"Mamma," said Amy, as she returned from Emmerton one bright afternoon in the beginning of September, "Aunt Harrington hopes that when I go to the Hall on Thursday, you will go with me; for Lord Rochford is coming over with Miss Cunningham, and she thinks you would like to see them. The carriage will be sent for you whenever you wish it."

"Has not Miss Cunningham been at the Hall before?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"No," replied Amy; "she was to have gone there just after my aunt came, but one of her uncles was taken ill and died, and then she went away somewhere on a visit. I want to see her very much, for I am sure my aunt is very anxious that Dora should be with her a great deal."

"How did you guess that?" asked Mrs Herbert.

"Oh, by the way in which she talked of her, and said she hoped Dora would make herself agreeable, and that there were very few young people of the same age here, and that the acquaintance was very desirable. But, mamma," continued Amy, looking up archly in her mother's face, "I think Dora is determined not to like her."

"And why should you think so?"

"Because I am sure Dora never does like any one she is told to like. She always has a fancy for things which no one else can endure, and she will pet that ugly tabby cat which you saw in the schoolroom the other day, and that great fierce dog which growls whenever any one goes near it, though I think she is a little afraid of it."

"And does her love for human beings go by contraries too?"

"I don't know quite, because I have never seen her with strangers," said Amy; "but I am sure it is her way in other things, for even in her dress I can see it. She generally chooses to wear whatever Margaret or I think ugly. But, mamma, have you ever seen Miss Cunningham, and do you think I shall like her?"

"I saw her frequently when she was a very little child," replied Mrs Herbert; "for before your uncle went to Wayland, Lady Rochford was very intimate with your aunt; but after that she became ill, and I had no carriage, and the distance between us is so great, that we have very seldom met, though I have been asked occasionally to stay there; and once, when your dear papa was here, I went."

"Then you will like to go with me on Thursday, mamma," said Amy; "you know it will make me so happy, and you never go now, as you used to do in the summer. You always say it is such a fatigue; but I did so enjoy the nice long days, when you were with me."

"I must wait till Thursday comes before I decide," answered her mother. "The postman shall take a note for me to Emmerton early, to say whether we shall want the carriage."

Amy watched her mamma more anxiously than usual the next day, and was not quite satisfied with her pale and languid looks; and when she appeared at breakfast the following morning, evidently suffering from the effects of a sleepless night, it was clear that she was more fit to stay at home than to spend the day at Emmerton; and, much to Amy's disappointment, the donkey was ordered at eleven o'clock, and she was obliged to set off for her ride by herself.

There were preparations in the schoolroom for a day of idleness. Rose was playing with her doll, Margaret engaged with some fancy work for herself, and Dora deep in the contents of an amusing book, while Miss Morton, relieved from her usual duties, had gone to her own room to enjoy quietness and solitude.

"I don't think I like coming here on a holiday," observed Amy, when she entered the room; "it does not seem natural."

"I like it, though," said Rose, as she tied a pink ribbon round her doll's waist, in a firm, hard knot, and then held it up to be admired. "I never have my doll's new frock except on holidays; and Emily is coming presently to have a good game of play."

"You won't play here," exclaimed Margaret, sharply; "we can have no litter made."

"I don't want to make a litter," said Rose; "and I had much rather go and play in Emily's room; she is never cross."

"Oh Rose!" said a gentle voice behind her; and Rose was immediately sensible that she had been wrong; and turning round to Emily, who had just come into the room, she jumped upon a chair to kiss her, and whispered, "I won't be naughty; but no one is kind except you."

"You must not speak so," replied Emily; "and your sister is quite right in saying it will not do to make a litter here; but there is plenty of space in my bedroom, and we will go there and play when I have just spoken to your cousin."

"And won't Amy come too?" said Rose.

