After this visit Amy's prejudice against Miss Morton considerably decreased; and she made no objection, when the arrangement was finally made, that she should go to Emmerton twice a week to receive drawing and music lessons. For many reasons it was a great pleasure, as she was amused by her cousins when they were in good humour, and the novelty and variety had always charms; besides which, Mr Harrington made her a present of a donkey, to carry her backwards and forwards when it was not convenient for the carriage to be sent; and a ride through the forest, with the man servant walking by her, in the lovely summer mornings, compensated for any disagreeables in the remainder of the day. She usually returned to the cottage soon after the early dinner in the schoolroom, and some of the party often walked back part of the way with her; or if she were quite alone, old Stephen generally contrived to hobble for about a mile by her side, giving her the history of all the cows, horses, dogs, and sheep about the place, almost all of whom were Amy's old acquaintances, though she saw little of them now that her time at the Hall was so differently occupied. And so the bright months of summer passed away, and Amy became accustomed to the great change in her life, and began to wonder how she could have liked the house in its former desolate state, and to associate with the old trees in the park and the lovely walks over the downs, thoughts of rambles with her cousins, or conversations with Emily Morton (whom she soon felt inclined to love as she became more acquainted with her character), instead of the old-fashioned ladies and gentlemen with whom she had formerly been accustomed to people the Hall and every place about it.

In one thing alone there was no change. The chapel still remained unopened from week to week, apparently forgotten, except when visitors were in the house, and it was exhibited as a show, for the purpose of passing away a few idle moments. The rich light streamed through the painted glass of the east window, and chequered the marble floor and shone upon the grotesque oak carving; but there was no one to admire its radiance. The splendidly-bound Bible lay uncared for upon the desk; the family-prayer books, moth-eaten and decayed, were piled upon the seats; and the only thing which bore the semblance of devotion in the place, once hallowed by daily prayer, was the marble figure of the first lord of Emmerton, who, stretched upon his tomb, with his clasped hands raised to heaven, seemed silently to reproach all who entered with their forgetfulness of the privilege he had so highly valued. Amy could not feel this neglect of the chapel as keenly as her mother, for she could not remember the time when it was otherwise; but she could feel the disappointment of her curiosity to see it as it had been described to her; and something told her that it must be wrong to think so lightly of it, and entirely to omit the practice of daily family prayer, even if circumstances interfered with the performance of the regularly-appointed service; and at last she became quite shy of talking about it; and when she knew the chapel was open, she would steal into it by herself, and indulge some of her former reveries, and then return to the schoolroom without venturing to mention what she had been doing.

This was one among many instances in which the difference of education between Amy and her cousins was easily to be discovered. With all Amy's occupations, and all her pleasures, her mother had carefully endeavoured to blend ideas which might improve and raise her mind. She had taught her that the days of her childhood were the most important of her life, for they were those in which habits must be formed either for good or evil, which would be her blessing or her curse for ever. She had told her of the first sinful nature which she brought with her into the world at her birth, and of the second holy nature which had been given her at baptism, and had warned her that the whole of her life would be a struggle between the two—a struggle which was begun from the very first moment of her becoming sensible of the difference between right and wrong. And thus Amy had learned to look upon what are often considered trifling faults in a child—ill-temper, indolence, vanity, greediness, and similar evil dispositions—as real sins in the eye of God, which must be checked at the very beginning by all who wish to continue what they were made at their baptism—His children. She did not think, with her cousins, that it signified little what she did as a child, for that the time would, of course, arrive when she should be able at once to become good; but in the little everyday trials, to which she was now exposed more frequently than ever, she endeavoured to conquer any irritation of temper, or inclination to indolence, or envy; and every day the task became less difficult. Perhaps this kind of education had caused her to be more thoughtful than is usual at her age, and made her pleasures of a graver and quieter cast; but in reality it added to her happiness far more than it apparently took away. It made her love the blue sky, and the trees and flowers, not merely for their beauty, but because she knew they were especial blessings sent to her; and that every day's enjoyment of them was provided for her by God, in the same way as her mother provided for her pleasure in other things. It made her sensible of the holiness of those places which were especially dedicated to the worship of God; and the silence of the beautiful chapel at Emmerton had as great a charm for her as the gay scenes which her cousins often described had for them; and, above all, it gave her that quietness and cheerfulness of mind which only those can possess who really try in everything to do what they know to be their duty. But the same education which had made Amy think so differently from her cousins, made her also feel that they could not sympathise with her; and thus, though Emmerton was a source of constant amusement, it was principally because at the time she was enjoying it she could look forward to the evening, when she should return to her mother, and give her an account of what she had been doing. Her walks, her books, her music, her drawing,—all would have ceased to charm without this; but with it, even Dora's petulance and Margaret's selfishness caused only a momentary annoyance. Whatever discomfort she might find at the Hall, there was always a bright smile and a fond kiss awaiting her at the cottage; and the enjoyment of her mother's love there was nothing to mar. For Amy did not notice what a stranger would have looked on with fear; she did not see the increasing paleness of Mrs Herbert's complexion, the hectic flush upon her cheek, the transparency of her delicate hands; the change was so gradual as to be in general unobserved, or, if remarked by other persons, there was always some reason to be given for it, either the heat, or a bad night, or the disappointment of not hearing from India—the last being, in fact, the real cause of the evil.

