The autumn months passed quickly away, and brought but little change in Amy's life, except that her visits to Emmerton became less frequent, as the uncertainty of the weather obliged her to depend more upon her uncle's carriage; but she still practised her music under her mother's direction, and copied Miss Morton's drawings at home, and made up by diligence for the superior advantages which her cousins enjoyed. The London plan had been often mentioned, but, as Margaret foretold, Mrs Harrington was decidedly opposed to it, and became at last quite annoyed whenever any reference was made to it; and the idea would probably have completely died away, had it not been for Miss Cunningham, who, notwithstanding the distance between Emmerton and the Park, contrived to be a very constant visitor; and whenever she appeared, London was invariably the theme of conversation. There needed no description, however, to excite Margaret's wishes, and Dora would have been equally anxious, if her dislike to Miss Cunningham had not prevented her from entering into any scheme of enjoyment in which she was to participate. But Miss Cunningham's earnestness on the subject did not exhaust itself in mere words. Her first object had been to induce her papa to urge the scheme on Mrs Harrington as often as they met, and when, after many trials, this was found to fail, the only thing that remained was to get rid of the one great obstacle, Emily Morton. Lord Rochford was persuaded to criticise her drawings, to find fault with her style of playing, and to declare that her voice was extremely indifferent, in the hope that Mrs Harrington might at last yield to the necessity of having better instruction for her daughters. But Mrs Harrington was not so easily deceived; she was far too good a judge of both music and drawing, to be influenced by what Lord Rochford said, and only answered him with cool indifference in public, and laughed at his ignorance in private. Yet Margaret and her friend did not despair. There was one resource left; though Mrs Harrington could not be persuaded to part with Miss Morton, Miss Morton might be induced to leave Mrs Harrington; and when this notion entered their heads, a series of petty persecutions commenced according to a plan that had been determined on at Rochford Park, which, with any other disposition, could hardly have failed of success. But Miss Morton was invulnerable; she felt that it was her duty to remain at Emmerton; and without paying any attention to looks and inuendoes, or even open words, she pursued her round of daily duties with the same unruffled temper, the same cheerful smile, as if her life had been one of uninterrupted happiness. The only difference observable was during Miss Cunningham's visits, when she generally spent as much of her time with Rose in her own room as was possible; and this, quite as much on the little girl's account as on her own; for Miss Cunningham, having just cleverness sufficient to discover that Rose was Miss Morton's great interest and anxiety, endeavoured to interfere with her in every possible way, distracting her attention from anything in which she might be engaged, and teazing her so much, that even Dora's indignation was at length roused. Of all this, Amy saw but little. The days were now so short that she had only time to take her lesson and return home; but she could not help observing it occasionally, and then longed to be Miss Morton's friend, and to be a comfort to her; and still more did she wish that Emily could be often with her mamma, and be enabled to tell her all she was suffering. But to this there was an obstacle, which Miss Morton would have felt, though Amy was not sensible of it. To have repeated all that passed at Emmerton, would have been in her eyes betraying the secrecy in some degree necessary in private life, and to Mrs Harrington's sister it would have been quite impossible. If there was a complaint to be made, Mrs Harrington was the person to whom to apply for the remedy; and if she did not choose to do this, it could not be right to seek assistance from any other person; and thus, day after day, Emily bore silently and meekly the scorn of folly and ignorance, with but one Friend to guide her, one hope to cheer her, and yet feeling that that Friend and that hope were sufficient in all things for her comfort. Mrs Herbert's interest in Miss Morton had been much excited by Amy's account, and she was induced to think over many plans that might render her life happier. The undertaking, however, was a difficult one, for it was impossible to intrude on her confidence; and there were few opportunities for gaining it, as Mrs Harrington always made some objection to her going to the cottage. Perhaps she feared that Miss Morton's history of her life at Emmerton might not sound favourably in her sister's ears; but, whatever might be the cause, the dislike became so apparent, that Mrs Herbert gave up all hope of being useful, until the idea of an introduction to Mrs Walton suggested itself to her mind. In her Miss Morton would find everything that she could require; warm affection, superior judgment, and the advice and sympathy which Mrs Herbert's position rendered it impossible to give; and with such a friend at hand, there would be comparatively little to fear for Emily's comfort.

