Saturday came, and with it the expected guests; and at a very awkward hour, just about twelve o'clock, when there was a long afternoon before them, with nothing to be done. Amy had made up her mind that they could not possibly arrive before four or five. It was some distance from Rochford Park to Emmerton; and she was sure there must be a great deal to do before they set off, and, in consequence, she had calculated upon seeing very little of either Mr or Miss Cunningham on that day. Her dismay, therefore, was extreme, as she watched from the gallery window, and saw the carriage slowly driving down the avenue. She was not, however, required to entertain them, for it was her duty to attend upon her mamma; and in the afternoon there was an engagement to walk with Miss Morton and Rose to Stephen's cottage, to inquire how he was getting on after his attack of gout, and carry him a new flannel-waistcoat, which Rose had taken great delight in helping to make. There was, therefore, no fear, she thought, of seeing much of Miss Cunningham, except at dinner-time; and as for her brother, he would probably not come in the way at all. And having thus relieved her mind, Amy returned to her mamma's room, delighting more than ever in its quietness and privacy.

Mrs Herbert was still very unwell; she had passed a sleepless, anxious night, at one moment anticipating Colonel Herbert's return with the utmost confidence, and the next picturing to herself all the bitterness of disappointment; but she made many efforts against this distrust, and tried to feel, what she knew to be true, that whatever might happen, it would be for her good, and that she should be supported under it.

Miss Cunningham appeared in the schoolroom in all the splendour of her new winter dress, made after the last Parisian fashion, and, for the first time, regretted that Amy was not present to be overpowered by such magnificence. Dora was the only person there, and it was useless attempting to make an impression upon her; she had no eyes for anything belonging to Miss Cunningham; and her arrival at such an early hour was so unexpected and disagreeable, that it required some effort to be civil to her. "We did not expect you till dinner-time," she said, after the first greeting was over, in a tone which plainly meant, "and we did not want you."

"Oh!" replied Miss Cunningham, "papa had some business in the neighbourhood, and so he insisted upon our setting off at eleven; and a great bore it was. I am sure Warren must have spoiled half my dresses by packing them in such a hurry. My new-worked muslin, I suspect, will be quite unwearable, and the French gray silk not much better; and as for the white silk, and the pink crape, and my morning dresses, I am quite unhappy about them. The only two which I feel at all sure of are the figured lilac satinet, and the pale green poplin—those I saw her put in myself."

The tone of pretended indifference in which this was spoken irritated Dora almost beyond endurance; perhaps the more so, because she was sensible of having been at times guilty of the same folly. "I have no doubt the dresses will do very well," she answered. "A lady's-maid always understands how to pack; and if they should be injured, it will not signify, as far as the appearance goes, for there is no one coming here who will take the smallest notice of what you have on."

Miss Cunningham looked and felt extremely mortified, and evidently showed it by the tone in which she said, "I thought you were going to have a large party, and a dance, and all sorts of things."

"What a strange idea!" exclaimed Dora. "What should we have a dance for?"

"I thought everybody had dances when they asked their friends at Christmas," said Miss Cunningham; "that is to say, we have been accustomed to it when we have visited people of our own rank in the county; but I suppose it is not the custom amongst common people."

"Perhaps not," replied Dora. "Of course, we can tell nothing about them; but whether it is the custom or not, it would make no difference to us. Papa and mamma generally do as they choose, without caring about the rest of the world."

"And will there be nobody, then?" asked Miss Cunningham, with a sudden pang, as she thought of the green poplin, and the white silk, and the pink crape, wasting their splendour upon Mr and Mrs Harrington.

"Just a few people," was the reply; "the young Dornfords, and their papa, and one or two others."

"What, boys! school-boys!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, in horror; and before Dora could answer, Margaret came into the room in particularly good spirits, and with a manner which formed a singular contrast to her sister's. The embraces were so fervent, the expressions of affection so warm, that a common observer might have supposed, with reason, that this was the first meeting after an absence of several years, between very dear friends, while Dora looked on with a curling lip, and a contracted brow, and a secret rejoicing that she was not in Margaret's place.

"When you have done kissing, Margaret," she said, at length, "perhaps you will just listen to me. Amy wishes to dine to-day at half-past one; and mamma has no objection, and so it is to be."

"Really, Dora," replied Margaret, "it is very rude to attend to Amy's wishes instead of Lucy's. I always thought relations were to be thought of last."

"Amy wishes to dine at half-past one; and mamma has no objection, and so it is to be," repeated Dora, with a manner which she intended to be dignified, though it was only very cross.

