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 stumbling-blocks for every one who moved. But 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 considered an exception; for there was something like 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 to wasting time, why it is better than doing nothing."
"Such common, vulgar work, too," continued Miss Cunningham; "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 to 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 uncommon," saidJulia.
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 them 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.
"I know what you mean, though," replied Miss Morton, who had of late ventured more openly to express her opinions, especially 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.
"Conjuring tricks," she asked, "are they vulgar?"
Miss 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 Miss Morton, "I should have reason to think her vulgar; but the poor conjurer is a common person who gains his livelihood by his ingenuity. There can be nothing more vulgar in his exhibition 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 Miss Cunningham, "you have most extraordinary 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 conjurers 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 will 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 who 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 pretending 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."
"Do you think I shall ever learn to be fashionable?" asked Amy of MissMorton.
"I hope not," said Emily, regardless of Miss Cunningham's contemptuous smile.
"Why?" asked Margaret, "do you not wish her to be ladylike?"
"Yes," replied Emily; "but it does not follow that to be ladylike 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 anything; 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 constrained."
"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. Elegance is a gift as much as beauty."
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 covering 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, thatI know I can see some persons' minds in their manners quite plainly.Yours, Dora, for instance; any one might see you are as proud as a queenby the way you march into a room."
"Oh Frank!" half whispered Amy, as she saw the angry flush on Dora's check, "do not say such things as that; you have vexed 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 thinking 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. But Amy, perceiving that Dora was not there, immediately proposed 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 you 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 were, I do not see 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, perhaps," 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 for 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 word, he ran off himself to find Dora, and, if possible to soothe her feelings by making her the principal person 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 contrast her 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 prevented her from delaying her duty when once it had been clearly pointed out; and the time spent by herself had been so well employed, that all traces of irritation had vanished even before dinner, very much to Frank's and Margaret's astonishment: and 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 impossible 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 unruffled.
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 Herbert, with a smile; "and then he will set your mind at ease about me. I have felt so much better since I have had something like a certain hope to build on, that I have very little fear for myself now."
"But 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 effort 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 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 she 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 her own wishes, with Mrs Harrington's consent, for their having a dance when the exhibition was over; and even Miss Cunningham condescended to say, on hearing it, that she expected to have a very pleasant evening.
Amy rather shrank from the idea of dancing before strangers, and wished that the few persons invited for the evening would find 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.
Mary Warner was the only one who had been so fortunate, and the exhibition she had witnessed was but an indifferent one.
"Well, then!" exclaimed Henry, proud of his superior knowledge, "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 appearance, and Julia's satire was lost.
"I really am afraid for the little ones," continued Henry. "Conjurers do such wonderful things, and they generally dress themselves 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 Timbuctoo."
"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 what 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 into a hundred and twenty different shapes in a minute. Just look, I am sure I can do it exactly like 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 was just going when he was stopped by Amy.
"I wish," she said, timidly, "you would not do it, because"—— and here she paused.
"Because what?" 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 were 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 differently 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 completely frightened, and fixed his eyes on the door. No one ventured 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 we," replied Hester Stanley; "you know no one had anything to do with it but yourself. Why did you not take care to shut the door?"
"I daresay he only caught the last words," said Julia; "and if so, there is no harm done; besides, listeners never hear any good of themselves. It is his own fault; people who don't know how to talk should stay at home."
"I think it served us right," 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 probably 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 was not her place to speak. She only felt glad that Mr Cunningham would not consider her unfeeling and forgetful of his kindness, and wondered at Julia's appearing so indifferent 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 talking, 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 Aladdin's lamp might not actually be in existence at that moment, 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 Mr 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 suggestions. 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 apology. 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 was 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, would at another time have given her thorough enjoyment; but now they were only a source of discontent, for they were looked upon as intended for others and not for her. She watched Dora, and thought how delightful it would be to be like her, the object of general attention, and she listened to the whispered admiration 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 Morton, 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 mortification 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 quadrille that he came to her and began talking. Amy was 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 same as usual, yet he was evidently more anxious to please her than he had ever been before, and she felt his kindness peculiarly after the disappointment she had suffered. She could not, however, quite recover her accustomed cheerfulness 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.
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 Mrs 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 trifling 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 prepared; 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 were 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 about her, only she interests me from circumstances."
"What circumstances?" inquired her friend.
"Her father is in India," answered Mrs Danvers, "and they have had no letters for a long time; and though there has been some rumour of him lately, 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 anything 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 state of miserable dependence."
"But is there no hope for Mrs Herbert?"