During this time Mrs Herbert watched her child most anxiously, to discover the effect which the intimacy with her cousins might produce upon her mind, but she saw little to make her uneasy; for, however Amy might enjoy the grandeur of Emmerton, she seldom expressed any wish to possess it; and day after day, and week after week, she returned to her quiet home with the same gentle, humble, open spirit with which she had left it. But still her mother was not quite satisfied. She knew that while Amy had no rivals, the strength of the temptation was but slight. She went as a visitor, and, to a certain degree, a stranger, and her cousins were pleased to see her, and in general her wishes were consulted; but Mrs Herbert looked forward to the time when she might be obliged to live at Emmerton altogether, perhaps as a dependent, certainly as a person quite inferior to Mr Harrington's daughters; and she could not but fear lest Amy might then be sensible of a false pride of which she was now unconscious. Yet, although the constant communication between the Hall and the cottage had had little effect upon Amy, it was not entirely so with her cousins. Margaret's character, indeed, was not one to be easily improved, for her extreme vanity prevented her being in the least alive to her own faults or to the virtues of others. She remarked that Amy was seldom or never selfish; but she only liked her for it because it gratified her own indolence and self-will; it never entered her head that in this her cousin was her superior, and that therefore she ought to imitate her; and as for her sincerity and humility, it required a much purer mind than Margaret's to understand why such qualities were good. If Amy's praises were sounded by Emily Morton, Margaret would seize upon some trifling occasion in which they might have differed, or some passing hasty expression, to prove that every one was mistaken in their opinion of her, and that she was no better than others; whilst the next moment, if her cousin entered, she would try her patience and her good-nature, perhaps, by sending her to a distant part of the house for a book, or begging her to finish some tiresome piece of work, and then think she had made quite sufficient amends for the trouble by covering her with kisses, asking her if she did not love her dearly, and declaring she was the most good-natured little thing in the world. At first Amy did not understand this; she thought Margaret affectionate and Dora cold; and she turned from the one and clung to the other; but this could not last long, for Margaret's selfishness was too great to be concealed by any show of warmth, and after a little time she wondered why she should be so uncomfortable when Margaret put her arm so kindly round her neck, and asked her to do the very thing that she knew was most disagreeable to her, and why she should be annoyed when she chose the most beautiful flowers or the finest fruit for herself, and then said, "You won't mind, will you, darling?" It seemed almost wrong, yet Amy could not help the feeling. With Dora, however, it was very different; she had serious faults, and they were so evident as to be perceived even upon a first acquaintance; but she had also qualities upon which a very superior character might be formed, and amongst them, perhaps, the most valuable was sincerity. Whatever she said was strictly true; there was no pretence of affection which was not felt, no affectation of virtues which were not possessed; she was too reserved to express all her feelings, but those she did express were perfectly real; she was too proud to confess herself in the wrong of her own accord, but she would never for a moment stoop to the slightest meanness to screen herself; and this it was which formed the connecting link between her and Amy, for it was the one thing to which Dora was peculiarly alive, and half her quarrels with Margaret, when they were not caused by opposition to her will, arose from her perceiving some little cunning or paltry motive, which her sister tried to conceal but could not. If Amy had not been true and candid, Dora would have cared little for her other qualities; but when once she discovered that her cousin's lightest word was to be depended on, and that she never hesitated to acknowledge an error, whatever might be the consequence, she began to respect her, and to remark the other points in which she was superior; and though she would hardly have borne a rebuke for her ill-temper or her pride, even from her father, she would think over some instance in which Amy had shown self-command or humility, with a feeling of self-reproach she had seldom known before. And thus quite unconsciously, Amy was exercising an influence for good, over the mind of a person older and cleverer than herself, merely by the quiet, unobtrusive manner in which she performed her daily duties. But as yet this made no difference in Dora's manner; she was still proud and irritable, and often most unkind at the very moment she was feeling the greatest respect, and Amy's chief pleasure at Emmerton soon arose from being with Emily Morton and little Rose. Rose, indeed, was not much of a companion; but she was a very interesting and beautiful child, and Emily Morton's great love for her was in itself quite sufficient to make her a source of pleasure to Amy. At first, when the music and drawing lessons began, Amy's hand shook and her voice almost trembled whenever Miss Morton found fault with her; but she soon discovered there was not the slightest occasion for fear, since even Margaret's inattention only gave rise to a serious look, and a hope, expressed in a grave tone, that, to please her mamma, she would be more careful for the future. And when the awe had subsided, Amy began to look forward to Miss Morton's approbation, and to wish she would notice her as she did Rose; and when vexed at her cousins' neglect, she endeavoured to make some amends by bringing her the prettiest flowers from her own garden, or working some little thing which she thought might gratify her, till Emily, touched by attentions she had lately been so little accustomed to receive, anticipated Amy's visits as one of the chief enjoyments of her lonely life, and bestowed upon her a considerable portion of the affection which had once been exclusively given, to little Rose.