Amy looked half inclined; but Margaret vehemently asserted that such a thing had never been heard of before; and Dora raised her head from her book, begging more earnestly than was her wont that Amy would stay with them; and so Miss Morton and Rose departed with the doll and her treasures, and Amy remained to while away the time as she best could till Miss Cunningham arrived. Not that this was a difficult task, for there were many books at hand which were quite new to her; and she was so unwearied a reader, that, although her cousins did not take the least trouble to entertain her, the time seemed very short till the sound of carriage wheels and the loud ringing of the door-bell announced the arrival of a visitor. Margaret hastily gathered up her fragments of silk and beads, and thrust them into the first open drawer she could find (a proceeding which Amy did not fail to remark, as she knew that the task of finding Margaret's missing treasures always devolved upon her); but Dora did not appear to observe what was passing till her sister stealthily opened the door and peeped into the passage, and then she called out to her to shut it, and wondered she was not ashamed of being so unladylike. Margaret was not at all inclined to obey, and a dispute would probably have been the consequence but for the entrance of the footman, who came with Mrs Harrington's orders that the young ladies should go immediately to the drawing-room. Margaret ran to the glass to arrange her curls; and Dora, lingering over her book, reluctantly prepared to do as she was told, always a difficult task with her, and particularly so at that moment.

"I suppose my aunt wishes me to go, too?" said Amy.

"My mistress only mentioned Miss Harrington and Miss Margaret," replied the man, very respectfully but decidedly; for he well knew that Mrs Harrington always required her commands to be taken literally.

Amy shrunk back, vexed with herself for having offered to go, and more vexed with her aunt for having omitted to send for her. It would have made her feel shy to be obliged to encounter strangers; but it was not pleasant to be left behind.

"Never mind, dear," said Dora, kindly, seeing her blank face of disappointment; "we shall be back again presently, and then you shall see Miss Cunningham; but I tell you she is just like the rest of the world."

"I don't know why I should care," replied Amy, recovering herself; "it will be much more agreeable to stay here and read, for I am not used to strangers as you are, Dora."

And yet, though it was more agreeable, Amy was not contented; and when Margaret, having arranged her longest ringlet to her satisfaction, and set her dress to rights, and drawn up her head so as to show off her long neck to advantage, pronounced herself quite ready, and left Amy to the quiet enjoyment of her book, she could not manage to fix her attention upon it. For the first time since her uncle's arrival at Emmerton she felt neglected; it had often happened before that Dora or Margaret had been sent for on some little business with their mamma, but then it did not signify; and the few visitors who called seldom inquired for them; or, if they saw them accidentally, there was always as much notice taken of Amy as of her cousins, so that she had not fancied there could be any distinction between them; and even now she hardly acknowledged to herself the cause of her uncomfortable feelings, but sat with the open book before her, trying to find out why her aunt had wished her to be left behind; and then looking at the loveliness of the grounds and the signs of wealth and luxury in the room, and contrasting them with the plainly-furnished drawing-room and the little garden at the cottage, "I should be very happy if mamma had such beautiful things," was the thought that arose in her mind, but there was something within that checked it. They only who have tried earnestly to do right can tell how quickly conscience whispers when we are wrong; and Amy, young as she was, had too often heard her mother's warnings against envy and covetousness, not to be aware that she was at that moment tempted by them; and half-repeating to herself, "how wrong it is in me!" she turned to her book with the resolution of not thinking anything more about the matter. She had read but a few pages when the sound of voices in the passage interrupted her. Dora's constrained tone, and Margaret's affected laugh, told directly there was a stranger with them, and immediately afterwards they entered with Miss Cunningham, and the first glance showed Amy that Dora's description had been very correct. She was neither tall nor short, neither stout nor thin; she had grayish blue eyes, without any particular expression in them; sandy-coloured hair, a fair, freckled complexion, and rather pretty mouth, and certainly was very unlike what Amy had fancied in all but her dress, which was peculiarly handsome.

"This is our schoolroom," said Dora, when Miss Cunningham, upon being told who Amy was, had shaken hands with her, and scanned her from head to foot.

"Is it?" was the reply. "It is a nice little place; I think it must be just the size of my governess's sitting-room."

"It does very well," said Dora; "but it is nothing like the room we had to ourselves at Wayland, which was twice as large."

"My governess's room," continued Miss Cunningham, "used to be my nursery; and then, when I grew too old for it, of course papa gave up another to me; in fact, I have two I may call my own now—a little room where I keep all my books, and a large one where I do my lessons."

"There was a whole set of rooms which was to have been ours," said Dora, "if we had remained at Wayland; and here, I suppose, something of the kind will be arranged for us soon, but everything is so unsettled yet that papa has not had time to think about it."

