The morning of Christmas-day was in every respect as bright and beautiful as Amy could possibly have desired. The clear sky was unclouded, and its brilliant blue was rendered only the more lovely from its contrast with the leafless branches which were pencilled against it. The lawn glittered like a sheet of silver, and the dark hues of the holly and the laurel exhibited in full perfection the richness of the crimson berries, and the delicacy of the pure hoar-frost with which they were covered. There was an elastic feeling in the air, which would have given strength and refreshment even to the weary watcher by the bed of sickness. All nature seemed to rejoice, and Amy awoke to rejoice also. Too young to have anxiety for the future, or sorrow for the past, she felt only that she was in the place she most delighted in, under the care of the mother whose only wish was for her happiness, and surrounded by all the means of enjoyment that wealth could give. True, the wealth was not her own; but it was, at that moment, entirely devoted to her comfort, and the present was too full of pleasure to leave any space for envy and discontent. Even the remembrance of her father could not check the gaiety of her spirit, for she had not yet learned to feel that "hope deferred maketh the heart sick." Every day brought with it the expectation of hearing from him; and when the expectation was disappointed, there was left in its stead, not the wretchedness of doubt, but the blessing of hope for the morrow.

Her first thought on that morning was given to her mother; the next to her cousin Frank. He had arrived late the night before, so late, that she had been only able to remark the mixture of delight at his return home, and sad recollection of the one missing, who ought to have welcomed him, which had been shown by all, and by none more than Dora; and Mrs Herbert, unwilling to be any restraint upon them, had sent Amy to bed, and soon after retired herself.

This had been rather disappointing; but Amy had satisfied herself that he seemed very lively, and was more like Margaret than Dora; and for any further knowledge she was obliged to wait in patience till the breakfast-hour. It was usual for her cousins to breakfast in the schoolroom with Miss Morton; but on Christmas-day there was an exception to almost every general rule, and they were all to be together, even Miss Morton being admitted as one of the party, although the little attention that was shown her, nothing indeed beyond the merest civility, made it an occasion of far more pain than pleasure.

Frank, when he appeared, was in the highest possible spirit, full of his school adventures, and the characters of his playfellows, and told several stories in the regular school-boy slang, which Amy could not at all understand; but his presence took off much of the stiffness and restraint which every one else seemed to feel before Mrs Harrington; and she herself occasionally relaxed into something like a smile as she listened to his merry laugh. Amy had rather dreaded the society of a boy—she had never been accustomed to it, and imagined he must be boisterous and rude; but with all his spirits, Frank Harrington was still so gentlemanly that she soon felt at ease.

"Will the carriage be wanted to go to church this morning?" said Mr Harrington. "Amy, my dear, do you think your mamma will venture out this cold weather?"

Amy was afraid not; she had been to her mamma's room, and had found her so tired and unwell, that it was most probable she would not come down-stairs till the middle of the day.

An expression of anxiety and disappointment came over Mr Harrington's countenance. "That is bad news for Christmas-day," he said. "I would give a great deal, Amy, to procure your dear mamma such a bright colour as you have. I well remember the time when she would have walked to Emmerton church and back twice, and laughed at the notion of being tired afterwards."

"Every one in these days is grown weak and sickly," said Mrs Harrington, in her usual severe manner; "that is, if they are not so really, they fancy it."

Amy thought this might be meant for her mamma: and she would certainly have said something in reply, but for the fear of being disrespectful.

Mr Harrington, however, had no such fear; and answered, that he should be very glad to believe Mrs Herbert's illness imaginary, for it would take a most painful load off his mind.

"But she is better, a great deal, than she was, uncle," said Amy; "she walked several times round the shrubbery at the cottage, the day before we came here, and did not seem at all tired afterwards."

"Several times round a shrubbery, Amy!" exclaimed Frank; "why that must be a walk for a snail. What do you say to a walk of six miles and back before breakfast? I knew a boy who did it just to buy a new cricket-bat; and a fine scrape he got into when he was found out."

Amy looked all proper surprise at such a wonderful feat; and Frank, delighted at finding a new auditor, kept her for the next quarter of an hour, repeating his most extraordinary adventures, with such spirit, that Amy at last began to think there would be more amusement in being a boy, and going to a public school, than even in the possession of all the splendour which usually formed the subject of her day-dreams. The church bells prevented any further conversation, and she was glad to escape from Frank's merriment for the enjoyment of a quiet walk with Miss Morton, who had more than ordinary pleasure in being with her on this morning, from having felt so much alone in the midst of a family party. Christmas-day had never been to her what it is to many, for she had never known the happiness of having all her relations about her; but she could recollect the time when it was spent at home, with her father and mother, and she sighed now to think how little the blessing had then been valued.