It was some time, however, before Amy discovered that Miss Morton was indeed fond of her; she was very gentle and very kind, but this she was to every one, and her extreme reserve and shyness prevented the expression of her real feeling; besides, they were very seldom alone; and when Dora and Margaret were in the room, Emily seemed to shrink into herself, and never to speak except when absolutely obliged. From her childhood Emily Morton had had a peculiar dread of anything like scorn or ridicule, a dread which her friends had often vainly endeavoured to overcome, until her sense of religion had taught her how wrong it was to indulge it, and even then something of the feeling remained. The careless jest upon any little awkwardness, or the thought that she was forgotten when others were noticed, which had brought the tears into her eyes when a child, caused as keen a pang as she grew older, though her self-command prevented its being shown; and the suffering she had undergone from the moment of her entrance into Mr Harrington's family, it would be difficult to describe. At school she had always felt herself on an equality with her young companions, and in general, from her accomplishments, their superior; but at Wayland Court every one looked down upon her. Mr Harrington scarcely thought of her at all; and Mrs Harrington considered her as little above the level of an upper servant, useful in a party to sing and play, and useful in teaching Dora and Margaret to do the same, but in other respects very slightly differing from Morris. Dora scorned her as inferior in rank and wealth, and disliked her because on certain occasions she was bound to obey her; and Margaret envied her beauty, and was angry with her straightforward simplicity; and when all this was gradually discovered, the feeling that arose in Emily Morton's mind was most bitter. Every trifling neglect, every proud look, every taunting word, brought the colour to her cheek, and a host of painful recollections to her mind; and though too gentle to retaliate, she thought over them in private till they seemed almost unendurable, and she was often on the point of leaving Mr Harrington's house and seeking for another situation. But there was a principle within that soon brought her to a more patient spirit. She had been placed at Wayland by the only friend on whom she could depend, and to leave it would be, she knew, a cause of great anxiety, and the "charity which beareth all things" at length enabled her to submit to the trial without a murmur. She learned not only to listen without reply to undeserved reproofs, but to ask herself whether there might not even be some ground for them. She learned to return the greatest neglect with the most thoughtful attention, the harshest speeches with the most considerate kindness, till the calmness of her own mind became a sufficient recompense for all her difficulties; and the person most to be envied in the family of a man who had thousands at his disposal, worldly rank, the respect of his friends, and the applause of his dependents, was the young girl whom even the very servants considered themselves privileged to mention with contempt.

