimed Miss Morton, 'what 
 can be the meaning of this ? Why are you here ? ' 
 
 Amy only replied by repeating the word ' mamma,' in a tone 
 of such deep misery, that Miss Morton's heart for the moment 
 misgave her. 
 
 ' What of your mamma ? ' she inquired. ' Is she ill ? ' 
 
 The question only seemed to increase Amy's distress, and 
 Emily became alarmed. * Will you not try to be calm for my 
 sake ? ' she said ; ' you cannot tell how anxious you are making 
 me.' 
 
 ' Is it true ? ' exclaimed Amy, almost gasping for breath ; ' why 
 did you not tell me before ? ' 
 
 ' What should I have told you ? ' said Emily, feeling com- 
 pletely bewildered. ' 1 have known nothing.' 
 
 ' But mamma,' continued Am)', ' she is so very ill— they say 
 she is, and every one knows it but me ; ' and again her sobs 
 became almost hysterical. 
 
 'This is some very great mistake, dearest,' said Miss Morton ; 
 * you will, I am sure, try to calm yourself, and listen to me. Mrs 
 Herbert is not at all worse than usual this evening.' 
 
 * Ah ! but Mrs Danvers said it,' replied Amy. 
 
 ' Said what ? ' asked Emily. 
 
 ' She said,' answered Amy, forcing herself to an unnatural 
 composure, ' that papa, perhaps, would not come home, and th"t
 
 240 AMY IIERIIERT. 
 
 mamma was so very ill ; and slie talked of my living here, and 
 that I should be miserable : but I should die — oh ! I know I 
 should die,' she added, with a vehemence which startled Miss 
 Morton. ' God would not let me live without them : do you 
 think He would ? ' 
 
 The tone in which this was said was almost too much for 
 Emily's firmness ; for the trial which Amy dreaded, she had 
 herself endured, and she well remembered its bitterness. ' My 
 own dear Amy,' she said, ' you must listen to me now, as you 
 have often done before : you know that I shall speak nothing 
 but the truth to you. Your mamma is ill from anxiety, but there 
 is no reason to apprehend that anything is seriously the matter 
 with her. Dr Bailey has been here this evening.' 
 
 'Has he.''' exclaimed Amy. 'Oh! why did you not tell me.'" 
 
 ' Because you were engaged at the time,' replied Emily, 'and 
 I had no idea you would be so anxious. He says that there is 
 nothing really amiss yet, that all she rec|uires is rest for the 
 spirits ; and he has c^uite relieved Mr Harrington's mind.' 
 
 'Are you sure? are you quite sure?' asked Amy, heaving a 
 deep sigh, as if to free herself from the overwhelming weight 
 which had oppressed her. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, I am sure,' replied Emily ; ' of course, it is not 
 for us to speak positively as to what is to happen — it may be the 
 will of God to take her, or to take any one, at any moment ; but 
 according to our human judgment there is nothing to fear.' 
 
 ' But you cannot be quite certain,' said Amy, whilst the cloud, 
 which had partly passed away, seemed about to return ; ' and 
 Mrs Danvers spoke as if she were.' 
 
 ' Mrs Danvers can know nothing of the matter,' answered 
 Emily ; 'she has seen very little of your mamma since she has 
 been here ; and you must think of what Dr Bailey says, and try 
 to be happy for the present.' 
 
 But Amy could not be happy ; she could not so easily overcome 
 the shock she had received ; and again anxiously asked Emily 
 whether Dr Bailey really said that her mamma would get well. 
 
 ' He thinks and hopes she will,' replied Emily; 'but no one 
 can be certain.' 
 
 ' But if she should not,' said Amy, as she leant her head on 
 Miss Morton's shoulder, and her tears flowed afresh, 
 
 ' If she should not,' replied Emily, 'would you not try to think 
 of her happiness, even if it were your sorrow ?' 
 
 Amy tried to recover herself, but the effort was almost be^'ond
 
 AJIV HERBERT. ■z\\ 
 
 her. ' I could not live without her,' she said, in a broken 
 voice. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Emily, ' you can — \vc all can learn to sulimit to 
 Nvhatever is the will of God ; and \vc can learn to think sufferin;,^ 
 a blessing, and to thank Him for it even more than for joy ; but 
 you will not understand this now.' 
 
 *To live here,' said Amy, following the course of her own 
 thoughts 
 
 ' You must not think of it,' replied Emily ; ' God may in mercy 
 grant you many years of happiness in your own home ; but there 
 is no place where He is which may not be your home. Will j'ou 
 endeavour to think of this, dearest ? I know it is true,' she 
 added, in a low voice, ' for I have no home.' 
 
 'Oh! if I could be like you,' exclaimed Amy, earnestly, re- 
 called for the nioment from the thought of her own sorrow. 
 
 ' Do not wish that,' said Emily ; ' but there is One whom we 
 must all learn to be like, and His life was but one continued scene 
 of suffering". A\"e can never have to bear what He bore.' 
 
 ' I am very wicked,' said Amy, 'but I will try to think as you 
 do, only it is so hard.' 
 
 'You need not make yourself unhappy now,' replied Emilj^, 
 'by dwelling on a trial which may be far off. I cannot see any 
 great cause for a.nxiety, only it is well at times to think of sorrow, 
 even in the midst of happiness, that we may be the better pre- 
 pared to meet it.' 
 
 ' I thought,' said Amy, ' that I should never be unhappy till I 
 grew old.' 
 
 ' And so I thought once,' replied Emily. * But, Amy, before 
 we were either of us conscious of existence, we were both dedi- 
 cated to the Saviour who died for us, and the sign of His suffer- 
 ing was marked upon our foreheads : it Mould be worse than 
 weakness to shrink from following His footsteps, because He 
 calls us to it early.' 
 
 ' And must I be miserable ? ' said Amy. 
 
 'No, never,' answered Emily, eagerly; 'miseiy is for those 
 who cannot feel that they have a Father in heaven, and therefore 
 it is that when we arc too happy, and begin to forget Him, He 
 sends us sorrow to recall us to Himself.' 
 
 ' Mamma told me something like that once,' said Amy, will) a 
 heavy sigh ; 'Ijut I did not think sorrow would come so soon.' 
 
 'You must not fancy it is come, dearest,' replied Emily; 'ard 
 you must not think, whatever liai'pcns, that you will be miserable. 
 
 Q
 
 243 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 In this place, least of all, because everything in a church reminds 
 us that we have God to watch over us, and our Saviour to love 
 us, and holy angels to guard us.' 
 
 Amy raised her head, and for a few moments gazed in silence 
 upon the still solemn beauty of the chapel. ' It is better to be 
 here,' she said, at last, ' than in the drawing-room with the lights 
 and the music' 
 
 ' You can feel so now,' replied Emily, ' because you arc un- 
 happy, and when you have had more trials you will feel so always. 
 When persons have suffered much, and borne their afflictions 
 with patience and thankfulness, they become in a degree calm 
 and composed, as that marble figure beneath us, for their eyes 
 are closed to the sights of the world, and their hearts are raised 
 continually to heaven. Only think how good the saints and 
 martyrs were of whom you have often read ; it was trial and 
 suffering which made them so.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! ' replied Amy ; ' but who can be like them ? ' 
 
 * We can,' answered Emily, ' if we really wish and try to be. 
 When we were baptized, you know, God gave us His Holy Spirit 
 to enable us to obey Him ; and you know also that He will give 
 it to us more and more every day, if we only pray to Him. The 
 greatest saint that ever lived could not have had a higher strength 
 than ours ; and therefore, if they bore their afflictions without 
 murmuring, we can do the same.' 
 
 Amy was silent, her eyes were fixed upon the marble monu- 
 ment, and she seemed lost in thought. ' May I go to mamma?' 
 she said, at length, in a calmer tone. 
 
 ' I think,' answered Emily, ' that Mrs Herbert is asleep on the 
 sofa in her bedroom ; at least Morris told me so just before I 
 came up-stairs, and perhaps you may disturb her.' 
 
 ' I must, indeed I must see her ! ' exclaimed Amy ; ' I do not 
 w^ant to speak, only to look at her ; and I will try to bear every- 
 thing,' she added, earnestly, though the tears again filled her eyes 
 as she spoke. 
 
 * I wish,' said Emily, ' you could have listened to Dr Bailey's 
 opinion yourself : I only heard it accidentally as I met him in 
 the hall. He seemed to think that if your papa came home soon, 
 Mrs Herbert would get well almost immediately.' 
 
 'I do not think he will come now,' said Amy; ' it seems all 
 changed, and my uncle wishes us not to think about it.' 
 
 Emily hardly knew what reply to make ; she had so many 
 fears upon the subject herself, that she dared not give Amy the
 
 AMY HERBERT. 243 
 
 hope which she desired, and could only again beg her to try and 
 trust all things to the will of God, and to feel that He whose 
 child she was, would be her comfort in every aftliction. 
 
 ' Will they miss me?' said Amy, as they left the gallery ; 'do 
 you think my aunt will ask where I am gone?' The question 
 showed that her mind had returned to something like its natural 
 state, and Emily felt considerably relieved. 
 
 ' I will take care to make your excuse,' she said, ' if any obser- 
 vation is made ; but, dearest, you must promise me not to sit by 
 yourself, and dwell upon all the possible evils that may happen. 
 I do not think you will, for your mamma's sake ; it will make 
 her worse to see you unhappy.' 
 
 '' I would try for you,' said Amy, ' I would do anything — yes, 
 anything in all the world for you.' 
 
 'Anything but believe that your mamma will get well,' said 
 Emily ; ' and yet that is what I most wish you to do now.' 
 
 Amy's only answer was an entreaty that she then would come 
 to her again as soon as she could, and sadly and noiselessly she 
 stole into her mother's room. 
 
 Mrs Herbert's sleep was calm as the sleep of a weary child; 
 her breathing was regular and gentle, and her face had lost the 
 painful expression of anxiety which was seldom absent from it at 
 other times. There was a slight tinge of colour upon her pale 
 cheek, and almost a smile upon her lips, and it appeared as if 
 the rest of the mind, which was denied to her waking life, had 
 been mercifully granted to her in her dreams. But Amy, as she 
 stood by her side, did not notice this ; she saw only the pale, 
 worn features, and the thin, delicate hand which was resting on 
 the book her mother had been reading, and every moment seemed 
 to force upon her more and more the truth of Mrs Danvers' 
 words. Yet her self-command did not again leave her ; and 
 seating herself on a low stool by the sofa, she continued to 
 watch and listen to every breath with an intense anxiety, which 
 made her insensible to all but the present moment. Still Mrs 
 Herbert slept, and still Amy watched, and by degrees the first 
 overpowering feeling diminished, and her thoughts returned to 
 the pas' -to her peaceful home, the cottage, which she had once 
 almost despised, with its sloping lawn and its beautiful flowers, 
 and the arbour where her happiest hours had been spent ; to 
 the quietness of her morning lessons, and the enjoyment of her 
 afternoon rambles ; and, above all, to the unwearying care which 
 had guarded her from every evil, and ministered to her hourly
 
 244 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 gratification ; and as she remembered these tilings, and then 
 gazed upon her mother's face, it seemed as if every feeling of 
 affection which she had hitherto experienced had been but cold 
 and ungrateful— as if now, for the first time, she had known what 
 it was really to love her. Of Emmerton, too, she thought, and 
 of her aunt, and Dora, and Margaret, and the possibility that 
 their home might be hers for the future ; and while pondering 
 upon the idea, the very comfort of the room in which she was 
 sitting, with its rich crimson curtains and thick carpet, and 
 luxurious chairs, and the soft, mellow light of the lamp burning 
 on the table — all became oppressive. They had made her envious 
 and discontented when she was happy, and now they could give 
 her no comfort when she was sorrowful. \\"hat would all the 
 riches of the world be to her without her mother ? On the 
 possibility of her father's return she could at first dwell but 
 little ; for it was difficult to believe it very near, and if it were 
 delayed it might be too late to be of use, and a meeting under 
 buch circumstances would be almost worse than a continued 
 separation. But Amy's spirit was too buojant in its nature to 
 remain long depressed by such forebodings ; there was a brighter 
 side to the picture, and I\Iiss Morton had entreated her to think 
 of it. Colonel Herbert might be on his voyage home, he might 
 even be in England at that very time, and then every one said 
 her mamma would recover. P'or one moment she believed that 
 it might be so, and her heart bounded with delight, though 
 immediately afterwards it sunk again into doubt and suspense ; 
 and at length, worn out with anxiety, she laid her head against 
 her mothers pillow, and slept also. The distant sound of the 
 music, and the hum of voices below, mingled strangely with her 
 sad thoughts, and her rest was far different from her mother's. 
 Visions of India, such as it had often been described to her, of 
 her father in health and happiness, and her mamma on her sick 
 bed, and of the cottage, and Emmerton, and her cousins^ were 
 blended together in her dreams, now bringing before her scenes 
 of sorrow and trial, and then changing them suddenly into 
 happiness. Sorrow indeed prevailed ; yet the hope which had 
 cheered her before she slept was associated with it, and even 
 when her wandering fancy pictured most vividly some painful 
 trial, her fother's image was at hand, to comfort and support 
 her. Half an hour passed away, and Amy's slumber still con- 
 tinued restless but unbroken, whilst in her dream she was walk- 
 ing with her father on the terrace at Emmerton, describing to
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 245 
 
 him her mother's illness, and begging him to go back with 
 her to the cottage, when a strange, unusual sound fell upon her 
 ear ; and as she turned to inquire from him the cause, she awoke. 
 The sound was apparently so real, that even when her recollec- 
 tion was completely recovered, Amy could not entirely believe 
 it was only a dream, and she listened eagerly to discover what 
 v.'as passing below. The music had ceased, but there did not 
 seem to be any preparations for departure, or the carriages 
 would have been heard as they drove up to the house ; and yet 
 there were distant sounds of bustle, doors were opened and shut 
 hastily, and voices were earnest in conversation, while servants 
 were moving quickly along the gallery. Amy thought and 
 wondered, and, without understanding her own ideas, grew 
 excited and anxious. She longed for her mother to wake, that 
 she might listen also ; and at length, unable to remain quietly in 
 her room, she walked softly into the ante-room. It looked 
 out upon the front entrance, and the bright moonlight made 
 everything appear almost as clear as day. Still unable to com- 
 prehend what was going on, she went to the window ; there was 
 £. carriage at the door, and she wondered that she had not heard it 
 approach, but still no one was departing, and bags and luggage 
 were being removed from it. Amy looked on for a few moments, 
 and then a thought of unspeakable happiness passed across her 
 mind, a thought so overpowering that it was gone in the next 
 instant. She felt that it was only fancy ; but it made her run 
 tu the door and again listen with breathless earnestness. Foot- 
 steps were heard upon the stairs ; she knew them well — they 
 were her uncle's, and her spirit sickened with disappointment ; 
 they came nearei- — and then she felt sure some one else was with 
 him. It might be Dr Bailey returned again, or Mr Dornford, 
 or any one, yet Amy's heart beat till she could scarcely stand. 
 ?kIore slowly (so it appeared to her) than he had ever moved 
 before, Mr Harrington passed along the gallery, and she was 
 just going to meet him when he entered the room alone. Amy 
 turned deadly pale, and did not speak ; but when she looked in 
 her uncle's face, her vanished hope revived. He asked, indeed, 
 only how her mother was ; but his voice was quick and un- 
 natural ; there was a bright, restless glance in his eye, and a 
 strange smile upon his lips. 
 
 ' Mamma is asleep,' said Amy ; ' she has been asleep very 
 long, and I slept a little ; but such a strange sound wakened 
 me.'
 
 246 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 'Nonsense, child,' said Mr Harrington ; 'arc you sure it was 
 not in your dreams ? What did you hear ?' 
 
 ' I don't know,' rephed Amy ; ' only it was so strange, and 
 there is no music now, and there is a carriage at the door.' 
 
 'Why, you foolish child,' said Mr Harrington, 'you are 
 dreaming still. It is time for every one to go.' 
 
 ' Is there really nothing?' inquired Amy ; and her very exist- 
 ence seemed to depend upon the answer she received. 
 
 ' What should there be V said Mr Harrington. ' Do you think 
 y(jur mamma could see Dr Bailey again?' 
 
 'Again !' repeated Amy : 'oh ! then, she must be very ill.' 
 
 ' No, no,' exclaimed Mr Harrington, ' not ill ; only he might 
 as well see her,' 
 
 ' But is he here?' asked Amy. 
 
 Mr Harrington did not answer ; but he left the room, and 
 Immediately returned, followed by another gentleman. Amy 
 looked at him as he entered, and for the first moment believed 
 that he was a perfect stranger ; but, as he stood quietly in the 
 door-way, with the light of the lamp falling full on his face, she 
 became conscious that every feature was familiar to her. Again 
 she looked, and then she doubted ; she seemed to know well the 
 high forehead, the dark eye, and the grave mouth ; but the sallow 
 complexion, the deep wrinkles, and the look of age, completely 
 bewildered her. 
 
 'Amy,' said Mr Harrington, 'why do you not speak?' 
 
 Amy's voice was almost choked as she endeavoured to reply. 
 
 'O uncle!' she exclaimed — 'if I could but tell ,' and she 
 
 burst into tears. 
 
 ' This must not be,' said the deep, rich voice of the stranger. 
 ' Harrington, it is wrong to trifle with her. Amy, my o\\ n pre- 
 cious child !' — and the next moment Amy was clasped in her 
 father's arms. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 IN her after-life Amy enjoyed many and great blessings ; but 
 she could never recur to any which equalled the pure, intense 
 pleasure of that moment. Colonel Herbert's return seemed the 
 restoration of both her parents ; and even before she had again 
 looked in her father's face, and wondered at the strangeness of
 
 AMV HERBERT. 247 
 
 his sudden arrival, she had thought ot the unspeakable relief 
 her mother would experience, and involuntarily rushed to the 
 door of her chamber. She was stopped, however, by INIr Har- 
 rington. 
 
 'We must be careful,' he said ; 'your mamma is too weak to 
 bear such a surprise. I will break it to her gently.' 
 
 ' Mamma is moving,' said Amy ; ' she will hear us. May I 
 not go ?' 
 
 Mrs Herbert had caught the sound of voices, and asked if 
 Amy were there. 
 
 'There is nothing to be done, then,' said JMr Harrington, in 
 answer to Amy's imploring look ; ' but remember you must be 
 cautious.' 
 
 Colonel Herbert came forward and stationed himself near the 
 door. 'I cannot bear this long,' he whispered. 'Amy, my 
 darling child, I must go to her soon,' and Am}', unable to restrain 
 her own eagerness, answered her mothers summons. 
 
 'Who is in the ante-room?' said Mrs Herbert. 'You were 
 speaking to some one.' 
 
 ' My uncle was there,' answered Amy; 'he did not know at 
 first that you were asleep.' 
 
 'Is it late?' asked I\Irs Herbert. 'You look so flushed, my 
 love ; have you been dancing much ? ' 
 
 ' No, not much, mamma ; there were so many ; and I sat still 
 a great while, and then I came up to you.' 
 
 ' I must have slept very long,' said Mrs Herbert ; ' and I 
 would willingly sleep for ever, if my dreams could be as happy ; 
 but I will not murmur ; it is an infinite blessing to have an 
 hour's rest to the mind, even if it be unreal.' 
 
 ' It may be real soon, mamma,' said Amy, and her voice 
 trembled as she spoke. 
 
 Mrs Herbert looked at her anxiously. ' You are worn out 
 with excitement and fatigue, my dear ; that flush on jour cheek 
 is veiy unnatural.' 
 
 ' I don't feel tired at all, mamma,' replied Amy ; ' but my face 
 is rather burning, I think.' 
 
 ' There is something the matter, I am sure,' said her mother ; 
 ' you never looked so before. Are you sure you have not been 
 vexed at anything ?' 
 
 'Vexed ! oh no ! mamma, anything but that.' 
 
 'You must go to bed soon,' said Mrs Herbert, 'or you will 
 certainly be ill to-morrow.*
 
 248 AJl/V HERBERT. 
 
 ' I had rather not go to bed,' repHcd Amy ; ' I coukl not sleep 
 if I did.' 
 
 'Not sleep!' repeated Mrs Herbert; 'then you must be ill, 
 my dear child, or,' she added, after again gazing upon Amy 
 intently, 'there must be something very unusual to prevent it.' 
 
 Amy did not reply, licr lip quivered, and her self-command 
 almost forsook her. 
 
 ' There is something,' said Mrs Herbert, starting up, 'I am 
 sure there is. Oh ! tell me quickly, is it sorrow !' 
 
 ' No, no, mamma,' exclaimed Amy, as she knelt at her mother's 
 side, and hid her face in her lap, 'it is not sorrow, — it is great, 
 great joy ; but my uncle says you will not be able to bear it.' 
 
 ' Is he come ?' asked Mrs Herbert, in a low, half audible voice. 
 
 There was no time to answer. Colonel Herbert had heard 
 the question, and entered the room. For an instant Mrs 
 Herbert fixed her eyes wildly upon him, doubting the reality of 
 his appearance ; and then, as the truth forced itself upon her 
 mind, she tried to rise from the sofa, and, unequal to the effort, 
 fell back and fainted. With returning consciousness came an 
 indistinct sense of gi-eat happiness, but it was some time before 
 she could entirely realise what had happened. She asked no 
 questions — she did not even seem surprised at her husband's 
 imexpected arrival ; but sat with his hand in her own looking at 
 him earnestly, as if still fearful that it was but a vision which 
 she saw, and that it would quickly vanish away. 
 
 Colonel Herbert's feelings were not quite of so unmixed a 
 nature. Mr Harrington had prepared him in some degree for 
 the change which illness and anxiety had made in his wife's 
 appearance ; but he had not pictured it to himself as great as it 
 reallv was. He had imagined that he should vet see the fair, 
 clear complexion, and the bright glow of health which he had so 
 much delighted in when they parted; and now, when his eye 
 rested upon her wasted features, the sad foreboding crossed his 
 mind, that they had met only to endure a more terrible separa- 
 tion. It was not a time, however, for the indulgence of sorrowful 
 thoughts. Mrs Herbert gradually recovered from the stunnint;- 
 effect of an overpowering joy, and was able to inquire into the 
 cause of his strange silence, and his sudden return. 
 
 The story, ^hen told, was very sunple. Colonel Herbert had 
 gone on an expedition into a distant province, as he had stated in 
 the last letter that had been received from him. The servant who 
 Ind accompanied him he had trusted entirely, and had confided
 
 ^LUV HERBERT. 249 
 
 to him several packets intended to be forwarded to England. 
 After the lapse of a considerable time, complaints of his silence 
 reached liim from several quarters ; and he then first discovered 
 the man's negligence, and wrote again to his wife, hoping that 
 his letter had been secured from all risks, though the unsettled 
 condition of the country through which he was travelling rendered 
 it very doubtful. Before an answer could be received, he was 
 seized with a dangerous illness, and left entirely to the care of 
 the uncivilised natives, in a state of pain and weakness which 
 prevented him from making any exertions for himself ; and, on 
 his recovery, hearing of the breaking out of the war, as Mrs 
 Herbert had expected, he hastened to join his regiment ; but the 
 insurrection, for it was scarcely more, having been quelled before 
 his arrival, he made arrangements for an immediate return to 
 England, feeling much distressed when he discovered, from Mrs 
 Herbert's letters, the dreadful anxiety she had undergone, and 
 the alteration it had effected in her general health. 
 
 ' You would have heard from me before I reached Emmerton,' 
 concluded Colonel Herbert, ' if this place were not so much out 
 of the regular posting line ; but I knew I should be with you 
 before a letter could be forwarded.' 
 
 ' You went first to the cottage, of course,' said Mrs Herbert ; 
 ' it must have worn a desolate face, with none to greet you.' 
 
 ' I inquired for you first in the village,' he replied, ' and learned 
 there that you were spending your Christmas at the Hall ; but 
 they gave me a sad account of you, my love, and I hardly know 
 that it is worse than the reality.' 
 
 ' \Vorse ! ' repeated Mrs Herbert, with a smile which made 
 Amy's heart bound in ecstacy ; ' it would seem worse than the 
 reality now, to say that even my finger ached. Years of health 
 seem to have been granted mc in the last hour.' 
 
 'So you say to-night,' replied her husband; 'but you must 
 look very different before I shall be cjuite happy.' 
 
 ' We must not doubt,' said Mrs Herbert, gravely, ' though I 
 am the last person to find fault with another on that account : I 
 have had dreadful forebodings lately ; and Amy, I suspect, can 
 tell you of some also, for my fears were beginning to infect her.' 
 
 Colonel Herbert drew his child fondly towards him. ' She 
 shall tell me everything to-morrow,' he said ; ' to-night she is ever 
 tired. 
 
 Amy wished to speak ; but her first delight had been succeeded 
 by something of shyness and restraint ,: for her father was in
 
 250 AMY HERBER T. 
 
 many respects so diflcrcnl from what she had anticipated, that a 
 feeUng of awe was partly mingled with the intense interest excited 
 by every word he uttered. Amy had seen but few gentlemen in 
 her lifetime, and Colonel Herbert was unlike them all. She had 
 been accustomed to his piclure, until the alterations occasioned 
 by years and a foreign climate were quite forgotten ; and the 
 many tales she had heard of his kindness and benevolence had 
 made her unprepared for the firmness and decision evinced in all 
 he said. Even the tone of his voice so little resembled any to 
 which she had been in the habit of listening, that it prevented 
 her from being at ease with him, although this very difference 
 served to increase her pleasure ; for to be loved and caressed by 
 one whose every word showed that he had been used only to com- 
 mand and be obeyed, was a happiness she had before been incap- 
 able of imagining. To sit by his side, and look at and hearken 
 to him, was all that she now desired ; and whatever fatigue her 
 countenance might express, she was herself too much absorbed 
 to think about it ; and it was not till some time had passed, and 
 she found herself alone, after having received her father's bless- 
 ing (it seemed to her for the first time), that she began to feel 
 the effects of the excitement undergone in the space of a few 
 hours. Wearied and exhausted, she seated herself by the fire, 
 and, unwilling to wait for the assistance of her mother's maid, 
 was endeavouring to summon resolution to exert herself, when a 
 gentle tap was heard at the door, and immediately afterwards 
 Dora entered. 
 
 ' I could not go to bed, Amy,' she said, ' without coming to you 
 for one minute. I wish I could tell you, but you know I can't 
 say things, only I am sure no one in the house can be as glad as 
 I am, except yourselves.' 
 
 ' Dear Dora,' exclaimed Amy, ' I thought of you when I began 
 10 think of anything ; and there is so much I should like to say 
 to you ; but I must wait till to-morrow, for I am so tired with 
 
 being happy.' 
 
 ' That was another reason for my coming,' replied Dora ; ' I 
 knew you would want some one to help you, and that my aunt's 
 maid would be engaged with her, and perhaps you would not like 
 to ring for Morris ; so I thought perhaps you would let me be 
 with you instead.' 
 
 ' Oh no,' replied Amy ; ' it was very kind in you to remember 
 me, but you cannot be any better than I am ; you ha^•e been 
 dancing all the evening.'
 
 A M Y HERBER T. 251 
 
 ' But I have set my heart upon it ; you would not refuse if you 
 could tell the pleasure it would be ; I don't mean to talk at all, 
 but just to do everything for you. Perhaps, though, you would 
 rather I came again presently.' 
 
 Amy hesitated, but Dora insisted on having her own way ; and 
 only left her on condition of being allowed to return in a quarter 
 of an hour. When her cousin was gone, Amy tried to collect her 
 thoughts, and oblige herself to attend to her evening prayers ; 
 but at first it seemed impossible. She longed to be grateful, but 
 fatigue overpowered every feeling ; and when, closing her eyes, 
 and hiding her face in her hands, she endeavoured to shut out 
 everything that might divert her attention, the vivid remem- 
 brance of all that had passed flashed upon her mind, and effec- 
 tually distracted her thoughts. Again and again she repeated the 
 form of words, but it was merely a form ; she could attach no 
 meaning to it ; and once she was tempted to )ield entirely, and 
 content herself with the notion that it was better not to pray at 
 all, than to do so when it appeared only a mockery. The next 
 instant, however, she was shocked at her own idea, and, after 
 asking for forgiveness and assistance, at length in some measure 
 succeeded in fixing her attention. The effort was great, and 
 Amy's conscience reproached her when she had ended for the 
 manner in which this most solemn of all duties had been per- 
 formed ; but her endeavours had been sincere, and she knew 
 well that even her imperfect prayers would be accepted, when 
 they v;ere offered in the name of her Saviour. She was now 
 also better able to feel grateful to God for His great mercies ; 
 for the name of her father had never sounded so precious as 
 when she had asked for God's blessing upon him, and had been 
 able to bring his countenance before her, such as she had that 
 evening seen it. Dora's knock was heard at the door before 
 Amy had time to read her accustomed psalm ; and, on her 
 entrance, she was looking so tired, that Amy was vexed at hav- 
 ing allowed her to return. She declared, however, that it was 
 only her cousin's fancy, and immediately began assisting her 
 with as much energy as if she had borne no previous exertion. 
 Amy was not very much inclined for conversation ; but she was 
 anxious to learn a few particulars of her father's arrival, and 
 especially, whether the sound in her dream had been real or 
 imaginary. ' It was so startling,' she said, ' I should like to be 
 quite certain that it was real.' 
 
 ' It must have been just v.hen your papa came to the door,'
 
 2 3^ A i\r Y HERBER T. 
 
 replied Dora. ' We hcnrd the carriage drive up, and thought it 
 was one that had been just ordered, so no one took any notice. 
 I remember I was tallcing to Mary Warner, and trying to pacify 
 her, for she has offended I\Iiss Cunningham; and suddenly there 
 was a great exclamation ; and when 1 turned round, my uncle 
 was standing in the door-way, and papa was looking so happy. 
 I knew in an instant who it must be. There was something said 
 about my aunt, and that she would hear ; and then every one 
 inquired for you, and you could not be found, and ICmily IMorton 
 said you were with her.' 
 
 'Then you did not miss me,' observed Amy, rather in a tone 
 of disappointment. 
 
 * I did,' replied Dora ; ' but Kmily told me you were unhappy 
 about my aunt.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Amy, shrinking from the remembrance of w Jiat 
 
 she had suftcred, ' I hope I shall never feel again as I did then.' 
 
 ' Do not think about it now,' said Dora, kindly: 'let me draw 
 
 the curtains, and make you quite comfortable, and then you shall 
 
 go to sleep.' 
 
 ' Would you do me one more favour ?' asked Amy. ' Mamma 
 always likes me to read something in the Bible at night, only a 
 short psalm, or a i&w verses that she has chosen for me; but my 
 eyes are so dizzy now, I can hardly see.' 
 
 'And you would like me to read to you?' continued Dora, 
 taking the Bible from the tabic. 
 
 'Just tell me about Miss Cunningham before you begin,' said 
 Amy ; 'but no,' she added, stopping herself, ' I will hear it to- 
 morrow. It will be better than thinking about it just now.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it is nothing at all,' replied Dorn. ' Lucy would play 
 as usual, and broke down, and w hen we were talking afterwards, 
 Mary asked her if she had not some notion of having lessons of 
 Emily Morton, and said what an advantage it would be, and this 
 put her into a great rage, because she declared it was laughing 
 and sneering at her— not that it was at all, for Mary Warner is 
 the last person to sneer, and was quite vexed at having given 
 offence ; but. Amy, why did you say it would be better to hear it 
 to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' Because you were just going to read the Bible,' replied Amy, 
 'and I thought it might put things into my head, and prevent 
 me from attending.' 
 
 'But you could have heard it afterwards.' 
 
 'No,' answered Amy, '1 generally read the last thing, and
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 253 
 
 then mamma tells me to try and not attend to common things ; 
 b'lic says our last thoughts should be of God.' 
 ' Wc should think of Him always,' said Dora. 
 
 * Yes,' replied Amy ; ' but you know, Dora, sleep is like death, 
 and perhaps we may never wake again.' 
 
 ' That never entered my head before,' said Dora, gravely. ' I 
 shall not go to sleep so comfortably now as I used to do.' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' asked Amy. 
 
 ' It is so awful. I should not care if I were you, Amy, and 
 had never done anything wrong ; but I could not bear to die 
 now.' 
 
 ' O Dora ! ' exclaimed Amy, ' you know no one could bear to 
 die, if they thought only of \vhat they had done wrong, and I am 
 sure the idea would make me miserable if I did not say my 
 prayers every night ; but when I have done that, and remember 
 wjiat mamma has shown me in the Bible about our Saviour, and 
 that God will love us for His sake, though we are so wicked, I 
 am quite comfortable ; and sometimes, after I have read my 
 psalm, I can go off to sleejD so happily, with the thought that 
 angels are watching all round my bed.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Dora, earnestly ; ' if angels w atch over any one, 
 they must over you. Amy.' 
 
 ' The Bible says they are sent to take care of us all,' replied 
 Amy. 
 
 ' I should like to think so,' said Dora ; ' but it is so strange.' 
 
 * It must be true,' answered Amy; ' if it is in the Bible, and I 
 like to think of them so much. It seems as if one could never 
 be alone ; and sometime3 I fancy that they are quite near, 
 amongst the trees and flowers. Will you read the psalm to- 
 night which says '"that God will give His angels charge over 
 us.''" I don't quite know which it is, but I think I could find it.' 
 
 Dora read the psalm, but she did not make any more obser- 
 vations; and having thought of every little trifle that could 
 contribute to Amy's comfort, she gave her one kiss of the truest 
 atTection, and left her to the enjoyment of a calm and innocent 
 repose. Her own thoughts, when she retired to rest, were far 
 from being happy : indeed, she seldom now had any conversation 
 with her cousin, without its being succeeded by a deep con- 
 sciousness of her own inferiority in tlio^c principles which she 
 '.vas just beginning to consider of the utmost importance; and 
 to this was now added a feeling of great loneliness. Colonel 
 Herbert's return would most probably cause a considerable
 
 254 yl^fy HERBERT. 
 
 change in Amy's life. She would be far less dependent upon 
 Emmcrton than formerly, and Dora found that her cousin was 
 gradually becoming so necessary to her comfort, that the idea 
 of any arrangement which might prevent her from being with 
 them constantly was excessively painful. Yet they might be 
 separated at any moment. Colonel Herbert mi-ht leave the 
 cottage : he might choose that Amy should travel, and then all 
 sympathy and consolation would be taken away; and while 
 dwelling sadly upon these probabilities, the image of Emily 
 Morton came before her, and with it the feeling that once she 
 might have been her friend, but that no present attention could 
 atone for the neglect and scorn that had so long been shown her. 
 Dora saw that she had injured her as far as lay in her power, by 
 destroying her comfort for months, and it was vain to hope that 
 now she would be willing to forget it. Amy would have thought 
 differently ; but she understood better than Dora what is meant 
 by forgiving our brother ' until seventy times seven,' and she knew 
 also that there was no Christian virtue, however difficult, which 
 Emily Morton did not endeavour to attain. 
 
