On the day which Dora had named, Mrs Herbert and Amy were established at the Hall. Amy, in great delight, looked round upon the preparations that had been made for her mamma's comfort; and could not doubt, as she felt that some of her first wishes were realised in the prospect of spending so many days at Emmerton together, that Mrs Herbert would enjoy it equally with herself. And certainly, if luxury could constitute a person's happiness, there would have been nothing to desire. "Oh mamma!" she said, drawing the easy chair close to the fire, "there is everything we want here, just the same as at the cottage; I can make you so comfortable when you are tired; and you can lie down, and look out at that beautiful view. There is the spire of Emmerton church just in front; it seems almost prettier now, when the snow is on the ground, than it was in the summer."

"Your aunt has been very thoughtful," replied Mrs Herbert; "but I hope I shall feel well enough to be much with her; only we can spend the morning together, just as if we were at home."

"Yes," said Amy; "and you will be able to see Miss Morton whenever you wish it; and perhaps Margaret and Dora will come and sit with us sometimes. Oh mamma! it will be so nice!"

"Look, Amy," said Mrs Herbert, pointing to the well-filled book-shelves: "there will be occupation for us both, when we have nothing else to do."

Amy began examining the books with interest, and suddenly exclaimed, "Mamma, it must be Dora who has made everything so comfortable for us; here are all the books that I like best; and I remember the last day I came to Emmerton she made me tell her the names of a great many, and I could not imagine why."

"And these flowers, are they the result of Dora's care, do you think?" said Mrs Herbert; "she must have gathered all there were in the conservatory; it is quite strange to see them when the snow is on the ground."

"It must be Dora," replied Amy; "I don't think aunt Harrington or Margaret ever even look at flowers. I never saw Margaret take one in her hand, except to pull it to pieces; and there is Dora's own letter case, and the beautiful inkstand her uncle Henry gave her."

"I wish Dora would come and see the pleasure she has given us," said Mrs
Herbert.

"I think she went away," answered Amy, "because she fancied you were tired, and would rather be alone with me at first; for she begged I would come to her in the schoolroom when I left you."

"I should like to rest now," replied Mrs Herbert; "so you may go and tell her how comfortable I am, and then, by and by, I will thank her myself."

Amy quitted the room, and Mrs Herbert endeavoured to compose herself to sleep; but her thoughts were too busy. Whatever might be Amy's pleasure at coming to Emmerton, she could not, herself, entirely sympathise with it; and yet, with her perfect freedom from selfishness, she would have imposed any restraint upon her own feelings rather then mar the enjoyment of her child. Dora's thoughtfulness brought vividly to her remembrance the days of her childhood, when she and her sister Edith had delighted in attending to the comfort of others in a similar manner; and visions of those sunny days passed before her, one after the other, recalling forms and faces, even voices and words, which had since been almost forgotten. A gentle knock at the door interrupted her reverie, and Mr Harrington begged for admittance. He came to see that everything had been provided for his sister's comfort, and expressed great satisfaction at Dora's care; and then seating himself by her side, they enjoyed for the next half-hour the pleasure of talking together of their early days; and notwithstanding the melancholy reflections which naturally arose from the conversation, the relief of his sympathy with her present feelings was so great, that Mrs Herbert felt more comforted and refreshed when he left her, than she could have been by any other means.

Amy, during this time, had found her way to the schoolroom, and expressed her gratitude to Dora in the warmest terms; but the subject did not appear quite agreeable to her, for she turned it off quickly, though a close observer might have discovered, from the expression of her countenance, that she really felt extreme pleasure. Margaret welcomed her cousin most affectionately, as she always did when no one else was near to attract her attention; but, by this time, Amy had learned the true value of her words and caresses, and withdrew herself as soon as possible, feeling that Dora's coldness, even if it were real, was infinitely preferable to Margaret's warmth.

"I have been begging mamma to have all the stupid people together next week," said Dora, when Amy began inquiring what had been decided on since she was last there, "and she is almost inclined to do it; if they would come on Monday, and stay till Thursday, it would not be so bad; and if she would ask two or three more, I am sure we should get on better."

"I will tell you who is coming on Saturday," said Margaret; "somebody you will be delighted to see."

"Me!" exclaimed Amy, in astonishment. "Why, I don't know any one."

"Oh! but you do. What do you say to your friend, Mr Cunningham." Poor Amy looked very uncomfortable. "Yes," continued Margaret, laughing; "and you will have to talk to him all day long, for Lucy says he has taken such a fancy to you; he declares you are the best-mannered little thing he ever met with; and, you know, it is so rare a thing for him to see any one who is well mannered to him, that he will be sure to seize upon you all the time he is here."

"And how long does he stay?" asked Amy.

"As long as Lord Rochford does; it will be a week at least."

"You had better go back to the cottage, Amy," said Dora; "there will be no comfort for you here. I can just imagine how Mr Cunningham will pet you, and talk to you, and how frightened you will look. If it were not for your annoyance, I should quite enjoy the thoughts of seeing you together."