Of Mrs Walton's willingness to cultivate the acquaintance, Mrs Herbert had no doubt. It seemed impossible, indeed, that any one could look at Emily Morton without feeling the deepest interest in her; yet the charm was not that of mere personal beauty; many might have criticised the colour of her hair and eyes, and found fault with her pale, transparent complexion, but none could be insensible to the simple grace of her manner, the musical sweetness of her voice, and, above all, the calm, soft, expression of countenance, which was but the outward sign of that "meek and quiet spirit," which, the Bible says, "is in the sight of God of great price." Without Mrs Herbert's recommendation Emily would have been a welcome visitor at the rectory; but with it, Mrs Walton's feelings were so much excited in her favour, that even Amy was quite satisfied as to her being properly appreciated, though she still longed that her mamma could know her more intimately.

But Miss Morton was not Amy's only object of compassion at the Hall. As Christmas approached, Dora's spirits evidently sank; she became more silent and abstracted, took little interest in what was passing, and, if any remark was made upon her low spirits, either roused herself to a forced gaiety, or shut herself up in her own room, and remained there for a considerable time. Amy longed to ask what was the matter, but she did not dare; and they now met so seldom, that the hope of discovering it seemed vain. It was therefore a cause of satisfaction to her, independent of her own enjoyment, to hear that it was Mr Harrington's wish, that the week before and the week after Christmas should be spent by her mamma and herself at Emmerton, as she was certain the arrangement would give pleasure to Emily Morton, and thought it possible that her mamma might be some comfort to her cousin. Dora was the first to give her the intelligence; but although she declared it would be very nice to have Amy staying there, and expressed a hope that her aunt would be comfortable, she did not really seem to care much about it.

"It will not be gay as it used to be at Wayland," she said; "there we always had the house full of people, but now there are only a few coming, whom I know nothing about. I believe we are to have some boys and two or three girls, but we have scarcely ever seen them. Two of the boys are the young Dornfords, and, besides, there will be the Miss Stanleys, and Mary Warner, and the little Danvers; but I shall hate it, for I don't know what we shall do with them."

"Frank will amuse Mr Dornford's boys," said Amy, who knew all their names, though she had never been accustomed to visit in the neighbourhood.

"Yes! but Frank is not used to it."

"Don't look so very unhappy, dear Dora," replied Amy, "I cannot bear to see it; you always seem out of spirits now, and I would give anything in the world if I could help you."

"Would you?" said Dora, looking at her earnestly; "that is more than half the people I know would say."

"But it is true; only, of course, I cannot be any good to you."

"No one can be any good to me now; I knew I should be wretched when
Christmas came."

"But why?" asked Amy.

"Oh! never mind," said Dora, rather hastily, "I cannot talk about it; please don't say anything to anybody."

"But if you would talk to some one else, would not that help you?"

"Whom should I talk to?" said Dora.

"Do you never tell your mamma when you are unhappy?" continued Amy, though she felt that to have asked for sympathy from Mrs Harrington in her own case would have been impossible.

"Talk to mamma!" exclaimed Dora; "why, I could more easily be miserable all the days of my life; besides," she added, "I said no one could help me; no one can bring back——," the sentence remained unfinished, for her voice was choked, and her eyes were blinded with tears.

Amy had always hitherto felt in a certain degree afraid of showing any affection to Dora—her manner was in general so cold, that she never knew how far it would be returned; but the sight of her present distress was quite sufficient to overcome every feeling of the kind, and, putting her arm round her cousin's neck, she said very gently, "But he is so happy now."

Dora hid her face in her hands, and did not answer for several minutes; at last, rousing herself with a great effort, she said, "Amy, I am very cross to you sometimes."

"Oh no!" replied Amy, "don't think about that; you know we are all cross occasionally."

"He was never cross to any one," said Dora, in a voice so low, that it sounded as if she were speaking to herself.