 T 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 HE sun was shining brightly into Amy's room when she 
 -L awoke the next morning— so brightly, that she started up 
 in alarm at what she knew must be the lateness of the hour; but 
 the next moment brought the thought of her father to her mind, 
 and with it a feeling of entire happiness and peace. Her mother's 
 gentleness seemed frequently overpowered by her aunt's sternness, 
 but no one would dare to find fault with her in Colonel Herbert's 
 presence: and for the first time Amy felt sure that she could be 
 perfectly at her ease even if Mrs Harrington were there. Yet, on 
 remembering what had passed, and recalling her father's grave, 
 calm features, she was not entirely free from fear. His height, 
 his voice, his age, his manner, placed him in her imagination at 
 an immeasurable distance from her ; she could not believe it 
 possible that he should be satisfied with her ; he must expect to 
 see some one taller, and cleverer, and more accomplished: if she 
 could but sing and play like Miss Morton, and speak French and 
 Italian like Dora, she should not care ; but as it was, she was
 
 AJ/y HERBERT. 255 
 
 convinced he must be disappointed ; and as tliese thoughts crossed 
 her mind, Amy stopped in the middle of her toilette, and began 
 repeating French phrases, and reckoning how many drawings she 
 had to show, and playing over the most difficult passages in her 
 music with her fingers on the table. A knock at the door in- 
 terrupted her. It was Emily Morton, looking so happy, that 
 Amy fancied for the instant she must have some personal cause 
 for joy. But it had been long since Emily had known what it 
 was to be light-hearted for herself. Peaceful and contented she 
 could always be ; but when her countenance was the most 
 brightened by smiles, and her voice sounded the most cheer- 
 fully, the happiness of others rather than her own was invariably 
 the cause. She had learned to ' weep with those that weep,' 
 and now she was learning to 'rejoice with those that rejoiced.' 
 
 'You would have looked more frightened yesterday, Amy/ 
 she said, ' if I had told you breakfast was ready, and every one 
 wondering at your absence.' 
 
 'Ah, yes,' replied Amy ; 'but I cannot feci frightened at any- 
 thing this morning, excepting — I am afraid perhaps you will 
 think it wrong — but do you think papa will be pleased with me ? 
 1 don't mean exactly with my face, and my manner, because he 
 will not care so much about that, as I am his child ; but will he 
 think me very stupid, and dull, and different from everybody 
 else ? ' 
 
 ' If he should feel as I do,' said Emily, as she fastened Amy's 
 dress, and smoothed her dark ringlets, 'he will love you so 
 dearly, that he will not be inclined to criticise anything ; but we 
 must not wait to talk now — breakfast is really ready, and your 
 uncle asked me to come for you.' 
 
 ' My uncle ! ' said Amy ; ' but shall we not be in the school- 
 rooni as usual ? ' 
 
 ' No,' replied Emily ; ' every one was so late this morning", 
 that Mrs Harrington thought it better not.' 
 
 ' And will all the company be in the breakfast-room, then ?' 
 said Amy, in great alarm ; ' and am I the last ?' 
 
 ' Not quite,' replied Emily ; ' Mrs Danvers is not come down 
 yet ; and there is a special place left for you at the bottom of 
 the table, between your papa and your uncle.' 
 
 ' I do not think I can go,' said Amy, stopping as she was 
 about to leave the room ; ' there will be so many — and it will 
 be just like seeing papa quite new — I can hardly rKcollect nov; 
 what he was like last night.'
 
 2'/:> AMY HERBERT. 
 
 ' BiU he asked so often if your cousins liad seen you, and was 
 so anxious about you,' replied Emily, 'he could scarcely attend 
 to anything else ; and )our mamma was obliged to beg him not 
 to have you disturbed, or I am sure he would have sent for you 
 half an hour ago.' 
 
 ' If I thought he would not l3C disappointed, I should not care,' 
 said Amy, as she moved slowly along the gallery ; ' but I know 
 all my ideas will go when he speaks to mc, and then he will 
 think me so dull, and be so vexed.' 
 
 'Will you, dearest, try and not think of yourself at all?' 
 replied Emily. ' It is distrusting your papa's aftection to have 
 such fancies, and it will do you harm in every wa\-.' 
 
 ' I would if I could,' answered Amy ; ' but I must wish to 
 please him.' 
 
 ' I do not say there is any harm in it,' replied Emily, ' only it 
 will make you awkward and uncomfortable if you dwell upon it; 
 whatever you feel, however, it will last but a short time ; )ou 
 will be quite at home with him in a few days.' 
 
 Amy was very much inclined to pause when they reached the 
 breakfast-room, and continued talking, but Emily hastily opened 
 the door, and she was obliged to enter. The room was quite full, 
 and she did not at first see either her mamma or her cousins ; 
 even the persons she knew the best seemed quite strangers to 
 her ; but Emily led her to the bottom of the room, and Colonel 
 Herbert came eagerly towards her ; and as she seated herself in 
 the vacant chair by his side, looked at her with an expression of 
 such deep, heartfelt satisfaction and love, that slic would have 
 been quite satisfied and happy, if bashfulness and humility had 
 not prevented her from understanding its meaning. At first, she 
 was very silent, feeling rather bewildered by the sound of so 
 many voices, and the attention which every one was inclined to 
 bestow upon her, for her father's sudden return had excited a 
 general interest ; but by degrees she summoned courage to make 
 a few voluntary observations ; and the eagerness with which he 
 answered her so increased her confidence, that before breakfast 
 was ended, she had given him a full description of her life at the 
 cottage, and her studies and amusements. Colonel Herbert 
 listened with unwearied pleasure. In many a solitary hour he 
 had solaced himself by imagining what his child would be like, 
 and now his fondest expectations were realised. By the side of 
 her cousin Margaret, indeed, Amy might have been little re- 
 garded, at least by those who cared only for personal beauty ;
 
 AJ/V IIERBERT. 257 
 
 but to this Colonel Herbert was indifferent. One glance was 
 sufficient to show that Amy was a lady in every word and move- 
 ment, and with this he was satished ; and even had her eyes 
 sparkled less brightly, and her countenance been less interesting, 
 he would not have been disappointed ; for in the expression of 
 every feature, as well as in every sentiment and feeling, he could 
 read the gentleness, meekness, and purity of the spirit within. 
 Once only Amy paused in her account, when her attention was 
 caught by a sound which she had not heard before for many 
 months ; it was her mother's laugh — so clear, and sweet, and 
 joyous, that it might almost have been the echo of her own ; and 
 when she turned eagerly to look at her, and saw the change that 
 even one night had produced, the last remaining shadow which 
 rested on her mind passed away, and she felt that Dr Bailey's 
 words must be true, and that nov/ there was little cause for 
 fear. 
 
 ' You will wish to go to the cottage, I suppose, by and by,* 
 said Mrs Herbert, before they left the breakfast table, 'and Amy 
 can go with you.' 
 
 ' There will be the carriage at your disposal,' said Mr Har« 
 rington, ' if you are not afraid to venture out.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert was very much inclined to take advantage of the 
 oft'er, but her husband interfered. 
 
 ' I have a disappointment in store for you both,' he said, ' not 
 a very great one, though — so, my darling Amy, you need not look 
 so blank ; but 1 must ride into the town to-day. I have a mes- 
 sage from a very great friend of mine, to his mother and sisters, 
 and I promised, if possible, to deliver it personally on my arrival 
 in England ; you will not ask me to delay it, I am sure.' 
 
 'Oh no, no!' exclaimed Mrs Herbert, recollecting her own 
 feelings a short time since, and the relief any intelligence would 
 have afforded her ; ' but you will pass the cottage — cannot you 
 contrive to take us with you so far ?' 
 
 'Not you,' replied Colonel Herbert; 'it would be too great a 
 risk in this weather ; for if we were once there together, we 
 should spend hours in wandering about and talking over old 
 times, and I have learned Dr Bailey's opinion by heart — he says 
 there must be no excitement, and no exposure to cold.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert again urged her wishes, but her husband was in- 
 exorable. He prized too dearly his newly-recovered treasure, he 
 said, to allow any risk to be run, but he should like, if possible, 
 for Amy to be with him. 
 
 R
 
 258 AJ/V HERBERT, 
 
 ' I coiild walk, indeed, I could walk quite well, dear papa,' 
 said Amy ; * I have done it before ; and it would seem such a 
 short distance with you.' 
 
 'There will be no occasion for anything of the kind,' said Mr 
 Harrington ; 'you can easily go with your papa in the carriage, 
 Amy, as far as the cottage, and one of the grooms shall take a 
 horse to meet him there, and then he can go on to the town, and 
 you can return here.' 
 
 Amy thought the plan delightful, though she wished her 
 mamma could go too, but Colonel Herbert again expressed his 
 fears ; and it was agreed that this day at least should be given to 
 perfect rest and quietness. The carriage was ordered almost 
 immediately, and Amy ran up-stairs to prepare, but on her way 
 she was stopped by Mary Warner. 
 
 * I am so sorry you are going out this morning, for my own sake,' 
 she said, 'as we shall be gone probably before you return, and I 
 have seen nothing of you ; and besides, I wished very much, if 
 I could, to talk to you about Miss Cunningham. Your cousin 
 tells me that you know how angry I made her last night.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Amy, ' I wish I could help you, but I am afraid 
 it is impossible, and papa will be waiting ; can you not come to 
 my room whilst I am dressing?' 
 
 ' If I may,' said Mary, ' I should be very glad, for I am not at 
 all happy about it.' 
 
 'But, indeed,' answered Amy, 'you must not think I can do 
 anything ; you know I am so much younger than Miss Cunning- 
 ham, and she will never bear my interfering in an)' way.' 
 
 ' I do not wish you to interfere,' said Mary, ' only to tell me 
 whether you think I was very wrong, and if I ought to make 
 any more apologies.' 
 
 Amy led the way to her room, and endeavoured to give Mary 
 her full attention, though her thoughts would frequently wander 
 to the cottage, and the drive with her papa, notwithstanding all 
 her eftbrts to prevent it. 
 
 'You know the beginning of the affair, I suppose,' said Mary. 
 'It was merely an observation of mine about the advantage it 
 would be to Miss Cunningham to have music lessons. I know 
 it was foolish in me to say it, because it was just after she had 
 broken down in a piece she was playing ; but I am in the habit 
 of saying just what I think, so I often get into scrapes. I cannot 
 tell why she should have been so angry, though ; but she declared 
 e\cry one was trying to be impertinent to her, and thnt it was
 
 AA/r HERBERT. 259 
 
 not my place to say what would be an advantage to her , that I 
 was but a school-girl, and could not possibly know anything 
 about it ; and then she went on muttering something to herself 
 about London, and that all the world would be mistaken ; but I 
 could not in the least understand what she meant.' 
 
 'And did you say you were sorry ?' asked Amy. 
 
 'Yes; I begged her pardon immediately, but that did not 
 satisfy her, and I saw she wished me to retract, or at least to say 
 something in her praise ; but that I could not do— I could not 
 tell her anything that was not true, for the world.' 
 
 ' No, of course not,' said Amy ; ' but how can I help you .'"' 
 
 'I don't know,' replied Mary, 'unless you could make IMiss 
 Cunningham less angry ; she will scarcely speak to me now, and 
 your cousin Margaret has taken her part ; and Hester Stanley 
 declares I was very rude, and has been quite lecturing me this 
 morning, and Julia only laughs, and your cousin Dora says it 
 does not signify.' 
 
 ' I cannot think there is anything to be done,' said Amy, ' and 
 I wish you would ask some one who knows more about such 
 things than I do.' 
 
 ' I have talked to them all, excepting you,' replied Mary, ' and 
 I did not come to you for advice exactly, because I do not 
 really think it can be helped ; but I am very unhappy, and 
 wanted some one to talk to. I wonder if it was very wrong in 
 me to say what I did : I did not mean any harm ; but I always 
 think it right to speak what is strictly the truth. Should you 
 have done the same if you had been in my place ? ' 
 
 'I daresay I should,' replied Amy; 'but mamma tells me I 
 ought to be very careful always, and not to make hasty remarks, 
 because I may vex people very much without meaning it.' 
 
 'That is what I do sometimes, I am afraid,' said Mary ; 'and 
 yet I only mean to be sincere.' 
 
 'Miss Morton is sincere,' replied Amy, thoughtfully; 'but I 
 do not think any one could be vexed with her. I should like to 
 be able to say straightforward things as she does.' 
 
 'Miss Morton is so gentle,' said Mary; 'and once or twice 
 I have noticed her manner when she has differed from any one, 
 and it appeared as if she were so afraid of annoying them, I do 
 not think any one could take offence at her.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Amy, hesitatingly, ' it is what every one ought 
 to 1)6, and then ' 
 
 * 1 know what you mean,' exclaimed Mary. ' I knov/ I am
 
 26o ylMV HERBERT. 
 
 abrupt. Mamma is often telling mc of it, and I daresay I was 
 wrong last night ; but what is to be done now?' 
 
 ' There is papa calling me,' said Amy, ' I wish I could stay ; 
 but indeed I must not keep him waiting.' 
 
 Mary looked heartily vexed. ' I do not think I shall go down- 
 stairs again,' she said. ' We arc to set off very soon, and I 
 cannot meet Miss Cunningham.' 
 
 ' But she will not think about such a trifle still,' said Amy. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, she will,' replied Mary ; ' I cannot tell you how 
 she looked this morning at breakfast. I am sure that piece of 
 music must be a tender subject with her.' 
 
 Colonel Herbert's voice was again heard calling for Amy, and 
 she had no time to attempt comforting poor Mary. 
 
 ' I must not wait a moment,' she said, as she wished her 
 'good-bye,' 'but I daresay 1 shall see you at Emmerton again, 
 some day or other ; and then, if Miss Cunningham is not here, 
 we shall be able to enjoy ourselves a great deal more.' 
 
 Mary could hardly say with truth that she ever wished to 
 come to Emmerton again, she was feeling so annoyed with her- 
 self, and almost every one about her ; but she could and did 
 express a most sincere hope of meeting Amy at some future 
 time, and they parted with mutual feelings of kindness and 
 interest. As they passed through the hall. Miss Cunningham 
 was at the drawing-room door. She did not notice Amy, though 
 she had not spoken to her before that morning, but her con- 
 tracted brow and curling lip portended no common storm. 
 Amy was too happy to think of her ; she was standing by her 
 father's side listening to his parting words to Mrs Herbert, and 
 caring only for the pleasure before her ; and when he stopped 
 to give the necessary directions to the coachman, she was still 
 too much occupied to observe the tone in which Miss Cunning- 
 ham inquired, ' whether anyone had seen Margaret lately, as 
 she must speak to her directly.' 
 
 The carriage drove off, and the footman at the door was 
 despatched in search of Margaret, who soon made her appear- 
 ance, with a face of eager curiosity, which was quickly clouded 
 when she saw the expression of her friend's countenance. 
 
 ' What do you want with me ?' she asked ; ' I was very busy 
 in the schoolroom ; I hope it is something of consequence.' 
 
 ' Of course it is,' was the reply, 'or I should not have sent for 
 you. But it will not do to talk about it here ; you must come 
 to my rooTi.'
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 26 r 
 
 ' Tell me whom it concerns,' said Alargaret. ' Is it anything 
 about London ? ' 
 
 But Miss Cunningham either did not hear or would not answer. 
 She led the way to her own apartment, and carefully bolting 
 the door, exclaimed, with a scornful laugh, 'Well, Margaret, I 
 wish you joy ; it is all settled, and you are going.' 
 
 ' Going ! settled ! ' — repeated Margaret ; ' it cannot be true ; 
 no, I am sure it is not ; you would not looi-: in that \\'ay, if it 
 were.' 
 
 ' Yes, but I should, though,' exclaimed Lucy, ' for it is quite 
 true you are going ; but you will not have me to go with you ; 
 that is all I v/ished to say.' 
 
 'Pray, pray, Lucy,' said Margaret, 'do not tease me in this 
 way. How do you know it is settled ? ' 
 
 'Because,' replied Miss Cunningham, rising from the seat on 
 which she had thrown herself, and walking quickly about the 
 room, 'because papa, and Mr Harrington, and Colonel Herbert 
 have been talking of it. Papa said he must make one more effort 
 before we went home, and he mentioned the subject directly 
 after breakfast ; and when Colonel Herbert heard it, he said he 
 should be obliged to be in London about Easter ; and then Mr 
 Harrington turned completely round, and declared his being 
 there would make all the difterence in the world, and that he 
 should certainly consent, and so they said it was settled ; but 
 they did not ask me,' she continued, more vehemently, ' and they 
 shall find that I can have a will as well as themselves. I will 
 never, no, never consent to be treated again as I have been 
 treated here. To be taught by that Miss Morton — I would 
 rather stay at home all the days of my life ; and those school- 
 girls too — actually Miss Julia Stanley had the impertinence 
 to say, just now, that she should be glad to hear me play after I 
 had had lessons, and see if I were improved ; not that there is 
 any chance of our meeting. London is a very different place 
 from the country ; and that she will soon know.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Margaret, soothingly, ' she will never come in your 
 way there.' 
 
 'But Miss Morton, that Miss Morton,' exclaimed Lucy. 'I 
 am quite in earnest, Margaret ; you may talk for ever, you may 
 go down upon your knees to me, and I will never agree to go if 
 she does.' 
 
 'Dear Lucy,' said Margaret, covering her with kisses, and 
 speaking in her most persuasive voice, 'you knov.- how mucli I
 
 262 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 love you, and how miserable I shall be without you ; you are 
 only saying this in joke, I am sure.' 
 
 'You may be sure of anything you like, it docs not signily to 
 mc ; nothing can make me change.' 
 
 'But you will not care when those girls are gone away,' said 
 Margaret ; 'you are merely vexed because they arc so rude' 
 
 'Vexed ! ' repeated Miss Cunningham ; ' when did I say I was 
 vexed ? who cares for school-girls ? how can they know good 
 music from bad ?' 
 
 ' No, to be sure not,' said Margaret ; ' and Julia Stanley 
 cannot tell a note.' 
 
 ' I never knew that,' exclaimed Lucy, rather pacified. ' How 
 foolish she would have looked, if I had asked her to sit down 
 and play it better.' 
 
 ' I wish you had done it, with all my heart,' said Margaret ; 
 ' but it is not too late now : they are here still, — let us go into 
 the schoolroom and say something. I should enjoy making her 
 ashamed of herself, and we shall not have another opportunity ; 
 for, as you observe, there is no chance of meeting her in London.' 
 
 Margaret waited anxiously to hear what eftect her words would 
 have, and to remark whether the mention of London would bring 
 back the thought of Emily Morton. But Miss Cunningham had 
 now seized upon this new idea, and forgot that her indignation 
 had been excited by any one but Julia. ' Are they all there ? ' she 
 said ; 'half the pleasure would be gone, if there was no one by.' 
 
 ' They were all there when I came to you,' replied Margaret ; 
 'but we must make haste, for Dora was wishing to take them 
 round to the farther side of the lake this morning, because it is 
 the only part of the grounds they have not seen.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham hardly waited to hear the end of the sen- 
 tence ; she hastened down-stairs, and to her great delight found 
 the whole party lingering round the tire in the schoolroom, wish- 
 ing to go out, yet unwilling to brave the cold. If Margaret had 
 been rather quicker in perception, and not quite so anxious, she 
 might have been amused at this moment in watching her friend's 
 manner. Evidently she had determined on saying something 
 very severe, which should put Julia completely to the blush ; but 
 in her great eagerness and her extreme dulness, she failed 
 entirely, for she merely walked up to the fire-place, stationed 
 herself immediately in front of Julia, and in a sharp, cross tone, 
 said, * You found fault with my music just now ; I should like to 
 know if you can play it better,'
 
 AJrV HERBERT. 263 
 
 Jalia stared, and answered, ' Oh, dear no ; who would atlempt 
 to vie with you ?' 
 
 ' You are right, Margaret,' exclaimed Miss Cunningham ; ' she 
 cannot play a note, Margaret told me so, just now,' she added, 
 turning to Julia, ' and so I was resolved I would ask you.' 
 
 'You are quite welcome to ask anything you like,' reiDlied 
 Julia, coolly. ' I am not in the least ashamed of not being able 
 to play at all. Perhaps I might be, if I pretended to know what 
 I \\as ignorant of, and then broke down before a large party.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham's countenance expressed unutterable feel- 
 ings of anger and disgust ; and Dora, really alarmed lest a quarrel 
 should ensue, quickly interposed, and, begging they would pre- 
 pare for their walk immediately, hastened Julia out of the room. 
 
 ' It is your fault, it is all your fault, Margaret,' exclaimed 
 Lucy, when they were again left together ; ' you are always 
 getting me into scrapes ; and that girl, that odious girl, why did 
 she ever come near the place .'" 
 
 ' Really, Lucy,' began Margaret, ' I do not see what reason you 
 have to blame me,' and then, recollecting how important it was 
 that her friend should be soothed, she added more gently, ' I 
 could not have supposed any one would behave so rudely as she 
 has done.' 
 
 ' I shall go home,' said Miss Cunningham ; ' I have had no- 
 thing but vexation ever since I came here, and I will not bear it 
 any longer.' 
 
 ' But Lord Rochford has promised to stay till after New Year's 
 day,' observed ?klargaret. ' You know we cannot have any one 
 else, because it was poor Edward's birthday.' 
 
 ' Papa will do as I wish him,' said Lucy ; ' if I want to go home 
 he Viill not prevent me.' 
 
 'And he will do as you wish about London, you may be sure,' 
 continued IMargaret, who, in her extreme anxiety, could not 
 avoid recurring to the subject, even at the risk of again exciting 
 Miss Cunningham's vehemence. 
 
 ' I have told you a hundred and fifty times before,' was the 
 reply, ' that my lessons are quite difterent from everything else ; 
 you do not think I have been so silly as not to try all I could 
 about it long before this.' 
 
 ' But you will stay over New Y'car's day,' said Margaret, coax- 
 ingly : ' if we try hard we may be able to manage something 
 together.' 
 
 The notion seemed rather plausible, and Miss Cunningham
 
 264 A.UV HERnERT. 
 
 condescended to say that she would see about it ; perhaps she 
 might, if she were not plagued any more with the school-girls. 
 
 'They will be gone soon/ said Margaret; 'and if you would 
 come with me now, you might get quite out of their way, and not 
 speak to them again.' 
 
 ' Where are you going, then ?' asked Lucy. 
 
 *I wished very much to- walk to our old steward's cottage. 
 He has had a pony training for me some time, just like Dora's. 
 I want to see it, and mamma always scolds us if we go out of the 
 grounds alone ; but she will not mind if you are with mc.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham walked to the window to look at the weather, 
 which certainly, but for the cold, would have been very inviting, 
 although the melting of the ice and snow rendered the walks in 
 some places dirty and disagreeable, 
 
 'My pony is much more beautiful than Dora's,' said Lucy, 
 'and much larger too. I wonder she likes riding such a little 
 thing. Is yours the same size, Margaret?' 
 
 ' I do not know exactly ; but do come and see it, it is not very 
 far. I don't think Dora will be able to get to the other side of 
 the lake, as she wished, and if so, we shall have the girls back 
 again in a minute.' 
 
 'I shall go away, then,' said Lucy. 
 
 'Oh, do not do that,' exclaimed Margaret. 'You will be so 
 dull, for I cannot be with you, because they will all be setting 
 off, and mamma will find out if I am in the house, and make me 
 stay with them. There is no way of avoiding it, unless we go 
 out.' 
 
 ' Is it far?' asked Lucy. 
 
 ' Oh no, only through the plantations, and then across a field. 
 I do not think we have ever been there with you. The lield next 
 to the one we shall go through is very steep indeed, and the river 
 runs at the bottom of it, and I daresay it might be muddy and 
 dirty just by the banks, but our path will not be at all so.' 
 
 'Well,' said Lucy, sulkily, 'if we must go, we must; any- 
 thing is better than those girls.' 
 
 Margaret thought the sanie ; of all things she dreaded another 
 quarrel, and she hoped, by a little quiet flattery, to bring her 
 friend, when they were alone, into something like good-humour ; 
 and without waiting for Lucy to change her mind, she hurried 
 her up-stairs to prepare for the walk. 
 
 Amy, in the meanwhile, was enjoying herself to the utmost. 
 A very short time had sufficed to remove almost all dread of het
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 265 
 
 father, and only enough remained to increase the interest of his 
 conversation. At first it ^vas entirely about India and his 
 travels ; and Amy listened as she would have done to a romance 
 or a fairy tale, and thought her papa a greater person than ever, 
 as she disco\'ered how much he knew, and the wonders he had 
 seen : and then again he recurred to his long silence, and the 
 uneasiness he knew it must have occasioned them, and spoke of 
 the eagerness with which he always inquired for letters, and the 
 pleasure it had been to hear from her of all she had been doing ; 
 ' though you did not tell me many of the things you mentioned 
 this morning,' he said, — 'the little things, I mean.' 
 
 ' I should write differently now, papa,' replied Amy. ' I did 
 not quite know what to say then, and I always fancied you were 
 a great man, and would not care for little trifles.' 
 
 ' But, Amy,' said Colonel Herbert, ' if persons are really great, 
 they can care for, and attend to everything. It is only those 
 who think themselves great, when they are not, who despise 
 trifles.' 
 
 ' It is very nice,' said y\my ; ' but I cannot think now that 
 you really like to hear about my donktv, and my flowers, and 
 my lessons.' 
 
 ' I will tell you when I am tired of it all,' replied her father ; 
 ' but now you must talk to me a little about Emmerton, and 
 your cousins. Do you like them very much, and is it very plea- 
 sant staying there ? ' 
 
 *I like Dora, papa,' exclaimed Amy, 'so much — so very 
 much. .She is so kind, and so thoughful ; and yet' — she added, 
 pausing — ' I do not think she is kind and thoughtful either, not 
 to every one, at least.' 
 
 Colonel Herbert smiled. ' You seem to have made a nev»' 
 discovery,' he said. ' Is Dora's character such a puzzle to every 
 one ? ' 
 
 ' I never thought about it before,' replied Amy ; 'and now I 
 do not think I quite know what she is ; but I love her very much, 
 though she is not at all like IMiss Morton.' 
 
 'Miss Morton is the governess, is she not?' said Colonel 
 Herbert ; ' I used to knov/ her very well as a child.' 
 
 ' She is not exactly the governess,' replied Amy ; ' but she 
 teaches my cousins some things, and she has taught me too. 
 Emmerton would be so different if she was not there.' 
 
 'I thought,' said Colonel Herbert, 'that you were always 
 delighted witli Emmerton before your uncle came.'
 
 2^36 AMY IlERRF.nT. 
 
 ' Ah ! yes,' answei cd Amy ; ' but that was before I knew any 
 better ; when I only thought about all the old lords and Indie's 
 who they said used to live there. There was nothing real tlien ; 
 but I liked to make them out very good and beautiful— and 
 sometimes I wished I had lived in those days, because no one I 
 could ever hear of was quite good, except mamma and Mrs 
 Walton ; now, I never care about such things, for Miss Morton 
 is better, I think, than I ever imagined, and prettier too; don't 
 you think she is ?' 
 
 'She has a very sweet face, certainly,' replied Colonel Herbert ; 
 ' but, Amy, how good you ought to be alter being so much \\\i\\ 
 her.' 
 
 Amy looked rather grave : 'I have thought of that sometimes,' 
 she said ; ' but I hope you will not be very much vexed with me, 
 dear papa ; indeed I do mean to try so hard.' 
 
 'You must not think I doubted it, my love,' he replied ; 'but, 
 you know, we shall be obliged to answer for the use we have 
 made of our friends, just as much as for the use we have made 
 of our money or talents. I do not think, though, that Miss 
 Morton has been thrown away upon you.' 
 
 ' It was mamma who made me see Miss IMorton's goodness,' 
 replied Amy. ' I do not think I should have noticed it half as 
 much if she had not been so like her ; and that was the first 
 thing which made me love her. Margaret and Dora did not 
 appear to think anything about her for some time.' 
 
 'And do they now?' asked Colonel Herbert. 
 
 ' I am not quite sure as to Margaret,' replied Amy ; < but I 
 think Dora does, though she will not acknowledge it ; and, by 
 and by, I dare say, she will love her as I do, and then Miss 
 Morton will be happier ; for it must be very dreadful, papa, to 
 live all by one's self, without any person to care for one.' 
 
 ' Who does live so, Amy ? Not Miss Morton, I am sure, from 
 your account of her.' 
 
 ' Yes, but indeed she does live alone very much. Rose is a 
 great deal too young to be a companion to her.' 
 
 'Does she say herself that she has no one to care for her.?' 
 said Colonel Herbert, looking rather graver than usual. 
 
 Amy thought for an instant, and then answered, ' I do not 
 think she would say so, because she told me the other night that 
 wherever God was, was our home ; and she is so good, that I 
 daresay loving Him does instead of friends; but, papa, I am afraid 
 I shall never feel like that,'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 267 
 
 * It is a hard lesson,' replied Colonel Herbert, as he looked at 
 his child, and thought what his feelings would be if he were 
 obliged to part from her. ' But here we are at the cottage, 
 Amy,' he added, after a few moments' silence. ' I must go over 
 it quickly, for I have but little time to spare.' 
 
 Amy eagerly ran into the house, but her father followed more 
 slowly. Every tree and stone served to recall some vision of the 
 past, some walk, or book, or conversation, which at the time he 
 had been hardly conscious of enjoying, but upon which he now 
 looked back with almost melancholy regret. Amy soon noticed 
 the change in his manner ; and leaving him to his own reflec- 
 tions, wandered about by herself, finding suflicient occupation in 
 repeating the instructions which Mrs Herbert had sent to the 
 servants, inquiring for the people in the villnge, whom she had 
 seldom before left for so long a time, and visiting her pet rabbits 
 and her donkey. It was a slight disappointment to see her father 
 so abstracted ; but the feeling quickly passed away, when he 
 made her go with him into the drawing-room, and began pointing 
 out a few alterations which he hoped to make in the house, and 
 talking of the new piano he intended to procure for her when 
 next he went to London ; and then showed her the books he 
 wished her to read, promising that, if possible, some portion of 
 his time should be given every day solely to her, to perfect her 
 in the knowledge of history and languages, before he took her 
 abroad. Every word realised more fully the blessing of her 
 father's return ; and though the time thus spent was but short, 
 it was sufficient to open many new sources of enjoyment ; and 
 when at length Colonel Herbert placed her in the carriage by 
 herself, she was so occupied with all he had been saying, that 
 she forgot to give directions for being driven to the rectory, 
 though at another time a visit there would have been her 
 greatest delight. The servants, however, had received previous 
 instructions, and Amy soon found herself in Mrs Walton's draw- 
 ing-room, recounting to her all the changes of sorrow and of joy 
 which she had experienced since last they met.
 
 268 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MISS CUNNINGHAM'S temper was not likely to be \rn.- 
 proved by the pleasures of her wintry walk, and this 
 Margaret quickly perceived, for it required all her powers of 
 flattery and persuasion to prevent her from turning back at every 
 step; and although perfectly sensible of the importance of 
 humouring and soothing her, it was impossible to avoid 
 occasionally showing a dislike to cross looks and harsh words. 
 The walk through the plantation was tolerably firm, for the 
 heat of the sun had not entirely penetrated it, but the opea 
 field was in many places very unpleasant, and but for the thought 
 of her pony, Margaret would on no account have attempted to 
 proceed. Miss Cunningham slowly followed her, sighing and 
 muttering, and at length, stopping at a gate leading into the 
 adjoining fields, she protested nothing should induce her to move 
 one step farther. 
 
 ' It is but a very little way,' said Margaret ; 'you can see the 
 cottage just among the trees ; I daresay the lane will not be ab 
 bad as this.' 
 
 ' You can go by yourself, can't you ?' replied Lucy ; ' there is 
 no good in both of us getting into a mess.' 
 
 ' But I wanted to know whether you thought the pony as 
 pretty as Dora's. I am not going to have it, if it is not.' 
 
 ' Then we must come another day,' was the reply. ' I could as 
 soon wade through a pond as this field.' 
 
 ' I do think,' said Margaret, looking over the gate, ' that it is 
 much drier in this other field, and there is a bridge down at the 
 bottom over the stream ; I should not wonder if we could get to 
 the cottage by going over it.' 
 
 As she spoke, Margaret was about to open the gate, when sh.e 
 heard some one repeating her name, and turning round, sav,' 
 Rose and Miss Morton, who were hr.stening towards her from 
 the bottom of the field. 
 
 ' I have been trying,' said Emily, as she came up, ' to find my 
 way to Stephen's cottage, but the lane is in such a state, that it 
 is almost impassable— at least for Rose— so I must beg you to 
 take care of her for a few minutes, while I make another attempt. 
 I shall be vv'ithin sight, and almost within hearing the whole 
 way.' 
 
 * It is very provoking ;' observed Margaret, 'is there no mode
 
 AMV HERBERT. 269 
 
 of reaching the cottage by the next field and the bridge ? it lool-cs 
 a great deal drier.' 
 
 'No,' replied Emily, 'you would find a hedge in your way, 
 unless you went a considerable distance round ; but can I say 
 anything to Stephen for you ? I must see him to-day, for his 
 daughter is ill ; and there are some directions for her medicine 
 which no one can give but myself.' 
 
 ' You may tell him,' said Margaret, ' that I want very much to 
 see the pony ; and that I shall not have it, unless it is quite as 
 pretty as Dora's.' 
 
 * Shall I say that it is to be sent for ?' asked Emily. 
 
 ' You may if you will — that is, I must speak to papa about it 
 first ; but I suppose there will be no objection to my having it to 
 tr}'.' 
 
 Miss Morton secretly wished that Margaret would learn to be 
 more grateful and courteous in her expressions ; and then charg- 
 ing Rose to Vvalii up and clown the field in order to keep herself 
 warm, and on no account to give her sister any trouble, she 
 walked towards the cottage. She was hardly beyond hearing, 
 when Miss Cunningham began complaining of the trouble that 
 had been caused, and wishing that they had not met ; declaring, 
 at the same time, that she would not stay in such a bog for any 
 one ; it would be much better in the other field, and she should 
 go there.' 
 
 ' Come, Rose,' said Margaret, opening the gate, ' you must go 
 first. I will lift you over the bad places, and then we can keep 
 to the dry part of the path.' 
 
 ' I was told to stay here,' said Rose, ' and, besides, I am never 
 allow^ed to walk in that field, it is so steep, and there is water at 
 the bottom.' 
 
 'You must do as you are told by us now,' exclaimed Miss 
 Cunningham, ' so come directly.' 
 
 Still Rose resisted. Emily would not like it, she said, and 
 would not be able to find her, 
 
 ' It does not signify,' observed Alargarct, desirous from selfish 
 motives to please her friend in every fancy. 
 
