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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Morton smiled. "It would not make you at all happier, my dear," she said; "because, if you cared about it, you would be proud and disagreeable, and few persons would love you; and if you did not, you might just as well be Miss Herbert."

"But is there any harm in wishing it?" asked Amy.

"We can scarcely help wishing for things," replied Miss Morton; "I mean we can scarcely help the wish coming into our minds; but I think it is wrong not to try and get rid of it, and be contented with the situation in which we are placed."

Amy felt that this was exactly what her mamma would have said, and she began to forget all that had been told her against Miss Morton, and to wish she would go on talking; but it seemed quite an effort to her to say so much, for she spoke in a very low, timid voice, and when she had finished, looked at Dora, as if expecting that something impertinent would follow.

Dora, however, took no notice of her observation, but declared she would rather be Miss Harrington than anything else. "I heard papa talking to some people the other day," she said; "and he told them he would much prefer being an old country gentleman to a new-made nobleman. And I am sure I agree with him; it must be all pride and nonsense to wish for a title."

Miss Morton roused herself again to speak. "I am afraid," she said, "there is just as much pride, my dear Miss Harrington, in your caring about belonging to an old family, and living in a large house, and having money, and servants, and carriages, as in considering it a great thing to have a title. Everything of the kind tempts us to be proud."

"Then it is happy for those who have no such temptation," said Dora, scornfully.

"Yes, indeed, it is," replied Miss Morton, so meekly, and yet so earnestly, that any one less haughty than Dora must have been touched. But Dora was perfectly insensible; she did not, however, continue the subject; and finishing her dinner quickly, saying she had several things to do before three o'clock, without making any apology to Miss Morton, left the room directly the dessert was placed on the table.

Margaret expressed satisfaction at her sister's absence, as she declared it was much more agreeable to her to have her cousin all to herself during their walk; but Amy would willingly have lingered by Miss Morton's side, to hear something of her conversation with Rose.

Margaret, however, insisted upon her keeping at a considerable distance, whilst she again repeated the history of all she had been accustomed to do at Wayland, adding to it a description of her last new dresses, and the beautiful presents she had received on her birthday, until Amy's curiosity was greatly excited, and once more a feeling of envy arose as she thought of the difference between herself and her cousin. But she was just beginning to be aware of this fault; and although the wish to have similar presents returned again and again, as Margaret eagerly told over all her treasures, it was accompanied each time by the knowledge that it was wrong; and she felt sorry and vexed with herself, as she remembered how little her mamma would approve of what was passing in her mind. Still the conversation was very amusing, and the time passed so quickly that Amy was quite surprised when she found herself at the lane leading to Colworth parsonage. A girl, whom she immediately recognised as Susan Reynolds, was standing by the shrubbery gate; and Amy's first impulse was to speak to her: but she was crying bitterly; and Amy, though longing to know the cause of her tears, was too timid to interrupt her, and, without making any remark, followed Miss Morton and her cousins into the house. When, however, the first restraint of the visit had a little diminished, and Mrs Saville began asking some questions about her mamma, she ventured to inquire whether Susan's mother was worse, and whether this had occasioned her distress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you think I might speak to her?" asked Amy of Miss Morton. "I should like to tell her how sorry I am about her mother."

Miss Morton hesitated. "Perhaps," she said, "the poor girl would rather not be noticed; but, if you wish it very much, you may just speak, and pass on."

"I should like to do it, if you would go with me," replied Amy. "But I never saw any one so unhappy before."

Emily Morton sighed as she thought of Mrs Herbert's pale face, and how soon poor Amy might be called to grieve from the same cause; and then, in an instant, a scene which was never entirely banished from her mind, came vividly before her,—the darkened chamber, the anxious faces, the tears of overpowering sorrow, which were ever associated in her mind, with the recollection of her own mother's deathbed; and, without making any further objection, she followed Amy to the spot where Susan was standing, with a feeling of sympathy, which can only be experienced by those who have shared the same grief. Susan was too much absorbed to notice their approach, and Amy scarcely knew what to say; she could only repeat,—"Don't cry so, Susan, I am very sorry for you," besides asking a few questions about the other children, which Susan was quite unable to answer. But Miss Morton understood better what was to be done. She took the poor girl's hand in hers, and spoke so kindly, that Susan forgot that she was listening to the voice of a stranger; and she said what Amy could not say. She told her that she had suffered the same loss, and therefore knew well how great it was, and that it must seem now, as if she never could be happy again; and then she reminded her of her mother's goodness, and that, if she endeavoured to exert herself, and do her duty, she would live with her for ever, in a world, where there was no more sorrow. And, as she went on, Susan's sobs became fainter and fainter; and at last she was able to thank Miss Morton and Amy for their kindness, and to say that she would try to do what was right—she would do anything to be with her mother again. Amy listened, with the hope that she should, one day, be able to talk in the same way, and with an increased feeling of respect for Miss Morton, which she could not avoid expressing to Margaret when she returned to her. But Margaret was not willing to agree in any praise of which Emily was the object; and only expressed her wonder, that Amy could take so much interest in a girl whom she had hardly ever seen before. "As for her being unhappy, she was sorry for it, but she could not help it; and there were a great many people in the world in the same situation. She was not worse off than others; and in a short time, there was no doubt, she would get comfortable again, especially if she went to the Hall to live." And so Margaret remained in contented indifference; and Amy wondered how her cousin could have learned such a strange way of thinking, and determined that she would be the last person to whom she herself would go for comfort in suffering.

Dora returned from her drive soon after they reached home, and was immediately assailed by a host of questions as to what she had done, and whom she had seen, and whether Rochford Park was more beautiful than Wayland, But Dora was not in a communicative mood; she could make herself very agreeable when she chose, and could describe things in a very amusing manner; but this day her whim was to be silent; and all the information obtained was, that Rochford Park was a very good sort of place, that Miss Cunningham was like the rest of the world, only not so tall as she was, and that Lord Rochford talked of bringing her over to Emmerton soon, to spend the day, and then they would be able to judge for themselves.

"How stupid you are, Dora!" said Margaret, when this most unsatisfactory account had been given. "I thought you would entertain us all by telling us what you had seen; but you might just as well have stayed at home."

"I am sure I wish I had," replied Dora. "It was very hot and very dusty, and I am very tired; so, now, I hope we shall have tea as soon as possible. Do, Emily, look into Morris's room, when you go up-stairs, and tell her I am waiting to be dressed."

"Can't I go?" asked Amy, feeling instantly that the request was not a proper one.

Dora stared. She was not accustomed to see any one put themselves out of their way to help another, and she was conscious that Amy's offer was almost a reproach to her, for there were times when she was aware of her want of consideration for Miss Morton. "It will be no trouble," she said; "Emily has done it a hundred times before."

"I would rather go," persisted Amy; "I know very well where the room is." And without waiting for an answer, she ran upstairs.

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

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