"Miss Morton told me how good and kind he was," replied Amy, "and how miserable you were when he was taken ill."

"Did she?" exclaimed Dora, with interest; "I did not know she ever thought about me."

"Oh Dora! indeed, I am sure she does think about you a great deal, and would love you very much, if——"

"If what? why should you be afraid of speaking out?"

"If you would love her," continued Amy, hesitatingly.

"It would be no use if I did," replied Dora; "she is as cold as a stone to every one but Rose and you, and as proud as a queen."

"But she spoke of you so kindly the other day, and said that she could not bear to see you in such bad spirits, and that she was so sorry about poor Edward; and then she told me that in some things she thought you were like him."

"Me! no indeed, nobody could think that; he was like no one else."

"Not Frank?" asked Amy, anxious to make her cousin converse upon the subject she knew was uppermost in her thoughts.

"No," replied Dora; "Frank is thoughtless and hasty, but he never said a harsh word to any one, not to me even!"

"It would have been hard to speak crossly to you, when you were so fond of him," said Amy.

"Ah! you don't know," answered Dora, while a host of recollections flashed across her mind, of taunting looks, and angry words, and selfish actions, which at the time were thought of as nothing, but which now stood forth in their true light. For a short time she was silent; and then, turning abruptly to Amy, she said, "Then you will come next Monday—aunt Herbert is to have the green room and the boudoir, and you are to have the dressing-room."

Amy was vexed; she longed to continue the conversation about Edward, and she was always pleased and interested when Dora spoke of her own feelings, for it seemed as if she were then admitted to a secret which no one else was allowed to share. "I shall like it very much if mamma will consent, and if you will be happy," she said; "only I wish there were to be no strangers."

"Don't think about me," replied Dora, "and pray don't say anything about my being out of spirits; I shall do very well by and by."

"I wish Frank were here," said Amy.

"Frank will do no good, only make a noise; but I shall be happy again after Christmas. I did not think half so much about it a month ago, and not even when first I came here, because everything was new; but he always came home about this time, and I used to look forward to it so—at last I quite counted the days."

Amy saw how hopeless it was to attempt to comfort her cousin. She could only show by looks and manner the pain she felt at her unhappiness; and with this Dora was quite satisfied. Amy's silent sympathy was consoling, where words would have distressed her; but it was not natural to her to speak much of her own feelings, and again she turned the conversation to the intended visit.

"If you come on Monday," she said, "we shall have a few days to ourselves, for no one is to be here till after Friday, which is Christmas-day."

"And will they all come together?" asked Amy.

"No; that is what provokes me so. If there were a good many, they would entertain each other; but I can't imagine what we shall do with two or three. I think I shall try again to make mamma alter the plan."

"But you will have Margaret to help you."

"She will be worse than nothing; for Lord Rochford and Miss Cunningham are to come on Saturday, and you know very well that, when they are here, Margaret will think of nothing else."

"Is Miss Cunningham really coming?" asked Amy, looking very blank.

Dora laughed. "You should not let your face tell such tales, Amy; now I speak out at once, and say, I can't endure her, and you had much better do the same."

"No," replied Amy, "I don't like to do it unless I am obliged, and I dare say a great deal of the fault is my own; but I care much more about Miss Morton than anything else—Miss Cunningham treats her so ill."

"Yes, she makes even me angry sometimes, and you know I am not in love with your dear Emily."

"You like her better than you will own, though," said Amy, looking gaily in her cousin's face, "and a great deal better than you did."

"I don't know; I don't dislike her always; and I cannot bear to see that
Lucy Cunningham tormenting her so."

"And to-morrow you will not dislike her at all," continued Amy; "and the next day you will take her part, and the day after you will quite love her."

"No, I shall never love her. I am sure I am much more given to hating than loving. I am not like you, Amy, who seem to care for everything, and everybody."

"Not everything," said Amy, laughing; "your ugly tabby cat, for instance, Dora, I never could love that."

"Oh! that is compassion; I only pet her because all the rest abuse her."

"And Miss Morton, it is just the same with her."