 ' She can stay here if she wishes it. It can make no difference 
 which side of the gate we are. If you arc such a naughty child, 
 Rose, you must remain by yourself, but don't be frightened, ^^•e 
 shall not be out of sight.' 
 
 Rose was half inclined to follow, but Miss Cunningham shut 
 the gate, and she was prevented. The path certainly was much
 
 270 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 drier and more ngreeablc ; and Margaret and Lucy paced up and 
 down for several minutes, until, catching sight of some animnls in 
 a field adjoining the stream, Margaret declared tliey were horses, 
 and she was sure her pony must be amongst them, and calling to 
 Rose to remain exactly where she was till they came back, she 
 hastened to satisfy her curiosity. Rose begged her not to go out 
 of sight ; but Margaret did not think it wortl: while to attend ; 
 and although the distance was not very great, tlic poor child 
 immediately began to fancy she was left, and stood looking 
 anxiously through the gate, and entreating Margaret to return, 
 till she gradually worked herself into a state of great distress, 
 which was brought to its climax, when, on turning round to see 
 if Miss Morton were coming, she perceived that a few cows had 
 been driven into the field, and that one of them was moving 
 rather quickly in her direction. In an agony of alarm, Rose at- 
 tempted to open the gate, but it resisted all her endeavours ; and 
 then, forgetting everything but her desire to escape from the 
 cows, she made a desperate effort, and succeeded in scrambling 
 over it, and seeing her sister standing by the bridge at the 
 bottom of the field, ran at full speed towards her. Margaret saw, 
 and called loudly to her to be careful, but the poor little girl's 
 friaht prevented her from attending, while the swiftness with 
 which she ran, and the steepness of the hill, took from her the 
 power of stopping, and in one moment, while yet unconscious of 
 her danger, her foot slipped ; her head struck against the pro- 
 jecting branch of a tree, and she fell with violence into the 
 water. Margaret's scream of horror was echoed by Miss Cunning- 
 ham, who immediately ran from the spot, calling loudly for assist- 
 ance, while Margaret, with greater presence of mind, caught hold 
 of a broken bough that lay upon the ground, and bent over the 
 stream, in the hope of reaching her sister's dress, and so being 
 able to save her. But the rapidity with which it flowed frus- 
 trated her hopes, and in another minute all probability of rescuing 
 the unfortunate child would have been at an end, when the man 
 whose cows had been the principal cause of the accident came to 
 her assistance, and by the aid of a longer stick, and more power- 
 ful arm, succeeded in placing Rose once more in safety. 
 
 Margaret's first feeling was one of overpowering relief and 
 gratitude ; but when she boked at her sister's face as she lay 
 perfectly senseless in the laoourer's arms, her terror returned ; 
 and unable to decide upon what was next to be done, she stood 
 by her in silent desp'xi'", unronscious of the approach of Miss
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 271 
 
 Morton, who, alarmed by Miss Cunningham's cries, as she was 
 returning from the cottage, had quickly guessed the cause, and 
 was hurrying towards them, followed by another man. 
 
 'To the Hall! carry her to the Hall !' were the first words 
 she said ; and they were spoken so calmly, that but for the 
 expression of her countenance, no one could have guessed the 
 extent of her feeling. 
 
 The man in an instant obeyed, and strode rapidly across the 
 field, but Emily's anxiety gave her for the time a strength far 
 beyond her nature ; and she kept pace with him, and even occa- 
 sionally outstripped him, urging him at every instant to hasten, 
 for that life and death depended on his speed. Margaret and 
 Miss Cunningliam were left far behind, and as they drew near 
 to the house, almost unconsciously, JMargaret lingered. Neither 
 she nor Lucy had spoken during their walk, and ample time had 
 been given to both for reflection. At first Margaret had felt 
 stunned by the alarm ; but as she thought of meeting her mother, 
 the horrible idea crossed her mind, that she had not been entirely 
 guiltless of the accident. 
 
 *0 Lucy!' she exclaimed, when they stopped at the Hall 
 door, 'why did we leave her?' 
 
 ' She will get well soon,' said Miss Cunningham ; but her 
 manner was subdued, and she spoke less confidently than usual. 
 
 Margaret did not wait to reply, but hurried to Miss Morton's 
 room. Rose, hoM-ever, had not been carried there, and the house 
 was in such commotion, that it was some time before she could 
 obtain any information as to what had been done ; but at last 
 she was told that Mr Harrington had ridden off himself for Dr 
 Bailey, and that Mrs Harrington and Miss Morton were together 
 using every means for restoring the poor child to life. Morris 
 named the room to which Rose had been taken, but when Mar- 
 garet tried the door, it was bolted ; and though there were voices 
 within, no attention was paid to her entreaties for admittance. 
 As she turned away in disappointed misery, Dora met her. 
 
 'O Margaret !' she exclaimed, 'is it your doing?' 
 
 ' No, no,' replied Margaret ; ' why are you so cruel as to say 
 it? Do you know how she is?' 
 
 ' Better,' answered Dora, trying to command herself; ' she has 
 shown signs of life, but they will not let you in.' 
 
 'Who will not?' inquired Margaret. 
 
 ' Mamma and Emily INIorton ; they are talking together, and 
 they have fastened the door. Hark ! you can hear them now.'
 
 2 72 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 I\Irs Harrington's voice sounded strangely in the chamber of 
 anxiety and fear. She ^vas evidently in a state of the utmost ex- 
 citement, and Emily's gentle answers seemed hardly listened to 
 for an instant. Dora and Margaret gazed at each other in silent 
 amazement ; in a few minutes the bolt was hastily and angrily 
 withdrawn, and Emily Morton entered the passage. Dora caught 
 her dress, and was about to speak ; but when she looked in her 
 face, she felt it was impossible. Such intense suffering was ex- 
 pressed in every feature, in her llrmly compressed lip, and the 
 ghastly paleness of her check, and the contraction of her fore- 
 head, that Dora did not dare inquire the cause. Yet, even then, 
 Emily had a thought for others. ' Rose is better,' she said, and 
 pointed to the open door, and then, turning away, she passed in 
 a moment from their sight. 
 
 'What can be the matter?' exclaimed Margaret. 
 
 ' Mamma is angry that Rose was left, I suppose,' replied Dora. 
 
 ' She would have thought nothing about it, but for the acci- 
 dent,' said Margaret, with a painful consciousness of being in- 
 finitely more to blame than Miss INIorton. 
 
 ' I don't know any of the particulars,' observed Dora ; ' no one 
 has had any time to ask ; but I wish you would tell me now.' 
 
 Margaret was beginning her account, when the door again 
 opened, and iNIrs Harrington seeing them in the passage, called 
 Dora into the room, and ordered Margaret to send Morris to 
 her immediately. 
 
 Margaret delivered the message, and then went to the school- 
 room, where she found Miss Cunningham seated by the fire, with 
 a book in her hand, and not only composed, but cheerful. 
 
 'You are not unhappy now, IMargaret, are you ?' she said; ' I 
 dare say little Rose will be quite well again tomorrow. Susan 
 Reynolds told me just now that she was a great deal better.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Margaret ; 'she is better, certainly, she would 
 not be alive else ; but it is nonsense to talk of happiness. What 
 will mamma say when she knows how it all occurred?' 
 
 ' Who is to tell her ?' said Lucy. ' We need not.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Margaret ; ' but I rather suspect mamma thinks 
 it is owing to some carelessness of Emily Morton's. She was 
 talking to her very angrily a little while ago, and when Emily 
 came away she looked like a frightened ghost.' 
 
 ' But it was careless in her. What business had she to trouble 
 us with the care of such a child? she might have known that it 
 would be verv inconvenient.
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 273 
 
 ' If mainnvi has a notion that it was her fault, she will send 
 her away,' said Margaret, while a feeling of satisfaction dawned 
 upon her mind as she thought of the London journey. 
 
 ' Will she, indeed V exclaimed Lucy ; * then we shall enjoy 
 ourselves after all.' 
 
 Margaret shrank from having her own idea put into words. 
 ' You must not be too sure of that, Lucy,' she replied : ' I only 
 said that Emily would be sent away if mamma considered the 
 accident her fault, but, in fact, it was no one's fault ; and this she 
 \\'ill find when inquiries are made.' 
 
 ' ]\Irs Harrington is coming now,' said Lucy : ' I am sure that 
 is her voice ; she is speaking to Dora.' 
 
 Margaret trembled extremely. ' I hope mamma is not going 
 to ask about it, Lucy.' 
 
 'What are you afraid of ?' replied Lucy: 'we had nothing to 
 do with it.' 
 
 Margaret's conscience did not fully acquit her ; but her un- 
 easiness was lessened when her mother entered, still talking to 
 Dora. ' I have ordered the carriage, and she shall go,' were her 
 first words. ' I shall never bear the sight of her again, and she 
 wishes it herself. She says Mrs Walton will receive her.' 
 
 • But was it really her fault, mamma?' asked Dora. 
 
 '\Vhose could it be?' replied Mrs Harrington. 'She left her 
 — left her in that field, notwithstanding my strict charge to the 
 contrary, for such a child could never have opened the gate : and 
 she must have known that there was danger.' 
 
 ' But Margaret and Lucy were near,' continued Dora. 
 
 '.So she says,' replied Mrs Harrington; 'but they could not 
 have been, or they would have taken care of her.' 
 
 ' Where were you when poor little Rose fell in ?' asked Dora, 
 appealing to her sister. 
 
 Margaret was about to reply, but a glance from Miss Cunning- 
 ham stopped her, and she suffered her to speak instead. 
 
 ' We were standing near the bridge, looking for Margaret's 
 pony; and when v>-e saw what had happened, we ran directly and 
 tried to save her.' 
 
 ' I told you so, Dora,' exclaimed Mrs Harrington, in extreme 
 indignation. ' 1 knew she equivocated : she shall not remain in 
 my house another hour.' 
 
 Mrs Harrington rang the bell violently, and Dora felt almost 
 too much alarmed to speak; she did, however, suggest that Mar- 
 garet and Miss Cunningham should tell the whole story, as she 
 
 S
 
 274 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 felt certain there must be some mistake. Again Margaret would 
 have rephed; but Miss Cunningham, who was standing at her 
 side, pressed her hand as a signal for silence, and at that instant 
 the servant entered. 
 
 * Let the pony-carringe be ordered directly,' said Mrs Har- 
 rington : ' I wish it to be at the door in an hour's time. I will 
 not hear another word, Dora,' she added : ' the case is quite 
 clear. Go immediately, and let Miss Morton know when the 
 carriage will be ready.' 
 
 'O mamma!' exclaimed Dora, while tears rushed to her eyes 
 — ' if you would send Morris.' 
 
 ' Dora, I will be obeyed instantly,' said Mrs Harrington. 
 
 ' But Amy is not come home yet, mamma,' persisted Dora, 
 seizing eagerly upon any chance of a respite. 
 
 'Did you not hear me order the pony-carriage?' was the 
 answer. ' Of course, I knew that your cousin was not re- 
 turned.' 
 
 Mrs Harrington left the room, and Dora was about reluctantly 
 to follow, when the servant came back to say that the carriage 
 was just coming down the avenue, and to inquire whether it 
 would make any diflerence in the order. 
 
 Dora for once in her life heartily wished that Amy had remained 
 longer away, for she feared that even less time might now be 
 allowed Miss Morton; and she fancied every delay might be of 
 use. ' I will ask mamma myself,' she said, unwilling that any- 
 thing should be settled without her knowledge. And after linger- 
 ing a few minutes longer, she walked slowly away; and Margaret 
 and Miss Cunningham were again left alone. 
 
 ' I hope you give me credit for my management, Margaret,' 
 said Lucy. 'We have had a happy escape.' 
 
 'I don't know,' replied Margaret; 'it must all come out by 
 and by.' 
 
 'Why, I should like to know? Why should anything more 
 be said if we keep our own counsel?' 
 
 'But Emily Morton,' replied Margaret, 'she will never allow 
 herself to be sent away without making some defence.' 
 
 ' If she does,' answered Lucy, ' what will it signify? You may 
 see your mamma does not believe her.' 
 
 ' But if mamma should ask us any more questions, we could 
 not tell a i>tor)' about it, you know,' 
 
 'Did I tell one just now?' asked Miss Cunningham. 'Was 
 not every word exactly the truth ?'
 
 AJ/F HERBERT. 275 
 
 'Yes,' said JMargarel ; 'but I think Dora suspects sometliing.' 
 
 'Never mind Dora/ replied Lucy; * she cannot know what 
 we do not choose to tell. It is quite silly of you, Margaret, to be 
 so fidgety ; this is just all that we wanted ; and if we only take 
 care, we shall go to London, and enjoy oui'selves to our hearts' 
 content. You would have been delighted at the idea yesterday ; 
 and now that everything has fallen out just as we wished, you 
 look grave.' 
 
 ' It is not just as I wished, though,' repeated Margaret, rather 
 angrily ; ' it is not at all pleasant to have poor little Rose so ill.' 
 
 * Certainly that is disagreeable,' said Lucy; ' but it is a mere 
 trifle; she will be quite well to-morrow; besides, what would you 
 do? You would not dare make a great fuss, and complain of 
 yourself to your mamma.' 
 
 ' No, indeed,' exclaimed Margaret ; ' I would suffer anything 
 first. I should say nothing about it, if Emily Morton were not 
 going.' 
 
 ' But that is the very point,' urged Miss Cimningham. ' It is 
 the principal reason we have for being silent. London — think of 
 London, Margaret ; — and nothing would induce me to go if Miss 
 Morton went too. How much you would miss me if I were not 
 there.' 
 
 ' To be sure,' replied Margaret, after a short pause, ' we have 
 not said anything that is not true ; and Emily Morton is quite 
 able to defend herself; and if mamma will not believe her, it is 
 not our fault.' 
 
 'Certainly not ; let us leave her to herself; and when she is 
 once out of the house everything will go right.' 
 
 Margaret's conscience told her that all could not be right ; that 
 there was such a thing as a practical falsehood ; but she had so 
 long accustomed herself to trifling prevarications, that her self- 
 reproach was not very great. Probably she would not have felt 
 any, if the consequences of her deceit had been less important. 
 Miss Cunningham perceived that she had gained an advantage 
 by the mention of London, and, eagerly pursuing the subject, 
 expatiated in glowing terms upon the amusement they should 
 find there, till Margaret forgot by what means the pleasure was 
 to be obtained ; and by the time the conversation was over, was 
 so strengthened in her resolution, that Miss Cunningham's fears 
 v/ere completely at rest.
 
 276 A.MV IIERUKRT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 npO Dora's relief — her cousin's return made no diftcrence iti 
 -L Mrs Harrington's plan — there was still nearly an hour 
 before her ; and in that time it was barely possible that her 
 papa might return and insist upon Emily's remaining at least 
 another day. It seemed, indeed, the height of cruelty to insist 
 upon her going at such a time, for the state in which poor little 
 Rose continued excited the greatest alarm. She had shown 
 signs of consciousness, but the increasing fever and her con- 
 tinual meanings added every moment to Mrs Harrington's 
 anxiety. She walked from room to room, and from window to 
 window, listening for every sound ; now upon the point of setting 
 off herself in search of Dr Bailey ; then seating herself by the 
 side of her child's bed, with the determination that nothing 
 should induce her to quit it ; and again, as she felt the rapid 
 pulse, and heard the sounds of suffering, starting up with the 
 intention of seeking for some one who might advise her at once 
 what was most necessary to be done. Dora, after remaining a 
 short time, anxious to delay giving the painful information to 
 Emily, went to see her cousin, in the hope of being the first to 
 break to her, gradually, the painful news ; but Amy had not 
 been two minutes in the house before she had heard all, and 
 rather more than all, for the news of Miss Morton's intended 
 departure had spread rapidly, and was of course coupled with 
 the accident. 
 
 Amy's first intelligence was, that IMiss Morton had left Rose 
 playing by the side of the stream ; that the child had fallen in, 
 and would have been lost but for Miss Cunningham's screams ; 
 that she was not expected to live more than an hour ; and that 
 Miss Morton was to go away immediately. The last words were 
 so surprising, that Amy did not at first entirely comprehend them ; 
 she was bewildered between her deep sorrow for Rose and her 
 dread of Miss Morton's departure ; and stood for a few moments 
 in a state of the most painful indecision, unwilling even to go 
 to her mamma till she had learned the truth more certainly. 
 'Going,' she repeated; 'do you really mean that Miss Morton 
 is going now ?' 
 
 ' Yes, now, Miss,' replied Morris, in a short, pert voice, and 
 rejoicing secretly in the thought of getting rid of any one that 
 patronised Susan Reynolds, who had lately become almost her
 
 AJ/y HERBERT. 377 
 
 rival. ' The carriage is coming round directly. I think JoUiffe 
 is just gone up to the stable to put the ponies in.' 
 
 Am) did not wait to hear more. She flew to Emily's room ; 
 but just as she reached it, Dora stopped her. 
 
 ' O Amy ! ' she exclaimed, looking earnestly at her, ' I see by 
 your face that you know everything. What is to be done for 
 Emily?' 
 
 * I am sure it cannot be true,' said Amy. ' My aunt would 
 never send her away now.' 
 
 ' But it is quite true,' replied Dora ; ' nothing will have any 
 effect. I have said all I could ; and papa is not here.' 
 
 'Where is she going?' said Amy. ' I must run directly, and 
 speak to mamma ; she will entreat for her ; and my aunt will 
 never be able to refuse her. Has no one told mamma about 
 it ? ' 
 
 Dora was about to reply, when Emily Morton opened the door, 
 and in a voice so totally changed that Amy would scarcely have 
 recognised it, asked them to come in. 
 
 The room presented a very different aspect from that which it 
 usually wore. The pictures from the walls were lying about on 
 the table and in the chairs \ the floor was covered with trunks, 
 band-boxes, and dresses ; and the books had been taken from 
 the shelves, and were piled together in regular order, preparatory 
 to their being packed. 
 
 Amy did not speak ; but Dora exclaimed instantly, ' O Emily! 
 why should you do this? you cannot manage it yourself 
 
 ' I must be alone,' replied Emily ; and again her voice 
 sounded so strange, that Amy started. The gentle tone which 
 had once sounded so sweet to her ear was changed for one 
 that was unnaturally deep and hollow. There were no traces 
 of agitation in her face — scarcely even in her manner; but her 
 lips were perfectly colourless, and her eyes were dimmed and 
 sunken. 
 
 'Yo.i must not, — oh! you must not go,' exclaimed Amy, 
 throwing herself into her arms, and bursting into tears. 
 
 Emily pointed to the floor, and, with a ghastly smile, said, 
 ' Will you help me ? The carriage will be here.' 
 
 Dora knelt down and tried to busy herself wiih the books, but 
 she could not conceal her emotion ; and Emily Morton, as she 
 witnessed for the first time the sympathy of one who had hitherto 
 so painfully neglected her, pressed her lips firmly together, and 
 walked quickly up and down the room.
 
 278 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 ' I must go to mamma/ exclaimed Amy ; ' she will sec my 
 aunt directly ; and I am sure she will be able to persuade her.' 
 
 * No,' said Emily, forcing herself to speak, as Amy was about 
 to leave the room ; 'you must not say anything to Mrs Herbert. 
 I went to her myself just now, bclore everything was settled, 
 that she might not be shocked suddenly ; and even then, though 
 I could speak comfortably to her, I could see how much she suf- 
 fered. She went immediately to Mrs Harrington, and would 
 have remained with her but for your aunt's insisting to the con- 
 trary. I would not for the world that she should be distressed 
 again on my account.' 
 
 * But she will be so very, very sorry,' said Amy : 'and I am 
 sure my aunt will listen to her.' 
 
 'Indeed, it must not be,' replied Emily. 'Remember what 
 Dr Bailey said ; and your mamma will not care so much when 
 she knows where I am going. I have written a note to Mrs 
 Walton, to ask her to receive me for the next few days. I could 
 
 not go far away whilst ' The sentence remained unfinished ; 
 
 but both Dora and Amy knew well what it meant. 
 
 *If you would leave these things,' said Dora, 'Amy and I 
 could take care of them for you.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it would be best,' replied Emily, ' I don't think I 
 quite know why they were taken down, for I could not pack them 
 in so short a time.' 
 
 ' Do you know, then, about the carriage ? ' asked Dora. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Emily ; ' Susan Reynolds told me, and offered 
 to help me ; but I sent her away. I want nothing now, except- 
 ing to know ' 
 
 ' How Rose is,' continued Amy. ' I will go directly, and ask.' 
 
 Amy ran out of the room, and Dora followed her. ' Stop one 
 moment, Amy,' she said. ' I don't think Emily Morton knows 
 about poor little Rose being worse ; when she left her, she 
 thought she was better. It will half kill her to go away when 
 she hears it.' 
 
 ' Let us both go to my aunt, and beg,' said Amy, ' only for 
 one day. If she would just let her stay to-night, I could be 
 happy.' 
 
 ' You don't know mamma,' replied Dora ; ' she thinks Emily 
 Morton has equivocated.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' exclaimed Amy, ' no one could think so.' 
 
 ' Mamma believes it firmly ; and so there would be no hopeol 
 persuading her. But, Amy, I think there is something hidden—
 
 AAfV HERBERT. 279 
 
 something which Margaret and Lucy Cunningham know, only 
 they will not tell. I must go back to mamma. But, perhaps, if 
 you were to talk to them, you might find it out ; only be quick.' 
 
 * Will you let Miss Morton know about Rose, then ? and I 
 will try ; but I don't know what to say. I wish you could be 
 with me.' 
 
 ' Indeed I must go,' replied Dora ; ' but I will see poor little 
 R.ose myself, and then return to Emily for a minute. You will 
 ind Margaret and Lucy in the schoolroom.' 
 
 ' But what does my aunt say .'" continued Amy. ' Why does 
 she not ask them about it ?' 
 
 ' She would not listen to me just now,' said Dora ; ' and when 
 I left her she was in such an agony about Rose that I did not 
 dare speak to her ; indeed, Amy, you are the only person who 
 can do anything.' 
 
 Amy did not wait to be again entreated, but went instantly to 
 the schoolroom. Margaret and Lucy were still there, as Dora 
 had toid her ; and neither of them seemed at all pleased at her 
 interruption. 
 
 'Have you seen Rose lately?' asked Amy, hardly knowing 
 how to begin, and yet extremely anxious that no time should be 
 lost. 
 
 * No,' replied Margaret. ' Mamma has sent us word that it 
 is better to keep her quite quiet ; and she begs that no one may 
 go to her room except Dora, unless she rings. Morris is there 
 with her too, I believe.' 
 
 ' I should so like to see her,' said Amy ; ' I am afraid she is 
 very ill. Do tell me, Margaret, how it was she fell in.' 
 
 ' She was running fast down the hill,' replied Margaret, ' and 
 could not stop herself. I shall never forget what I felt when I 
 saw what was going to happen.' 
 
 ' But how did you get into that field ? Somebody said just 
 now you were going to Stephen's cottage ; that is not the way 
 to it.' 
 
 ' No,' interrupted Miss Cunningham, who began to be uneasy 
 at Amy's questions ; ' we went down to the water to look at the 
 ponies.' 
 
 ' And I suppose Miss Morton sent Rose to you, then,' said Amy. 
 
 * No,' replied Lucy. ' Poor child ! she came running to us of 
 her own accord.' 
 
 * I do so wonder at Miss Morton's leaving her.' observed Amy ; 
 * she is so particular about her in general.'
 
 2So ^-i-irV IfERBERT. 
 
 Miss Cunningham made no reply, and Amy felt quite dis- 
 heartened. In a few moments, however, she began again — 
 
 'I cannot understand it at all, Margaret. What made Miss 
 Morton and Rose go into that field 1^' 
 
 ' You ar<; very stupid this morning, I think,' exclaimed Lucy. 
 ' How can we know what reasons Mi-ss Morion has for doing 
 strange things ? And why should you ask so many questions ?' 
 
 ' Because,' replied Amy, summoning up all her courage, ' I 
 cannot think that Miss Morton really did leave Rose all by her- 
 self in that dangerous field.' 
 
 'Then what do you think she did ?' asked Lucy. 
 
 ' I don't know ; but it would have been much more like her to 
 have left Rose with you.' 
 
 ' Then you think,' exclaimed Miss Cunningham, indignantly, 
 ' that Margaret and I have been saying what is not true.' 
 
 ' I don't mean to make you angry,' replied Amy, whose natur- 
 ally timid disposition was for the moment overawed ; 'but if there 
 is any excuse to be made, Margaret, it would be very, very kind 
 in )'ou to say something to my aunt. I am sure you would, if you 
 saw how miserable Miss Morton is at the idea of going away.' 
 
 ' What do you wish me to do.'" asked Margaret. 'Mamma 
 will not listen to me.' 
 
 ' But she would listen to you,' continued Amy, ' if you had any- 
 thing real to tell her, — I mean, not merely an excuse.' 
 
 ' I cannot see,' interrupted Miss Cunningham, ' why you should 
 interfere and talk to us in this way ; you would make out if you 
 could that we had been keeping back something. Miss JNIorton 
 can tell all there is to be told just as well as we can. Come, 
 Margaret, do let us go up-stairs ; I am quite tired of sitting here 
 in my walking things.' 
 
 ' No, no,' exclaimed Amy, seizing her cousin by the dress ; 
 'pray, Margaret, do not go yet.' 
 
 'What good can I do you by staying.?' said Margaret, whose 
 resolution was somewhat wavering. 
 
 'If you would only tell me,' persisted Amy, 'if there is any- 
 thing that will make my aunt pleased with Miss Morton, I should 
 be so glad. I am sure you never saw any one before look as 
 wretched as she does now.' 
 
 Margaret seemed inclined to remain ; not that she had any in- 
 tention of confessing the whole truth, but she was hardly able to 
 resist Amy's earnest looks. 
 
 ' Come, come, Margaret,' said Lucy; ' I cannot wait any longer
 
 AJ/y HERBERT, 281 
 
 ].{ you sa) a word more,' she added, in a whisper, ' it Avill all come 
 out.' 
 
 Amy caught the last words, and eagerly repeated them aloud. 
 '• Then there is something. O Margaret ! you would not be so 
 cruel as to hide it !' 
 
 ' I think you are very unkind and unjust to suspect me of con- 
 cealing anything, Amy,' replied Margaret, her pride and her fears 
 being awakened by the open accusation, 'You may find out 
 what you will, but you will hear nothing from me ; I am not going 
 to stay here to be accused of hiding things.' 
 
 Margaret and Lucy had left the room before Amy could resolve 
 on what was next to be said ; and when they were gone she felt 
 for some moments in despair of being able to do anything 
 for Miss ^Morton. The time was quickly passing away ; she did 
 not dare go to her aunt ; and she did not know what might be 
 the consequence of applying to her mamma. Dora was not to 
 be seen ; and there was but a very slight hope that either her 
 father or her uncle would return before Emily's departure ; and 
 yet she vras fully con\inced there was some secret between Mar- 
 garet and Lucy, which, for private reasons, they did not choose 
 to confess. At first she felt inclined to give up all idea of dis- 
 covering it, and go again to Miss Morton's room ; but the thought 
 of what her distress would be on learning that poor little Rose 
 was getting worse made it seem cruel to rest without another 
 eftbrt ; and in the hope of possibly seeing Dora, and obtaining 
 some advice from her, she went up-stairs, and lingered about 
 in the gallery into which Rose's bedroom opened. 
 
 The window at the end fronted the terrace ; and when Amy 
 looked out, she saw Lord Rochford and ]\Ir Cunningham pacing 
 up and down in earnest conversation. At first she thought very 
 little about them, but after waiting in vain for Dora, the idea 
 struck her, that if something were said to Mr Cunningham he 
 might be able to prevail on his sister to tell the whole truth. 
 With the idea, however, came also the doubt, whether it would 
 be right in her to mention the subject. She was but a child, 
 and he might naturally be very much annoyed at her expressing 
 any suspicion of his sister; and even if Lucy and Margaret had 
 done wrong, it seemed unkind to be the means of exposing them ; 
 perhaps, if she waited, her uncle might return, and Dora might 
 be able to speak to him ; — at any rate, it would appear presuming 
 and impertinent ; and as Miss Morton was only going to Mrs 
 Walton's, she could return again the next day if Mr Harrington
 
 2S2 A,Uy HERBERT. 
 
 wished it. Of Mr Cunningham's kind feehng towards herself, 
 Amy had Httle doubt ; he had shown it in the most marked way, 
 especially since he had overheard the conversation on the pre- 
 ceding evening ; and h\\\. for this it would hardly have been 
 possible to think of taking so great a liberty ; but with the cer- 
 tainty that he would willingly assist her, if it were in his power, 
 she could not entirely banish from her mind the thought of apply- 
 ing to him. Again and again she endeavoured to decide whether 
 it would be right, but still her mind continued in the same painful 
 state of indecision. The thought of Emily Morton made her de- 
 termine to go at once and beg him to interfere; and the remem- 
 brance that it would appear unkind and unsuited to her age, 
 made her shrink from the idea, and resolve to wait patiently a 
 short time longer in the hope of seeing Dora. Very earnestly 
 she longed to go at once to her mamma; but it would vex 
 Emily, and perhaps might make Mrs Herbert ill, and Lucy and 
 Margaret would consider her very ill-natured. This last argu- 
 ment, however, did not seem a powerful one. If it were unkind 
 to them to mention the subject, it would be still more unkind to 
 Emily Morton to be silent: and again poor Amy began to 
 doubt, and stood at the window looking at Mr Cunningham, 
 and wishing with all her heart that some one would appear to 
 tell her what she ought to do. Whilst still hesitating, Susan 
 Reynolds came into the gallery, followed by Morris, the only one 
 of the servants who had admission into the chamber of the sick 
 child. Amy was going to beg that her cousin Dora might be 
 sent to her, but Morris's movements were too quick ; the bed- 
 room door was opened but for one instant ; and when it closed, 
 Amy was so vexed and disappointed that her fortitude entirely 
 gave way. 
 
 'O Miss Herbert!' exclaimed Susan, as she noticed her 
 distress, ' pray don't cry so ; Miss Rose may get better after all; 
 though, to be sure, Morris says she never saw a poor child so ill 
 before in all her life.' 
 
 * Is she so very much worse, then ? ' said Amy. 
 
 ' Oh yes. Miss,' replied Susan. 'Morris says, if the doctor 
 does not soon come, she thinks it will be no good having sent for 
 him. She is quieter now ; but a little while ago she was moan- 
 ing, when I passed the door, so that one might hear her all along 
 the gallery. And, oh ! Miss Herbert, isn't it dreadful about 
 Miss Morton's going away? — she who is so good and kind to 
 every one. And what shall I do without her?'
 
 AMV HERBERT. 283 
 
 ' I wonder whether Rose asks for her ? ' said Amy. 
 
 'She did at first, I believe, INIiss,' answered Susan; 'but 
 Morris says she is all wild and wandering again now, and does 
 not know any one.' 
 
 ' Oh ! how I wish I knew what to do,' exclaimed Amy, for- 
 getting that Susan was near. 
 
 ' JMiss JNIorton will never see Miss Rose again, I should think,' 
 said Susan, ' if she goes away now. Mrs Bridget and Morris, 
 and all of them, think she won't live out the night.' 
 
 'And does Miss Morton know it ?' inquired Amy. 
 
 ' She does now, I\Iiss,' replied Susan. ' She asked me herself, 
 and I was obliged to tell. And it was miserable to see how she 
 looked ; I thought she would have gone off quite.' 
 
 Amy made no reply, but turned to the window to see if Mr 
 Cunningham were still below. While Susan was speaking she 
 had made up her mind as to \\hat was to be done. Emily's 
 wretchedness overcame every other consideration ; and without 
 further delay she hastened to the terrace. Mr Cunningham 
 paused in his conversation directly he saw her ; and when she 
 came up, breathless and silent from fear and agitation, he in- 
 quired eagerly for Rose. 
 
 ' 2\Iay I speak to you ?' replied Amy, unheeding his question. 
 * Pray don't be angry with me.' 
 
 'What! secrets!' exclaimed Lord Rochford; 'then I suppose 
 I had better go ; but you must tell me first how it is all going on 
 with the poor little darling.' 
 
 ' She is very ill indeed,' answered Amy ; ' and my aunt is very 
 much frightened about her.' 
 
 'It is a bad business,' said Lord Rochford. 'I wonder Mr 
 Harrington ever trusted such a young creature as Miss Morton.' 
 
 'Oh! indeed,' answered Amy; 'Miss Morton did not leave 
 her — at least I don't think she did. It was that I wanted to 
 speak about,' she added, hardly daring to look in ]Mr Cunning- 
 ham's face. 
 
 Lord Rochford walked away ; and Mr Cunningham, in the 
 kindest manner, begged her not to be frightened, but to tell him 
 at once if he could be of any use. ' We are old friends now,' he 
 said, with a smile ; ' and if you take my part, I must take yours 
 in return.' 
 
 'Miss Morton is going away, said Amy, feeling that her 
 courage would entirely fail her, if she did not enter upon tlie 
 subject at once.
 
 2S4 AJ/V HER BERT. 
 
 Not now,' exclaimed Mr Cunningham, in surprise; 'not 
 while little Rose is so ill.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Amy ; ' the carriage has been ordered, and she 
 is to go this afternoon. My aunt believes,' she continued, 
 speaking very quickly, 'that Miss Morton has not told all the 
 truth about having left Rose in the field alone ; and so she says 
 she must go directly. But Margaret and Miss Cunningham were 
 there too, and I think— — ' 
 
 'What do you think?' said Mr Cunningham. 'Had they 
 anvthing to do with it ?' 
 
 ' I don't know,' replied Amy ; ' but when I spoke to them just 
 now, they did not seem quite to like telling me everything ; and 
 I thought that perhaps if you were to ask Miss Cunningham, she 
 would not mind talking to you, and then you might be able to 
 find out something which might prevent my aunt from being so 
 displeased, and she might allow Miss Morton to stay till Rose 
 gets better.' 
 
 'I am not sure that I entirely understand what you mean,' 
 said Mr Cunningham. ' Let me hear again what you wish me 
 to do.' 
 
 ' If you would go to Miss Cunningham,' repeated Amy, 'and 
 ask her to tell you the whole story, perhaps you would find out 
 that Miss Morton did not leave Rose quite alone, as my aunt 
 thinks she did, Margaret says they were a great way from her 
 when she fell in ; but then they might have been near her 
 before.' 
 
 'And will they not talk plainly .?' said Mr Cunningham, look- 
 ing very much annoyed. 
 
 ' They would only say a little,' answered Amy ; ' and then they 
 \\ cnt awa)-. And I do not think they liked me to ask them any 
 Cjuestions.' 
 