"One thing I like him for," said Amy, "he has so much good nature."

"Yes," replied Dora; "he seems to have taken so much, that there is none left for his sister; and now, Amy, she will be worse than ever to you, for she hates you cordially, because her brother said, after you were gone, that he thought being with you would do her a great deal of good."

"I don't see what business Mr Cunningham has to think anything of the kind," said Margaret. "I don't mean to be ill-natured, Amy; but really the idea of your being of use to Miss Cunningham is rather too absurd."

"I think so, too," replied Amy; "but I dare say he was only in joke."

"Oh no! he was not; he was quite sincere; and he told Lucy that if the London plan came to anything, he hoped an arrangement would be made for you to be of the party."

"And so Miss Cunningham is your enemy for life," said Dora; "not that there is any fear of the London plan, for mamma is more strongly set against it than ever."

"It is half your fault, Dora," observed Margaret; "I am sure there would be less difficulty, if you were to say you liked it; but you are always speaking against it, and lately, too, you have taken to upholding Emily Morton."

"I don't see," replied Dora, "why I should say what is not true for any one, least of all for Miss Cunningham, who knows quite well how to do it for herself." Amy looked vexed, and Dora's conscience immediately told her she was wrong. "I don't mean to say," she continued, "that Lucy Cunningham tells stories exactly, but she often twists and turns things to suit her own purpose, and she can exaggerate without the smallest difficulty."

"Lucy Cunningham is very much obliged to you for your opinion of her," said Margaret, sharply; "and I shall take care to tell her what a friend she has in you."

"As you please; but she is not worth quarrelling about. I shall be quite glad when she is gone to London, and then we shall hear no more about her. I hate having nothing but Lucy Cunningham dinned into my ears from morning till night."

"It is better than Emily Morton, at any rate," said Margaret, with a half contemptuous glance at Amy. "One is a lady."

"Oh Margaret!" exclaimed Amy, while the colour rushed to her face; "you don't mean to say that Miss Morton is not a lady?"

"I mean that she is not half so much of a lady as Lucy Cunningham; of course she must be something like one, or mamma would not let her be with us."

"But indeed, Margaret," replied Amy, trying to speak calmly, "I do think you must be wrong. I am sure if a stranger saw them together, they would say directly there was no comparison between them."

"But what has that to do with it?" said Margaret, "It cannot alter the case. Lucy Cunningham is the daughter of a nobleman."

"Yes, but that is not everything."

"And Emily Morton is a governess," continued Margaret, in a decided tone, as if there could be no arguing against such a truth.

"Yes," again repeated Amy; "and yet, if Miss Cunningham were a princess, it would make no difference in my feelings."

"Then your feelings must be wrong, and all the world would say the same."

"I am sure Miss Morton is more of a lady, because she is so gentle and kind," said Amy; "and she always thinks of other people before herself, and never gets out of temper, and never boasts of anything."

"Well! but those are virtues; you talk so foolishly, Amy. Susan Reynolds or Morris may be all that, but they would not be at all the more ladies."

"No," said Dora, coming to Amy's assistance; "they would not be ladies, because they would still have clumsy, awkward ways of doing things, and of speaking."

"Of course, that is just what I was saying!" exclaimed Margaret, triumphantly.

"No; but Margaret," persisted Amy, "indeed that is not what you were saying; for I am sure Miss Cunningham is much more awkward than Miss Morton, and yet you say that all the world would consider her superior."

"So they would," replied Margaret.

Amy was silent for a few minutes; at length she said, "Mamma told me one day that we ought not to think as the world thinks, because the world means generally a great many vain, silly persons."

"Then you would set up to be wiser and better than everybody else, I suppose," said Margaret.

Dora again interposed, for she thought she saw what her cousin meant. "Amy is right, I am sure; it would be only silly people who would think so much more of Lucy Cunningham's birth than of other things. Not all the rank in the world will make persons ladies and gentlemen without manners."

"But I mean something besides manners," said Amy; "because, what I like in Miss Morton is not quite manner; it is her being good that helps to make her a lady, I think."

Dora laughed. "That is one of your strange notions, Amy. I believe you think, that what you call being good is to make a person everything—rich, and happy, and ladylike, and beautiful."

"No, not beautiful," replied Amy; "and yet," she added, "I remember once going with mamma to see a poor woman who was very ill; and she was almost ugly, till she began to talk, and thank mamma for being kind to her, and then her face quite changed; and mamma told me it was her being so grateful and contented that made her look so nice."

"I do think, Amy, you will go out of your senses some day," said
Margaret. "You talk so differently from every one else."

"Do I? That is very strange; for all the persons I care for tell me the same things."

"Does Emily Morton?" asked Dora.

"Yes, whenever I am quite alone with her, and ask her about anything—grave things, I mean."