Amy was walking with her cousins in the rectory garden, which adjoined the churchyard, when Mr Walton came to her, after the conclusion of the service, to inquire for her mamma.

"And your uncle, too, my dear," he said, "I want very much to see him; what can have become of him?"

"There he is," said Amy, pointing to a group of persons standing by the gate; "he is talking to Mr Dornford, and Frank is with him."

"He must introduce Frank to me," said Mr Walton. "Besides, I have something particular to say to him. How did you tell me your mamma was to-day?"

"Very weak and poorly," replied Amy; "but she seemed better when I left her."

"Ah!" said Mr Walton, half muttering to himself; "I doubt if it will be right; it may only excite a false hope—there will be no harm in delay."

"What?" exclaimed Amy, who just caught the last words, "delay, did you say?—what delay?"

"Nothing, nothing," answered Mr Walton, hastily. "I wish your uncle would not make me delay here; he does not generally speak to any one when he leaves the church, but to-day he is having quite a conversation."

Amy looked earnestly at Mr Walton, with the conviction that this was only said to distract her attention; and an indefinable feeling of mingled dread and curiosity took possession of her mind. But there was nothing to satisfy her. The expression of Mr Walton's countenance was cheerful as usual; and Amy, though very quick in perception, was not quite old enough to perceive a trace of thoughtfulness beneath it. She did notice, however, the quick, impatient glances which he cast towards the churchyard gate, and the restlessness of his manner as he paced up and down the little walk leading to it, venting his uneasiness by kicking away the leaves and broken sticks lying in his path. In another person it would not have been remarkable; but she was so accustomed to see Mr Walton perfectly composed, that in an instant it awakened her attention. The parting words were at last said; Mr Dornford walked away; and Amy hoped that in a few minutes her curiosity might be set at rest. But she was disappointed. Mr Walton eagerly seized her uncle's arm, and drew him aside. A short conversation ensued; and then Mr Harrington called out that they had better not wait for him, but walk home alone, and he would follow. Amy really felt uneasy, and yet she could hardly tell why, but her mamma's constant anxiety had in some degree infected her; and anything like mystery immediately made her think of Colonel Herbert. Miss Morton listened to her fears with interest, and did her utmost to calm her mind, telling her that, in all probability, Mr Walton's business was something connected with his parish, and that it was unlikely, almost impossible, he could have heard anything from India; but she advised her not to mention her notions to her mamma till after her uncle's return, as it would only make her needlessly uncomfortable; and if there were anything to be told, she would not be kept long in suspense. Amy hearkened, and tried to believe; and had been so used to depend upon the opinions of others, as to be almost persuaded she had been fanciful without reason, while she readily promised to say nothing of her anxiety; but she could not recover her usual happy spirits; and when they reached Emmerton, instead of going immediately to Mrs Herbert's room, she petitioned Miss Morton to walk once more with her to the lodge gate, that they might see when her uncle arrived. He waited, however, so long, that Amy herself grew weary of watching, and was the first to propose returning to the house.

"You will be tired," she said to Miss Morton, "and then we shall not be able to go and see Mrs Walton this afternoon. You know, you promised you would, if you could manage it, because you did not like to wait behind after church; and I should be so sorry to miss it, for we always used to dine with her on Christmas-day; and she will be so vexed if she does not see either mamma or me."

Miss Morton acknowledged herself cold, though not tired; and, at any rate, it was useless to stand longer at the gate, for, after all, there might be nothing to hear; and Amy repeated for the twentieth time, that she did not really think there was anything, though, at the same instant, she ran a few steps down the road, just to look once more round the corner.

Mrs Herbert was dressed, and more comfortable, and had many questions to ask, as to whether Amy had had a pleasant walk, whether she had spoken to Mr Walton, and whether Mrs Walton found her rheumatism worse than usual; and Amy, seated by the window, endeavoured to answer them all, with her mind wandering to other things, when the sudden appearance of Mr Walton and her uncle, on the terrace below, made her stop short and exclaim, "There they are, both of them. I think there must be something."

The next moment brought her to recollection; but there was no retracting what had been said,—she was obliged to explain; and the change in her mother's countenance, and the subdued tremulousness of her voice, soon gave her reason to repent her incautiousness.

"This will not do," said Mrs Herbert, endeavouring to command herself. "Amy, my love, tell your uncle I should wish to speak to him immediately."

The message was, however, unnecessary. Mr Harrington had seen Amy at the window, and now, pausing in his walk, begged to know if he might be allowed to come up. "And Mr Walton is with me," he added. "May he come too?"

"Yes, directly," was Amy's reply. Her mamma was just wishing to see them both; and in a few minutes their steps were heard along the gallery.

Mrs Herbert turned very pale; and Amy stood by her, kissing her forehead, and trying to soothe the agitation she had so inconsiderately excited.