 Mr Cunningham was fully aware of Amy's meaning, though 
 she had endeavoured to express it as gently as possible. He had 
 long and anxiously watched his sister's disposition, and had 
 noticed too often the deceit which she did not hesitate to prac- 
 tise when it suited her purpose, for him to be surprised on the 
 present occasion. If she had had any share in the accident, she 
 would certainly be desirous of concealing it : yet the thought was 
 extremely painful ; and his countenance, as he walked with hasty 
 steps towards the door, made Amy fear that she had offended 
 him deeply. ' I am afraid,' she said, ' that I have done wrong ; 
 but I was very unhappy, and the hour is nearly up, and then
 
 AMY HERBERT. 2S? 
 
 Miss Morton will go, and perliaps she will never see little Rose 
 again,' 
 
 'You have been right — quite right,' replied Mr Cunningham. 
 ' But I must see Lucy directly : where shall I find her?' 
 
 'She is in her bedroom, I beheve,' said Amy. ' She \\ill think 
 me very unkind.' 
 
 ' You need not be afraid,' he answered. ' No one shall think 
 anything of you but what is right and good. You must not let 
 Miss iNIorton go till you have seen me again.' 
 
 The words were quite a reprieve to poor Amy, though she 
 knew how great an offence it would be to keep the carriage wait- 
 ing ; for ]\lr Cunningham had been so kind to herself, that even 
 if her suspicions were unfounded, and Rose had really been left 
 carelessly, he might perhaps speak to I\]rs Harrington, and prevail 
 on her to change her determination. With this idea she was 
 going immediately to Miss Morton to give her the hope of re- 
 maining, when Dora stopped her. ' Well, Amy,' she exclaimed, 
 ' what have )ou done ? ' 
 
 'Nothing,' replied Amy; 'at least, nothing with Margaret: 
 but I have done something which I hope will be of use ; I have 
 spoken to Mr Cunningham.' 
 
 Dora started. ' O Amy ! how could you be so bold ? If I had 
 been ever so great a favourite, I never could have done such a 
 thing as that.' 
 
 ' I could do anything for Miss ?tIorton,' replied Amy. ' But, 
 Dora, do tell me how Rose is.' 
 
 'Very much the same. IMamma is becoming dreadfully 
 anxious ; she can think of nothing else : if she could, I would 
 have made one more effort for poor Emily. I wished we had 
 asked her just now, when we were with her, to tell us everything 
 just as she told mamma, for I am sure mamma did not half 
 understand it. I did not think of it at the time, for it all seemed 
 to have happened so suddenly, and everything was so con- 
 fused.' 
 
 ' Supposing we were to go now,' said Amy : ' I am sure she 
 must wonder what has become of us.' 
 
 ' I am afraid I cannot,' replied Dora ; ' for mamma begged me 
 to come back again directly. I was only allowed to leave her 
 because she wished so much to know if there were any signs of 
 papa or Dr Bailey coming down the road. I wish I could hear 
 all you said to Mr Cunningham. But we must not stop now : 
 you had better go to Emily.'
 
 2S6 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 ' I will beg her to repeat the story, if you think it would Ije 
 any good,' said Amy. 
 
 ' I am afraid that nothing would make mamma listen to any- 
 thing from us now,' replied Dora : ' we must trust to Mr Cun- 
 ningham. Lucy would hardly dare be deceitful with him ; and 
 I am sure IMargaret would not.' 
 
 ' I would give anything to know what he has been saying since 
 we have been here,' observed Amy. 
 
 ' You will know in a few minutes, if it is anything good,' said 
 Dora. ' But I wish you would go now, and give poor Emily a 
 little hope : and you may tell her that Rose has not been worse 
 within the last quarter of an hour.' And as she said this, Dora 
 walked away, and Amy went to JMiss Morton's room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 MR CUNNINGHAINI did not find his sister in her room ; 
 she had gone down-stairs again with Margaret, who 
 could not endure to remain long stationary in one place, while 
 there was so much cause for anxiety about her little sister. She 
 fancied that it would be easier to learn what was going on by 
 remaining in the schoolroom ; and though fully resolved to allow 
 everything to take its course, and not to say anything in Miss 
 IMorton's favour, she was still too uneasy to attend much to her 
 friend's entreaties, that she would not put herself in the way of 
 being again questioned by Amy or Dora. 
 
 Miss Cunningham was standing with her back to the door 
 when her brother came into the room, and was much startled 
 when she turned round and perceived him near her ; for she saw 
 immediately from his countenance, that something disagreeable 
 was coming. 
 
 ' I have been looking for you, Lucy,' he said, in a voice 
 rendered even more confused than usual by his eagerness, and 
 the irritation of his feelings. ' I wanted to speak to you par- 
 ticularly.' 
 
 ' What about ? ' replied Lucy, with as indifferent a manner as 
 she could assume. 
 
 ' You may easily guess what,' he answered ; ' this sad accident 
 —you were near the spot ; how did it happen ?'
 
 A.UV HERBERT. 287 
 
 ' I cannot tell you all,' said Lucy. ' We ^vere standing near 
 llie bridge, and just saw poor little Rose run from the top of the 
 field, and fall in ; and then we went to help her.' 
 
 'But it is impossible,' observed Mr Cunningham, 'that Miss 
 Morton should have left a child of that age quite alone. Are 
 you sure she did not give you any charge about taking care of 
 her ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose she thought,' said INIargaret, anxious to evade a 
 reply, 'that as we were in sight it did not signify.' 
 
 'But,' continued Mr .Cunningham, 'if Miss Morton left Rose 
 at the top of the field, and you were near the bridge, she could 
 not have considered your being there as any security: in fact, I 
 doubt if she could have seen you ; you must have been nearer 
 at first.' 
 
 * How you puzzle one, George 1 ' exclaimed his sister. ' How 
 is it possible to remember everything that happened, when we 
 were all so frightened ? I am sure I have felt bewildered ever 
 since.' 
 
 ' Very possibly,' replied Mr Cunningham, coolly. ' But you 
 will have the goodness not to be bewildei-ed now : I must know 
 the whole of this matter. Miss Morton is going away at a 
 moment when it must be most distressing to her feelings, upon 
 a charge of great neglect of duty. And I will find out whether 
 the charge be true or false.' 
 
 Lucy looked very frightened ; she knew her brother's deter- 
 mination of character, and saw that there was no chance of 
 escape, unless she chose to tell an actual falsehood ; and this, 
 notwithstanding her propensity to equivocation and deceit, she 
 could not make up her mind to do. Margaret endeavoured to 
 steal away unobserved: but Mr Cunningham prevented her. 
 'You will excuse me; but this is a case in which I must be 
 allowed to have my own way. I must beg you to remain ; you 
 may perhaps be able to assist Lucy's memory.' 
 
 Margaret's colour went and came very quickly, her knees 
 trembled, and her hand shook: but she did not dare disobey; 
 and seated herself again, with her face turned from Mr Cunning- 
 ham, and with the secret resolution of not speaking, if there were 
 any possibility of avoiding it. 
 
 ' Now, Lucy,' said Mr Cunningham, again appealing to his 
 sister, ' I shall ask you one simple Cjuestion, and I expect a 
 decided answer. Did Miss Morton leave you in charge of 
 Rose?'
 
 2S8 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 ' Really,' said Lucy, hesitatingly, ' I can't— I don't— you are 
 very cross this afternoon, George, to come and tease us so, when 
 yea know how wc have been frightened, and how very unhappy 
 Margaret is.' 
 
 ' No one can be more sorry for the cause of her unhappiness 
 tlian I am,' he replied ; 'and when my question is answered, I 
 will on no account tease either of you again. Perhaps you did 
 not quite understand what I said ; I will repeat it. Did Miss 
 Morton leave you in charge of Rose .^' 
 
 ' You are vexing Margaret, I can see,' replied Lucy. ' I nc\-cr 
 thought you could be so unkind before, ^^'e came here to be 
 quiet and alone.' 
 
 ' This is mere trifling, Lucy,' said her brother. ' You know 
 full \\ell that it will not answer with me ; nothing will shake my 
 determination of knowing the truth ; and therefore the best thing 
 you can do is, without any further equivocation, to tell me plainly 
 what I wish to know.' 
 
 There was a pause when ]Mr Cunningham had spoken ; neither 
 Lucy nor Margaret saw the least chance of evading the question, 
 yet neither felt inclined to answer it. Mr Cunningham placed 
 himself in front of his sister, looking at her calmly and sternly, 
 and patiently waiting till she chose to reply ; whilst she endea- 
 voured to keep her determination of steadfastly gazing out of 
 the window, and taking no notice of him. But it would not do; 
 she stood far too much in awe of him to resist long; and at 
 length, bursting into a fit of angry tears, she exxlaimed, ' I wish 
 Miss Morton, and Rose, and all the family, had stayed at Wayland 
 all their lives, instead of coming here to make me miserable.' 
 
 'Then it is true,' said Mr Cunningham. ' You were left in 
 charge of the poor little girl, and you went away from her ; and 
 then, when the accident occurred, you were too cowardly to take 
 the blame upon yourselves, but occasioned great unhappiness to 
 an innocent person, by allowing her to be accused unjustly. 
 Y'es, Lucy,' he continued, observing that his sister rose hastily 
 from her seat, and was about to leave the room, ' you may well 
 be anxious to hide yourself ; but you will not be allowed to go 
 till you have made the only reparation in your power. You will 
 confess your fault to Mrs Harrington ; I shall let her know in- 
 stantly the mistake under which she has been labourine.' 
 
 Pray, pray, don't leave me,' cried Lucy, as Margaret tried to 
 escape. 'Why am I to bear it all? you know it was quite as 
 much vour doin? as mine.'
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 289 
 
 But Margaret did not choose to attend ; she was willing to be 
 Miss Cunningham's friend when everything went smoothl)', but 
 she saw no reason for putting herself in the way of her mother's 
 anger unnecessarily. And Mr Cunningham, having gained his 
 point, hardly felt justified in interfering any farther. Without 
 again speaking to Lucy, he wrote a note to Mrs Harrington, 
 apologising for intruding upon her distress, but begging her to 
 allow him a few moments' conversation on a subject of much 
 consequence. And when the servant returned with the answer, 
 he merely said to his sister, ' Mrs Harrington will be here 
 directly ; you had better make up your mind to tell the truth in 
 as Iqw words as possible. It will be out of your power to conceal 
 anything, as Miss Morton's own account will certainly be com- 
 pared with yours.' 
 
 Mrs Harrington's mind was now in a very different state from 
 what it had been when Lucy had last seen her. The moments 
 spent by her little girl's sick-bed had increased her anxiety, and 
 subdued the irritation of her temper. Her feeling against Miss 
 Morton was deeper, but less vehement ; and occasionally, as she 
 had listened to the moaning of the suffering child, and heard her 
 repeat Emily's name with a wandering entreaty that she would 
 come to her, her heart had relented, as she had felt inclined, 
 for the sake of poor little Rose, to allow Emily to continue at 
 Emmerton a few days longer. But on a second consideration 
 the idea vanished ; and her only wish then was, never again to 
 be compelled to see or speak to a person whose neglect she 
 believed had been the cause of so much wretchedness. Still 
 Mrs Harrington was outwardly much calmer; and her harsh 
 tones sounded as coldly as ever when she asked Mr Cunningham 
 to do her the favour of mentioning his wishes quickly, as she 
 could not be spared fioni her child's room. 
 
 ' It is my sisters business rather than mine,' he replied. ' She 
 has been induced, from fear of your displeasure, to conceal her 
 own share in this most unfortunate accident ; and she is now 
 going to confess the truth, in hopes that you will allow Miss 
 Morton to remain.' 
 
 * It was Margaret,' exclaimed Miss Cunningham; 'I never 
 should have moved from the gate but for her. I only went to 
 Uie other side, at first, because it was drier ; and then it did not 
 signify ; but it was Margaret who begged me to go down to the 
 bridge, and look at the pony.' 
 
 'And do you mean then,' said Mrs Harrington, ' that Miss 
 
 v
 
 290 AA/V HERBERT. 
 
 Morton left Rose witli \oii, and that you went away from 
 her?' 
 
 *We only went into the steep field because it was dry/ 
 answered Lucy ; ' and Rose was quite in safety.' 
 
 ' I do not entirely understand you,' said Mrs Harrington. 
 * Perhaps you will have the goodness to explain yourself more 
 clearly.' 
 
 Miss Cunningham complied with evident reluctance, yet she did 
 not venture to distort any of the facts, knowing that her brother 
 would easily discover the whole truth upon a reference to Miss 
 Morton. She only endeavoured to lay as much of the blame as 
 possible upon ]\Iargaret, and to make Mrs Harrington believe 
 that she would have spoken before if she had understood the 
 cause of Miss Morton's sudden departure. The excuse, however, 
 was too weak to succeed ; a bitter smile curled Mrs Harrington's 
 lip as she said, ' You need not trouble yourself to give your 
 reasons for what you have done ; your brother, I am sure, must 
 be as fully aware of them as I am. Margaret's conduct I shall 
 inquire into immediately. I am afraid,' she added, turning to 
 Mr Cunningham, 'there is a heavy punishment in store for her 
 thoughtlessness and selfishness, My poor little girl is very ill.' 
 
 The real feeling which was expressed in these words, and in 
 the tone in which they were uttered, touched Mr Cunningham 
 deeply ; and his voice faltered as he replied, ' It would be a 
 punishment felt by very many ; but we will hope and pray that 
 it may please God to avert it.' 
 
 ' I will counter-order the carriage,' said Mrs Harrington, 
 recovering herself, and ringing the bell ; ' and I will inform 
 Miss Morton of the change.' 
 
 ' Perhaps^ at the same time,' observed Mr Cunningham, ' you 
 would allow me to order our own. My father was speaking to 
 me, just now, of the wish you had expressed this morning, that 
 our visit should be prolonged ; and doubting if it would be 
 advisable after what has now transpired. Of course, we would 
 on no account intrude upon you ; my sister's presence, I fear, 
 will never again be anything but painful.' 
 
 Mrs Harrington could not contradict his words, and felt at a 
 loss for a reply, when the entrance of the servant relieved her 
 from the awkwardness. The carriage, which had just come to 
 the door, was remanded ; and a summons was sent for Miss 
 Morton. 
 
 ' You had better prepare for going immediately, Lucy,' said
 
 AMY HERBERT. 291 
 
 her brother. 'And if you have anything farther to say to Mrs 
 Harrington, any apology to make for your conduct, or any 
 message to leave for Miss Morton as a iDroof that you are really 
 sorry for the pain your deceit has occasioned her, you had 
 better speak at once.' 
 
 Lucy, however, did not speak — at least she did not say what 
 her brother desired ; but, muttering sulkily that it was very 
 hard she should have all the blnme, and Margaret none, without 
 venturing to look at Mrs Harrington, left the room. 
 
 I\Ir Cunningham quickly followed, in no very enviable state of 
 feeling. He saw, from Mrs Harrington's manner, that she was 
 seriously alarmed for Rose ; and his sister's indifference was 
 startling to him. He could not have supposed it possible that 
 she would have been so insensible to the probable consequence 
 of her neglect ; for, with a disposition peculiarly free from 
 selfishness himself, he did not understand how soon it blinds 
 us to the sufferings of others, and how quickly it buries, if not 
 entirely destroys, even in very early life, every better feeling of 
 human nature. Miss Cunningham was not entirely cold- 
 hearted ; it is a rare thing, indeed, to find any one who is. 
 But she was from nature and education intensely selfish ; and 
 it was this which made her dwell only upon the blame she had 
 incurred herself, \\hen others might have grieved for the misery 
 they had caused their friends. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 MRS HARRINGTON'S message was delivered to Miss 
 Morton at the moment when her uneasiness was be- 
 coming extreme ; and she was endeavouring to make up her 
 mind to go, without waiting for the effect of Mr Cunningham's 
 interview with his sister. The carriage had been announced, 
 and Mr Harrington's well-known dislike to its being kept wait- 
 ing made her feel it wrong to delay ; though Amy, whose hopes 
 of Mr Cunningham's success, and dread lest Emily should never 
 see Rose again, overcame every other consideration, entreated 
 her to wait, if it were only for five minutes, in the certainty that 
 they must soon hear something from him. 
 
 ' It is only deferring the evil moment,' said Emily. 'I have
 
 292 AM V HERBERT, 
 
 been trying to collect resolution to bear it, and I hope I can 
 now. It might be worse an hour hence. The last accounts 
 were more comfortable ; and I know your mamma will manage 
 that I should hear again to-night. I wish I could sec her ; but 
 it will be better not. You must say how I thought of her, and 
 of the kindness she has shown me.' 
 
 ' It cannot signify for once,' observed Amy, ' if the carriage is 
 kept a few minutes. I am almost sure ]\Tr Cunningham will be 
 able to do something.' 
 
 'It is not real kindness to tell me so,' replied Emily ; ' I shall 
 only feel it the more difficult to do what is right. Indeed, I 
 must go.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! ' exclaimed Amy, trying to stop her, as she moved 
 towards the door ; and at that moment Susan's knock was 
 heard. ' It is all right now,' said Amy, when the message was 
 repeated ; ' my aunt never would have sent for you if she had 
 not changed her mind.' 
 
 Emily thought the same, though she scarcely ventured to hope 
 it ; and Amy's anxiety was nearly at an end, when .Susan, who 
 guessed her feelings, told her that the carriage had been sent 
 away. Miss Morton did not hear her exclamation of pleasure, 
 or she would perhaps have trembled less on entering the school- 
 room ; but Mrs Harrington's countenance very soon reassured 
 her. She was evidently aware of having behaved with im- 
 patience and injustice, and desirous of making amends, though 
 her tone and manner Avould have seemed painfully repelling in 
 any other person. Emily, however, thought of nothing but the 
 purport of her words. They were few and chilling ; but she ac- 
 knowledged that she had been wrong in her opinion as to Miss 
 Morton's neglect, and said she was sorry that Margaret and Miss 
 Cunningham had allowed her to remain so long in error. Their 
 conduct was highly culpable — in fact, quite unpardonable ; and 
 Margaret should certainly be spoken to most seriously on the 
 subject. But at that moment it was impossible to think of any- 
 thing but Rose ; and she should be obliged if Miss INIorton would 
 go with her to the poor child's room, that they might see if it 
 were possible to take any measure for allaying the fever before 
 Dr Bailey arrived. 
 
 Notwithstanding the set, formal style of this speech, it was 
 received by Emily with the most sincere gratitude, for she knew 
 that it must have been a great effort for a person of Mrs Har- 
 rington's proud temper; and, considering only the intention, she
 
 A M V HERBER T. 293 
 
 followed her with a sensation of indescribable relief, which, on 
 any other occasion, would have appeared quite incompatible with 
 her great anxiety. Amy was waiting in the passage, and de- 
 layed her for one instant to ask if all were right. The question 
 was scarcely needed, for Emily's change of countenance was a 
 sufficient index to her mind ; and Amy, as she heard her whisper, 
 ' It is your doing, and I shall never forget it,' felt completely 
 satisfied. 
 
 She was now at liljerty to go to her mother, who, she feared, 
 might be astonished at her absence. But Mrs Herbert had not 
 long known her return from the cottage, and was only just be- 
 ginning to wonder why she did not come to her. 
 
 Amy was full of eagerness to tell all that had passed ; but her 
 mother's first inquiry was for Rose. 
 
 ' Vour aunt particularly begged me to leave her,' she said ; 
 ' and I found that whilst Miss Morton was there I could not be 
 of any use. But I really cannot remain here. I can see none 
 of the servants ; and I do not like constantly to ring, because 
 of giving them additional trouble when there must be so much 
 to be attended to.' 
 
 ' I don't think they are engaged particularly now, mamma,' 
 replied Amy. ' Poor little Rose is quieter, and my aunt does 
 not know what more to do.' 
 
 ' Perhaps, then,' said Mrs Herbert, ' she would not object to 
 my being with her. I should have no occasion to exert myself 
 much, and I might be some comfort to Miss Morton at least.' 
 
 'A little while since,' said Amy, 'I am sure Miss Morton 
 would have been more glad to see you, mamma, than any one 
 else in the world — she was so very miserable; but she would not 
 let me tell you, because she said it would worry you and make 
 you ill.' 
 
 'What do you mean?' asked Mrs Herbert; 'has anything 
 been going on in which I could have been of use ?' 
 
 Amy soon related the whole affair, and concluded by anxiously 
 asking whether her mamma thought she had done wrong in ap- 
 plying to Mr Cunningham. 
 
 * No,' said Mrs Herbert ; ' I think, considering all the cir- 
 cumstances, you were quite right. It would have been a cruel 
 thing for Miss Morton to have been sent away now. But have 
 you seen Mr Cunningham since? and do you know whether he 
 is going ?' 
 
 ' I rather think he is,' replied Amy, 'for I heard one of the
 
 ^94 AA/V HERBJ-IRT. 
 
 servants saying something; cibout Lord RocliforcVs carriage, ns I 
 crossed the hall; and I hope so, very much, for I should not know 
 what to say if I were to see him again. I could not thank him 
 for having found out that his sister had done wrong ; and yet it 
 was very kind of him. But, mamma, do you really think poor 
 little Rose is so ill V 
 
 ' I am very much alarmed for her, my dear, she is so Noung to 
 receive such a shock ; and I have often thought her delicate, 
 myself, though no one agreed with mc.' 
 
 'What will Miss Morton do?' said Amy. 
 
 ' She will feel it very bitterly,' replied Mrs Herbert. * Rose 
 was her chief earthly comfort ; but she will not murmur.' 
 
 ' And all her long life to come,' said Amy, ' there will be 
 nothing to look to — nothing that she will care for.' 
 
 *Yes,' replied Mrs Herbert, 'there will be things to care for 
 — and there must be, while she has duties to perform ; and it is 
 distrusting the love and providence of God to think that He will 
 not give her comfort and peace again. If her mind were dif- 
 ferent, it might be feared that she required years of suffering to 
 perfect her character ; but as it is, we may hope and believe 
 that she will never be entirely destitute even of earthly hap- 
 piness.' 
 
 ' I cannot bear to think of her.' exclaimed Amy, while the 
 tears rushed to her eyes. ' It seems so hard — so very hard, that 
 she should suffer. And Rose, too, — O mamma! she is so young 
 to die.' 
 
 ' And therefore, my dear, it is the greater mercy that she 
 should be taken from a sinful world. Do you not remember 
 that beautiful verse in the Bible? — "The righteous perisheth, 
 and no man layeth it to heart : and merciful men are taken 
 av/ay, none considering that the righteous is taken away from 
 the evil to come." If death is thus sent as a blessing to the 
 good, surely we may think that it is sent equally in love to the 
 innocent.' 
 
 ' Mamma,' replied Amy, as she looked in her mother's face, 
 ' you say so ; but I am sure it makes you very unhappy.' 
 
 ' I cannot talk about it now ' said Mrs Herbert ; ' it will only 
 unfit me for doing what I can to comfort your aunt and uncle, 
 and Miss Morton. When your papa returns, I shall certainly 
 go and beg them to let me be with them.' 
 
 ' I think,' observed Amy, listening at the door, ' I can hear a 
 noise down-stairs as if some one were just come.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 295 
 
 ' I wish it may be your uncle and Dr Bailey,' said Mrs 
 Herbert. 
 
 ' No/ replied Amy ; ' it is papa ; I am sure it is his voice. He 
 is talking to Bridget; and she will keep him so long.' 
 
 But Colonel Herbert was net a person to be detained by any 
 one when he did not choose it. He quickly learned the outline 
 of what had happened, and then hurried away to learn more of 
 the details from his wife. Mrs Herbert, however, would not 
 remain long with him. She could not endure the idea of being 
 away from Rose, when every fresh account served only to increase 
 her alarm ; and, leaving Amy to answer all his questions, she 
 went to Mrs Harrington with an earnest request to be allowed 
 to stay in the room, even if it were not in her power to be of 
 use. 
 
 Mrs Harrington was by this time in a state of such nervous- 
 ness and excitement, that she scarcely comprehended what was 
 said. She knew only that Mr Harrington ought to have returned 
 long before; and that his continued delay might be fatal to the 
 life of her child. Miss Morton did her utmost to soothe her; 
 but her own anxiety was very great. Rose still continued in the 
 same state, tossing from side to side, and occasionally fixing her 
 eyes upon Emily, as she bent over her, with the fixed, unnatural 
 gaze, which told, even more plainly than words, that reason had 
 fled. 
 
 Dora took the opportunity of her aunt's presence to leave the 
 room. She wished very much to see Margaret, and talk a little 
 to Amy; and felt oppressed and confused by the sight of an 
 illness which painfully recalled all she had suffered on her 
 brother's account, only a few months before. Any active exer- 
 tion would have been easily borne; but to sit by the side of a 
 sick-bed, perfectly powerless, required a patient, trusting spirit, 
 which as yet Dora was far from possessing. And she watched 
 with astonishment the calm self-composure with which Emily 
 Morton did all that was necessary for Rose, and then turned 
 to IMrs Harrington to suggest a reason for Dr Bailey's delay, 
 or give her some hope that the symptoms were rather more 
 favourable. 
 
 Colonel Herbert was listening to Amy with a deep yet painful 
 interest when Dora knocked at the door. She would have gone 
 away, on seeing him ; but he would not allow it, and, placing an 
 arm-chair by the fireside, made her sit dow^n, and begged her to 
 stay with Amy, just as long as she liked ; for he was sure 3he
 
 2g6 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 must want some one to talk to when slic was in so mucli distress 
 Amy evidently did not quite like licr papa to go away; and 
 Dora, vexed at having interrupted their conversation, entreated 
 him so earnestly to stay, that he could not refuse, though he 
 determined not to be a restraint upon them for more than a few 
 minutes. 
 
 ' Papa knows everything now,' said Amy. ' I had just finished 
 telling him when you came in.' 
 
 ' I met Lord Rochford's carriage on the road,' observed Colonel 
 Herbert; 'and they stopped, and told me what had happened. 
 I am afraid, Dora, your poor mamma must be in a dreadful state 
 of suspense and alarm.' 
 
 ' I think Margaret is more unhappy than any one,' said Dora. 
 * She was crying so bitterly when I went to her room just 
 now ; and she had fastened her door, and would not let me in 
 at first.' 
 
 'She will never forgive me for having spoken to Mr Cunning- 
 ham,' said Amy. 
 
 'Yes,' replied Colonel Herbert; 'she will forgive everything 
 when she can forgive herself.' 
 
 'Now Lucy is gone,' said Dora, 'she is left quite alone; and 
 she thinks every one in the house is complaining of her, and that 
 she is the cause of all mamma's misery; and she does not dare 
 go out of her room for fear of meeting her. 
 
 ' I wish she would let me go to her,' said Amy ; ' I am sure 
 she must think I have been very unkind. But indeed I did not 
 mean to make her so wretched ; I only thought of Miss Morton.' 
 
 ' She cares more about poor Rose now than anything else,' 
 replied Dora. ' She says it will make her miserable for life, if 
 she does not get better. And I know I should feel just the same. 
 It would be so very dreadful to think of having caused such an 
 accident.' 
 
 ' But,' said Colonel Herbert, ' it certainly seems to me that 
 Margaret's deceit in Miss Morton's case was far worse than her 
 having left Rose.'" 
 
 ' Only the consequences may be so much worse,' said Dora. 
 
 'The consequences of our actions are not in our own power, 
 my dear Dora,' answered her uncle. ' If we look to them, we 
 may just as well say that Miss Morton ought to be miserable, or 
 the poor man who drove the cows into the field, they all had a 
 share in the accident.' 
 
 'Certainly,' said Dora, 'when Margaret and I were talking
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 2Cjj 
 
 together just now, we traced it all back to Julia Stanley and 
 Mary Warner. It was they who made Lucy so angry. And if 
 it had not been for that, Margaret says she never should have 
 asked her to go out ; and then Emily IMorton would not have 
 left poor little Rose with them, and the accident would not have 
 happened. How unhappy they would be if they knew all that 
 had occurred from their laughing at Lucy and saying foolish 
 things.' 
 
 ' It is a great blessing/ said Colonel Herbert, ' that we are 
 not in general permitted to see the consequences of our actions ; 
 if we were, we should be afraid either to move or speak ; but I 
 believe God sometimes does show them to us, in order to make 
 us fearful of doing the slightest thing that is wrong. When we 
 have once known all the evils that a hasty word or selfish action 
 may bring upon ourselves or upon others, we shall learn how 
 carefully we ought to walk through life, avoiding, as the Bible 
 says, even the appearance of evil.' 
 
 ' But, papa,' said Amy, ' if we do not think of the conse- 
 quences of what we do, how shall we ever be able to tell what is 
 right ? ' 
 
 ' Do you not see, my dear child,' replied Colonel Herbert, 
 ' that we never can tell the consequences of anything ? we do 
 not know what is going to happen the next minute ; and there- 
 fore we must have some other guide.' 
 
 ' It is very difficult sometimes to find out what is right,' said 
 Amy. 
 
 ' The best way of discovering our duty, my dear,' replied her 
 father, 'is to have a sincere v.'ish of doing it. People puzzle 
 themselves because they do not really make up their minds to 
 fulfil their duty, whatever may happen. They wish to escape if 
 they can ; and then they begin to think of the consequences, and 
 so they become bewildered, and at last nearly lose their power of 
 discerning right from wrong. You know. Amy, what our Saviour 
 calls "an honest and true heart ;" if we possess that, we have a 
 better guide for our conduct than any which the wisest philoso- 
 pher could give us.' 
 
 'I think I wished to do what was right just now, papa,' said 
 Amy ; 'but yet I could not make up my mind about it.' 
 
 ' I do not mean to say,' answered Colonel Herbert, 'that we 
 shall always be able to decide at once ; but I am sure that, if we 
 patiently wait and pray to God to assist us, we shall find that 
 something will happen, as was the case with yourself when you
 
 298 AMY IIERliERT. 
 
 could not resolve upon speaking- to Mr Cunningliam, which will 
 make it quite clear to us where our duty lies ; only, generally 
 speaking, persons cannot endure suspense and doubt, and so 
 they act hastily, even with good intentions, and then blame them- 
 selves when it is too late.' 
 
 'What did happen just now?' asked Dora. 
 
 Amy hesitated for a reply ; she could not repeat the fears that 
 were entertained for Rose ; but her father came to her assistance, 
 ' One of the servants had seen Miss Morton,' he replied, 'and 
 told her that your poor little sister was not so well ; and the de- 
 scription of Miss Morton's distress decided Amy upon applying 
 to Mr Cunningham.' 
 
 'I would give all the world,' exclaimed Dora, 'if Dr Bailey 
 were come ; and it would ease Margaret's mind so much too.' 
 
 ' I wish it were possible to comfort her,' observed Colonel 
 Herbert; 'but I am afraid it would be out of the power of any 
 one at present.' 
 
 ' Ohj if Rose should but get well ! ' exclaimed Dora, ' we shall 
 all be happy again then.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied her uncle ; 'but do you not see, my dear Dora, 
 that nothing can really make any difference in Margaret's con- 
 duct ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, uncle,' said Dora, ' it would be impossible not to feel 
 differently.' 
 
 ' I will cjuite allow that,' replied Colonel Herbert ; 'and I am 
 not wishing so much that Margaret should care less about Rose, 
 as that she should care more about Miss Morton. The one fault 
 was far greater than the other ; and we must never forget that 
 sorrow for the consequences of our faults is not repentance ; it will 
 not keep us from sinning again when the temptation offers. The 
 only sorrow which can really be of service to us is that which 
 makes us shrink from an evil action when it is done in secret, and 
 apparently without having any effect upon others. I mean,' he 
 added, seeing Dora look surprised, ' that we must learn to dread 
 deceit, and selfishness, and vanity, for their own sake, because 
 they are hateful to God, not because they make us disliked by our 
 fellow-creatures.' 
 
 Dora could not entirely see the distinction ; she thought her 
 uncle harsh in his manner of speaking of Margaret ; and Colonel 
 Herbert soon perceived by her silence that she did not enter into 
 what he had been saying ; he did not, however, like to pursue the 
 subject any further, for it hardly seemed the moment to discuss
 
 AMV HERBERT. 299 
 
 questions of right and wrong, when Dora's mind was in a state 
 of so much anxiety ; and he therefore contented himself with 
 begsfinor her not to think that he could not feel for Margaret most 
 sincerely, because he wished that she could see her actions in a 
 just point of view. ' I am a stranger to her as yet,' he said ; 
 ' but I shall hope soon to show how real an interest I take in her, 
 and in all of you. Even if I were not so nearly connected, I 
 could not forget the kindness and aftection you have shown to 
 Amy, and that some of her happiest moments have been spent 
 with you.' 
 
 Dora's heart was a little softened by this speech ; neither could 
 she easily resist the polished dignity of Colonel Herbert's manner, 
 which gave a peculiar charm to every expression of feeling. She 
 did not, however, choose to acknowledge it, and exclaimed, when 
 he left the room, 'Your papa is so different from every one else, 
 Amy ; he almost frightens me. I wonder you could talk to him 
 as you did this morning.' 
 
 ' I don't feel comfortable always,' said Amy ; *' especially just 
 at first when I begin ; but afterwards I forget everything but the 
 pleasure of having him home again, and then I can get on quite 
 well.' 
 
 ' I wish Julia Stanley had talked to him a little,' observed 
 Dora ; ' he would have put her down delightfully.' 
 
 ' I wanted to ask you a few questions about her and the others,' 
 said Amy ; ' but there has been no time ; and no one has been 
 able to think of common things. Perhaps, though, you would 
 rather not tell me about them now.' 
 
 ' Yes, I would,' replied Dora. ' I think it does me good to 
 forget for a few minutes. I sat in that room just now, looking at 
 poor little Rose, and watching mamma's misery, till I felt as if I 
 could not breathe — there was such a weight upon me ; and it will 
 come back again presently.' 
 
 ' Don't fancy that,' replied Amy ; ' it may all be right by and by.' 
 
 ' I cannot think so,' said Dora. ' I have often had a fear about 
 Rose, though I hardly know why ; but she was so beautiful and 
 innocent, and everyone loved her so — she seemed born for some- 
 thing better than living amongst persons who are always doing 
 wrong. Do you remember. Amy, the day we went together to 
 Stephen's cottage, when he talked so gravely, and said that she 
 had an angel's face, and that it was fitter for heaven tlian for 
 earth ? It gave me a pang to hear him ; and I have thought 0/ 
 it so often this afternoon.'
 
 300 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 'I remember it quite well,' said Amy; 'and how grave you 
 looked afterwards. Ikit, Dora, would it not make you very 
 happy to know that you never could do wrong any more ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. And then Rose has never done any great harm as other 
 people have, who arc older ; and, besides, she cannot look forward 
 to anything.' 
 