Dora shook her head. "It is no use, Amy," she answered. "You know very well, that if I were to begin loving Emily Morton now, and to go on for the rest of my life, she never could like me in return."

"And why not?"

"Because—because—I cannot tell why; but I am sure she could not."

"Oh Dora!" said Amy, "I do not think you can guess how good Miss Morton is, or how easily she would forgive."

"Forgive!" exclaimed Dora, quickly, "what should she forgive?"

Amy blushed deeply; "I beg your pardon, Dora, only I thought you meant——"

"Well! go on; meant what?"

"Don't be angry with me, dear Dora, only I thought, perhaps, you fancied that Miss Morton would not like you, because sometimes, you know, you show that you do not like her."

"You had better say it in plain words," exclaimed Dora, whilst the working of her forehead showed the storm that was gathering; "because sometimes—no—very often, you know you are very cross."

"No, Dora," replied Amy, gently; "I do not wish to say it in any other words; it would be wrong in me, for you know it is not my place to tell you you are cross; and, besides, I am often cross myself."

"But you meant it, I know you meant it; just say now whether you did."

"I wish you would not ask me anything about it; I did not mean to vex you, and I was careless when I spoke."

"You were, indeed," said Dora; "and, perhaps, the next time, you will think twice before you accuse persons who are older than yourself."

Amy was about to vindicate herself, but she had learned from Miss Morton to bear an unjust accusation patiently, when she knew that excuses would only increase anger; and again begging Dora's pardon, and saying she was very sorry for having annoyed her, she began putting her drawing materials together, and preparing to return home. Dora's first impulse was to leave the room; but she was so well aware of having been harsh, that she could not quite make up her mind to go, and she lingered about, first taking up a book, and then looking out of the window, and longing for Amy to say something, though it was too great an effort to do so herself. Amy, however, still continued silent; and at length, when everything was collected, went up-stairs to put on her bonnet and cloak. Dora, lately, had been in the habit of assisting her; but now, instead of accompanying her, she seated herself by the fire, and tried to read, though without being able to fix her attention. In a few minutes Amy reappeared, and holding out her hand to her cousin, told her that her donkey was at the door, and she must go directly.

"Good-bye," said Dora, in a cold, constrained voice, which gave no symptom of the struggle within.

Amy looked distressed. "Are you angry with me, still?" she asked.

"Angry! why should I be angry?"

"Because I spoke so thoughtlessly."

"Oh!" said Dora, "it is not worth while to be angry at such a trifle.
Good-bye."

"I cannot go in this way; it makes me so unhappy not to be forgiven," said Amy.

"Well!" replied Dora, "I forgive you; are you satisfied now?"

"No," said Amy, sadly, "because I don't think it is real forgiveness; I wish I could do anything to show you that I am sorry."

"Will you kiss me?" asked Dora, whose proud spirit was almost entirely subdued by her cousin's meekness, though she could not yet bring herself to confess she had been in fault. Amy's answer was a kiss, so hearty, that Dora's impulse was to return it equally; and then, for almost the first time in her life, she said voluntarily, "Amy, you were right and I was wrong."

Amy felt this was true, though she would not say so at such a moment; it would have seemed too much like a triumph. "We can settle that next time I come," she answered, smiling; "I care for nothing now, but keeping Stephen and my donkey waiting in the cold; give me one more kiss." The kiss was given, and Amy ran off quite happy, whilst Dora, though not equally light-hearted, felt as if a burden had been taken from her mind; and after waiting for a few moments enjoying the unusual luxury of humility, she followed her cousin to see that she was carefully protected against the cold. Mrs Bridget came forward to offer her services, but Dora wished to do everything herself; and Amy declared herself so comfortable, she thought her ride would be really enjoyable, notwithstanding the north wind. There was one disappointment, however, awaiting her. Stephen had been attacked by his old enemy, the gout, and was kept a prisoner to his cottage, so that she had no resource but her own thoughts, the man servant who attended, keeping at a distance, and only approaching to open the gates, move away the straggling boughs of the trees in the forest, or help to wrap the cloak more closely around her, when the keen blast, which seemed to meet them in every direction, blew with more than ordinary violence.