"It is quite unnatural," said Mr Walton, as he entered, "to pay you a visit on Christmas-day;—a sad falling off from former times. I have been half quarrelling with Mr Harrington for not allowing you to adhere to the ancient fashion, and dine with us; but he declares I am very unreasonable."

Mrs Herbert attempted to smile, but the effort was too great.

"You are feeling ill to-day, my dear Ellen?" said Mr Harrington, kindly, taking her hand.

"No, not ill," replied Mrs Herbert, faintly; "that is, not worse than usual, but anxious—very anxious. Oh Charles!" she added, looking eagerly in her brother's face, as if wishing to read there all she longed to know, "have you anything to tell me? In pity, do not keep me in suspense."

The tone in which this was spoken prevented anything like further delay.

"It is nothing bad," replied Mr Harrington; "and yet it is not so decidedly good as to allow one to build upon it. Mr Walton has had a letter from a friend in India, in which he says, that the accounts of the war have been greatly exaggerated; for, in fact, there has been nothing more than an insurrection in one of the provinces, which is now quelled; and there was a report that Colonel Herbert had joined his regiment, which had been sent some way up the country."

Mrs Herbert did not speak in answer; she drew one long breath, as if her mind had been relieved from a dreadful weight; a calm, sweet smile of deep happiness passed across her yet beautiful features; and then, covering her face with her hands, she silently blessed God for His great mercy. "May I see the letter?" was the first question she asked when the effect of the intelligence had a little subsided.

Mr Walton produced it instantly, saying that he had brought it for the express purpose of showing it to her. "Not," he continued, "that there is anything in it beyond what Mr Harrington has just told you. The circumstance is mentioned in the light careless way in which we all speak of things of no importance to ourselves, but which may, perhaps, affect even the lives of our fellow-creatures. My friend Campbell had no notion how deeply it would interest me."

Mrs Herbert seized the letter, and read the sentences again and again; but, as Mr Walton had stated, there was nothing further to be gained from them, though every word was examined and weighed; as yet, it was only report; and with this Mrs Herbert was obliged to be contented. "I see," she said, looking at her brother, who was evidently wishing, yet afraid to speak, "you are anxious lest I should build too much upon this; but I hope I shall not. Whatever trial may be in store, it would be almost cruel to deprive me of a few weeks of hope."

"I am only afraid of the consequences of a disappointment," replied Mr Harrington; "but I cannot give sermons to any one, especially to you, so I shall leave you with Mr Walton; his advice will be much more efficacious than mine."

"Here is a better sermon than any words!" said Mr Walton, as he patted Amy's head, when her uncle was gone. "For your child's sake, you will not, I am sure, allow either hope or fear to have too powerful an effect upon you. I do not think either of you is well fitted to bear any great excitement."

Amy's countenance certainly showed that Mr Walton's words were true; every tinge of colour had faded from her cheek, and her bright dark eyes were dimmed with tears, which she was using her utmost efforts to repress. She had been silent, for she felt too much for words; her hope was far more certain than her mother's, since it had not been so often chilled by disappointment; and the dreams of happiness which filled her mind were for the present without a cloud.

"Yes," said Mrs Herbert, in reply to Mr Walton's observation, "Amy is indeed a motive for every exertion; it would be a hard thing to cause her anxiety for both her parents."

Amy tried to speak; and hardly understanding her own feelings, was almost ashamed to find that her tears were more ready than her smiles at this moment of happiness. "Dear, dear mamma," she exclaimed, "we shall never be anxious now. And you think he will be here soon?"

"We hope everything that is delightful," said Mr Walton, "but we do not think certainly about anything; so, my dear child, you must be contented as yet to go on just as you have done for the last twelve months; and you must let me talk a little to your mamma alone. I am sure she will never be able to reason calmly while that little earnest face of yours is before her."

Amy felt slightly inclined to rebel, as it seemed almost wrong that she should be sent away from her mother at such a time; but she had never been accustomed to dispute Mr Walton's wishes; and left the room to make Miss Morton and Dora acquainted with the intelligence her mother had received.

Miss Morton's room was the first place she sought; and the next quarter of an hour was spent in telling her of all that was to be done when Colonel Herbert returned,—how they were to talk, and ride, and walk, and the alterations that were to be made at the cottage, and the places he was to take her to see; and Emily, though feeling that the foundation of all this happiness was insecure, could not make up her mind to check such simple, innocent hopes. The same things were again repeated to Dora in the schoolroom; and Margaret would have had her share also, but the indifferent tone in which she said, "Dear me! how strange!" when informed of the tidings from India, quite chilled Amy's flow of spirits; and she hastened away to find a more sympathising listener. Dora's interest in her cousin, and all that concerned her, had lately so much increased, that it was no effort to her to listen as long as Amy felt inclined to talk; and she was sorry when Miss Morton appeared, to remind her of the intended walk to the rectory, and to ask whether she still wished to go.