 'That is what I feel sometimes,' said Amy. 'It seems as if 
 there were so many things to be seen in the world, and so much 
 pleasure to come when one is grown up. I can quite understand 
 that old people do not care about dying, or persons like Miss 
 Morton, who have nothing to make them happy ; but I cannot 
 feel like them.* 
 
 ' Poor Emily ! ' sighed Dora ; she will be more unhappy than 
 any one.' And then, as if trying to shake off painful thoughts, 
 she added, in a different tone, ' But, Amy, you must tell me at 
 once what you wish to know about Julia Stanley, or I shall have 
 no time left. I promised Margaret to go back to her for a few 
 minutes.' 
 
 ' It was nothing particular,' said Amy ; 'only I wanted to hear 
 what time they went away, and whether Mary Warner said any- 
 thing more to Miss Cunningham.' 
 
 ' Lucy and Margaret went out almost immediately after you 
 were gone,' replied Dora ; ' so they did not meet again ; and I 
 don't think it would have been of any use if they had, for there was 
 nothing really to be said — Mary had done no harm ; and I am sure 
 Julia Stanley would have rendered matters ten times worse if an 
 apology had been made in her presence. She tried to make Mary 
 as angry and pert as herself, but it would not do ; and at last she 
 quite laughed at her, and called her a tame-spirited girl, who was 
 not fit to go through the world ; and then Hester took Miss 
 Cunningham's part, and said that they neither of them knew how 
 to behave, and she would appeal to me to support her ; so you 
 may imagine my walk was not very agreeable ; and I was quite 
 glad when we came back to find that the carriage had been 
 ordered and they were to go directly. They all left messages for 
 you. Amy, excepting Mary, who told me she had seen you. Julia 
 was really kind, and begged me to say how glad she was about 
 your papa's coming home, and that she wanted to have told you 
 so herself; and Hester joined with her, but I don't think she 
 really cared much.' 
 
 'And Mrs Danvers,' said Amy ; 'when did she go?' 
 
 ' Directly after breakfast ; because she was afraid of the
 
 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 301 
 
 children being out late. I wish, oh, how I wish she had stayed, 
 fof then Rose would not have been taken for a wallc. They had 
 all left us before one o'clock ; and j\lr Dornford prevailed on 
 papa to let Frank return with him for a day or two.' 
 
 * I shall never think of any of them with much pleasure,' said 
 Amy ; 'though I enjoyed some things when they were here very 
 much. I wonder whether they will ever stay with you again.' 
 
 ' I don't know,' replied Dora. ' Mary Warner may, perhaps, 
 because her home is not very far off; but Mr Stanley intends to 
 live in London soon ; so that unless we meet there, I suppose 
 there is not much chance of their ever coming in our way again. 
 But one thing more, Amy, I must tell you : I saw Mr Cunning- 
 ham and Lucy before they set off. Lucy was very sulky, and 
 would hardly speak ; but Mr Cunningham was extremely kind ; 
 and I could see how much he felt for us all. He begged parti- 
 cularly to be remembered to you, and said he v.'ishcd he could 
 have said good-bye to you.' 
 
 * I think he is the kindest person I ever met with,' replied 
 Amy ; ' but still I am very glad lie went away. And if I had seen 
 Miss Cunningham, I cannot think what I should have done.' 
 
 ' Perhaps her brother will not speak of you,' said Dora ; 'but 
 as it is, I don't think she is very fond of you. She looked more 
 sulky than ever when your name was mentioned. And now I 
 think I have given you the history of every one, so I had better 
 go to poor Margaret.' 
 
 ' Margaret will not like to see me, I am sure,' observed Amy. 
 ' But I wish you could tell her how sorry I am, — I don't mean 
 that you should give her a message ; but only if, in talking to 
 her, you could make her think me less unkind.' 
 
 ' She does not know that you had anything to do with the 
 aftair,' replied Dora. 
 
 ' But I would much rather she should know,' said Amy, look- 
 ing vexed. ' I could never bear her to love me, and yet feel all 
 the time that I had been deceiving her.' 
 
 ' I will tell her, if you desire it : I did not like to do it belbre. 
 But if 1 were in your place I could not keep such a thing back.' 
 
 ' No,' answered Amy ; ' I do not wish any one to love me when 
 they do not know I have done things to vex them : it would seem 
 as if I were taking what did not belong to me. But, Dora, per- 
 haps you will say to Margaret, now that I wished her to know it 
 myself, and that I am very, very sorry about it, and that I hope, 
 with all my heart, she will forgive me.'
 
 302 ^J/F HERBERT 
 
 ' She would never be angry with you if she felt as I do/ said 
 Dora. 
 
 'Hark!' exclaimed Amy, interrupting her, 'is not that the 
 hall door-bell ?' 
 
 Dora ran into the gallery to listen, but came back with a dis- 
 appointed countenance. ' It was not the bell,' she said ; ' but I 
 could see the groom who went with papa riding down the avenue, 
 \\niat can have made him return alone ?' 
 
 Amy had scarcely time to answer before Dora was gone to 
 make inquiries. They were not satisfactorily answered. Mr 
 Harrington had not found Dr Bailey at home, but hearing that 
 he was only absent on a visit to a patient, about a mile from his 
 own house, he thought it better to follow him himself, and had 
 sent the servant back with a little pencil note, explaining the 
 reason of the further delay. The information, however, in some 
 degree relieved Mrs Harrington's uneasiness, for a thousand 
 vague fears had arisen in her mind ; and notwithstanding her 
 alarm for her child, she could now feel comparatively composed. 
 
 Rose also was again becoming more tranquil ; and her mother 
 began to cheer herself with the hope that even before Dr Bailey's 
 arrival, there might be a considerable change for the better. 
 But in this hope Emily Morton did not participate. Though 
 equally anxious, she watched every symptom with far greater 
 calmness ; and, young as she was, had seen too much of illness 
 not to perceive that the change which appeared to be taking 
 place was likely to end fatally, unless Rose possessed a strength 
 of constitution sufficient to enable her to bear up against the ex- 
 cessive weakness with which it was accompanied. The remedies 
 that had already been tried had in a measure allayed the fever ; 
 l3ut the poor little girl was evidently suffering from some internal 
 injury ; and her low moanings were as distressing to Emily now 
 as her vehemence had been before. 
 
 The moments passed wearily by. Colonel Herbert and Amy 
 walked up and down the avenue, although the evening had closed 
 in, listening for the trampling of the horses' feet : Dora remained 
 with her sister ; and Mrs Herbert sat in the chamber of the sick 
 child, forgetful cf herself, as she tried to console those whose 
 sorrow was greater than her own. Emily Morton was the first 
 in the house to catch the distant sound ; and immediately after- 
 wards Amy's voice was heard at the door, whispering that her 
 uncle and Dr Bailey were just arrived. Emily left the room, 
 thinking that Mrs Harrington might prefer her being absent ;
 
 AMV HERBERT. 303 
 
 and while the physician was deciding upon a case on which it 
 se:mcd that her own Hfe depended, she paced the gallery quickly 
 with Amy at her side, without uttering a single expression either 
 of hope or fear, and endeavouring to bring her mind into a state 
 of perfect submission to whatever it might be the will of God to 
 appoint. 
 
 Much as Emily had loved Rose before, though she had been 
 for months the very sunshine of her existence — the one bright 
 gem which alone gave a charm to her daily life — she had never 
 fully realised how much her happiness depended upon her till 
 that moment ; and when at length the door again opened, and 
 Mr Harrington and the physician came into the gallery, all power 
 of utterance seemed denied her, and unconsciously she caught 
 Dr Bailey's arm, and looked in his face, with an expression of 
 such fearful anxiety, that, accustomed as he was to scenes of 
 suffering, it for the moment almost overcame him. But even 
 before he had spoken Emily had learned the truth from Mr Har- 
 rington's countenance. She had never seen the same look of 
 anguish before but on one occasion, when he stood by the death- 
 bed of his eldest son. ' I know it,' she exclaimed, with the same 
 unnatural hollowness of voice which had startled Amy before : 
 * you need not tell me ; I felt there was no hope.' 
 
 ' We will not say there is no hope,' replied Dr Bailey, kindly, 
 yet gravely. ' She is so young that her strength may rally 
 again.' 
 
 ' It is better to know the worst at once,' said Mr Harrington. 
 ' But can you indeed do nothing.''' 
 
 ' I fear not,' was the reply. ' There is apparently some in- 
 ternal mischief. But of course I will do everything that lies in 
 my power ; and I shall hope to return here very early in the 
 morning, when I shall be better able to judge of the case from 
 the effect of the medicines I have ordered.' 
 
 'Do you think she will know us again ?' asked Emily, rousing 
 herself from the first stupor of grief. 
 
 * It is probable she may,' replied Dr Bailey. ' Tlie fever will 
 most probably diminish ; and the pain she is suftering may, I 
 think, be soothed by opiates.' 
 
 ' And is it quite impossible that you should remain with us to- 
 night?' inquired Mr Harrington. 'I need not say that where 
 the life of my child is at stake no sacrifice would be too great.' 
 
 ' You must not talk of sacrifices,' replied Dr Bailey. ' No one 
 could look at that sweet child without feclin'-r that to be the
 
 304 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 means of restoring her would be more than a sufficient recom- 
 pense for the greatest exertions. If it were not that I have a 
 still more urgent case requiring my presence, nothing would 
 induce me to go. But I have no immediate fear for your poor 
 little girl ; there is not likely to be any great change for se\cral 
 hours ; and you must remember she may rally after all.' 
 
 Whilst Dr Bailey was speaking, Amy had brought a chair for 
 Miss Morton, and stood by her side, earnestly desiring to com- 
 fort her, yet not daring to do more than show it by her manner. 
 It was a grief so deep that she could not venture to speak of it ; 
 and her own tears fell fast, as she remembered what Rose had 
 been, only a few hours before, and thought of the condition to 
 which she was now reduced. 
 
 But a few more words passed between Mr Harrington and 
 Dr Bailey ; and when they parted, there was a promise given, 
 that, if possible, the latter should return to Emmcrton by day- 
 break. Mr Harrington was rather relieved by the idea, and 
 hastened to his wife to give her the same comfort ; but he found 
 her in a state which rendered her incapable of receiving it. Her 
 expectations had been so sanguine before Dr Bailey's arrival, and 
 she had hoped so much from the decrease of the fever, that the 
 disappointment was doubly felt, and she now required almost as 
 much attention as Rose. Cold as she generally appeared, her 
 affection for her children was very great ; and Rose from her in- 
 fancy had been her especial delight ; and now that she was called 
 suddenly to part from her, at a time when she was still suffering 
 from the loss of her eldest boy, her whole mind seemed to sink 
 under the trial. Emily Morton's love, indeed, was not less ; but 
 there was a principle to support her, of which Mrs Harrington 
 knew but little ; for she felt only that Rose was dying, and her 
 thoughts could not dwell with comfort upon the world in which 
 she would live again. At this season of distress the blessing of 
 Mrs Herbert's presence was particularly felt. The sight of so 
 much sorrow made her insensible to all pain or fatigue ; she 
 seemed to possess a power of thought and feeling for every one ; 
 and her natural energy enabled her to decide at once upon what 
 was best to be done. 
 
 Dr Bailey's orders for Rose were quickly attended to ; Mrs 
 Harrington was conveyed to her own room almost insensible ; 
 and a few words of kindness and sympathy were spoken to 
 F.mily, which gradually recalled the feeling of resignation to 
 which her mind had been so long tutored, and restored her
 
 j:>/-y HERBER T. 305 
 
 power of action. Mr Harrington went himself to inform Dora 
 and Margaret of Dr Bailey's opinion, and then stationed himself 
 at the door of the sick chamber, that he might be informed of 
 every change that took place ; whilst Am^', after doing her 
 utmost to assist Mrs Herbert, went to her father, who was now 
 left solitary and anxious in the room, which only the evening 
 before had been filled with company, and resounding Avith 
 music and merriment. The contrast was indeed strange ; and 
 Amy, when thinking of it, could scarcely believe it possible that 
 so much had happened in so short a space of time. It was her 
 first lesson in the changes of life ; and it spoke even more 
 plainly than her mother's warnings of the utter insufficiency of 
 wealth to aftord anything like real happiness. At that hour she 
 felt how little comfort her uncle could derive from being pos- 
 sessed of the means of gratifying every passing fancy. He 
 would have sacrificed all, without a thought, to have restored 
 his child to health ; but his riches and his luxuries were power- 
 less ; and the one only consolation now remaining was that 
 blessing of prayer, which was equally the privilege of the poorest 
 of his neighbours. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 MARGARET'S feelings, upon being first told of Dr Bailey's 
 opinion, were bitter beyond expression. She accused 
 herself of having been the cause of all that had happened ; and 
 declared that unless Rose recovered she should never again know 
 a happy moment ; and then, as the burst of sorrow subsided, 
 she endeavoured to find some excuse for her own conduct in 
 that of Miss Cunningham, appealing to Dora to determine 
 whether, if it had not been for her, she should have been 
 induced to leave Rose by herself. Dora tried to console her ; 
 but she could not help remembering what Colonel Herbert had 
 said ; for she saw that Margaret had no idea how faulty her conduct 
 had been with regard to Miss Morton ; so entirely, indeed, had 
 it passed from her mind, that even when told of what Amy had 
 thought it right to do, she took but little notice, merely saying 
 that she had always thought Amy lovfcd to meddle with every- 
 thing, and the*-' renewing her self-reproach and her complaints of
 
 3'J6 A.]fV IIERBICRT, 
 
 iMiss Ciinningham. For some time she could not be persuaded 
 to leave her room ; but, as the hours wore away, she became 
 more tranquil, and at last consented to go to her little sister, 
 though it was witli a shrinking reluctance, which proved how 
 much slic dreaded to look upon the change of which she had 
 been partly tlie cause. The effect, however, was at first less 
 painful than might have been expected. The medicines which 
 had been administered had in a great degree lulled the pain, and 
 Rose w\ns now lying in a state of torpor. Margaret gazed on her 
 for some moments in silence, but without any great apparent dis- 
 tress, until Rose opened her eyes and looked up in her face with 
 perfect unconsciousness ; and then her cheek turned pale, and 
 her lip quivered, and, unable to bear the sight, she turned hastily 
 away, and again shut herself up in her own room. 
 
 Several hours passed after Dr Bailey's departure, and Rose 
 still continued so quiet, that a faint hope was felt even by Emily 
 Morton that her strength of constitution would enable her to 
 rally from the shock she had recci\'ed. Mrs Herbert also 
 fancied that she perceived some signs of returning intelligence, 
 and went herself to Mr Harrington to cheer him with the favour- 
 able account, and to ask whether he thought it would be 
 expedient to communicate it to Mrs Harrington ; but the 
 amendment was so trifling, that he feared the consequences 
 of a second disappointment. She was therefore only told that 
 Rose was more tranquil, and that everything had been done 
 which Dr Bailey advised ; and Mrs Herbert urged the 
 necessity of her taking some rest, if she wished to be of any 
 service in attending upon her child on the following day. 
 At first she strenuously resisted, but her husband's entreaties 
 at length prevailed; and, after some consultation, it was 
 decided that Morris and Emily Morton should watch till 
 the morning, and that Mrs Harrington should have the 
 earliest intelligence if any change took place for the worse. 
 Mr Harrington went to his room, but not to rest, still less to 
 sleep. There were none, indeed, in the house who could obtain 
 more than a few moments of forgetfulness. The slightest sound 
 ;vas listened for with anxiety ; but through the greater part of 
 the night all remained still, and nothing but the light which 
 gleamed from the sick chamber would have indicated that any 
 thing unusual had occurred. During this time there was no 
 change to excite either hope or fear ; and Emily, as she observed 
 the perfect repose in which Rose was lying, almost hoped thac
 
 AMY HERBERT. 307 
 
 she slept. The painful expression of a wandering mind had 
 passed a%\ay, and but for the irregular breathing and the altered 
 complexion, she could have imagined that her anxiety was a 
 delusion. And yet the thought that Rose might recover did not 
 bring with it entire happiness. In those silent hours of watching, 
 Emily's mind had recovered its usual tone, and she had forced 
 herself to look with steadiness upon the loss she dreaded. For 
 herself, it would be the severing of her dearest earthly tie ; but 
 for Rose, it would be an escape from all the dangers of the world 
 to the enjoyment of rest and peace for ever ; and as she recurred 
 to the bitter trials of her own life, and the sins and infirmities 
 with which it had been crowded, she felt that to wish that one 
 as yet so innocent should be spared to struggle with the same 
 temptations would be merely a selfish regard to her own feelings, 
 without any reference to considerations of far higher import- 
 ance. 
 
 What Rose might be in after-life no one could dare to say. 
 When she grew up Emily must leave Emmerton ; and, though 
 she could trust and hope that God would guard her througli the 
 difficulties of life, she could not but tremble for her. To lose her 
 now, would be to feel that she was gone to happiness ; to lose her 
 then, might be to dread lest she should have forgotten the promise 
 of her baptism, and departed from the path of holiness in which 
 she had so earnestly endeavoured to lead her. The very possi- 
 bility was fearful ; and as it flashed upon her mind, Emily went 
 to the window to relieve herself from the oppressive gloom of a 
 sick chamber, by looking upon the heavenly beauty of a cloud- 
 less night. All was perfectly still ; the long shadows of the trees 
 were motionless upon the lawn, and not even a leaf was stirred 
 by the night breeze. The earth seemed to be at rest ; but Emily 
 well knew that the peace of that hour would quickly pass away, 
 and that the morning might bring with it rain and storms to de- 
 face all that now appeared so fair. It was not upon the beauty 
 of this world that her heart could dwell with comfort at such a 
 moment ; but she could look upon the bright stars which 
 glittered above her head, and rejoice to think that there were 
 homes where sorrow had never entered; and then she prayed, 
 not that Rose might be restored to her, but that God would 
 guard her whether in life or death, and grant to herself a perfect 
 submission to His will. 
 
 Emily was still standing at the window when a slight sound 
 startled her. She fancied that Rose had sookcn ; but Morris.
 
 3oS AJrV HERBERT, 
 
 who was at the further end of the room, liad not noticed it. Again, 
 however, her name was repeated distinctly ; and w^hen she went 
 to the bed-side, she saw by the light of the lamp, that Rose had 
 opened her eyes, and was gazinj^ around, apparently bewildered 
 ■with the new situation in which she found herself. At the first 
 instant, Emily's heart bounded with joy, but another glance made 
 it sink in despair. Rose had recovered her senses ; but a change 
 had passed over her countenance, which told that her hours 
 were numbered. It was an expression that Emily had too often 
 watched to be deceived; and anxiously beckoning to Morris, she 
 determined upon sending immediately to Mr Harrington. Morris, 
 however, was leaving the room, and did not observe her ; and 
 afraid of startling Mrs Harrington by ringing the bell, she thought 
 it best to wait a few minutes for her return, and endeavour in the 
 meantime to soothe and tranquillise the suffering child. ' I am 
 near you,' she said, softly. 'You know, my darling, that I never 
 leave you.' 
 
 ' I thought you were gone,' said Rose. ' Why do you let me 
 stay here ?' 
 
 ' Because it is better for you to be here than in any other 
 place. You will not care if I am with you.' 
 
 ' It is all strange,' said R.osc. ' When will you take m^ 
 away?' 
 
 ' If you arc better, you may go by and by,' answered Emily, 
 hardly able to articulate the words ; ' but you are too ill now.' 
 
 Rose tried to lift her little hand to her head, but she had not 
 strength for the effort. ' It pains me so,' she said. 
 
 ' But it is God who sends you the pain,' replied Emily ; ' and 
 He loves you so much, you will try and bear it.' 
 
 'Will He make me die ?' asked Rose, fixing her dark eyes ear- 
 nestly upon Emily's face. 
 
 ' For a moment Emily could not answer ; and then, recovering 
 herself, she said, ' If God should make you die, my darling. He 
 will take you to heaven ; and you will live with Him, and with 
 Jesus Christ, and the holy angels. You will not be afraid ?' 
 
 ' Must I go alone ? ' continued Rose. ' You always said you 
 would be with me everywhere.' 
 
 * It is not God's will,' replied Emily. ' I must not go with 
 you now, but I will pray that I may follow you by and by. And 
 He will watch over you, and love you much more than I can ; 
 and you will be so happy, so very happy, you will never wish to 
 return back again.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 309 
 
 * Then ycu will come soon, and mamma, and papa, and all,' 
 murmured Rose, whilst her head sank, and her eyes closed. 
 
 Emily, in alarm, was about to ring the bell, when she again 
 opened them. ' Don't go,' she said, feebly clasping Emily's 
 hand. ' It is all dark. Why will not mamma come ?' 
 
 'She will be here directly, I hope,' replied Emily. 'But it is 
 not really dark ; and God is near, and the angels, though you 
 cannot see them.' 
 
 A second time Rose closed her eyes, and appeared to be 
 repeating something to herself. Emily gently withdrew her hand, 
 and going to the other side of the room, she rang to summon 
 Morris. Rose looked at her as she stood again by her side, but 
 scarcely seemed to know her, till Emily placed her hand on hers ; 
 and then, with an effort, she said, 'Am I naughty? Indeed I 
 cannot remember *..' 
 
 ' Remember what ? ' asked Emily, anxiously endeavouring to 
 catch the reply. 
 
 ' Say it, say it,' murmured the dying child. 
 
 Emily bent still closer, and heard the words — ' Our Father, 
 which art in heaven,' though they were so faint as hardly to be 
 intelligible. ' I will say it for you,' she replied, summoning all 
 her self-command to subdue the agony of her feelings ; and, 
 kneeling down, she repeated, calmly and distinctly, the holy 
 prayer which Rose had been taught in her earliest infancy, and 
 v.hich was now recurring to her mind, to bless and soothe her 
 death-bed. 
 
 Whilst Emily was yet speaking, Mrs Harrington, followed by 
 her husband, who had been alarmed at the sound of the bell, 
 entered the room ; but Rose did not appear to notice them. A 
 momentary strength had been granted her, and with a clear 
 though feeble voice, she followed the prayer to the end ; and then, 
 stretching out her little hand, she said, 'Mamma, it is bright 
 now. They arc come to take me.' And with a faint smile, as 
 she half repeated Emily's name, her head once more sank upcn 
 the p'.Uow, and the innocent spirit was at rest.
 
 310 AMV HERBERT, 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 IT was happy for Emily Morton Uiat the attention which Mrs 
 Harrington's situation demanded, when the fact of her loss 
 forced itself upon her mind, obliged her in some degree to forget 
 the misery of her own feelings. So much was required to be 
 done, that she had no lime to realise the vast blank which that 
 one moment had made in her existence ; and her chief anxiety 
 now was to prevent Mrs Herbert from being disturbed. This, 
 however, was impossible. She had not, indeed, heard the bell ; 
 but she soon learned all that had happened, and went directly to 
 Mrs Harrington's room to entreat that Emily would allow her 
 to take her place, and at least lie down for a few hours herself, 
 even if sleep were, as she feared, out of the question. But 
 Emily's only support was in exertion. To have been left alone 
 in her own chamber, with everything around to remind her 
 of the treasure which had been taken from her, would have 
 been a trial so great that she could not suffer herself to dwell 
 upon it. ' I must stay,' she said ; ' it is all I can do ; and I do 
 not need rest.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert looked at her anxiously. 'You do not know 
 what you need just now, my dear ; but perhaps you are right ; 
 only,' she added, as she kissed Emily's burning forehead, and 
 observed the trembling of her limbs, 'I have felt lately almost as 
 if you were my eldest child ; and you must allow me a mother's 
 authority.' 
 
 Emily could not answer ; but Mrs Herbert's affection, even in 
 that hour of bitterness, relieved the oppressive sense of desola- 
 tion which had before weighed her spirit to the earth ; and 
 when again left to herself, she was able to dwell with greater 
 composure upon the scene through which she had just passed, 
 and felt truly thankful that her prayers had been heard, and 
 that strength had been given her to support it. 
 
 The morning had dawned before Mrs Harrington was suffi- 
 ciently recovered to allow of her being left; and while Emily was 
 still lingering, unable to summon resolution to go to her own 
 room, a gentle knock was heard at the door, and Amy's voice 
 asked permission to enter. ' Mamma sent me,' she said, as calmly 
 as her agitation would allow. ' She wishes you so much to go 
 to bed ; and we have been getting my room ready for you, that 
 you may be near us, if you want anything. I am to be in
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 
 
 3" 
 
 mamma s sitting-room, so that no one shall go to you unless you 
 like it.' 
 
 'You had better go,' observed JNIrs Harrington, faintly; 'you 
 must require rest more than any one. Pray do not stay with me.' 
 
 Emily hesitated. She thought that, if the effort she dreaded 
 were made at once, the most painful trial would be over. But 
 Amy's pleading look could not be resisted. ' It has been my only 
 comfort the last half hour,' she continued, 'to try and make all 
 nice for you ; and poor Dora has been helping me; and Margaret 
 sent her love to you, only she cannot bear to see any one.' 
 
 'You must go,' insisted Mrs Harrington, 'If Morris is left 
 with mc, I shall not require any one else.' And Emily did not 
 wait any longer, for she was beginning to suffer from the effects 
 of all she had undergone. 
 
 The room had been so prepared by Amy's thoughtfulness, that 
 it almost looked as if Emily had inhabited it for weeks ; and 
 little as she then cared for personal comfort, she yet felt un- 
 speakably relieved by these tokens of aft'ection ; for a child's love 
 had lately been so associated with every thought and feeling, 
 that without it there was an aching void in her heart which 
 nothing else could fill. 
 
 Her rest, if such it could be called, was short and broken ; but 
 in her half-waking intervals. Amy's face came before her with its 
 expression of peaceful innocence, as if to remind her that some- 
 thing was still left in the world to which her affections might 
 cling : and when she arose to the full consciousness of sorrow, 
 her first comfort w^as the thought that it was God who had 
 ordained her trial, and the second that He had remembered her 
 in her distress, by giving her sucli friends as she felt Mrs Her- 
 bert and Amy to be. 
 
 The day passed slowly on, but Emily had neither the power 
 nor the inclination to leave her chamber. She was completely 
 exhausted by the night's fatigue ; and Mrs Herbert entreated her 
 on no account to make any exertion, till her strength had been in 
 some degree recruited. There was not much indeed required, 
 for Mrs Harrington had been considerably refreshed by a few 
 hours of sleep, but her spirit was entirely crushed by the blow. 
 She seldom spoke, or paid any attention to what was going on, 
 but sat gazing upon vacancy, or walking up and down the room, 
 unmindful of every effort that was made to rouse her. It was 
 now that Dora's energy and principle were fully called into 
 action. The selfishness which she had sometimes previously
 
 312 AMY HERBERT, 
 
 shown had been ihc result rather ot education than disposition ; 
 antl she had lately struggled so much against it, that, at a time 
 when every feeling of sympathy and affection was awakened, it 
 seemed entirely to disappear. She attended upon her mother, 
 and talked to her father, and comforted Margaret, without ap- 
 parently once consulting her own wishes, though there were 
 moments when the recollection of Rose, or the sight of some 
 book or plaything which had belonged to her, brought such a 
 pang to her heart, that she longed to rush away and give vent to 
 the misery of her feelings alone. 
 
 Mrs Herbert would probably have suffered much from her 
 exertions if it had not been for Dora's assistance ; but she was 
 able in consequence to spend the afternoon in her own room ; 
 and however she might sympathise in the grief of her brother 
 and his family, there was a happiness in the knowledge that her 
 husband was near, v/hich nothing could entirely destroy. Her 
 chief anxiety was for Emily Morton. She knew that the first 
 bitterness of sorrow would in time be diminished, and that even 
 Mrs Harrington would probably soon recover from its present 
 overpowering effects ; but to Emily the change it would cause 
 must be lasting. There was but little prospect of her continuing 
 at Emmerton, now that her principal occupation was taken from 
 her ; and Mrs Herbert shrunk from the thought of her being sent 
 again amongst strangers, to meet, perhaps, with still greater 
 scorn and neglect than she had yet experienced. She had no 
 home and but few friends, and might, therefore, be compelled to 
 go immediately into another situation, with the recollection of 
 little Rose weighing upon her spirit, and adding tenfold bitter- 
 ness to the trials she would probably be called on to encounter. 
 
 Mrs Herbert was thinking upon this subject, and endeavour- 
 ing to form some plan for Emily's comfort, when her husband 
 entered. He had been talking with Mr Harrington, and had 
 left him, he hoped, more tranquil and resigned. 
 
 'I am not so much afraid for him,' said Mrs Herbert, 'as 
 for my sister. A person of her disposition can seldom entirely 
 recover from a sudden shock of this nature.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' he replied, ' it may not be intended that she should. 
 One hardly likes to think of the reason for which afflictions are 
 sent to others, because one may judge so wrongly ; yet a deep, 
 quiet, lasting grief will sometimes, I ani sure, win back our 
 hearts to God when everything else has failed.' 
 
 • Poor Charlotte ! ' said Mrs Herbert ; 'it is a bitter discipline.
 
 A M V HERBER T. 313 
 
 And I never see other people suffer without thinking that I may 
 require it next myself.' 
 
 'Have you seen Miss Morton lately ?' asked Colonel Herbert, 
 
 * I am afraid the change this will bring upon her will be greater 
 than upon any one, as far as outward circumstances go.' 
 
 ' Amy has been keeping watch upon her all day, and told me 
 just now she thought that she was trying to sleep again, so I did 
 not like to disturb her ; and indeed I have only seen her twice 
 since the morning, and then only for a few minutes, for I saw 
 she required rest and solitude more than anything else.' 
 
 ' She will scarcely remain here now,' said Colonel Herbert. 
 
 * Her chief employment and interest will be gone. And I suppose 
 she would not be happy even if INIrs Harrington wished her to 
 continue.' 
 
 ' Charlotte will not wish it. She told me a short time since 
 that her principal reason for desiring to keep Miss Morton was 
 on account of little Rose, as Dora and JMargaret did not like 
 having her in the house, and she felt herself that the position was 
 an awkward one. She did not choose her to be a companion ; 
 and she was not old enough to have any authority.' 
 
 'And what will become of her ?' said Colonel Herbert. 
 
 ' She will go into another situation as soon as possible ; but 
 the difficulty will be to find one that will suit her.' 
 
 ' It will be a miserable life for her, I fear,' he continued. 
 ' Some people seem born to struggle against the hardships of the 
 world ; but she is so very gentle that it appeals as if the smallest 
 unkindness would completely crush her.' 
 
 ' You do not know her,' replied Mrs Herbert. ' She can never 
 be crushed by anything, not even by the grief which she is now 
 enduring. Her principles are far too high.' 
 
 Colonel Herbert paced the room thoughtfully for several 
 minutes ; and then, suddenly stopping, he said, ' Amy is very 
 fond of Miss Morton, I think.' 
 
 'Yes ; and the acquaintance has been of infinite service already. 
 Amy is very quick at discerning character, and notices every- 
 thing; and I can constantly see how the example of Miss Mor- 
 ton's patience and goodness has strengthened her own rigiit 
 feelings. I quite dread to think of what she will suffer when 
 they are compelled to part.' 
 
 'Are you quite sure that parting is necessary ?' said Colonel 
 Herbert. 
 
 * Only as you are quite sure yourself. Miss Morton will not
 
 314 AM]' IIERBER T. 
 
 wish to stay, and my sister will not wish to keep her ; and of 
 course in such a case she must go.' 
 
 ' Supposing— remember I am not expressing any wisli upon 
 the subject— but supposing it were suggested to Miss Morton to 
 return with us to the cottage, and take your place as Amy's 
 governess, would it meet your wishes ; and do you think she 
 would like it ?' 
 
 ' Would you really agree to such a plan ?' exclaimed Mrs 
 Herbert. ' It crossed my own mind once, but I thought it would 
 not please you ; and I could not bear to propose anything which 
 it might give you pain to refuse.' 
 
 ' Why should you imagine it would not please me ?' 
 
 'Because it might interfere with yournotions of domestic com- 
 fort to have a stranger in the house. And then you cannot feel 
 for Miss Morton as I do.' 
 
 'But I can feci for her because you do. And with regard to 
 my notions of domestic comfort, I should consider them of very 
 minor importance, even if Miss Morton were not a person to 
 excite such deep interest, when compared with the advantage her 
 assistance would be to you in Amy's education, and the pleasure 
 it would be to Amy to have such a companion. The first thing 
 that gave me the idea, was the knowledge that you required moi'e 
 relaxation than you were likely to give yourself, if you considered 
 that Amy's instruction depended entirely on your own energy.' 
 
 ' I do not think we should repent taking such a step,' said Mrs 
 Herbert. ' My own feeling for Emily is so sincere that I would 
 make great sacrifices for her comfort if they did not involve 
 yours.' 
 
 • I do not see why they should ; though, even if they did, I hope 
 I should not hesitate. By arranging for Miss Morton to return 
 with us, we may be the means of giving her peace, and even 
 happiness, for several years at least. But in fact I do not 
 feel that it would be any sacrifice now that I know vou Avould 
 like it.' 
 
 ' It would be a very great relief to my mind,' said Mrs Herbert. 
 ' If you had seen her look of misery last night, you would have 
 felt that it was impossible to rest satisfied till something had 
 been done for her.' 
 
 ' It will not do to decide upon it hastily, though,' observed 
 Colonel Herbert. ' Situated as Ave are, having known her family, 
 and having a personal interest in herself, whatever we decided 
 on doing we should be obliged to continue, — I mean that we
 
 A M V HERBER T. 315 
 
 could not allow her to leave us merely on the ground of its not 
 suiting our convenience that she should remain. It would be 
 cruel, after giving her the idea that we are really her friends, to 
 throw her again upon the mercy of strangers.' 
 
 ' Still,' said Mrs Herbert, ' I am not really inclined to hesi- 
 tate ; my feelings are decidedly in favour of the plan ; though 
 for that very reason I should wish to consider all the possible 
 objections in their strongest light.' 
 
 ' There will be no occasion to decide at once,' said Colonel 
 Herbert. ' Miss Morton will scarcely be in a state to think of 
 anything for the next few days ; and by that time we shall be 
 better able to judge whether there is any serious obstacle in the 
 wa\- — anything that involves a sacrifice of what is right, which, 
 in fact, is all that is really to be considered.' 
 
 * People would laugh,' said Mrs Herbert, ' at the idea of its 
 being possible to act wrongly in taking an orphan girl into your 
 family, with the earnest wish of making her happy.' 
 
 ' Very likely they would ; but I have seen enough of life to 
 have discovered that a hasty kindness is often quite as injurious 
 as a hasty unkindness. Mere feeling, however good, should 
 never be allowed entirely to guide our actions, especially where 
 the happiness of another person is so materially concerned as 
 in the present case.' 
 
 ' I do not well sec how it could lead us wrong now,' replied 
 Mrs Herbert. 
 
 ' It might induce us to decide without considering the sacrifices 
 which will be required of us ; and then when the time came for 
 making them we should be vexed and disappointed, and should 
 probably show it, and so destroy poor Miss Morton's comfort, 
 or perhaps force her to leave us, whereas, if we well weigh them 
 beforehand, we shall be prepared, and they will come as a matter 
 of course.' 
 