Emily Morton's situation, however, would have been very different but for little Rose. She was the one charm of her life, the only thing that seemed yet left her in which to take a deep and affectionate interest; and till her arrival at Emmerton, Rose was the one subject of her daily thoughts. It was long before she could believe that Amy was indeed so different from her cousins; and still longer ere her habitual shyness could be so far overcome as to enable her to talk, except at the times of the regular lessons. The constant impression on her mind was, that every one was ridiculing her; and this made her so unwilling to speak unless when obliged, that Amy often feared she never should be at ease with her. The reserve between them would probably have continued for even a greater length of time, had it not been for the introduction of Susan Reynolds into the place of under lady's maid soon after the walk to Colworth. Mrs Harrington was pleased with her appearance, and still more with Mrs Saville's recommendation; and although Bridget looked sulky at first, because she was not consulted on the occasion, and old Stephen grumbled in private, because his little grand-daughter had not been chosen, no other person in the house found fault with the arrangement; and even Morris, the quickest, neatest, and most particular of her particular race, declared she had never met with so clever and well-behaved a girl for her age.

This was joyful news to Amy, who, of course, fancied that now all Susan's troubles were at an end; for every one said it was the most fortunate thing in the world that she had found so good a situation; but when several weeks had passed, and her eyes were still often filled with tears, and her voice had the same melancholy resigned tone as at first, Amy became half-vexed, and, perhaps, a little impatient. It seemed almost like ingratitude; and she ventured one day to ask Emily Morton a few questions on the subject, as Susan's principal employment was to wait upon her and Rose, and, therefore, she must know more about her than any one else. Miss Morton spoke so kindly, and took such an interest in the poor orphan girl, that it was impossible not to be at ease when talking on this one thing at least; and Amy's heart was at length completely won, when she met Susan one afternoon on the stairs leading to Miss Morton's room, which was in a little turret close to the schoolroom; and on inquiring what made her look so much more cheerful than usual, found that Emily had made her a present of a new book, and had promised, if possible, to hear her read three times a week.

"She is so good to me, Miss Herbert," said Susan; "it almost makes me happy."

"Oh! but, Susan," said Amy; "I wish you could be quite happy. I thought you would when you came here, and had such a comfortable home."

"It is not my home. Miss," replied Susan; "grandmother's cottage is my home now."

"And do you want to go back there?" asked Amy, looking very disappointed.

"Oh no! Miss, I should only be a burden, and I know it would not be right; but I should like very much to see her and the children."

"But would you rather live there?" repeated Amy.

"I would rather live with my friends anywhere, Miss, than amongst strangers."

Poor Amy felt heartily vexed. "But you know, Susan," she said, "you could not expect to have such nice dinners with your grandmother, or such a comfortable bed, or to wear such good clothes, as you do here."

"Ah! Miss, but it is not the eating and drinking, and the clothes, that make one happy," replied Susan.

At this moment Margaret called her cousin to the schoolroom, and the conversation was interrupted; but Amy could not help thinking of it afterwards, and talking of it to her mamma when she went home.

"It seems very strange, mamma," she said, "that Susan should care so little for having such a comfortable place to live in."

"Should you be happy, Amy, at Emmerton, without me?"

"Oh no! mamma, never; but then——"

"But what, my dear child?"

"I am afraid it is wrong, mamma; but I think sometimes that it would be very nice to have a carriage and servants, and a large house; and it must be almost as great a change to Susan to have so many comforts as she has now."

"The reason why you think so differently, my love, is, that you have never known yet what real unhappiness means. When that time comes, you will feel with Susan, that all such things are of no consequence. I believe God often sends afflictions to teach us this."

"And do you think He will send them to me, mamma?" said Amy, anxiously.

"I believe He will send you whatever is necessary to make you good, my dear, and will give you strength to bear it; but it will be better and happier for you if you endeavour to overcome this longing for riches and grandeur now, and so, perhaps, the trial may not be required."

Amy did not quite understand all that her mother meant, or why she should look so sad; but she went to rest that night with a heavier heart than usual, even though she had made it an especial part of her evening prayers that God would grant her a humble spirit, and teach her not to desire anything beyond what He had given; and when she next went to Emmerton she looked upon Susan as much better than herself, and took even a greater interest in her; and finding that Miss Morton did the same, and studied in many little ways to make the poor girl feel less friendless and lonely, it seemed as if the barrier between herself and Emily was in a measure done away; and she began from this time to experience a pleasure in being with her, which once she would have imagined impossible.