"Oh yes!" said Amy, "if mamma does not care about my leaving her. I do so long to see Mrs Walton now more than ever; but I will just go to mamma's room and ask her."

Mrs Herbert's conversation with Mr Walton had been long and engrossing; and this, added to the previous excitement, had so fatigued her, that she was looking much worse than in the morning; and Amy resolved at first not to mention the walk, and took up a book as if not wishing to go out. But Mrs Herbert never forgot the pleasures of others, and would not for an instant allow her to think of remaining at home, declaring that rest and solitude would be better than any society, and that it would be a much greater pleasure to hear an account of the visit on their return than to keep her by her side during the whole afternoon. Amy was only half-satisfied; but it was in vain to say that it was only the thought of the morning, and she was very much pleased with her book, and should be quite happy in reading it. Mrs Herbert insisted, and she went.

Mrs Walton's disposition was more sanguine than her husband's. She had seen less of the world, and had heard and known less of its disappointments; and her fondness for Mrs Herbert made her seize upon every prospect of comfort for her, so eagerly, that there was no fear of Amy's hopes being again damped by any warning; and, perhaps, that hour's visit was as full of delight to her as it was to the happy child, who, seated at her feet, looked up with a face so innocent and gay, that it seemed impossible to dread lest any evil should be near to mar her enjoyment. There was also a charm to Mrs Walton in watching Miss Morton's interest in her little companion. She had a quick perception of character, and was peculiarly sensible of anything like selfishness of feeling; and she had often observed that, when persons have suffered much themselves, they seem unable to enter into the pleasures of others. But affliction had produced a very different effect upon Emily Morton; and now, though she had lost both her parents, had been obliged to leave her home, and had no prospect for the future but one of painful dependence, she still smiled as cheerfully, and spoke as hopefully to Amy, as if no thought of the difference in their situations had ever crossed her mind.

"You must take care of your dear mamma," were Mrs Walton's parting words. "Colonel Herbert will look very blank if he returns to see the pale cheek she has now; for his sake, tell her she must endeavour to get strong."

Amy promised to be very watchful, and had no doubt that everything would be right. But Mrs Walton was not so well satisfied, and drew Miss Morton aside, to ask more particularly how Mrs Herbert had borne the intelligence. Miss Morton could give her little information, but undertook to send a note to the rectory in the evening to ease her mind; though at the time the request was made Mrs Walton acknowledged that it was apparently absurd to be so anxious.

"You would not wonder at it, however," she said, "if you knew all that Mrs Herbert has been to me for many years; even during the lifetime of my own child, she was almost equally dear to me, and since that great loss, I have, felt as if she were left to be my special treasure. I need not say to you that she is deserving of all, and more than all, the affection I can give."

"And her child is exactly similar to her," replied Miss Morton.

"Yes," said Mrs Walton; "how could the child of such parents be different? There is but one thing in which she does not resemble her mother—her disposition is naturally more lively and hopeful. It would require, probably, very much affliction to destroy the buoyancy of her spirits; and I would willingly pray that many years may pass before she is so tried, unless it should be required for her good, for it would be a bitter thing to lose the sound of her merry laugh, and the brightness of her smile."

"It would make Emmerton very different to me," said Miss Morton. "As I have often told you, I could hardly have supposed before, how much interest and pleasure may be added to life by one so young;—a mere child, as she really is, and yet with thoughtfulness and consideration which make me fancy her much older. My most earnest wish is, that Rose may one day be like her."

Amy's approach interrupted the conversation; and Mrs Walton parted from Emily Morton with a warmer feeling of affection, from the entire correspondence of their feelings towards her.

The happiness of Amy's mind was a peculiar blessing at Emmerton on that day. It was Christmas-day; and every one knew that it was a time for especial enjoyment, though, perhaps, few of the party could have satisfactorily explained the reason why, and fewer still could have entered into the joy which none but a Christian can feel on the celebration of the Birth of their Redeemer. It was a duty to be cheerful, and yet almost every one had a secret grief which prevented them from being so. Mr and Mrs Harrington could not forget all that had passed within the last twelvemonth; and Dora and Frank sighed many times as they missed their favourite companion;—even Margaret, though she had suffered much less than the others when Edward died, could not be insensible to the change in the family, and wandered about the house complaining that it was not at all what Christmas-day used to be; but Amy had no such recollections to sadden her, and soon enlivened her cousins by the influence of her own gaiety, notwithstanding the shade which was occasionally cast over it, when Dora reminded her that by that time on the following day she would probably be occupied in trying to understand Mr Cunningham's unintelligible language.