"My little room," observed Miss Cunningham, "looks out upon the finest view in the whole estate. I can see a distance of twenty miles from the window."

"The tower on Thorwood Hill was thirty miles off, I think. Margaret," said Dora, turning to her sister.

"Yes," she replied; "but then it could only be seen as a little speck on a clear day."

Miss Cunningham went to the window. "You have no view here," she said.

"No," answered Dora; "it is much pleasanter having it shut in in this way, because it makes it so private."

"But when a house stands high, it is very easy to be private, and yet to have beautiful views between the trees."

"I suppose," said Dora, "that when this house was built, several hundred years ago, people did not think so much about scenery, though, indeed, there is a very nice view from the front. I have heard papa say that it is only modern places which stand high. Rochford Park, I think, is about fifty years old."

"Only the new part; there is one wing which is much older."

"But the new part was built when your family first went there, was it not?"

"Yes; it was built by my grandfather, when he returned from being ambassador to Turkey."

"I think the newest part of Emmerton has been built at least a hundred and fifty years," said Dora; "and the old part—I really cannot say exactly what the age of it is; but the first baron who is buried in the chapel died somewhere about 1470, and his was the elder branch of our family."

"But there is no title in your family now," observed Miss Cunningham.

"Indeed there is," replied Dora; "Lord Doringford is a cousin of ours."

"Oh! a hundredth cousin, I suppose. Any one may be that; for you know we are all descended from Adam."

"Yes; and of course, that is the reason why people think so much more of a family being an old one, than of a mere title."

Miss Cunningham turned sharply round to Amy.

"Do you live here?" she asked; and at being addressed so unceremoniously, Amy's colour rose, but she tried to answer gently, though she felt a little unwilling to acknowledge that her home was neither a park nor a hall.

"I live about two miles off," she said, "at Emmerton Cottage; but I am here a great deal."

"Oh!" was all the reply; and Amy took up a book, and wished the new visitor had remained at Rochford Park.

"Is not that a very pretty drawing?" said Margaret, finding Dora unwilling to speak again, and feeling very awkward. It was a drawing of Miss Morton's, which she was going to copy.

"Very," replied Miss Cunningham, shortly. "My style is flowers; I learned when I was in Paris, and——"

"But that does not make this drawing pretty or ugly, does it?" interrupted Dora, with a curl of the lip which portended a storm.

Miss Cunningham stared at her, and then went on with her sentence: "And my master told papa that my copies were almost equal to the original."

"I should like to see them very much," said Margaret, wishing as usual to conciliate her last acquaintance. "Will you bring them over to show us some day?"

Dora held up a lovely rose, almost the last of the season. "Look," she said; "who would not rather have that than the most beautiful drawing that ever could be made of it?"

No notice was taken of the question; for by this time Miss Cunningham felt that she was no match for Dora in anything but pretension; and her only resource was indifference. She therefore went on talking to Margaret, who proved herself a willing listener. Drawings, music, lessons, dress, all were mentioned in turn; and Margaret patiently bore the perpetual repetition of "I think this," and "I do that," as she looked at Miss Cunningham's sandy hair and freckled complexion, and felt that in one thing, at least, there could be no comparison between them. Amy for some time stood by, one moment casting a wistful look at her book, and wishing that it were not rude to read, or that she might carry it off to Miss Morton's room, and the next feeling a strong inclination to laugh, as she listened to what was passing. She had never heard anything of the kind before; for Dora did not boast except when she wished to rival some one, and Amy was far too humble to enter into competition with her in anything.

At length, even the delightful subject of self seemed to be exhausted. The visitor paused; and Margaret looking at the time-piece, and remarking that it wanted nearly an hour to dinner, proposed that they should go into the garden.

"Is there anything to be seen there?" asked Miss Cunningham.

"Nothing that you will admire," replied Dora, sarcastically.

But the emphasis on the you was quite lost. From her childhood, Miss Cunningham could never be made to understand what was not expressed in plain words.

"I suppose," she said, rather condescendingly, "you think we have such a beautiful place at the Park, that I shall not care about this."

"Oh no!" answered Dora, "such an idea never entered my head; for it struck me when I was there the other day, that it was so like all the other gentlemen's seats I have ever seen, that you would be quite glad to look at something different. There is hardly such another place as Emmerton, I believe, in England."