 ' I believe you are right ; and yet my first impulse, when you 
 mentioned the suliject, was to go at once and name it to Emily ; 
 of course, I felt in a moment it would be very absurd, if not really 
 wrong ; but it is so hard to know that suffering exists, and not 
 make some effort to relieve it.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Colonel Herbert ; ' and it is so hard to make up 
 our minds that suffering is good for those we love. But we must 
 do it now ; we must bear to wait patiently till Miss Morton has 
 formed her own plans, though we know how much it will cost 
 her to do it, and also to see every one about us unhappy for many
 
 3i6 ^tMY 11]:RF>ERT. 
 
 weeks, if not months, to come ; no human power can at prescat 
 give them consolation.' 
 
 ' It is Ijut a sad welcome for you,' said Mrs Herbert, smiling 
 through her tears as she looked in her husband's face ; * but I 
 can be deeply thankful that the trial did not come sooner ; I 
 could not have borne it then.' 
 
 'We might have been too happy without it,' he replied. 'I 
 half dreaded that sonicthing might happen when I went with 
 Amy to the cottage. To see you looking as you did on that 
 morning, so much more like your former self than I could pos- 
 sibly have expected, and to discover in every word she uttered 
 how entirely my fondest \vishes for her had been realised, was 
 greater happiness than it is usually permitted us to enjoy for 
 any length of time.' 
 
 ' It is strange now,' said Mrs Herbert, ' to remember the 
 unclouded pleasure I then felt ; it is like endeavouring to realise 
 the beauty of a summer's day when we are in the midst of winter. 
 But there are some who seem to have had no summer to their 
 lives — Miss Morton, for instance.' 
 
 ' Her summer may be to come, even on earth,' replied Colonel 
 Herbert ; ' at least, if it should be arranged for her to be with us, 
 I think we shall agree in striving that it may be so ; and if it 
 should be otherwise ordered, she is hardly a person to grieve for 
 the few wintry hours of this life, when she can look forward to 
 the long summer's day beyond it.' 
 
 ' It would be a great blessing,' said Mrs Herbert, ' to feel that 
 we had been the means of giving her comfort and relief; yet I 
 fully see the necessity of considering the subject well. And one 
 thing we must be careful about is the nianner in which it is 
 first mentioned to my brother and Charlotte. They would not 
 be likely to object, and yet they might be annoyed if Emily 
 proposed herself to leave them, and then came to us im- 
 mediately afterwards.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it would be best,' observed Colonel Herbert, ' to find 
 out their ideas first, and, if they arc what we fancy, to suggest 
 our v.'ishes, and gain their approbation before it is named to 
 Miss IMorton.' 
 
 ' Always remembering that we well weigh all the difficulties,' 
 said Mrs Herbert. ' I see your mind runs on just as fast as 
 mine ; you speak as if you had no doubt what your decision 
 would be.' 
 
 * ^§rhaps I have wtii ; however, i( is as well to be reminded of
 
 AMY HERBERT, 
 
 317 
 
 prudence ; so, for the next day or two, we will forget that we have 
 any inclinations, and look only to the objections.' 
 
 The entrance of Amy interrupted the conversation, which wag 
 not again renewed till the evening ; and by that time Mrs Her- 
 bert's feelings were still more interested in carrying the plan into 
 execution. She had spent nearly an hour with Miss Morton, and 
 had found her more composed than she could have imagined pos- 
 sible ; but it was evident, from many little expressions, that Emily 
 fully contemplated the necessity of her removal. She spoke 
 much of Mrs Herbert's kindness, and said that the remembrance 
 of it would be carried with her as one of her greatest consolations, 
 wherever it might please God to place her ; and with timid 
 hesitation she asked whether Amy might be allowed at times to 
 write to her. ' Perhaps,' she said, ' your slight knowledge of me 
 scarcely warrants my making the request ; but it is hard to part 
 so suddenly from all that has given pleasure to life ; and my heart 
 will still cling to Emmerton, and to those who have rendered it 
 so dear to me, even in a few short months.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert longed to say that she trusted the parting might 
 be unnecessary ; but she contented herself with assuring Emily 
 that Amy should write to her frequently, if they were separated, 
 and expressing a general hope that slie might always remain in 
 the neighbourhood. 
 
 ' I am afraid,' replied Emily, ' that it would hardly be for my 
 good. I feel now as if to linger so near, to be so constantly 
 reminded of lost blessings, would unfit me for the duties of life. 
 I must act ; and perhaps the greater my difficulties and my lone- 
 liness, the better it may be for me in the end. Even now I have 
 forced myself to consider and decide upon the future, because I 
 know that to sit alone and dwell upon the past would destroy all 
 my powers of exertion.' 
 
 ' liut to see us occasionally,' said I\Irs Herbert, 'would surely 
 be a comfort to you.' 
 
 'In time it would,' replied Emily, 'but not now. To be 
 within reach of you, and yet to be separated, as I must be by 
 circumstances, would probably make me repine even more than 
 I fear I am inclined to do at present. And I ani trying,' she 
 added, while her pale lips quivered, and the tears rushed to her 
 eyes, 'to learn the lesson which it is the will of God to teach 
 me. I know how quickly my heart will fix itself upon earthly 
 objects.' 
 
 'But you must not think, my dear,' replied Mrs Herbert,
 
 3i8 .LUV IIERULRT. 
 
 •that it is God's will that we should live without affection. 
 Why should He have bestowed such feelings upon us if they 
 were not intended to be exercised ? If we give the first place to 
 Him, He will never forbid us to give the second to our fellow- 
 creatures.' 
 
 * I am afraid/ said Emily, faintly. * I have thought before 
 that I could give up all for Him, and yet when He required it 
 I have shrunk from the sacrifice ; and so it is now. I am not 
 resigned as I ought to be ; and I must never again put myself 
 within reach of the temptation of loving an earthly being too 
 well.' 
 
 ' You are speaking, my love, under the influence of an over- 
 strained feeling,' answered Mrs Herbert. 'I know you would 
 not change what has happened if the power were granted you at 
 this instant ; you would not bring back that sweet child to the 
 sufferings of a sinful world, even if it were to give yourself years 
 of happiness.' 
 
 ' No, no ! ' exclaimed Emily, eagerly. ' I can and I do thank 
 God that she is safe with Him — not in words only, but from the 
 very bottom of my heart ; and yet I may be afraid — it has always 
 been so. Those whom I have loved the best have ever been 
 taken from me the first.' 
 
 ' Only we may not presume to decide why,' said Mrs Herbert. 
 ' It may have been for their good, cjuite as much as for your 
 warning. And even now, if the loss of a darling child should be 
 the means of bringing those whose happiness was wrapped up in 
 her nearer to God, ) ou would be the first to acknowledge the 
 greatness of the blessing, and to see that the object of the trial 
 might be principally their benefit. I do not mean to say,' she 
 added, observing that Emily continued silent, ' that we are not 
 all in danger of allowing our hearts to rest upon our earthly 
 treasures ; I am sure, indeed, it is one of our greatest tempta- 
 tions ; but still we must not always think we have done so when 
 they are taken from us ; and, especially, we must not shut our- 
 selves up in silent misery, and refuse the alleviations which God 
 mercifully grants us.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Emily, ' I could be more resigned, if I did not 
 at times fancy that I had been the cause of everything. If I had 
 never left her, many moments of self-reproach would be spared 
 me. Not that I give way to the idea, because I believe it is false: 
 I was doing what I knew to be my duty in going to the cottage ; 
 and the event was in the hands of God : but vet the notion haunts
 
 AMI rrEREERT. 319 
 
 me; and even when I turn away from it, it still remains a load 
 on my heart.' 
 
 'And it will remain there, my dear, till the first misery of 
 your feelings has worn oft", and you can see things in a truer light. 
 It is impossible to argue against it ; or rather, no arguments 
 which any person can use will entirely satisfy you ; but you must, 
 indeed, force yourself to turn away from it, or it will grow into 
 a certainty, and then the whole energy of your mind will be de- 
 stroyed. If we once allow ourselves to dwell too much upon the 
 tonsequences even of our slightest actions, we shall be quite un- 
 fitted for the duties of life.' 
 
 'Then you do not think I was wrong?' said Emily. 
 
 'No, indeed, I do not. You went on an errand of kindness, 
 v^'here your services were really required, and you left that dear 
 child,' as you believed, in a place of safety with those who were 
 certainly quite old enough to have taken care of her during the 
 few minutes of your absence. Consider what your feelings would 
 have been if you had neglected to go to the cottage, and fatal 
 consequences had been the result. You might have reproached 
 yourself then, perhaps justly ; but you can have no cause for it 
 now. If any one has reason to be distressed, it is poor Margaret; 
 and I am afraid she is suftering very much.' 
 
 ' Have you seen her ?' asked Emily, 
 
 'No,' replied Mrs Herbert; 'but Dora tells me she cannot 
 comfort her at all. I have sent several messages, and hope, by 
 and by, she will let me go to her.' 
 
 'Will you say something from me,' said Emily; 'I hardly 
 know what ; but only let her feel that I think of her.' 
 
 ' I wish it were possible to convince her how wrongly she has 
 acted towards you,' answered Mrs Herbert. ' I fear that what 
 she is suffering now will have but little real influence on her 
 character. It is mere feeling, and will pass away; for she will 
 soon discover that she has exaggerated her negligence, and then 
 she will care but little about it.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry for her,' said Emily; 'and I could not bear to 
 think that she was made more miserable now on my account.' 
 
 ' But it would be for her good, my dear; and if I attempt to 
 comfort her by proving that she has over-estimated one fault, I 
 shall certainly endeavour to make her sorry for having thought 
 so little of the other. It will be useless to attempt it by and by ; 
 but now Dora says she really feels for you, and therefore there 
 jnay be some hope.'
 
 i:^o AMY ITF.R HER T. 
 
 'You must not let her think that I remember it,' rcph'ed 
 Emily, 'I wish she could know how entirely I have for- 
 given it.' 
 
 ' I am not sure that I do wish it just now,' replied Mrs Her- 
 bert. ' To be forgiven before we have acknowledged our offences 
 makes us think too lightly of them. When Margaret can see 
 how utterly selfish her conduct was, and grieve heartily for it, 
 although no evil consequences have followed, then it will be time 
 to talk of forgiveness. And now, my dear, I must leave you ; 
 but Amy shall come to you whenever you wish it.' 
 
 ' Shall I ever thank you enough ? ' said Emily. 
 
 ' Do not talk of thanks,' interrupted Mrs Herbert ; ' or, if you 
 will, you must listen to all I have to say of your kindness to 
 Amy.' 
 
 The substance of this conversation was repeated to Colonel 
 Herbert in the evening : and as there was now no doubt of Miss 
 Morton's intentions, the only thing that required to be decided 
 was the practicability of her residence at the cottage. Colonel 
 Herbert insisted strongly upon every objection, feeling in his own 
 mind how much his inclinations led him the contrary way; and 
 having been the first to propose the plan, he was the more anxious 
 that Mrs Herbert should not afterwards see cause to repent it. 
 The expense, the responsibility, the interruption to their own 
 privacy, were all brought forward ; but Mrs Herbert overruled 
 everything; and after an hour's earnest conversation, it was 
 finally determined that the subject should be named to Mr and 
 Mrs Harrington as soon as they had heard of Emily's intentions, 
 'And then,' said Colonel Herbert, with a smile of heartfelt 
 jileasure, 'if Miss Morton will consent, we will see whether the 
 quiet of the cottage, with you for a companion, and Amy for a 
 pupil, will not in some degree restore her to happiness.' 
 
 ' If it should please God to grant it,' replied Mrs Herbert, ' I 
 believe it will be through Amy's means. I can see, even now, 
 how she turns to her for comfort. She half-smiled this afternoon 
 when Amy came into the room, and then checked herself, as if 
 afraid to allow her thoughts to dwell upon her.' 
 
 ' Who would not find comfort in Amy ?' said Colonel Herbert. 
 ' I have often tried to fancy what she would be like ; but I could 
 not have expected to find her so entirely simple and sincere, with 
 a mind in many respects so far beyond her age.' 
 
 ' It has been a great relief to me to observe how little she has 
 been altered by the change of her life since she has been so much
 
 AMY HERBERT. 321 
 
 with her cousins,' answered Mrs Herbert. ' It was my pruicipal 
 fear at first; but she has had a much greater inlUience upon 
 them than they have had upon her.' 
 
 ' I suspect,' replied her husband, ' that we are not at all aware 
 of the real strength of principle in the mind of a child who has 
 always endeavoured to do right. Children injure themselves 
 for their whole lives by indulging in what are called trifling 
 faults — a little vanity, or a little selfishness, or a hastiness of 
 temper. If they could only be made to see the infinite import- 
 ance of subduing these feelings early, they would grow up with 
 confirmed habits of goodness, which, by the blessing of God, 
 would never leave them, however they might be tempted in 
 after-life.' 
 
 ' We will hope that it may be so with Amy,' said Airs Herbert. 
 ' Certainly she has begun betimes; and I think she will lead her 
 cousins to follow her example.' 
 
 ' Dora interests me very much,' observed Colonel Herbert ; 
 'but Margaret I have scarcely spoken to. Have you seen her 
 lately ? ' 
 
 'No; but she promises to let me go to her the first thing 
 to-morrow. She dreads seeing her mother ; and I rather think 
 she will be glad to have me to intercede for her.' 
 
 ' She need not be afraid ; while Mrs Harrington remains in 
 her present state, she will not be likely to notice anything.' 
 
 ' To-morrow,' said Mrs Herbert, ' I shall endeavour to per- 
 suade my sister to go and look once more upon that darling 
 child. It will be a great trial, but I think it may rouse her ; 
 and her countenance is now so exquisitely peaceful and beauti- 
 ful, that I should hope it might go far towards reconciling her 
 to her loss,' 
 
 * The worst trial is yet to come, I fear,' said Colonel Herbert. 
 'There is something still to rest upon whilst the outward form 
 is left us, even when the spirit is fled.' 
 
 ' I do not think that I quite agree with you. When every- 
 thing is gone that belonged to this world, we are able to feel 
 more truly that the spirit may still be with us. Perhaps the 
 separation between ourselves and little Rose may be far slighter 
 than we accustom ourselves to imagine.' 
 
 ' It may be so,' said Colonel Herbert, thoughtfully, ' though 
 tlie Bible does not give us any certainty upon the subject.' 
 
 ' It does not forbid us to think so ; and at times it has been 
 s\n inexpressible comfort to me to feel that those whom I liave
 
 322 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 loved might still be near, though I could not see them ; and I 
 have always felt it more after they wcie taken from my sight, 
 and I could no longer look upon them with the intense longing 
 that they might return to be what they once were.' 
 
 ' Whether true or not, the idea is an innocent one,' said 
 Colonel Herbert ; ' I wish sincerely that it could be a comfort 
 to your poor sister,' 
 
 ' I think it not impossible,' said Mrs Herbert, ' that by and by 
 Charlotte will consent to see Mr Walton. You know he has 
 been acquainted with her from her childhood ; and I am sure 
 she has a very great respect for him ; and, as a clergyman, he 
 could say so many things which no one else would.' 
 
 ' I rather doubt it,' replied her husband. ' She is so little 
 accustomed to be unreserved, according to your account, that I 
 can hardly imagine she would allow any one to speak plainly, 
 much less to comfort her.' 
 
 * A month ago the case would have been very difierent,' said 
 Mrs Herbert ; ' but this grief, I trust and believe, will have a 
 very great effect. Even Edward's death was not felt as much ; 
 at least it did not appear so when she first arrived. I am not, 
 however, going to talk to you any longer, for I promised Amy, 
 before she went to bed, that I would go to Miss Morton, the last 
 thing, to see that she was comfortable.' 
 
 'Amy seemed worn out when she wished me good-night,' said 
 Colonel Herbert ; ' her pale looks made me quite anxious.' 
 
 * She has had a very trying day j and then, real sorrow is so 
 new to her, and she has been endeavouring so much to comfort 
 every one, and suffering so much at times herself (for she was 
 very fond of little Rose), that it is not strange she should look 
 pale.' 
 
 ' I must go and see if she is asleep,' said Colonel Herbert, as 
 he stole softly into the adjoining room. 
 
 Mrs Herbert followed, though almost inclined to find fault 
 with him for running the risk of awakening her. 
 
 But Amy's repose was too deep to be disturbed even by her 
 father's kiss. There was a tear on her cheek, which showed what 
 her last thought had been ; but sleep had restored the peaceful- 
 ness of an innocent mind ; and Colonel Herbert, as he looked 
 at her with delight, prayed that it might never forsake her. 
 
 Mrs Herbert's conversation with Margaret, the following day, 
 was more satisfactory than she had anticipated. At first, indeed, 
 Margaret refused to listen to any consolation. She declared
 
 AMY HERBERT. 323 
 
 that she had been the sole cause of the accident ; that her mother 
 must consider her so ; and that it would be impossible ever again 
 to know a happy moment. But when her aunt, although fully 
 allowing her negligence and selfishness, pointed out how many 
 other circumstances had combined to bring about the event; 
 without which her fault, however great, would probably have 
 produced no important consequences to any one but herself, 
 Margaret became calmer ; and Mrs Herbert's fear then was, 
 lest she should consider herself perfectly free from blame. ' I 
 do not mean, my dear,' she said, 'that you have no reason to 
 reproach yourself, for selfishness and neglect must always be 
 serious oftences in the eye of God ; but what I wish you to feel 
 is, that if you have acted in the same manner on other occasions, 
 you have been equally guilty in His sight, though no one may 
 have known it but yourself.' 
 
 * Every one is selfish,' said Margaret ; ' I never thought it was 
 very wicked before.' 
 
 * Every one is selfish, naturally,' replied Mrs Herbert ; 'but we 
 are sent into the world to conquer our nature ; and many persons 
 are enabled to do it almost entirely. You will not call Miss 
 Morton selfish ?' 
 
 ' No,' said jMargaret, ' I don't think she is ; but she has been 
 so unhappy always, that I can never fancy she has had the 
 same inclinations as other people — I mean that she does not care 
 for things in the same way ; and so it is not much trouble to her 
 to give them up.' 
 
 ' Yes,' observed Mrs Herbert, ' she has had a great deal of 
 suffering in her short life ; and I doubt whether any trial has 
 been greater than the present.' 
 
 ' I was afraid she would be very miserable/ said Margaret. 
 * Dora has told me how ill she looks ; and I am sorry for her.' 
 
 There was a slight hesitation in Margaret's manner, as if she 
 wished to escape from the subject; but Mrs Herbert was not 
 inclined to permit it to drop. ' I am sure you feel for her now, 
 my dear,' she said ; ' but you could hardly have done so when 
 you would have allowed her to be sent away under a false im- 
 pression, and at a time when, of all others, it must have been 
 most distressing.' 
 
 The colour rushed to Margaret's cheek, but she answered 
 quickly, ' I did not know what would happen then ; and, besides, 
 she did not go.' 
 
 * But for what reason?' inquired Mrs Herbert; 'not because
 
 324 AA/V HERBERT. 
 
 you spoke for her willingly. If you had known how much ohe 
 suffered for a whole hour, whilst obliged to make preparations, 
 and fully believing that she must go, I think you would be sorry 
 for your conduct. She thought then, what we know now would 
 have been the case, that she never would sec little Rose again.' 
 
 ' Was she really so miserable.?' said Margaret. ' Indeed I did 
 not intend to make her so ; and I should never have concealed 
 anything if it had not been for Lucy Cunningham.' 
 
 ' Miss Cunningham will, I hope, one day see how great her 
 fault was ; but, my dear Margaret, her actions cannot alter yours. 
 God will not admit it as an excuse, that others have led us into 
 evil ; for we must each be judged for ourselves.' 
 
 'Does Emily Morton think much about it now?' said Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 ' No,' replied her aunt ; * she is so far from feeling anything 
 like unkindness, that I am certain she would make any sacrifice 
 to do you good and make you happy. But, my dear child, why 
 will you always turn your mind to what other people think and 
 feel ? It can make no difterence to you.' 
 
 'I don't know,' replied Margaret; 'but it always seems that 
 things are worse when they are thought much of.' 
 
 'But why?' continued Mrs Herbert. 'It does not alter our 
 conduct in the eye of God. We may think of it now, and it may 
 appear to us of consequence ; but you know, my love, that there 
 must come a time when it will be of no use to us to have borne 
 a good character in the world, or even to have been loved and 
 admired by our friends, unless we have been also really good in 
 our own hearts.' 
 
 Margaret turned rather pale, but made no reply ; and Mrs 
 Herbert went on. ' We do not know how soon the moment may 
 arrive,' she said ; ' and God sends us such warnings as we have 
 had now to remind us of it. It is a great mercy that we may 
 look upon that dear child, and feel perfectly happy in the belief 
 that she is now safe, and in the keeping of her Saviour ; but it 
 might have been very different if the summons had been sent to 
 any of us who are older.' 
 
 ' But/ said Margaret, ' I fancied it was only grown-up people 
 who could be so very wicked. I am only thirteen, and I have 
 never been confirmed.' 
 
 ' But you have been baptized,' replied Mrs Herbert. * Before 
 you could even know the difference between good and evil, God 
 gave you His Holy Spirit to guide you in the right way ; and
 
 AA/V HERBERT. 325 
 
 then He placed you in a happy home, with kind parents, and 
 you were taught to read, and taken to church, and kept out of 
 the reach of the temptations of the world. Why should it be 
 less wicked to do wrong when we are young, and have so many 
 blessings and so much instruction, than when we are old and 
 exposed to every kind of evil ?' 
 
 ' j\Iy faults are only little ones,' said Margaret. 
 
 ' Your faults are the greatest you can commit, my love ; be- 
 cause you have been so educated that you would be ashamed to 
 be guilty of greater ones ; and we may be quite sure, that who- 
 ever wilfully indulges in a trifling fault when not tempted to do 
 anything worse, would equally indulge a greater one if the 
 inducement were to be put before him. If, situated as you are, 
 you will not struggle against vanity, or selfishness, or deceit, or 
 ill-temper, you would not struggle against theft or falsehood if 
 you were the child of a poor man.' 
 
 ' But I cannot really be so wicked,' said Margaret. 
 
 * Yes, indeed you can,' replied her aunt. ' When God requires 
 of us the account of our hves, we shall have to confess our 
 advantages as well as our offences ; and if we commit what 
 people in general call little sins, when our advantages have been 
 great, we must be as wicked as persons who commit greater 
 sins with fewer advantages.' 
 
 * I do not think,' said Margaret, 'that I have been taught as 
 much as Amy.' 
 
 * That is not the question, my dear. The real thing to ask 
 ourselves is, whether we have made the best use of the instruc- 
 tion we have had ; not whether we have had less than others. 
 And one blessing — the first and greatest of all — is given to each 
 of us alike at our baptism ; for we are told, in the service which 
 is then used, that God is pleased at that time to regenerate us 
 with His Holy Spirit ; and if we chose to follow His guidance, 
 we should constantly be kept in the right way.' 
 
 ' I have heard Amy talk in that manner,' said Margaret ; * but 
 indeed, aunt Herbert, I never understood what she meant.' 
 
 ' Will you tell mc, my dear, whether j'ou liavc ever wished to 
 do right ?' 
 
 * Oh yes, very often ; only it is so much trouble always to 
 think about it.' 
 
 ' And have you rot often admired people whom you saw con- 
 quering their evil dispositions, and now and then tried to imitate 
 them, and really felt pleasure in doing it?'
 
 326 AA/y HERBERT. 
 
 'Yes,' replied Margaret, 'sometimes.' 
 
 'AH these better feelings,' continued Mrs Herbert, 'were not 
 your own by nature ; they were the work of that better spirit of 
 which I have been speaking: and if you had prayed to God to 
 keep them in your heart, and had endeavoured to act from them, 
 you would have found tliem becoming stronger and stronger 
 every day ; and then, instead of being inclined to vanity and 
 selfishness, you would be humble, and gentle, and self-denying: 
 and though you might often do wrong — because no one in this 
 world can ever entirely get rid of his evil nature — yet you would 
 be very sorry for it ; and God, for the sake of your blessed 
 Saviour, Mould forgive you, when you prayed to Him, and He 
 would make you every day holier and happier ; He would cause 
 all the troubles of the world to appear light to you ; and when 
 you had lived here as long as He knew that it was necessary for 
 your good. He would take you to heaven.' 
 
 'And will it never be so now ?' exclaimed Margaret, touched 
 at last by her aunt's words. 
 
 'Yes,' said Mrs Herbert, 'if you will begin at once: but, 
 indeed, my love, there must be no delay. If you are really sorry 
 for having offended God, there can be no doubt of His forgive- 
 ness ; but it must always be asked in our Saviour's name. It is 
 only for His sake that we have anything granted us ; and the 
 blessings bestowed at our baptism would never have been ours 
 if He had not died to purchase them.' 
 
 ' I think, aunt Herbert,' said Margaret, Avith earnestness, 'that 
 I should never have done wrong things if I had always had you 
 to talk to me.' 
 
 'Indeed, my love, you would. It is not any human power 
 that can keep us from sin. But you are very young ; and if you 
 were to begin at once, praying to God to assist you, and really 
 trying to please Him in everything, you might, in time, become 
 as good as those saints and holy people of whom wc read in the 
 Bible.' 
 
 ' No, never !' exclaimed Margaret; 'it would be quite impos- 
 sible.' 
 
 'They were but human beings,' replied Mrs Herbert; 'and 
 some of them had not even the same advantages that we have. 
 It requires nothing but real sincerity and trust in God.' 
 
 ' I should like to be as good as they were,' said Margaret, 'if 
 ' and here she paused. 
 
 'If you could be so without any trouble. But, my dear Mar-
 
 AMY HERBERT. 327 
 
 garet, consider v/hat your condition will be at the end of your 
 life, if you continue in this state of mind. How will you feel 
 when you look back upon, perhaps, a long life, and know that it 
 has been entirely wasted, that you have never really tried to 
 serve God, and that you will probably never go to heaven, 
 because you would not take the trouble ?' 
 
 * It cannot be necessary to be so very good,' said Margaret. 
 'It is quite necessary to try to be,' answered Mrs Herbert. 
 
 ' God will never accept anything but our whole hearts. You 
 must remember our Savioui-'s words, " Be ye therefore perfect, 
 even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect." Certainly 
 this must mean that we are to be what you call very good,^ 
 
 ' But,' said Margaret, ' I thought no one could be good enough 
 to deserve to go to heaven.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, they cannot. But supposing, Margaret, that a 
 great prince were to come to Emmerton and offer to adopt you 
 as his child, and were to promise that, if you would do everything 
 he wished, he would, in time, take you to his kingdom, and give 
 you riches and honours beyond all that you could possibly 
 imagine, do you not see that, although you never could have 
 merited such kindness, though it would be a perfectly free gift 
 on his part, yet that, if you refused to obey, you would justly 
 deserve to lose it?' 
 
 Margaret assented ; but she did not seem entirely to under- 
 stand what was intended, and Mrs Herbert continued: 'This is 
 exactly the case with ourselves, my dear. God gives us all the 
 promise of heaven, for the sake of our Saviour, when we are 
 baptized ; but He also requires that we should obey Him ; and 
 therefore, if we neglect to do so, the consequences must be our 
 own eternal misery.' 
 
 'I don't mean,' said Margaret, 'that I would not try to be 
 good at all; but that I don't think it can be necessary to be like 
 the saints and people who shut themselves up, and never saw 
 any one.' 
 
 Mrs Herbert half smiled as she rcj^lied, ' Certainly God docs 
 not require that we should all live exactly the same lives as the 
 persons you mention — He does not command us all to leave our 
 homes and go to deserts ; but it is possible to have the same 
 tempers and dispositions as the saints, though we may live in 
 our own families.' 
 
 * How can we set about being so good ?' asked Margaret. 
 
 ' First of all,' replied her aunt, ' wo must pray to God to give
 
 328 ylMV HERBERT. 
 
 us the will ; and when \vc have that, half our difficulty will ho 
 over. It is seldom really hard to us to do what we earnestly 
 desire ; even things which seemed quite impossible have been 
 accomplished by a real earnestness of purpose. There is a story 
 told of a man whose father from extravngance had brought his 
 family to great po\'erty, and who, when he became of age, instead 
 of being possessed of large estates, was absolutely penniless. He 
 was standing one day upon the top of a very high hill, looking 
 over a vast extent of country that had belonged to his ancestors, 
 and which, but for his father's folly, would have been his, when 
 the idea entered his mind that it would be possible by his own 
 exertions to recover all that had been lost. From that moment 
 he resolved that he would never rest till he had achieved his 
 wishes. He worked by night and by day, he gave himself no 
 rest and no amusement ; and at length he succeeded, and tiie 
 estate was his. And though the end of the story is a very sad 
 one, and shows us the sin and folly of setting our hearts on 
 earthly objects, — for we are told that the poor man became from 
 habit a miser as soon as he gained his end,— yet we may learn 
 from it how much is in the power of persons who are really and 
 sincerely in earnest.' 
 
 ' I think I could have felt like that man,' said Margaret; ' but 
 I should never care so much about being good.' 
 
 ' You would if you could once sec how beautiful goodness is,' 
 replied her aunt ; ' if an angel were to be always at your side, 
 you would long to resemble him.' 
 
 'Oh yes!' said Margaret ; 'but that is not possible; and every 
 one I see is much the same as I am ; only Amy and Miss Morton 
 perhaps are different.' 
 
 ' But you can read your Bible,' answered Mrs Herbert ; ' and 
 you can see there how holy, and merciful, and gentle our Saviour 
 was. His perfect purity is set before us to excite our longings 
 to obtain it, as the estates of that poor man were set before him. 
 It is the image of that holiness which we should have possessed 
 if Adam had never sinned ; and if we had but equal resolution, 
 we may have equal success ; not, indeed, entirely in this world, 
 because we still must carry about with us an evil nature, but in 
 a far greater degree than wc are at all apt to imagine.' 
 
 ' Did you ever know any one who was so very good ? ' asked 
 Margaret. 
 
 'Yes,' replied Mrs Herbert; 'and I have watched by their 
 death-beds, and witnessed their peace and happiness in the midst
 
 AMY HERBERT. 329 
 
 pf the m05t severe surterings. I think, Margaret, if you had 
 ever seen a real Christian die, you would long to be like them.' 
 
 'Should I?' said Margaret, thoughtfully. ' I never saw any 
 one die yet ; but poor Edward was always good ; and they said 
 he was quite happy.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied her aunt; 'and if he v/ere happy then, when 
 lying on a sick-bed, how much more happy must he be now ! I 
 know you would wish to go to him.' 
 
 ' And Rose,' exclaimed ^Margaret, bursting into tears. ' Oh, 
 aunt Herbert, do you think I shall ever see her again?' 
 
 ' I am sure you will, my dear child, if you will only pray to 
 God to make you good and holy, and fit for the home to which 
 He has taken her. Will you begin at once, and never neglect 
 your prayers, and try with all your heart to attend to them, and 
 not allow your thoughts to wander ? and will you recollect how 
 very many wrong things you have done, and ask Him to forgive 
 you for your Saviour's sake ? And then will you endeavour, in 
 every little trifling thing, to give up your own will, and think onl}' 
 of what is right ?' 
 
 ' I will try,' answered Margaret. 
 
 'If you try,' said Mrs Herbert, 'not trusting to yourself at 
 all, but praying to God constantly to help you, and give you His 
 Holy Spirit, you may be quite sure of succeeding. Only you 
 must remember that it is absolutely necessary to try very much, 
 and not give up the attempt in despair because you find it diffi- 
 cult at first, and are constantly falling back to your old habits ; 
 and especially you must not think it sufficient to say your prayers 
 only in the morning and evening ; but you must pray to God at 
 all times, and in all places, whenever you are in any danger of 
 yielding to temptation. If you had prayed, I do not think you 
 would have acted as you did towards Miss Morton ; you would 
 have seen the cruelty of wilfully adding to her anxiety ; and you 
 would have been frightened at the thought of being deceitful' 
 
 ' I think, now, it was very wicked,' said Margaret, sighing 
 deeply; ' but can I do anything to make up for it?' 
 
 ' You cannot do anything to make amends to God/ answered 
 Mrs Herbert. 'When we have once sinned, no future goodness 
 can wipe out the stain ; all that wc can do is to trust that He will 
 forgive us for our Saviour's sake ; but we can, in a certain degree, 
 make amends to our fellow-creatures ; and the right thing for you 
 now will be to acknowledge to Miss Morton, when slie is able to 
 see you, Ijow very great your fault has been, and then to show.
 
 33C AjUV HERBERT. 
 
 by every means in your power, that you arc anxious to consult 
 her happiness,' 
 
 'And will she forgive me, do you think?' asked Margaret, 
 
 ' Why should you doubt it ?' replied her aunt. ' You have 
 never known her anything but affectionate, and kind, and forget- 
 ful of herself, I am sure she will forgive, because she will only 
 hear your words, and see your outward actions ; but, my dear 
 Margaret, it will be infinitely more important that you should be 
 forgiven by God, and He will look at the heart.' 
 
 * Indeed, indeed, I am sorry,' exclaimed Margaret, ' I do not 
 think I shall ever do such things again,' 
 
 ' I do most earnestly trust that you will not,' said Mrs Herbert, 
 ' God only knows the effect which the faults of our childhood 
 have upon our whole lives. You will not think, my love, because 
 I have spoken seriously, that I have not been sorry for all you 
 have suffered.' 
 
 ' I like to hear what you say, aunt Herbert,' replied Margaret; 
 'but some people I cannot endure, and I never listen to them.' 
 
 'You must try and listen to everyone who wishes to do you 
 good, my dear. And now that Ave have talked together once, I 
 hope we shall do so often ; and whenever you are in any difficulty 
 in which I can help you, }'ou must remember that I am one of 
 your nearest relations, and therefore, of course, I shall love and 
 take an interest in you.' 
 
 'And will you ask mamma to forgive me?' said Margaret. 'I 
 am more afraid of her anger than of any other person's.' 
 
 ' She is not in a state to think of anything now,' replied Mrs 
 Herbert; 'but I will certainly speak to her when I see she is able 
 to listen; and I trust you will remember what I said about Miss 
 Morton.' 
 
