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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And is that all?" added Margaret.

"All but the bedrooms," replied Amy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is Miss Morton very strict?" asked Amy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amy was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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