The meaning of this was certainly quite evident, but Miss Cunningham was not quick at a retort; she could only stare, as she usually did when she had not words at command, and ask Margaret to show her the way into the garden. Dora begged to be excused accompanying them, and Amy would willingly have done the same, but for the fear of appearing rude; and even in such trifles she had learned already to consult the feelings of others.

The morning was so lovely, uniting almost the warmth of summer with the freshness of autumn, that the mere sensation of being in the open air was enjoyable; and it was fortunate for Amy that it was so, as neither of her companions paid any attention to her. Margaret led the way through the winding walks in the shrubbery, and along the terrace, and by the side of the lake; pointing out the different objects which were to be seen, expressing herself extremely delighted at having Miss Cunningham with her, and hoping that they should meet very often, for really there were no people living near Emmerton, and it was dreadfully dull after Wayland; forgetting that only the day before, in one of her fits of extreme affection, she had told Amy they did not regret Wayland in the least, for that being with her made up for everything. Amy, however, did not forget; and it made her doubt, as she had often been inclined to do before, whether her cousin was not sometimes insincere. It was quite possible that Margaret might find Emmerton dull, and there was no harm in her saying so, but there was no occasion to make kind speeches if she did not mean them; and almost involuntarily she turned away, and walked a few paces behind by herself. Miss Cunningham looked at everything that was pointed out, and once or twice said it was pretty; but the chief charm of all consisted in its being like something else which was more beautiful at Rochford Park. The trees were taller, the lake was clearer, the walks were broader, and Amy, as she listened, sometimes forgot her annoyance in amusement, though Margaret's words continually reminded her of it again; and by the time they had gone over the pleasure-grounds, she thought that her society would not have been missed if she had remained in the house. Suddenly, however, as they seated themselves on a bench by the side of the lake, Margaret seemed to recollect that her cousin was present; and, with a half-suppressed yawn, asked her if she could think of anything else they could do before dinner. It was evident that she was tired of her company, and Amy ransacked her brain to discover something else which might be seen.

"I think we have gone over everything except the chapel," she said.

"Oh yes! the chapel," exclaimed Margaret, "that will just do, I am sure
Miss Cunningham would like to see it."

"I don't know, indeed," was the reply. "Is it far? I am dreadfully tired."

"It is a part of the house," said Amy, "and you know we must get home. This is the shortest way to it, Margaret," she continued, pointing to a dark overgrown walk; "you know it leads over the wooden bridge to the private garden, without our being obliged to go to the front of the house."

"The shortest way is the best," muttered Miss Cunningham; "I hate being walked to death."

Amy thought it would have been more civil to have kept her remarks to herself; but she supposed the observation was not intended to be heard, and they went on, Miss Cunningham complaining the whole way either of the narrowness of the path, or the inconvenience of the briars, or the heat of the sun, and making both Margaret and Amy very much repent having her with them.

The walk, however, did at last come to an end; and as they turned a sharp angle of the building, and came suddenly upon the chapel, with its gray buttresses half covered with ivy, standing out upon a smooth square of velvet turf, and concealed from the pleasure-ground by a thick shrubbery and one or two splendid chestnut trees, Amy forgot how unlike her companions were to herself, and involuntarily exclaimed, "Is it not beautiful!"

"How odd!" said Miss Cunningham; "why, it is a church."

"It is very gloomy," observed Margaret; "I don't often come here."

"Not gloomy," said Amy, "only grave."

"Well! grave or gloomy, it is all the same. I wish, Amy, you would learn not to take up one's words so. And now we are come here, I don't think we can get in. You should have remembered that this door is always locked; do run into the house, and ask Bridget for the key, and we will wait here."

Amy instantly did as she was desired, but had not gone ten yards before she returned. "You know, Margaret," she said, "that I cannot see Bridget, because I must not go amongst the servants. I never have been since the first night you came, when my aunt was so angry with me."

"But," replied Margaret, "mamma is engaged with Lord Rochford now; you will be sure not to meet her."

"It is not the meeting her, but the doing what she would not like, that I am afraid of; but it will do, perhaps, if I ring the bell in the schoolroom, and then I can ask for it."