 Margaret promised that she would think of it often, and begged 
 to see her whenever she felt equal to it; and Mrs Herbert, after 
 kissing her affectionately, left her with a hope that the effects of 
 the conversation might be lasting. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 SADLY and wearily the hours lingered on till the day that had 
 been fixed for the funeral of the innocent child, who had 
 ever been the loveliest and most cherished of the family at
 
 AMV HERBERT. 331 
 
 Emmerton. It was a time of bitter trial to all; even the servants 
 sighed deeply as they missed the young voice which had once 
 sounded so gaily through the house, and felt that the low rooms 
 and the long winding passages were more gloomy, and the old 
 pictures and curiously-fashioned furniture more strange and dis- 
 tasteful to them, when they were no longer brightened by the 
 sunny smile with which little Rose had never failed to greet them. 
 There was an unnatural oppression upon every heart, and few 
 felt it more than Amy : she had never before been a witness ol 
 real sorrow, and it was like entering upon a new and painful state 
 of existence ; for every one appeared altered — Frank especially, 
 who had returned from Mr Dorn ford's the day after the death of 
 his little sister, was completely altered ; his spirits were entirely 
 subdued ; and his only satisfaction seemed to be in wandering 
 over the house, and collecting everything that had belonged to 
 Rose, but without any other object than that of looking at and 
 sighing over them. Amy longed to comfort him; but she did 
 not know what to say, for she was herself sharing in his grief, 
 and there was a gloom over her feelings which few other events 
 could have produced. 
 
 At her own request, she had been taken by her mother to look 
 at her little cousin as she lay in her coffin; and although some 
 who had felt more of this world's sorrow might have gazed upon 
 her with calmness, and envied a rest so peaceful, Amy could see 
 only that a change, far beyond her comprehension, had passed 
 over her, which made even the heavenly beauty of her features 
 appear awful. There was the same fair, open forehead, the same 
 long, silken eye-lashes, almost the same sv/ect smile upon the lips, 
 which she had often admired when Rose was sleeping; but there 
 was also the fixed, immovable expression which only death can 
 give ; and when she kissed the pale, marble cheek, and shrank 
 away, alarmed at the icy coldness of its touch, it seemed impos- 
 sible to believe that a form so still should ever have been gifted 
 with life, and still more impossible to realise that she must herself 
 one day be like it. 
 
 Mrs Herbert said nothing at first, knowing that words could 
 scarcely add to the lesson which such a sight must bring; and 
 Amy felt as if the sound of her own voice would have been as 
 irreverent in that chamber as in the midst of the services of the 
 church. Long and earnestly she gazed upon the fair, motionless 
 image of little Rose ; and then, when she had once more kissed 
 her for the last time, Mrs Herbert gently said, 'Amy, shall we
 
 532 A M J ' IIERBER T. 
 
 pray that our lives may be as innocent, and our deaths as peace* 
 ful?' and, kneeling down, she repeated the prayer appointed by 
 the Church to be used at the burial of the dead, to console and 
 warn the living. The impression of those moments was never 
 eftaced from Amy's mind ; and when in after years she looked 
 back with gratitude upon the early release of Rose, the remem- 
 brance of her calm face often came before her, as an earnest of 
 the perfect peace which she trusted might one day be granted to 
 herself : even then, when the first feeling of awe had subsided, it 
 was a relief that she had seen her ; for the thought of death was 
 no longer as dreadful as it had been, and she was able to talk 
 freely to her mother, and tell her of many difficulties and fears 
 which had often crossed her mind before, but which there had 
 never seemed a fitting opportunity to mention. Her only real 
 comfort, indeed, during these melancholy days, was in being with 
 her father and mother ; for there was something in Miss Morton's 
 manner which distressed and pained her. She was as kind and 
 affectionate as ever, but she did not appear as anxious to have 
 Amy with her as might have been expected. Sometimes, even 
 after having expressed a wish that she should remain with her, 
 she would suddenly stop in the midst of her conversation, and 
 continue silent for several minutes, and perhaps make some 
 excuse in order to send her away ; and although this was always 
 done in the most considerate manner, yet Amy did not fail to 
 notice it ; and her heart became more heavy as she thought that 
 possibly, after all, Emily did not really care for her very much, 
 and that now little Rose was gone, she would never love any one 
 again. 
 
 Mrs Herbert understood the reason of this change of manner, 
 but it could not be explained to Amy. She saw that Emily, 
 under the belief of being soon compelled to leave Emmerton, was 
 afraid of making Amy too necessary to her happiness. She was 
 desirous of learning to live without any great objects of affection, 
 fearing that she might rest on them rather than on God ; but 
 though such a wish might be natural after the loss of so many 
 whom she had loved, ]\Irs Herbert knew that it would not be 
 likely to continue, when her mind returned to its natural state. 
 She would then see that it is God's will that we should have 
 parents, and children, and friends to love ; and that if we have 
 been grateful for such treasures, and given the first place in our 
 hearts to Him while we possessed them, He will often, when one 
 is taken from us, in mercy grant us another to supply its place ;
 
 AMY HERBERT. 333 
 
 and she would be able to acknowledge how great a blessing it 
 was that she had learned to love Amy before she had been called 
 to part from Rose. 
 
 As yet, however, Emily could feel nothing of this. She was 
 indeed resigned, and could spend hours in looking upon her 
 darling Rose, and thinking of her great happiness, and praying 
 that God would make her lit to dwell with her again ; but the 
 thought that she had loved her too well was still predominant ; 
 and when her heart turned to Amy, and she was conscious how 
 much happiness might still be enjoyed on earth, she feared to 
 dwell upon the idea, and tried to believe that it would be possible 
 lo live without having more than a common regard and interest 
 [or all who had been kind to her. 
 
 The endeavour, however, did not succeed. Amy's winning 
 manner, and thoughtful attention, and warm affection, were irre- 
 sistible ; every hour brought some proof of her love, and every 
 iiour Emily became more and more aware how great would be 
 the pain of leaving Emmerton. Yet, believing that it must be 
 endured, she resolved upon delaying the trial only till she had 
 taken the last, long farewell of little Rose, and then to lose no 
 time in making arrangements for her departure. But for Mrs 
 Herbert's presence, she would have hesitated at leaving Mrs 
 Harrington whilst so ill ; but the exertion which was now so 
 much rec[uired, had rather roused Mrs Herbert, and given her 
 increased strength and energy, than overpowered her ; and Emily 
 felt that her own health must suffer, if she were to continue much 
 longer with so great a pressure upon her mind. 
 
 The only friend with whom she could reside till another situa- 
 tion was obtained was her former governess ; for the aunt who 
 had been the means of placing her with Mrs Harrington was 
 living abroad : and when once her determination was fixed, she 
 lost no time in writing to claim the fulfilment of the promise of 
 receiving her, and to beg that her friend would exert herself to 
 find some family where she might be admitted as a governess, for 
 the position slie held at Emmerton it would be impossible to occupy 
 again. The letter was written and sent, yet Emily could not 
 summon courage to mention it to Mrs Herbert. The shadow of 
 comfort seemed still left whilst her determination remained secret 
 in her own mind — at least no one spoke of her departure openly, 
 although it was certain that Mrs Herbert must really know that 
 it was intended, from the manner in which it had frequently been 
 ijnplied in their conversations. Dora came to her frequently, and
 
 334 ^i1/F HERBERT. 
 
 Margaret sent a request that she might speak to her soon ; but 
 Emily dreaded and avoided an interview which must recall so 
 much that was painful ; and once when they met in Mrs Harring- 
 ton's room, though her manner showed how entirely she had 
 forgiven her, yet both felt relieved upon Margaret's being called 
 away immediately afterwards, so as to afford no opportunity for 
 mentioning the subject. It was the evening on which she was 
 to look upon Rose for the last time, and all her resolution was 
 required to enable her to bear the trial ; but strength was 
 granted to her then as it had been before ; and when it was 
 over, she found a comfort which nothing earthly could have af- 
 forded, in praying that God would enable her to give herself up 
 wholly to His service, and take her to Himself when her heart had 
 been made meet for His presence. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 IT was a calm and sunny morning on which little Rose was car- 
 ried to her grave, and with it came a feeling of hope and peace 
 to some of the family at Emmerton, for it was the promise of the 
 spring am.id the dreariness of winter ; and those who had accus- 
 tomed themselves to read the truths of religion in the silent lan- 
 guage of nature could not but view it as the type of that morning 
 of the Resurrection— the spring-time of eternity — when they 
 might trust to receive again the treasure from which they were 
 now called to part for a season. 
 
 Many of the cottagers were assembled to watch the melan- 
 choly train as it wound through the village ; for Rose had been a 
 favourite with all, and there had been heavy hearts and sorrow- 
 ing faces when it was first known that she would never visit them 
 again ; and by a few amongst them, also, the brightness of the 
 morning was welcomed with satisfaction ; for although, to care- 
 less minds, the gay sunshine appeared but a mockery on a day of 
 so much sadness, they who were more chastened by affliction felt 
 that it suited well with the beauty and innocence of a child who 
 had been taken to happiness before she had tasted of sorrow. 
 Several, to show their respect for Mr Harrington, followed the 
 procession to the church ; and amongst them old Stephen, not- 
 withstanding his age and infirmities, placed himself the foremost
 
 AMY HERBERT. 335 
 
 He had borne the intelligence of the accident, and its conse- 
 quences, with tolerable composure, after the first shock was past ; 
 for he was an old man, he said, and 'twould be but a very few 
 years, perhaps not one, before he trusted he should see her sweet 
 little face again. It might be hard for those who were young to 
 see others taken away, but 'twas very different for the old. He 
 had had a warning lately ; and perhaps the next time the bell 
 tolled it might be for him. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding his outward calmness, Stephen felt deeply 
 in his heart ; he was anxious and restless, longing to be able to 
 move, that he might go to Emmerton and get permission to look 
 once more upon his little pet ; and at last when dissuaded from 
 attempting it, he declared that nothing should prevent him from 
 attending at her funeral, if it were only as a mark of his duty to 
 the family. 
 
 The exertion was greater than in prudence he should have 
 made ; but Stephen had seldom been ruled even by those whom 
 he called his masters ; and he kept to his determination, and 
 slowly and with difficulty walked to the church. It was nearly 
 filled ; and Mr Walton, as he looked upon the sorrowing faces 
 which surrounded him, felt that his task was a difficult one ; but 
 his thoughts turned from Rose lying in her coffin to Rose as she 
 really was — an angel in heaven, and the weight passed from his 
 heart, and he was enabled firmly and unfalteringly to go through 
 the service. Mr Harrington's face was of a deadly paleness, though 
 he remained perfectly calm till the moment when the body of his 
 darling child was lowered to its resting-place in the tomb of her 
 ancestors ; but then his fortitude forsook him ; and when the 
 earth fell with a dull, heavy sound upon the coffin, he covered his 
 face with his hands, and leaned against the wall for support, vainly 
 endeavouring to conceal his grief. 
 
 There were few present who did not participate in it ; and 
 when he left the church many glances of s\mpathy were cast on 
 him by persons with whose names even he was unacquainted ; but 
 Stephen could not be contented with looks ; forgetting the years 
 that had elapsed since he had held him in his arms, and taught 
 him to guide his pony, and conscious only of the affection which 
 he felt for the family, he stopped him as he passed the church- 
 yard gate, and seizing both his hands exclaimed — "Tis a sad day 
 for us all, sir, and there's none but will feel for you ; only we 
 would not have her back again, for she was too good for this 
 world.'
 
 336 AAfV HERBERT. 
 
 ' Tliank you, thank you, Stephen,' said Mr Harrington, re- 
 turning the pressure warmly; *\ve will talk another day, but 
 not now.' 
 
 'No, not now,' replied Stephen; 'only I couldn't help letting 
 your honour see that I thought of you. I must go home now;' 
 adding, to himself, ' the Colonel, I suppose, will hardly remember 
 me.' 
 
 ' The Colonel will remember you, though, Stephen,' said 
 Colonel Herbert, taking his hand. ' It would be a hard thing to 
 come back to England, and forget one's oldest and best friends. 
 But I shall see you soon, I hope, in your own cottage, when we 
 are all better and happier.' 
 
 ' I don't like my cottage as I did,' replied Stephen, ' I shall 
 often think it was the cause of it all, — not but what it's wrong, 
 though ; for God's will was the cause, and His will must be 
 done.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Colonel Herbert; 'and we shall all learn, I hope, 
 to be resigned.' 
 
 ' In time, sir, — there's nothing like time and good thoughts. 
 And you will come and see me then, sir, and bring young madam 
 with you, and Miss Amy. How her little face brightened when 
 she talked to me of your coming home ! We, none of us thought 
 then what was going to happen just afterwards.' 
 
 ' I must not stay now, Stephen,' said Colonel Herbert; 'Mr 
 Harrington is already standing by the carriage. But we will 
 talk about Amy another time.' 
 
 'And the young lady, sir,— Miss Morton, — I should like just 
 to know about her; they say she takes on sadly.' 
 
 ' She is better,' replied Colonel Herbert. ' Of course it was a 
 dreadful shock to her.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes ! they were always together,' said Stephen. ' Nobody 
 dreamed of tlieir being parted so soon. But they will meet, — we 
 shall all meet again.' 
 
 ' May God grant it!' said Colonel Herbert, as he shook the 
 old steward warmly by the hand, and then, hastily walking away, 
 he joined Mr Harrington. 
 
 On his return home. Colonel Herbert went immediately to his 
 wife to inquire for Mrs Harrington and Emily. The former he 
 found had been but slightly aroused from her apathy, even when 
 purposely told what was passing; but Emily was better than 
 Mrs Herbert had supposed possible. The worst suffering had 
 been over on the preceding evening; and she was now able to
 
 AMV HERBERT. y:>^ 
 
 converse tranquilly, and even again to allude to her futui'e pro- 
 spects. This, however, arose from a restless anxiety that her 
 plans should be finally fixed. She longed to speak to JMr Har- 
 rington, and decide at once upon leaving Emmerton, fechng that 
 her mind would never really be calm till this had been done; 
 and she inquired eagerly of Mrs Herbert, when she thought it 
 would be possible for him to allow her a few moments' con- 
 versation. ' I know it cannot be to-day,' she said; 'it would be 
 cruel to ask it ; but I cannot rest satisfied till I have seen him.' 
 
 ' I am not sure that it might not be to-day, my dear,' replied 
 !Mrs Herbert. ' If you have anything on your mind, he would 
 be most anxious to relieve you.' 
 
 ' It is on my mind, heavily,' said Emily; 'but I would not for 
 the world he should be troubled with my affairs when he has so 
 much to oppress him.' 
 
 ' If it is anything in which he can be of use, perhaps it may 
 interest and please him,' answered Mrs Herbert. 
 
 ' It is nothing of that kind,' said Emily, resolving with great 
 difficulty to mention her intentions openly. ' I wish to tell him 
 that I must leave Emmerton. I daresay he would name the 
 subject to me if I did not speak first.' 
 
 'Will you let us talk to him, my dear? It might save you 
 pain ; and we might be able, together, to form some plan for 
 your future happiness. You will trust us, I think, to arrange for 
 you.' 
 
 * Oh ! ' exclaimed Emil)-, ' if I do not trust you, whom have I 
 on earth to rest upon? Will you really speak about it as soon 
 as you can? Indeed, I must leave this place soon,' 
 
 ' You may depend upon my not delaying one moment longer 
 than is necessary,' said Mrs Herbert. ' Perhaps this afternoon 
 he may be able to listen.' 
 
 'And may I have Amy with me till then?' asked Emily; and 
 then, checking herself, she added, 'but perhaps it will be better 
 not ; she will be happier with you.' 
 
 'No, indeed, my dear, she will not. You cannot give her a 
 greater pleasure — especially if she can feel that it is any comfort 
 to you.' 
 
 'It is only too great a comfort,' said Emily; 'but to-day, 
 may be nearly the last time.' 
 
 'And therefore she shall come to you directly. She is walking 
 in the garden at present; for she has been very unhappy, and 
 could not fix her attention to anything in the house.' 
 
 Y
 
 338 AMV HERBERT. 
 
 'I think I should Uke to walk too,' said Emily. 'I must be 
 with the family, and go out again now. And wlien I am with 
 her I can bear everything better; and I must tell her myself that 
 I am going.' 
 
 ' Not to-day,' replied Mrs Herbert. ' Wait till we have spoken 
 to my brother ; and then, perhaps, we may be able to give her a 
 little consolation, for she will feel dreadfully.' 
 
 Emily knew that it would have been a relief to have mentioned 
 the subject at once ; but she assented instantly to Mrs Herbert's 
 wishes, unwilling to give a moment's unnecessary pain to any one, 
 especially to Amy. The restriction prevented her from finding 
 as much satisfaction in her walk as she might otherwise have 
 done ; but to Amy it brought feelings more approaching to 
 pleasure than any she had experienced for the last week ; for it 
 seemed like the restoration of the days when Emily was always 
 delighted with her society. ' I thought, perhaps, you would come 
 out,' she said, ' at least in the afternoon ; for I am sure you will 
 never feel better while you sit alone in the house.' 
 
 ' It is like a spring day,' said Emily. ' Who could imagine we 
 were now in the beginning of January.' 
 
 'It does not seem like a spring day, though,' said Amy, 
 sadly. ' I never thought before that sunshine could be _ so 
 melancholy.' 
 
 ' It will be cheerful to you again, soon. When you go back to 
 the cottage with your papa and mamma, you will feel just as you 
 used to do.' 
 
 ' No,' said Amy ; ' nothing will seem as it used to be while you 
 are unhappy.' 
 
 ' I am not going to be miserable,' answered Emily, endeavour- 
 ing to smile. ' I know there is not really any cause for it. My 
 darling Rose is far happier than we can imagine ; and whilst 
 there are so many duties to be attended to, I hope I shall never 
 sit down idly to repine at the will of God.' 
 
 ' Rose must be happy,' exclaimed Amy. ' I thought just now 
 I should like to be her.' 
 
 ' We should all like it,' said Emily, ' if we could only see her 
 as she now is. Yet I believe it is really a great blessing that we 
 do not know more clearly what heaven is like ; for if we did we 
 should sometimes be scarcely able to endure our life here, even 
 when it is the most blessed.' 
 
 ' I wish I could know, though,' replied Amy ; ' it would make 
 me so happy to think of going there.'
 
 AJ/y HERBERT. . 333 
 
 'But, then, you must remember,' said Emily, 'that if we had 
 once seen the beauty of heaven we should have no pleasure com- 
 paratively upon earth. There are a great many things we enjoy 
 now, which are very innocent and good, and help us to bear up 
 ngainst sorrow ; but they would be of no use to us if we could 
 contrast them with the glories of heaven. This bright sunshine, 
 for instance, and the lawn, and the evergreens, and the water, 
 and all that beautiful country beyond, would seem nothing if we 
 could know how much more beautiful the world is to which we 
 hope to be taken when we die.' 
 
 ' I see that,' replied Amy, ' because 1 remember, after I had 
 been at Rochford Park, the cottage seemed quite changed, and 
 not half as pretty as it was before — yet it was not really altered ; 
 but I do not think I should have cared so much if I had thought 
 that I should ever live there.' 
 
 ' You will not care again,' said Emily, ' if you will learn to 
 look upon all beautiful things as the types or images of the 
 treasures of heaven ; for no one will desire very much to possess 
 an imperfect picture of any object when he is soon to enjoy the 
 reality. I can understand your feeling, though, entirely ; and 
 Rochford Park, I have heard, is very lovely.' 
 
 ' But the people who live there are not lovely,' said Amy ; 
 'only j\Ir Cunningham, I like. As for Miss Cunningham, I am 
 afraid I shall dislike her more than ever now.' 
 
 ' You must try not,' replied Emily. ' She might have been 
 very different with better education ; and we might have been 
 like her if our temptations had been as great.' 
 
 ' Not you,' said Amy ; ' I am sure it is impossible.' 
 
 * Nothing of the kind is impossible, dearest,' replied Emily. 
 ' We might all have been like the worst persons that ever lived 
 if we had not received such great advantages ; and, even now, 
 God will not consider us better than others if we do not profit by 
 them. There are many of us who bear a very good character in 
 the world, and yet must appear hateful in the sight of God.' 
 
 ' I think that is papa just come out of the house,' exclaimed 
 Amy. 
 
 Emily stopped and trembled. ' I do not think I can speak to 
 him now,' she said, faintly. ' Will you come with me into 
 another walk ?' 
 
 * The one leading to the lake is the most private,' said Amy ; 
 ' only there is not so much sunshine there.' 
 
 Emily did not reply, but moved quickly away ; and a few
 
 340 AJ/V HERBERT. 
 
 minutes afterwards Mr Harrington and his sister joined Colonel 
 Herbert on the terrace. They walked for sonic time almost in 
 silence ; and Amy, as she watched them could not help wishing; 
 that her mamma might sec Miss IMorton, and come to her, for it 
 Avould be a pleasure to both of them ; and it did not seem that 
 she was doing any good in being with her uncle. After a time, 
 however, something was said which apparently interested Mr 
 Harrington ; for he listened attentively while Colonel Herbert 
 spoke, and then answered him with greater animation than he 
 had before shown. Amy had a full opportunity for observing all 
 this, as Emily had become suddenly silent. She also was looking 
 at the party on the terrace, and was evidently thinking only ot 
 them. The conversation lasted for a considerable time, and 
 Amy, fearing that Miss Morton would be fatigued, begged her to 
 go in ; but she answered, rather hurriedly, that she would much 
 rather not ; and Amy was not inclined to press the matter, for 
 the unusually mild air and the brightness of the weather had 
 seldoni been so refreshing to her. 
 
 Sometimes, as she watched her father, she thought the conver- 
 sation must have some reference to Emily, for he looked fre- 
 quently towards her; and Mrs Herbert's smile, as they once 
 unexpectedly met at the angle of the terrace, made her hope that 
 the subject might be an agreeable one. She did not, however, 
 dwell much upon the idea, having never understood that it was 
 likely for any change to take place in Emily's situation ; but just 
 as she was about again to propose that they should go in. Colonel 
 Herbert left Mr Harrington, and coming towards them, told Amy 
 that she had better walk witli her mamma, as he wished to speak 
 to Miss Jilorton a few minutes alone. ' I will not detain you 
 long,' he added, turning to Emily ; ' for I am sure ycu must be 
 tired. Perhaps you would rather rest yourself first V 
 
 ' Oh no ! ' exclaimed Emily ; ' I am not in the least tired ; 
 and I would much rather hear everything now.' 
 
 ' You will, perhaps, scarcely imagine the subject I wish to 
 mention,' said Colonel Herbert, as he walked by her side ; 'but 
 vou have said that you would give us the privilege of old friends, 
 and allow us to name your wishes to Mr Harrington ; and though 
 I am so little known to you, I hope, when you have heard my 
 reasons, you will not think me intrusive in wishing to speak of 
 \hem to yourself, personally. If your memory could carry you 
 back as far as mine, I think you would understand why I can 
 lever consider you a stranger.'
 
 AJIY HERBERT. 341 
 
 ' Indeed, I can remember,' said Emily, and her voice faltered. 
 * They were my happiest days, and every person connected with 
 ihem must always be remembered by me, particularly one 
 who was so well acquainted with my family, and so kind to 
 ihem.' 
 
 ' Then vv'e will not be strangers,' said Colonel Herbert, 'but 
 old friends who have a mutual interest in each other's welfare. 
 If you will promise to think of me in that light, I shall have 
 less hesitation in asking a favour of you.' 
 
 * Of me !' exclaimed Emily, with surprise ; 'you cannot doubt 
 my willingness to grant anything you may require ; but it seems 
 impossible that I should be able to do anything for you.' 
 
 ' I understand,' replied Colonel Herbert, ' that it is your wish 
 now to leave Emmerton, and jNIr Harrington agrees in thinking 
 that it may perhaps be better ; but he is very unwilling that you 
 should go at once amongst strangers, with whom you can have no 
 sympathy; and the idea of it has made him extremely uncom- 
 fortable, for he feels, with j\Irs Herbert and myself, that from our 
 early acquaintance we are in a great degree your guardians and 
 protectors, and bound to consult your happiness.' 
 
 ' You are very, very kind,' said Emily ; ' but I doubt if you 
 will be able to think of anything bettea- for me in the end.' 
 
 ' Will you try the plan we wish to propose ?' said Colonel 
 Herbert. ' If it should not conduce to your happiness, we should 
 be the first to wish that it might be altered.' 
 
 ' I will do anything that is thought right,' replied Emily. 
 
 'Then,' said Colonel Herbert, ' will you consent to return with 
 us to the cottage, and take Amy for your pupil ?' 
 
 Emily was silent, and for an instant Colonel Herbert feared 
 that some objection might exist in her mind for which he was not 
 prepared ; but when he looked at her countenance, he saw that 
 she was endeavouring to answer him calmly. Twice she tried 
 to speak, but her words were choked ; and at last, giving way 
 entirely, she burst into tears. Colonel Herbert felt that his 
 presence must be painful to her, and merely saying that he would 
 wait for an answer till she had had more time for consideration, 
 he left her, and she was immediately afterwards joined by Mrs 
 Herbert. 
 
 ' I am afraid you have been startled, my dear,' she said ; 
 ' Colonel Herbert insisted upon speaking to you himself; but men 
 never know how to manage these things well.' 
 
 * Oil ! indeed,' said Emily, ' he has only been too kind ; but it
 
 342 AMV JfERBERT. 
 
 cannot really be true ; you cannot mean that I shall not be ob- 
 liged to go away from you "i' 
 
 ' It must depend entirely upon your own choice,' replied Mrs 
 Herbert. ' If you can be happy with us, and will consent to take 
 charge of Amy, you will ease me of a burden which is too much 
 for my health, and give us all most heartfelt pleasure.' 
 
 'But Mr Harrington,' said Emily, feeling as if there must 
 be some objection to a plan which promised so many blessings 
 at a moment when she was almost overwhelmed with sorrow. 
 
 * My brother feels with us entirely ; it will be a real relief to 
 him to know that you are happy, or at least in the way of becom- 
 ing so ; for we can only hope to make you tranquil and comfort- 
 able at first. And now I shall not let you stay here any longer, 
 but you must go to your room, and I will send Amy to you. W'c 
 thought that, perhaps, you would like to name the subject to her 
 yourself.' 
 
 Emily spent the few moments that elapsed before Amy's knock 
 was heard at her door in endeavouring to realise the mercy thus 
 granted her, and to feel grateful to God, who had bestowed it. 
 Though almost confused by the suddenness of the idea, yet her 
 first thought had been of Him ; and if in the time of sorrow she 
 had prayed earnestly to be devoted to His service in thought, and 
 word, and deed, still more earnestly did she now pray that no 
 earthly blessings might ever lead her heart from Him. 
 
 Amy's countenance was sad when she entered. She had been 
 talking to Dora, whose spirits were so much depressed that it was 
 difficult to console her. Amy had seen comparatively little of 
 her during the preceding week, for she had been in constant at- 
 tendance upon her mother, or endeavouring to cheer Margaret ; 
 but the latter did not now require so much sympathy ; she was 
 quiet and sorrowful, bnt the first excitement of feeling was over ; 
 and her aunt's conversation had in a great measure satisfied her 
 mind as to her own share in the accident. Dora had, therefore, 
 more time to give to her own reflections ; and they were very 
 painful. Everything around her was melancholy ; and even her 
 mother's abstraction and indifference were scarcely so distressing 
 to witness as her father's silent suffering, and Frank's mournful 
 face ; while the thought of Emily Morton was almost worse than 
 cither ; for Dora felt that she might have been a comfort to her 
 now, if she had only been less unkind before. It gave her a pangr 
 to know that Amy was admitted to Emily's room at all times., 
 though she had only been acquainted with her for a few months,
 
 yjMV HERBERT. 343 
 
 while her own visits were merely occasional ; it would have been 
 far more natural and right that Emily should look to her as a 
 companion ; and as she thought this, Dora's memory recalled 
 all her past neglect and selfishness, and the bitterness of self- 
 reproach added tenfold to her other sorrows. Amy heard it all, 
 but could say little in reply. She knew that Dora had often 
 acted very wrongly, and that now she was justly suffering for it; 
 but she also felt quite certain that Emily Morton did not for a 
 moment think of it. 
 
 Dora, however, was not satisfied with this assurance ; she 
 could not be, till she had spoken to Emily herself. * I cannot 
 bear,' she said, 'only to be allowed to go into her room now and 
 then ; it seems as if she were quite cut off from us — and Mar- 
 garet says the same ; for indeed, Amy, you cannot think how 
 sony Margaret is now for what she did. She has been speaking 
 about it to me this morning, and she wishes so much to say 
 something. I believe aunt Herbert made her promise to do it, 
 when she had that long conversation with her the other day 
 When do you think Emily will be able to see us both ? I mear. 
 not just for a few minutes, but really to talk to her.' 
 
 ' I daresay she will to-morrow,' said Amy ; ' for I believe she 
 intends going down-stairs as usual, now ; and then you will see 
 how true it is that she does not think about anything, but really 
 loves you very much.' 
 
 ' She is almost an angel, I believe,' said Dora, earnestly. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed she is,' exclaimed Amy ; ' I am afraid to think 
 much about her being so good, because then I get a fancy that 
 she will be taken away ; and I could not bear her to go.' 
 
 'But I don't think she will stay here,' said Dora. 
 
 ' What do you mean V inquired Amy, hastily. 
 
 * It will be so diflerent now to what it used to be. She will 
 not have much to do with Margaret and me ; and I am nearly 
 sure she will go.' 
 
 'But not yet — you cannot mean yet ?' said Amy. 'I daresay 
 it may be when you are quite grown up ; but that is so far off.' 
 
 ' I think she will leave us at once,' said Dora. ' I have often 
 heard mamma say that she had but one very great reason for 
 keeping her ; and you know that is all gone.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Amy, thoughtfully ; ' but she can teach you still.' 
 
 ' Mamma's notions are changed, lately, I think/ replied Dora ; 
 'she does not like having a person who is a governess and no 
 governess.'
 
 344 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 ' But has she said anylhin;,^ to you ?' inquired Amy. 
 
 ' No ; for poor mamma docs not think of anything now. I 
 don't know when she will again.' 
 
 'Then Miss Morton cannot possibly go away yet.'" 
 
 ' Pei'haps not ; but at any rate she will before very long. I 
 wonder )ou never jet thought about it, Amy.' 
 
 'It seems quite impossible,' said Amy. 'I cannot think of 
 Kmmerton and you without her.' 
 
 ' She will never be happy here,' replied Dora ; ' so perhaps it 
 \sill be better ; only I should be glad for her to remain here some 
 time. I think I should try and make her comfortable.' 
 
 'I must ask mamma,' said Amy. 'It makes me so unhappy 
 to think about it. I shall never rest till it is quite certain.' 
 
 ' I don't think any one knows for certain,' replied Dora ; ' but 
 you will soon learn from what Emily says herself.' 
 
 ' I cannot ask her,' said Amy ; ' but I am sure mamma must 
 know ; and she must be come in by this time. I wonder whether 
 what papa wished to say to Miss Morton had anything to do 
 with it V 
 
 ' Oh no ! he would not be the person to talk to her. But you 
 need not distress yourself so much. Amy ; it will not be just 
 yet.' 
 
 ' I must know,' said Amy. And she ran off to her mother's 
 room ; but she was stopped by Susan Reynolds, who told her 
 that Miss Morton desired to speak to her. Amy's fears immedi- 
 ately conjectured the intelligence she was to receive, and her face 
 plainly betrayed her anxiety. 'Is it anything very particular ?' 
 she said, as she entered. ' Is anything the matter ?' 
 
 ' Why should you think so ?' replied Emily gently. ' It is not 
 very strange that I should like to have you with me.' 
 
 ' But Dora says,' — and here Amy paused, for she felt that to 
 repeat the conversation would be to inquire into Miss Morton's 
 plans. 
 
 ' What does she say ?' asked Emily. ' You ai'e not afraid ot 
 telling me anything, are you ?' 
 
 ' Not if it is right,' replied Amy ; ' but I don't think I ought to 
 say this.' 
 
 * Then you shall not,' said Emily. ' I am sure you will judge 
 properly ; only, if it is anything that concerns me, you need 
 hardly think that I should be ve.xed.' 
 
 ' Are you quite sure t I should be so very glad to know ; but 
 I thought it would seem impertinent.'
 
 AMY HERBERT. 345 
 
 ' I will let you ask anything }ou like,' replied Emily ; ' and if 
 it is something I must not answer, I will tell you.' 
 
 ' You will not go away ?' said Amy, timidly, and at the same 
 time looking anxiously in Miss Morton's face. 
 
 ' I am going from Emmerton,' replied Emily ; and poor Amy 
 felt as if a shot had passed through her heart. ' But I am not 
 going far away, I hope,' she added, as she watched the quiet 
 tears that trickled down Amy's cheek. * It depends upon you 
 how far.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! ' exclaimed Amy ; ' it cannot depend upon me. 
 You know I would never have you go away from me ; I would 
 have you live with me always, and I would love you, and do 
 everything for you, and I would attend to all your wishes ; and 
 then, perhaps, some day you might say that I had made you 
 happy.' 
 
 'And will you really love your governess ?' said Emily. And 
 she put her arm round Amy's waist, and drew her fondly to- 
 wards her. 
 
 The truth flashed in a moment across Amy's mind. ' Was 
 that really what papa said .'" she exclaimed. 
 
 * He asked me,' replied Emily, ' if I would go back with you 
 to the cottage : and he said that you should be my pupil ; and 
 now you shall decide.' 
 
 Amy could not answer ; for words are even more powerless to 
 express joy than grief. But Emily needed no assurances ; and 
 for the moment she yielded without fear to the consolation which 
 an affection so deep was capable of affording her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THERE was a strange mixture of feeling in Amy's mind, on 
 ihe following morning, when she thought of all that had 
 lately occurred. It was impossible to forget Rose, but it was 
 equally impossible to avoid thinking of Emily ; and she imme- 
 diately began to anticipate the pleasure of living with her, and 
 exerting herself for her happiness. The new arrangement was 
 satisfactory to every one, tliough when named to Mrs Harring- 
 ton, she merely said, ' Yes, certainly, it would do very well ;' 
 and then appeared to take no further interest in it. Even Dora
 
 346 JMV HERBERT. 
 
 and Margaret felt it a comfort that Emily would be near them \ 
 for now that they were about to lose her, they fust began to be 
 sensible of her value. Little unthought-of kindnesses and daily 
 self-denials were remembered with regret that they had been 
 so lightly appreciated : and Dora looked at her music-books, and 
 Margaret at her portfolio, and sighed as they thought that they 
 should have no one for the future to take an interest in them as 
 Emily had done. 
 
 ' I shall envy you more than ever, Amy,' said Dora, as they 
 walked together in the garden a few days afterwards. ' I 
 always thought you were happier than we were ; and lately, I 
 am sure of it.' 
 
 ' You will get better by and by,' said Amy. ' I know how you 
 must feel, — the place is so altered.' 
 
 * Yes,' observed Margaret ; 'and it will never be what it was 
 again. It docs not look the same.' 
 
 ' I think even the blue sky has grown dim,' said Dora ; ' yet 
 I like to look at it, because I can think that little Rose is there. 
 But the sky will never be dim to you, Amy.' 
 
 ' Why not ?' asked Amy. ' I know I must have a great many 
 sorrows, just as other people have.' 
 