"Well, Amy," said Dora, "I must say that you are the merriest grave girl I ever met with. I don't think any one who heard you laugh would fancy you really so demure as you are."

"No one ever said I was grave, except you," answered Amy. "I am sure I don't know what I am myself; but I must not stay here now, for I want so much to see Miss Morton, and then I must go back to mamma."

"Always Emily Morton," said Margaret, as Amy ran out of the room.

"Always Lucy Cunningham," retorted Dora.

"No more of that, pray, Dora. You know very well that the reason you laugh is because you are jealous of her being fonder of me than of you."

"Jealous! Me jealous of her! with her sandy hair and freckled——" but here Dora stopped.

"Well," exclaimed Margaret, who always felt a secret satisfaction at
Miss Cunningham's plain face, though she would not acknowledge it to
herself; "I thought you professed not to care about beauty—to be sure,
Lucy is not lovely."

"I do not wish to say anything more about her," said Dora; "for I generally get angry; only I would give something if she were not coming here on Saturday."

Margaret had not time to reply before Dora was gone, for she had lately learned to distrust her powers of self-command, and to think silence preferable to argument. The next few days were spent by Amy in great enjoyment—everything went smoothly and pleasantly. Dora was thoughtful and kind, Margaret in good humour, her uncle affectionate, and her aunt seldom in her way; and, above all, Emily Morton was admitted to her mamma's room, and from their long conversations, and Emily's expressions of gratitude and interest, it was quite evident that she began to consider Mrs Herbert in the light of a real friend. Not that the conversations which passed between them were at all such as Amy imagined. There was very little said about Emmerton, still less about Mrs Harrington; but Mrs Herbert led Emily to talk of her father and mother, her aunt, her early home, and her childish days; and gave her some valuable advice as to the manner in which persons in her position should conduct themselves, without obliging her to make complaints which considering her own near connection with Mrs Harrington, would have been awkward and wrong.

Amongst Amy's pleasures during this happy time, one of the greatest was a visit to the rectory with Miss Morton, on the afternoon preceding Christmas-day. Their reception was even more affectionate than usual; and as they walked home, the distance seemed only too short, whilst she listened to Emily's praises of the persons whom, next to her mamma, she most loved and venerated.

"To-morrow will be Christmas-day," she said, as she lingered in Miss Morton's room on her return; "and the next day Miss Cunningham will be here; so I suppose we shall not be able to get a walk to the rectory again, yet; but if you would tell me when you go out, that I may be with you if I can, I should be so very glad. You know I like you so much better than Miss Cunningham."

"I doubt if Miss Cunningham is a favourite with any one but your cousin Margaret," was the reply; "but she has so much to spoil her, that I do not think we ought to be hard upon her."

"It is so odd that you should pity her, as you always do," said Amy. "Now I should like so much to be her,—that is, not herself, but to be my own self, with her rank and fortune; and then I would get such a pretty little room for you, and you should come and live with me, if you would."

"And do nothing all day but amuse myself?"

"No, not that. I know you never would bear to do nothing; but you should teach me music and drawing as you do now, and we might have Rose with us too—it would be so nice."

"And it is so nice to teach you music and drawing, and to have Rose with me, and to live in a comfortable little room. You see, I have it all."

"Ah, yes!" said Amy; "but then there are some things, now—tiresome, dreadful things—which you never should have to bear if you lived with me. And I would love you so dearly, so very dearly."

Miss Morton drew Amy more closely to her, and gave her one of those kisses which she had lately begun to value far more than words.

"I should grieve very much," she said, "if I did not think you loved me dearly now—there are but few left in the world who do."

"But you have mamma to love you besides," said Amy; "and Mrs Walton, I am sure she must be fond of you; and sometimes, perhaps, she will ask you to stay at the rectory; and mamma and I can go there too, and then there will be no one to interrupt. I am so glad Miss Cunningham does not know Mrs Walton."

"Perhaps, so am I too," said Emily, smiling; "but we must try and be agreeable to her on Saturday."

"Ah! Saturday," repeated Amy, sighing; "all my pleasure will be over then—real, quiet pleasure, I mean. On Monday the other people come, and Dora says, that as I am her cousin, I shall be expected to help to entertain them. But I never did entertain any one in my life; I don't quite know what it means. I suppose it is talking and showing pictures; but one can't do that all day."

"Your cousin Frank comes to-night," replied Emily, laughing; "and he is so merry, that he will take half the trouble off your hands."

Amy's face brightened. "I forgot that; but then they are girls—boys cannot entertain girls. I do think, if I had but a fairy's wand, I should strike them all as they came into the house, and change them into boys, and set them to play at football and leapfrog, and all the trouble would be over. But I am not Dora; and if they are dull they will not complain of me."

Susan Reynolds here interrupted them with a message from Mrs Herbert; and Amy left Miss Morton with her mind in an uncomfortable state, having forgotten the pleasure of her visit to the rectory, and thinking only of the difficulties of the next week, and of all the strange faces she was to see.