"Yes; only run off and be quick, for we have not much time to spare."

And in a moment Amy disappeared; and with the best speed she could make, found her way to the schoolroom, and seizing the bell-rope, without remembering how easily it rang, gave it such a pull that the sound was heard through the whole house. The last tone had but just died away when another was heard, to Amy's ear much more awful. It was her aunt's harsh voice in the passage, exclaiming against such a noise being made, and declaring that Dora or Margaret, whichever it was, should be severely reprimanded. Poor Amy actually trembled, and stood with the bell-rope in her hand, unable to move, when Mrs Harrington entered.

"What, Amy! Amy Herbert! A most extraordinary liberty, I must say! I must beg you to recollect that you are not at home. Pray, did any one give you permission to ring?"

Amy could hardly say "yes," because it was her own proposition; but she stammered out "that Margaret wanted the key of the chapel, and she did not like to go amongst the servants, for fear of displeasing her aunt."

"Then Margaret should have come herself to ask for what she wants; I will have no one but my own family ringing the bell and giving orders in my house. And such a noise!" continued Mrs Harrington, her anger increasing as she remembered how her nerves had been affected by the loud peal.

Amy could only look humble and distressed; and, forgetting the key and everything but her desire to escape from her aunt, she moved as quickly towards the door as she dared. But she had scarcely reached it when a second fright awaited her—a grasp, which seemed almost like that of a giant, stopped her, and the quick, good-humoured voice of a stranger exclaimed, "Why, what's the matter? Who have we got here—a third daughter, Mrs Harrington?"

Amy ventured to look in the face of the speaker, and felt reassured by the kind, open countenance that met her view. She guessed in an instant it must be Lord Rochford.

"Not a daughter," replied Mrs Harrington, in a constrained voice; "Mr
Harrington's niece, Amy Herbert."

"Ah! well," said Lord Rochford, "it is very nearly a daughter, though. Then this must be the child of my friend Harrington's second sister, Ellen. I could almost have guessed it from the likeness; those black eyes are the very image of her mother's. And what has become of the colonel? any news of him lately?"

Mrs Harrington shook her head.

"Sad, sad, very sad," muttered Lord Rochford to himself; "and the mother, too, so ill, I hear." Then, seeing a tear glistening in Amy's eye, he paused, patted her kindly on the shoulder, and told her he was sure she was a great pet at home, and he should be glad to see her at Rochford Park; "and Lucy will like to see you, too," he continued. "She never meets any one but grown-up people from year's end to year's end. By the by, Mrs Harrington, I dare say Mrs Herbert would be very willing to enter into the plan you and I were talking of just now. I wish some day you would mention it."

"You forget," replied Mrs Harrington, trying to look gracious, "that I said it was quite out of the question at present."

"Oh no! not at all. But, begging your pardon, I never knew a lady yet who was not willing to change her mind when she had a fair excuse given her."

"You may not have met with any one before," said Mrs Harrington, in her haughtiest manner, "but I must assure you, you have met with one now.—What do you want?" she added, for the first time perceiving the footman, who had answered the bell. "Amy, you rang; Jolliffe waits for your orders."

Amy's neck and cheeks in an instant became crimson; but she managed to say, though in a voice scarcely audible, that she wanted the key of the chapel.

"Tell Bridget to send it instantly," said Mrs Harrington; and she did not notice Amy again till the key was brought, when, putting it into her hands without a word, she motioned her to the door. And Amy, enchanted at having at last escaped, returned to her cousin even more quickly than she had left her. "Oh Margaret!" was her exclamation, as she ran up, holding the key in her hand, "here it is; but I have got into a dreadful scrape by ringing the bell, and I don't know what I shall do; my aunt will never forgive me."

"Nonsense," replied Margaret, in a really kind manner; "it is only just for the moment; mamma will soon forget it. You have nothing to do but to keep out of her way for some time."

"I am sure she won't," replied Amy; "she looked so angry, and called me
Amy Herbert."

"But your name is Herbert, is it not?" said Miss Cunningham, with a stare.

"Don't you know what Amy means?" asked Margaret, laughing; "people never tack on surnames to Christian names till they are so angry they don't know what else to do. But don't make yourself unhappy, Amy; I know mamma better than you do; she soon forgets—just let me know what she said."