 ' But,' replied Dora, * I am sure it is something in one's own 
 mind which causes it. The earth often looks gloomy when there 
 is really nothing the matter ; but I do not think the sky would, 
 if we never did wrong : and that is the reason why I do not think 
 it ever will to you.' 
 
 'Indeed, Dora,' exclaimed Amy; 'you don't know anything 
 about me ; and you will find out some day how bad I am.' 
 
 * I dont wish to find it out,' said Dora. ' It pleases me 
 to believe there are some people in the world who always do 
 right.' 
 
 ' Then you shall believe it of mamma, and Wxs Walton, and 
 Miss Morton,' said Amy. 
 
 ' I don't like to think of Emily,' replied Dora. ' When \\\\\ 
 she let us go and talk to her.' 
 
 ' I hope she will soon,' said Margaret. ' It quite weighs upon 
 my mind.' 
 
 ' I told her yesterday that you wished it,' answered Amy ; 
 ' and then she said you thought a great deal more about things 
 than herself, and she did not like you to be distressed ; and that 
 she had thought you would have understood her feelings by hei 
 manner at breakfast and dinner.'
 
 AJ/V HERBERT. 347 
 
 * That will not quite please my aunt/ said Margaret. * I pro- 
 mised her I would speak to Emily myself; and I do wish very 
 much to do what she likes.' 
 
 'There is Miss Morton just coming down the steps,' said 
 Amy; 'perhaps if I were to go away, you would like to say 
 something now.' 
 
 Margaret rather hesitated, feeling half ashamed when the 
 opportunity was given her ; but Dora urged that there might be 
 no delay : and Amy went into another walk. 
 
 ' I fancied,' said Emily, as she came up to them, ' that Amy 
 was with you. Mr Walton is in the house, and wishes to see her.' 
 
 ' I will go and call her,' said Dora ; ' she is only gone into one 
 of the back walks.' 
 
 Emily begged she would not trouble herself; but Dora felt 
 quite pleased with the opportunity of showing her a little atten- 
 tion ; and Margaret and Emily were leU alone. Margaret was 
 extremely embarrassed ; and Emily perceiving that something 
 was the matter, made a few passing observations on the beautj 
 of the weather. 
 
 Margaret's answers were short, for her mind was pre-occupied ; 
 and it was not till she saw Dora returning that she summoned 
 courage to say, ' You would not let me speak to you before ; but 
 I must tell you now, I am so very sorry, — and I have wished so 
 much that you should know it.' 
 
 ' Indeed, I have known it,' replied Emily ; ' and I hoped you 
 would have understood from my manner how little I have thought 
 about it. We have both been suffering too much not to feel for 
 each other ; and I have had you in my mind very often, and 
 Vvished that I could have comforted you.' 
 
 ' But it was not only that,' continued Margaret ; ' I wanted to 
 say, and so did Dora too, that we know we have often been very 
 unkind, and done a great many wrong things ; and we should 
 be much happier if you would say that you forgive us.' 
 
 ' Will you .'' ' said Dora, who had been walking a few paces by 
 their side. 
 
 ' I do not like to say it,' replied Emily ; ' it seems now as if I 
 had no right to do it. All the pleasure I have known for the 
 last two years has been found in your family ; and what I feel 
 now is thankfulness that it has been so much greater than I 
 deserve.' 
 
 'Butwcdid not make you happy,' said Dora. ' You would 
 have been miserable if it had not been •'
 
 348 yl^/y HERBERT. 
 
 'For Rose,' continued Emily, tlrmly. 'I do not know, indeed, 
 how I should liave felt without her ; but with her I had, at times, 
 all that I dared desire ; and now God has given me blessings for 
 which I can never be sufficiently grateful.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Dora ; 'Amy is a blessing to every one.' 
 
 ' And you are blessings too,' replied Emily, in a tone of deep 
 interest and kindness. 'You do not know the satisfaction you 
 are affording me now ; and you may be unspeakable blessings to 
 your parents.' 
 
 'We shall not know what to do when you are gone,' said 
 Margaret ; 'and my aunt and Amy also.' 
 
 'Your mamma will recover herself by and by, I ha\'c no 
 doubt ; and then wc shall be so near, it will be scarcely like a 
 separation.' 
 
 ' There was one thing,' said Dora, ' which I thought I would 
 ask you : but I am afraid you will not tell me if you had rather 
 not.' 
 
 ' I will tell you really, though,' replied Emily. ' I always try 
 to say exactly what I mean.' 
 
 ' Then do you think, sometimes, if we go to the cottage, you 
 would be able to hear us play, and look at our drawings t We 
 shall be so very much at a loss without you.' 
 
 'I trust,' said Emily, 'that my being away will make but 
 very little difference to you in those things ; you know I shall 
 not be so far oft" but that I can come to you, or assist you when- 
 ever it will give you the smallest pleasure.' 
 
 Dora expressed her thanks, and felt how little she deserved 
 such kindness ; and Margaret hoped that she would not leave 
 them yet. * Everything will seem a great deal worse then,' she 
 said. 
 
 ' Mrs Herbert intends staying with your mamma while she 
 continues so ill, I believe,' replied Emily ; ' but when she is 
 better, I heard Colonel Herbert say, he should like to go directly 
 to the cottage.' 
 
 'Do you know what Dr Bailey thinks about mamma?' asked 
 Margaret. 
 
 ' He says that she requires change, but she is not equal to the 
 exertion of moving,' 
 
 ' I wish we might go somewhere before Frank returns to 
 school,' observed Dora. ' He has had such melancholy holi' 
 days.' 
 
 * Should you like to go to London ?' said Emilv.
 
 AMY HERBERT. 349 
 
 Mari^aret started at the idea. ' Oh no ! — not to London ; any 
 place but that.' 
 
 * I thought you wished it once,' said Emily. 
 
 ' Yes ; but things are altered since then. I shall never wish 
 to go there.' 
 
 Emily looked surprised ; but she did not inquire the reason 
 of Margaret's sudden alteration of feeling, thinking it was most 
 probably caused by the loss they had all sustained ; and re- 
 marking that Mr Walton might perhaps wish to see them before 
 he went away, she proposed that they should go into the house. 
 The mention of London brought many sad reflections to Mar- 
 garet's mind ; and while slowly following her sister and Emily, 
 she began to think of Miss Cunningham, and to wonder what 
 her feelings had been upon learning all that had happened, and 
 whether the idea that she had been the origin of it had occurred 
 to distress her. ' Do you think Lucy will go to London with- 
 out us?' she said to Dora. 
 
 ' She will never go at all, if she does not,' replied Dora. 
 ' Papa will not consent to her being with us again as she used 
 to be.' 
 
 ' She will be very sorry about it,' said Margaret. 
 
 * Oh ! it will not signify to her. She will find other persons to 
 suit her just as well ; and she will go to gay parties, and drive 
 about in the parks, and forget us, and everything about us.' 
 
 ' Not everything,' said Margaret. ' I am sure she cannot for- 
 get everything. She must feel for us.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she may care for a day or two ; but it is not her way 
 to think on any subject long. Do you think it is .'' ' added Dora, 
 turning to Emily, and moving aside to allow her to pass before 
 her into the house. 
 
 'I hope it may be, by and by,' was the reply; 'but I am 
 afraid she has not been taught to think much as yet.' 
 
 'There is one of the Rochford servants coming down the 
 avenue now,' said Dora. ' Perhaps he has brought a note or a 
 message.' 
 
 * I suppose he is only come as usual to inquire for mamma,' 
 said Margaret. ' Morris says Lord Rochford has sent nearly 
 every day.' 
 
 There was, however, a note foi I\Lirgaret, which was given her 
 just as she was about to go into the drawing-room, but there was 
 no time to read it till Mr Walton was gone. 
 
 He did not stay long, for he had seen Mrs Harrington, and
 
 350 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 was anxious to rctiiru home to keep an engagement ; but he was 
 very much pressed to repeat his visit, especially by Mrs Herbert, 
 who hoped that seeing him might be effectual in exciting INIrs 
 Harrington's interest. 'I think/ she said, 'that my sister will 
 take more notice of )'ou another time ; I remarked to-day that 
 she listened more than usual to what you were saying.' 
 
 Mr Walton promised to return, if possible, the next day ; and 
 then, taking his leave, Margaret was at liberty to read Miss 
 Cunningham's note. It was short, and Margaret thought cool, 
 although there were many expressions of sympathy for the family. 
 ' Her brother,' she said, ' had begged her to write, but she had 
 not much to say, though she was extremely sorry for them, and 
 hoped that Mrs Harrington had not been very angry with Mar- 
 garet. She expected soon to be able to drive over to Emmerton, 
 and, in the meantime, should be very glad to hear of them all.' 
 
 * I would not give much for Miss Cunningham's affection after 
 such a note as that,' said Dora. 
 
 'What did you expect from her?' asked Emily. 
 
 * I don't know, exactly ; but any one might have written it ; 
 and after being with us so much, I think she might have said 
 something more. I did not imagine she cared for me at all, LhU 
 I thought she had some feeling for Margaret.' 
 
 'Do you think it cool.'" said Margaret, turning to Emily. 
 ' Rather,' she replied : ' but you could scarcely have supposed 
 she would have written in any other way.' 
 ' Why not ? ' asked Amy. 
 
 * Because it is seldom people feel much for sorrows that are not 
 present to them. If Miss Cunningham had been with us for the 
 last ten days she would probably have cared very much more.' 
 
 ' She is so selnsh,' observed Dora ; 'she never can sympathise 
 with any one.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' replied Emily, ' I think she would if she were taught 
 to do it.' 
 
 'How can persons be taught to feel?' said Dora; 'it must 
 come naturally to them.' 
 
 'Not quite. The feelings are certainly given to us originally, 
 but they may be very much increased by action. If Miss Cun- 
 ningham were once taught to do little trifling kindnesses for her 
 friends she would soon feel for them. You know it is almost a 
 proverb that benefactors are fond of those on whom they confer 
 favours.' 
 
 ' I dare say yon may be right,' said Dora ; ' but I cannot
 
 AMY HERBERT. 351 
 
 Imagine that Lucy Cunningham will ever be anything but a cold, 
 hard-hearted, disagreeable girl. JMargarct perhaps may find out 
 her virtues some day or other, but I am afraid I never shall' 
 
 Margaret was silent : — she was vexed and disappointed, but 
 did not like to own it; and she was so fully aware of her unkind- 
 ness to Emily, that she expected Lucy to be the s;^me, forgetting 
 how differently they had been circumstanced. Miss Cunning- 
 ham's preference had flattered her, while she believed it real ; 
 but she was now beginning to perceive that, where selfishness is 
 the foundation of the character, no trust can be placed in any 
 professions of aftcction. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 IT was about three weeks afterwards, du.ring which time 
 nothing particular had occurred to vary Amy's life at 
 Emmerton, that Margaret received a second note from Miss 
 'Tunningham, which gave her much greater vexation than the 
 former. It was written more naturally, but the tone was one of 
 considerable annoyance. 
 
 Lord Rochford, at Mr Cunningham's request, had settled that 
 the journey to London should be postponed another year, as, 
 upon consideration, he thought Lucy too young to join in any 
 amusements, and not sufficiently advanced in her education to 
 profit by masters. The French governess was, therefore, to be 
 dismissed, and another provided, who might be more equal to 
 instruct her. 
 
 ' This is the most provoking part of the whole business,' 
 wrote ?.Iiss Cunningham. ' Madame was the kindest creature 
 possible, and allowed me to do just as I chose in everything; and 
 now I shall be pestered from morning till night by a stiff, formal, 
 cclious Englishwoman. And I must say, Margaret, that it is a 
 very great deal your doing; at least, I am sure, if I liad not gone 
 to Emmerton, nothing of the kind would have been thought of; 
 and George has grown so disagreeable lately, he is not to be 
 endured.' 
 
 ' It would be strange,'' said Dora, when Margaret showed her 
 the note, ' if, after all, we should go to London, now that Lucy 
 is obliged to stay at home.'
 
 35^ y;j/J' IIERUERT. 
 
 Margaret \<as unprepared for the idea, for she had not been so 
 much with her father as Dora, and was, therefore, not aware of 
 the conversation that had lately passed between him and Mrs 
 Herbert. Dora could not give her any certain information; but 
 she knew that a plan was in agitation for some change ; and she 
 had overheard Colonel Herbert urging her father to try London. 
 The reason of this was, not simply that Mrs Harrington required 
 a different scene to relieve her spirits, but that it was also con- 
 sidered advisable to have the benefit of further medical advice. 
 She had, indeed, partly recovered her interest in everyday oc- 
 currences, but her nerves had been so much shaken, that but 
 little discernment was needed to discover how much she was 
 altered. The necessary orders for the ai-rangement of the house 
 were given as usual, but she had entirely lost the quick, restless 
 activity which had formerly made her notice even the minutest 
 inattention to her wishes ; and when her morning occupations 
 were over, she would sit abstracted and silent for hours, having 
 apparently neither the power nor the inclination to move. Every 
 noise startled, and every exertion was a trouble to her ; her days 
 were gloomy, and her nights disturbed : and her husband could 
 not but have many anxious fears for the future, if she were to 
 continue long in such a state. The only thing which really 
 seemed to rouse and comfort her was the conversation of Mr 
 Walton, whose visits at the Hall were now almost of daily oc- 
 currence. At first she had allowed him in silence to talk to Mrs 
 Herbert ; but, after a time, her interest in his observations was 
 awakened ; and Mrs Herbert, perceiving it, took frequent op- 
 portunities of leaving them together, and although the result of 
 these interviews was as yet but slightly apparent, they gave Mrs 
 Herbert many sanguine hopes that they might eventually be of 
 infinite service. 
 
 As ]\Irs Harrington's health improved. Colonel Herbert 
 became desirous of returning to the cottage, for he longed to 
 enter upon the plan of life which he had so often pictured to 
 himself; and he was afraid that, whilst Mrs Herbert remained 
 at Emmerton, she would continue to exert herself far beyond her 
 strength. It was impossible, also, that Miss Morton should 
 recover her spirits whilst in a place where everything reminded 
 her of little Rose ; for although Amy was her constant companion, 
 her occupations were gone, and her feelings unsettled ; and 
 Colonel Herbert, who watched her with interest, saw in her 
 subdued, melancholy countenance an additional inducement for
 
 /IMV HERBERT. 353 
 
 hastening his departure. IVIrs Harrington strongly objected to 
 the idea of going to London, when the proposition was first 
 made ; but her husband's uneasiness at length prevailed on her 
 to consent, much to the distress of Margaret, who could look 
 forward to nothing but gloom in a journey undeitaken under 
 such different circumstances from what she had originally 
 anticipated. ' I wish,' she said to Dora, when the plan was 
 mentioned as positively settled, 'that my uncle had proposed 
 anything else ; there might have been a little pleasure in going 
 to some other place, but there can be nothing but dulness and 
 mrsery in London.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Dora ; ' I really think that sometimes having what 
 we wish is a punishment to us ; not that I ever cared for London 
 as you did, Margaret ; but I used to fancy that it would be nice 
 to see all the sights.' 
 
 ' I will never wish again,' said Margaret ; ' it only makes one 
 disappointed when the time comes, I suppose now we shall go 
 to a dull, quiet part of the town, and not see any one.' 
 
 ' And have lessons,' continued Dora, ' without any person to 
 help us, as Emily would have done ; and be engaged all day 
 besides in attending upon mamma.' 
 
 Margaret remembered her conversation. with Miss Cunning- 
 ham, when she had been threatened with almost precisely the 
 same kind of life ; and it was impossible not to feel that what 
 Dora had said might be true ; her punishment seemed, indeed, 
 to have been sent in the partial gratification of the wishes she 
 had so wrongly indulged. 
 
 'How I envy Amy,' she exclaimed. 'Everything will be 
 delightful to her, and everything will be wretched to us.' 
 
 'Amy deserves happiness,' said Dora. ' If we were to change 
 places to-morrow, we should not feel as she does.' 
 
 'No,' replied Margaret. 'I don't think I should quite like 
 living in that small cottage, and having things so different from 
 what they are here ; but she does not care about it.' 
 
 ' I think she used to do so,' said Dora ; ' but I am sure she 
 must have seen lately that luxuries are no comfort when people 
 are unhappy. It is not because of the cottage being smaller 
 that I think we should not be happy if we lived there, but 
 because we arc not at all like Amy.' 
 
 ' Of course not,' replied Margaret ; ' what two people in the 
 world arc alike ? And then we have been brought up so differ- 
 ently.' 
 
 z
 
 354 
 
 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 ' A great many people arc alike, though,' said Dora ; ' my 
 aunt, and uncle, and Emily are, and Mr Walton, too ; and I 
 would rather think and feci as they do than live in a palace.' 
 
 ' Would you ?' said Margaret. ' I am not sure about that.' 
 
 * But indeed,' replied Dora, ' it must be belter. I never 
 thought about it till I knew Amy ; but now I am quite certain. 
 All such persons seem to carry about their happiness with 
 them.' 
 
 ' Not always. I have seen Amy unhappy; and Emily Morton, 
 we all know, has been miserable.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Dora ; ' but I am sure it is not like our unhappincss. 
 There is always something to comfort them, because they think 
 their troubles are sent them, and that they shall be happy when 
 they die, even if they are ever so miserable now, I could bear 
 anything if I did not think it would last for ever.' 
 
 *But how should it ?' said Margaret. ' You know everything 
 will come to an end at some time or other.' 
 
 ' O Margaret ! ' exclaimed her sister, * please don't talk so.' 
 
 ' Why not ? it is true.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Dora; 'it cannot be true to say that troubles will 
 ome to an end when we die, if we have not tried to do right. 
 Amy put it into my- head to think about it one night, when I 
 was with her as she was going to bed. She said that sleep was 
 like death, and perhaps we might never wake again ; and ever 
 since that I have never gone to sleep without remembering it ; 
 and sometimes I become so frightened.' 
 
 *I should be frightened too,' said Margaret, 'if I thought 
 about it ; but I never do ; it is very disagreeable.' 
 
 ' Amy does not think it disagreeable,' answered Dora. ' .She 
 told me that same night how happy she was when she went to 
 bed ; and that she thought angels watched over her. Oh, how 
 I wish I could be like her ! ' 
 
 'It makes me uncomfortable to think of it,' said Margaret. 
 ' It must be impossible ! ' 
 
 ' I should be glad to try, though,' replied Dora. ' I never saw 
 any one else who made me wish it half as much. Almost all 
 other good persons we have known have been so much older : 
 and I never believed it was possible to be so good when one was 
 so young.' 
 
 ' It will be very nice to have her here again when we come back 
 from London,' said Margaret ; 'and Emily Morton, too. I could 
 never bear this place now if it were not for them.'
 
 AAfV HERBERT. 355 
 
 At this instant Amy ran hastily into the room — evidently the 
 bearer of some news which she was anxious to communicate. 
 ' Do you know,' she exclaimed, ' when you are going ?' 
 
 * No/ replied Dora. ' Papa, I think, has written about a house, 
 but he has not had an answer.' 
 
 ' The answer is just come,' continued Amy ; ' and there is 
 some reason why you must hasten, rather : so my uncle says. I 
 believe you must take the house from next Monday ; and, there- 
 fore, you are all to leave Emmerton on Tuesday, and to be in 
 London on Wednesday.' 
 
 ' So very soon,' said Dora, looking grave. 
 
 ' I was in hopes you would like it,' replied Amy. ' I know you 
 did not wish it at first, but I fancied when the time came you 
 really would be glad. Frank is delighted, because my uncle says 
 he shall stay a day or two extra with you in London before he 
 goes to school.' 
 
 ' And you will go back to the cottage,' said Dora. ' What a 
 happy party you will be ! ' 
 
 * Not Miss Morton,' replied Amy ; ' I don't think she will smile 
 heartily for some time to come. But mamma wishes her to have 
 everything just as she likes : and we are to walk to the cottage 
 this afternoon to give some orders about her room, anri then we 
 are to call at the rectory.' 
 
 'I should like to go with you,' said Dora ; 'but mamma will 
 want me at home ; there will be so many things to be done now, 
 the time is so short. Are you quite sure it is fixed ? ' 
 
 * I heard my uncle talking to papa about it ; and he said some 
 of the servants were to go on Monday to have everything ready 
 for you. But, dear Margaret, don't look so very sad.' 
 
 * I cannot help it,' said Margaret, bursting into tears. 'Two 
 months ago it would have given me such pleasure ; and now it is 
 so miserable.' 
 
 ' You will like it when you are there, I dare say,' replied Amy. 
 
 ' Oh no ; how can I ? What will there be that will be pleasant, 
 with mamma ill and in bad spirits, and not going out anywhere, 
 or seeing any one ?' 
 
 * Should you have liked it better if Miss Cunningham had been 
 there at the same time ? ' asked Amy. 
 
 ' No,' replied IMargaret, almost indignantly. ' It will never 
 give me any pleasure to be with her again. She does not care 
 for me, or for any one but herself; and she does nothing but 
 blame mc for everything that happens that she does not like. J
 
 356 AAfV HERBERT. 
 
 wish sincerely I had never seen or heard of her ; perhaps then 
 
 all might have been as it used to be.' 
 
 ' It can do no good to think so now,' observed Dora, sighing. 
 
 * We had better make the best of it all, and go and ask mamma 
 
 what orders we arc to give to Morris.' 
 
 ' Will Susan Reynolds go too ? It would be rather nice having 
 
 both of them,' said Margaret. 
 
 • Susan Reynolds is not to stay with us,' replied Dora. * There 
 
 will be nothing for her to do. Perhaps, Amy, my aunt will take 
 
 her to the cottage.' 
 
 ' No, she will not do that,' answered Amy ; * because I asked 
 
 her about it yesterday, and she said it would be an additional 
 
 servant ; and papa would not like it : but Mrs Saville, I believe, 
 
 has determined on taking her ; and mamma thinks Susan will 
 
 be quite contented with her by and by, though just now she is 
 very unhappy at leaving Miss Morton.' 
 
 ' I am glad she is not going far away,' said Dora. ' I have 
 liked her lately a great deal better than Morris.' 
 
 ' I like her,' observed Amy, 'because she is so fond of Miss 
 Morton, and was so kind and thoughtful the other day, when she 
 was in such distress.' 
 
 Margaret's face flushed upon hearing this allusion to the suf- 
 lering of which she had been the cause, for she could never think 
 of it without pain ; and each day, as she became more alive to 
 Emily's goodness, she wondered more at her own selfishness. 
 There was now, however, but little time for reflection — so much 
 was to be quickly arranged in consequence of the hasty departure, 
 that every moment was occupied : and Margaret began to forget 
 her sorrow in the bustle of preparation. The excitement was of 
 use also to Mrs Harrington. She gave her orders with some- 
 thing like energy, and seemed to have recovered a portion of her 
 former quickness of discernment ; yet Mrs Herbert remarked 
 little instances of consideration, which had before been quite 
 foreign to her character. She herself collected many things that 
 had belonged to little Rose, and giving them to Mrs Herbert, re- 
 quested that they might be kept for Miss Morton till after they 
 were gone ; and, on the day previous to the journey, she called 
 Emily to her room, and, after expressing how much she felt for 
 the affectionate care that had always been evinced to her darling 
 child, she put into her hands a gold locket, enclosing a bright curl 
 of chestnut hair, which she begged might be worn for the sake of 
 one who had been verv orecious to them both. Emily was more
 
 AMV HERBERT. 357 
 
 deeoly touched by the tone in which this was spoken than even 
 by the action itself. It told of a broken, humble spirit; and 
 much as she longed to comfort a mother's grief, she could not but 
 rejoice in the effect that it appeared likely to produce on her 
 character. 
 
 ' We shall see you again to-morrow, as we pass the cottage,' 
 said Mrs Harrington, when Emily had warmly thanked her for 
 this remembrance ; ' Colonel Herbert insists upon our calling ; 
 but it will only be for a moment, as we shall have a long day's 
 journey before us.' 
 
 'Perhaps,' said Emily, 'you would allow me to remain here 
 to-night. I might be able to assist you ; and it would be a 
 pleasure to me to think that my last evening at Emmerton had 
 been a useful one.' 
 
 But Mrs Harrington would on no account listen to the pro- 
 posal. She saw that Emily was feeling very much even then , 
 and she knew that it would be far worse for her on the following 
 morning, when the house would be left silent and deserted, * I 
 shall be glad,' she said, ' to think that we leave you comfortably 
 settled with friends who are so much interested about you ; and 
 I am sure neither Mrs Herbert nor Amy would bear the thought 
 of your staying behind.' 
 
 Emily did not press the proposal, for she was conscious that to 
 act upon it would give her much pain ; but she employed the 
 hour that elapsed before the carriage was ordered to take them 
 to the cottage in arranging different things for Dora and Mar- 
 garet, which they did not understand themselves, and which 
 Morris thought herself too busy to attend to. 
 • The moment for departure at length arrived ; but Amy would 
 not allow that she was saying ' good-bye,' for she dwelt upon 
 the thought of seeing her cousins the next morning. 
 
 ' It is good-bye to Emmerton, though,' said Dora. 
 
 * Yes,' replied Amy ; 'and I don't like it at all, now it is come 
 to the point. I shall always avoid the place till your return. It 
 will be nearly the summer then, I suppose, or, at least, it will Ijc 
 quite late in the spring.' 
 
 ' You must write very often,' said Dora, 'it will be our greatest 
 pleasure when we are shut up in London.' And then, turning 
 to Emily, she added, ' I have no right to ask any favour of you ; 
 but you do not know how glad we should be to hear from you. 
 We should think then that you had quite forgiven us.' 
 
 ' I cannot write for that purpose,' said Emily, endeavouring
 
 358 AMY HERBERT. 
 
 to smile ; but if you will let nic tell you how I am, and what 1 
 am doing, for my own satisfaction, I think you will not lind 
 mr negligent.' 
 
 'It seems,' said Amy, 'as if I had a great many things to 
 say ; but everything is ready, and papa and mamma are waiting. 
 You will be sure and call to-morrow.' 
 
 Emily would have spoken again, but her heart was full. Even 
 the prospect of her life at the cottage could not, at that moment, 
 make her forget all that had once constituted the charm of Em- 
 merton ; and with a feeling of regard for Dora and Margaret, 
 which a few months before she would have thought it almobt 
 impossible to experience, silently and sadly she followed Amy to 
 the carriage. 
 
 The fire blazed cheerfully in the breakfast-room at Emmcrton 
 Cottage on the following morning, and the sun shone brightly 
 through the window, as if to prophesy that the gloom of the 
 winter would speedily be passed away. And there were faces 
 assembled round the table, which suited well with the brilliancy 
 of the weather. Even Emily, as she seated herself by Mrs Her- 
 oert's side, and listened to her tones of kindness, and watched 
 Colonel Herbert's attention to her most trifling wishes, could 
 scarcely feel sad ; or if an occasional shadow crossed her mind, 
 it vanished as she looked upon Amy, and saw the deep, tranquil 
 happiness expressed in every feature of her countenance. It 
 was the happiness not merely of external circumstances, but of 
 the inmost heart ; for Amy's recollections of the past were as 
 peaceful as her hope for the future was unclouded ; and the bless- 
 ing of a holy, humble spirit, vi'as one which no Avcalth could have 
 purchased. Many glances were turned to the window to watch 
 for the carriage from Emmerton ; but bixakfast was nearly over 
 before it was seen turning the corner of the lane. Amy ran to 
 the door to beg that they would come in ; but Mr Harrington 
 thought it better not, as they were already so much later than 
 they had intended. The joint entreaties of Dora and ]\Iargaret 
 at last, however, prevailed, though the permission was granted 
 only for one instant. 
 
 'I wished so much to do it,' said Dora, 'because I want to 
 fancy how you go on when we are in London ; and it will not 
 seem natural to think that Emily is here unless I have seen her.' 
 
 'I can hardly believe that she is really living with us,' replied 
 Amy ; ' but I should be dreadfully sorry to think that it was not 
 true.'
 
 AJIV HERBERT.- 359 
 
 Dora's glance around the room was but momentary, yet it was 
 sufficient to make her feel how blest Amy must be with such a 
 home, and such parents. ' I could envy you, Amy, so very much,* 
 she said, after they had both spoken a few kind words to Emily, 
 and urged her not to forget her promise of writing ; ' yes, I could 
 envy you for everything.' 
 
 'Not envy,' said Colonel Herbert; 'you would not wish to 
 deprive her of her blessings.' 
 
 ' No,' answered Dora ; ' but I would wish to share them ; 
 every one wishes for happiness.' 
 
 'And every one might find it,' observed Colonel Herbert, 'if 
 they would but seek for it rightly. Perhaps, though, I was wrong 
 in saying happiness ; but peace, which is the nearest approach 
 to it on earth, is in every one's power.' 
 
 INIr Harrington's voice was heard calling to his daughters to 
 hasten; and the conversation was abruptly broken off. 
 
 ' What did your papa mean. Amy ?' said Dora, as she stood 
 upon the step of the carriage. ' Just tell me, in one word, if you 
 can, that I may think about it.' 
 
 ' He must have meant,' answered Amy, ' what I have often 
 been told, that when people are good their hearts are at peace, 
 and then no sorrow can really make them miserable.' 
 
 Dora had not time to reply. The parting words were once 
 more spoken ; the carriage drove from the door ; and Amy re- 
 turned to her happy fireside, and the enjoyment of the blessing 
 she had that moment described. 
 
 Mr and Mrs Harrington returned with their family to Emmer- 
 ton ; and to a careless observer, it might have seemed that the 
 death of their child had produced but a passing impression on 
 their minds. The first bitterness of grief was gradually softened 
 by time and the daily occupations of life, and calmness, and even 
 cheerfulness, were at length restored to them. But the effects of 
 their sorrow were not the less real, because exhibited in action 
 rather than in words. They were to be seen in a constant 
 observance of family worship, in an increasing attention to their 
 children and servants, and in the untiring exertions which were 
 made to assist Mr Walton in providing for the comfort and in- 
 struction of the poor. The change was felt by every one within 
 the reach of their influence ; but to Dora, it was a blessing
 
 36o AJllV HERBERT. 
 
 beyond all price, for Eminerton was so retired as to oblige her 
 lo depend entirely upon her home for happiness ; and in her 
 parents she now met not only with aflcction, but sympathy, and, 
 from their example, learnt to find her chief satisfaction in the 
 quiet performance of everyday duties. Of Miss Cunningham 
 she saw but little, Mrs Harrington being too fully alive to the 
 defects of her disposition and education, to feel any longer in- 
 clined to cultivate an intimacy which had once been considered 
 of so much importance ; and although Margaret's character 
 differed too widely from Dora's to afford all that was required in 
 a friend, her sister was enabled, by continual watchfulness, to 
 bear with her failings, and cherish her better qualities, while the 
 society of Amy gave her the great blessing of confidence and 
 mutual interest, which formerly she had so much needed. 
 
 And years passed on, and Emily Morton was still an inmate 
 of the cottage. Amy no longer depended upon her instruction, 
 but the blessing of her love and her example, when once felt, it 
 was hard to part from ; and neither Colonel Herbert nor his wife 
 could willingly consent again to cast upon the mercy of the world 
 one who had gradually become dear to them as their eldest child. 
 Colonel Herbert had prophesied truly, when he said that the 
 summer of Emily's life was yet to come. The remembrance ol 
 Rose never faded from her mind, but it was blended with a calm 
 and lasting gratitude for the mercy which had taken her in her 
 innocence to a world where there was no sin ; and Amy's deep 
 affection, and never-ceasing consideration for her happiness, 
 filled up entirely the aching void, which would otherwise have 
 been left in her heart. Neither was there any cause now to fear 
 lest Miss Morton should be treated with ridicule or contempt at 
 Emmerton, for the feelings with which she was there regarded 
 were those of the truest esteem and regard ; a regard heightened 
 by the circumstances which had for ever associated her with the 
 remembrance of little Rose. 
 
 And of Amy herself, what more need be said ? If the cottage 
 had been a scene of happiness, when shared only with her 
 mother, its enjoyment was tenfold increased by the presence of 
 her father and Miss Morton. Mrs Herbert's health was, for 
 some time, a source of anxiety ; but cai-e, and the tranquillity of 
 her domestic life, by degrees restored her natural strength, and 
 Amy's mind was then completely at rest ; and although, as she 
 grew up, the romance with which she had once invested Emmer- 
 ton partially vanished, her pleasure in visiting it became more
 
 AAfV HERBERT. 361 
 
 real as she felt, day by day, that her cousins were more fully her 
 friends, and able to enter into her highest and purest pleasures. 
 And there were times when even the visions of her childhood 
 seemed realised. The chapel was opened for daily service when- 
 ever the opportunity offered ; and Amy could then yield to the 
 influence of its hallowed beauty, without one sigh of regret, as 
 she gazed, not upon noble knights and high-born ladies, but up- 
 on those she best loved on earth, about to join in the solemn act 
 of united worship, and to offer to their Maker, not only the 
 sacrifice of their lips, but also of their hearts and lives. 
 
 Amy's lot was indeed blessed ; blessed in her parents, her rela- 
 tions, and her friends ; but, above all, blessed in that she had 
 been taught to remember her Creator in the days of her youth, 
 and could look forward with calm confidence to the Divine 
 support in the ' evil days,' which mus/ come upon all. 
 
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 Homer's Iliad, Homometrically translated by Cayley. 8vo. I2s. 6d. 
 
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 Plato's Parmenides, with Notes, &c. by J. Maguire. 8vo. 7s. GiJ. 
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 Miller's Elements of Cliemistry, Theoretical and rriictical. 3 vols. 8vo. Part I. 
 
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 Owen's Comparative Anatomy and Physiology of the Vertebiate Animals, 
 
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 Cox's (Homersham) The First Century of Christianity. Svo. 12s. 
 Davidson's Introduction to the Study of the New Testament. 2 vols. Svo. 30s. 
 Edersheim's Life and Times of Jesus the Messiah. 2 vols. Svo. 42s. 
 
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 Ellicotfs (Bishop) Commentary on St. Paul's Epistles. Svo. Galatiaus, 8s. Gd. 
 
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 Philemon, 10s. Gd. Tliessalonians, 7s. Gd. 
 
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 10 
 
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 By the Earl of Beaconsfield, K.G. 
 Lothair. 
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 Coningsby. 
 Tancred. 
 Venetia. 
 
 Henrietta Temple. 
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 Alroy, Ixion, &c. 
 The Young Dnke, &c. 
 Vivian Grey. 
 Endymion. 
 
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 and her Lover. 
 
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 Margaret Percival. Ursula. 
 
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 Gwilt's Encyclopaedia of Architecture. Svo. 52s. Cd. 
 
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 Menifield's Technical Arithmetic and Mensuration. 3s. 6d. Key, 3s. Gd, 
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 Rutley's Study of Rocks, a Text-Book of Petrology, is, 6d. 
 Shelley's Workshop Appliances. 4s. 6d. 
 Thome's Structural and Physiological Botany. 66-. 
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