"None at all, as far as I can understand. She has been getting 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 superiors, 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 confirmed 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 unconscious of her actions, she opened the first door that presented 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 which, 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, however, 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 completely bewildered. "I have known nothing."
"But mamma," continued Amy, "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 that mamma was so very ill; and she 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 requires is rest for the spirits; and he has quite 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 MissMorton'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 beyond her. "I could not live without her," she said, in a broken voice.
"Yes," replied Emily, "you can—we all can learn to submit to whatever is the will of God; and we can learn to think suffering 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 you 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, recalled for the moment 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. We 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 Emily, "by dwelling on a trial which may be far off. I cannot see any great cause for anxiety, only it is well at times to think of sorrow, even in the midst of happiness, that we may be the better prepared 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 dedicated to the Saviour who died for us, and the sign of His suffering was marked upon our foreheads: it would 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; "misery is for those who cannot feel that they have a Father in heaven, and therefore it is that when we are 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, with a heavy sigh; "but I did not think sorrow would come so soon."
"You must not fancy it is come, dearest," replied Emily; "and you must not think, whatever happens, that you will be miserable. 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 are unhappy, 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 monument, 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 want to speak, only to look at her; and I will try to bear everything," 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 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 affliction.
"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 observation 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 past—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 gratification; and as she remembered these things, 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. What 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 such circumstances would be almost worse than a continued separation. But Amy's spirit was too buoyant in its nature to remain long depressed by such forebodings; there was a brighter side to the picture, and Miss 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. For 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 mother's 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 father's image was at hand, to comfort and support her. Half an hour passed away, and Amy's slumber still continued restless but unbroken, whilst in her dream she was walking with her father on the terrace at Emmerton, describing to 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 recollection was completely recovered, Amy could not entirely believe it was only a dream, and she listened eagerly to discover what was 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 comprehend what was going on, she went to the window; there was a 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 to 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 nearer—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. More 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 unnatural; 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."
"Nonsense, child," said Mr Harrington; "are you sure it was not in your dreams? What did you hear?"
"I don't know," replied 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 existence seemed to depend upon the answer she received.
"What should there be?" said Mr Harrington. "Do you think your 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.
"Oh 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 own precious child!"—and the next moment Amy was clasped in her father's arms.
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 his sudden arrival, she had thought of the unspeakable relief her mother would experience, and involuntarily rushed to the door of her chamber. She was stopped, however, by Mr Harrington.
"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 Mr Harrington, in answer toAmy'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 Amy, 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 Mrs 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 your cheek is very 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."
"I had rather not go to bed," replied Amy; "I could 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, her 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 great 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 unexpected 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 really was. He had imagined that he should yet 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 separation. It was not a time, however, for the indulgence of sorrowful thoughts. Mrs Herbert gradually recovered from the stunning effect of an overpowering joy, and was able to inquire into the cause of his strange silence, and his sudden return.
The story, when told, was very simple. 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 had accompanied him he had trusted entirely, and had confided to him several packets intended to be forwarded to England. After the lapse of a considerable time, complaints of his silence reached him 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."
"Worse!" 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 me in the last hour."
"So you say to-night," replied her husband; "but you must look very different before I shall be quite 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 over tired."
Amy wished to speak; but her first delight had been succeeded by something of shyness and restraint: for her father was in many respects so different from what she had anticipated, that a feeling 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 picture, 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 command and be obeyed, was a happiness she had before been incapable 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 blessing (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 to 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 have been dancing all the evening."
"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 remembrance of all that had passed flashed upon her mind, and effectually 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 yield 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 performed; but her endeavours had been sincere, and she knew well that even her imperfect prayers would be accepted, when they were 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 having 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 when your papa came to the door," replied Dora. "We heard the carriage drive up, and thought it was one that had been just ordered, so no one took any notice. I remember I was talking to Mary Warner, and trying to pacify her, for she has offended Miss Cunningham; and suddenly there was a great exclamation; and when I 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 Emily Morton said you were with her."
"Then you did not miss me," observed Amy, rather in a tone of disappointment.
"I did," replied Dora; "but Emily told me you were unhappy about my aunt."
"Yes," said Amy, shrinking from the remembrance of what she had suffered, "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 few 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 table.
"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 when 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, "I generally read the last thing, and then mamma tells me to try and not attend to common things; she says our last thoughts should be of God."
"We 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."
"Oh Dora!" exclaimed Amy, "you know no one could bear to die, if they thought only of what 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 what 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 sleep so happily, with the thought that angels are watching all round my bed."
"Yes," said Dora, earnestly; "if angels watch 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 sometimes 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."