The story was soon told, and Amy's mind considerably eased by her cousin's assurance that she had got into a hundred such scrapes in her life; though there still remained such a recollection of her alarm, that even the quiet beauty of the chapel could not entirely soothe her. Miss Cunningham looked round with curiosity, but with a total want of interest; and Margaret laughed, and said it was a gloomy old place, and then called to her companions to observe the strange little figures which were carved on an ancient monument near the altar, declaring they were the most absurd things she had ever seen. But she could only induce Miss Cunningham to join in the merriment; Amy just smiled, and said, in rather a subdued voice, that they were odd, and she had often wondered at them before.

"What is the matter, Amy?" asked Margaret. "Why don't you speak out; and why are you so grave!"

"I don't quite know," answered Amy, trying to raise her voice; "but I never can laugh or speak loud in a church."

"And why not?" said Miss Cunningham, who had been patting one of the figures with her parasol, and calling it a "little wretch."

"Because," replied Amy, "it is a place where people come to say their prayers and read their Bibles."

"Well! and so they say their prayers and read their Bibles in their bedrooms," observed Margaret; "and yet you would not mind laughing there."

Amy thought for a moment, and then said, "You know bedrooms are never consecrated."

"Consecrated!" repeated Miss Cunningham, her eyes opening to their fullest extent; "What has that to do with it?"

"I don't know that I can quite tell," replied Amy; "but I believe it means making places like Sundays."

"I wish you would talk sense," said Miss Cunningham, sharply; "I can't understand a word you say."

"I know what I mean myself, though I cannot explain it. On Sunday people never work, or ride about, or read the same books as they do on other days—at least mamma never lets me do it; and she makes me say my Catechism, and other things like it—hymns, I mean, and collects."

"That may be your fashion on a Sunday, but it is not mine," said Miss Cunningham. "I used to say my Catechism once a month before I was confirmed, to get it perfect; but since then I have never thought about it."

"Have you been confirmed?" asked Margaret and Amy, in one breath.

"Yes, to be sure. I am quite old enough; I was fifteen last month."

"Then you must feel quite grown up now," said Amy.

"Grown up! why should I? I shall not do that till I come out in London."

"Shall you not?" said Amy, gravely. "I think I should feel quite grown up if I were confirmed."

"I never heard any one yet call a girl only just fifteen grown up," observed Margaret.

"It is not what I should be called, but what I should feel," replied Amy. "People, when they are confirmed, are allowed to do things that they must not before." And as she said this, she walked away, as if afraid of being obliged to explain herself more, and went to the lower end of the chapel to look at her favourite monument of the first baron of Emmerton.

"I never knew any one with such odd notions as Amy," said Margaret, when her cousin was gone. "I never can make out how old she is. Sometimes she seems so much younger than we are, and then again she gets into a grave mood, and talks just as if she were twenty."

"But it is very easy to ask her her age, is it not?" asked the matter-of-fact Miss Cunningham.

"Do you always think persons just the age they call themselves?" said
Margaret, laughing.

"Yes, of course, I do, every one, that is except one of my aunts, who always tells me she is seven-and-twenty, when mamma knows she is five-and-thirty."

"What I mean," said Margaret, "is, that all persons appear different at different times."

"They don't to me," answered Miss Cunningham, shortly. "If I am told a girl is fourteen, I believe her to be fourteen; and if I am told she is twelve, I believe she is twelve. Your cousin is twelve, is she not?"

Margaret saw it was useless to discuss the subject any more; and, calling to Amy that they should be late for dinner if they stayed any longer, hastened out of the chapel. Amy lingered behind, with the uncomfortable feeling of having something disagreeable associated with a place which once had brought before her nothing but what was delightful. Margaret and Miss Cunningham had seemed perfectly indifferent to what she thought so solemn; and although quite aware that their carelessness did not at all take away from the real sacredness of the chapel, yet it was something new and startling to find that it was possible for persons to enter a place peculiarly dedicated to the service of God without any greater awe than they would have felt in their own homes.

If Amy had lived longer and seen more of the world, she would have known that, unhappily, such thoughtlessness is so common as not to be remarkable; but she had passed her life with those who thought very differently; and the first appearance of irreverence was as painful as it was unexpected.