"Don't mind her," half whispered Margaret to Miss Cunningham; "it is only her foolish way; we need not dine earlier than we choose for Amy. It really is too absurd to think of giving up to her, and I shall speak to mamma about it."

Dora pretended not to hear this speech, and left the room satisfied with having exhibited her authority and carelessness of Miss Cunningham's feelings, and dissatisfied, in her secret heart, by the consciousness of having been extremely unamiable. She met Amy on the stairs; and the sight of her gay, innocent face, which seemed quite a reproach, had seldom been so unwelcome; but it was impossible to vent any anger upon her, and hastily passing, Dora shut herself up in her own room; while Amy, who had lately been quite unused to such a manner from her cousin, could only wonder in silence what had happened to discompose her.

Miss Cunningham, in the meantime, relieved from Dora's presence, felt no scruple in giving way to her expressions of dislike to Amy; and, with great earnestness, endeavoured to inspire Margaret with similar feelings. It was so strange, so unusual—such a very great liberty, for a cousin to think of choosing what time every one else should dine; really, she could not have imagined that Mrs Harrington would allow it; but she had always observed that Amy Herbert was very much at her ease; in a little time she would have everything her own way. "Of course, I don't mean to speak against her," she continued; "only I know a family just like yours, Margaret, where there was a cousin brought up, and at last her uncle and aunt really became fonder of her than they were of their own children."

"There is no fear of that with mamma," replied Margaret; "I am sure she does not care a straw for Amy. Papa is different. I do think, sometimes, he takes a good deal of notice of her; but then, you know, she is not brought up with us; she is only here on a visit."

"That does not make any difference; I am quite sure, if you do not take care she will stand in your way in everything. Papa said, the other day, that he thought Mrs Harrington would have consented to our going to London, only she remembered your cousin; and then she declared, as she should feel obliged to take her, the plan would not do."

Margaret's vexation was very great, yet she could not entirely enter into her companion's antipathy; she had felt too much the charm of Amy's sweet temper and obliging disposition to be able cordially to abuse her. But Miss Cunningham loved the sound of her own voice too well to require an answer; and the expression of her own likings and dislikings was all that was important to her. "George provokes me so," she said, "he does nothing, now, but lecture me from morning till night, and wish I was like her. Really, I think he might find some one my own equal in rank for me to imitate, if he is so dissatisfied. I told him, as we were coming here, that if he said anything about her being with us in London, I would not go till next year; and I may have quite my own way about it. So I have put a stop to that."

Margaret was annoyed, though she did not like to appear so. Miss Cunningham's superior age and rank kept her always considerably in awe; but she was painfully struck by the want of ladylike feeling, which had induced her friend to speak in such terms of so near a relation.

Miss Cunningham, however, could never discover when she had said or done anything amiss. From her childhood her perception on such subjects had been singularly obtuse; and nothing in her education had served to quicken her knowledge of character; she went on, therefore, in the same tone, with the full impression that all her observations must be agreeable. "Dora tells me that there is no one invited here but a parcel of school-boys and girls; and really, I must say, it was hardly worth while to come six miles this cold weather merely for them—of course, I thought there was to be a dance."

Margaret endeavoured to explain her sister's statement. There were to be some boys, certainly, as companions for Frank—but there were to be other people besides; and, indeed, her mamma had sent out some more notes only this morning, because Dora said that she would rather have a great many to entertain than a few.

"Then there will be a dance," said Miss Cunningham. "How are you to amuse yourselves else?"

"It would be very nice," replied Margaret; "but I don't quite think papa and mamma have any notion of it. You know Christmas is not now what it was last year, when Edward was alive."

"Oh yes; to be sure—I know all that. Of course, you were all very miserable, and cried a great deal at the time. I remember I was dreadfully wretched when my little brother William died. Indeed, mamma said she never knew any one with such strong feelings in her life. But, then, it is all past now; and it is right to be cheerful, and try and forget it."

"I wish you would ask mamma," said Margaret, "She would listen to you, at any rate; and she could not be angry at any proposal from you. It certainly would be a good way of amusing them."

"I don't mind, in the least, asking," answered Miss Cunningham. "I never did mind it, from a child. Mamma says it surprises her to see how little of the stupid shyness I have, which makes other girls so disagreeable. Let me see,—I shall wear my white silk, I think; there is a blonde fall to go with it, which makes it look beautiful. That or the pink crape. Pink suits my complexion best; but then it is not quite so dressy. There is a picture of some great lady in the saloon at Rochford, which papa says is just like me in my pink crape. Mary Queen of Scots, I think it is, or Queen Elizabeth—I don't know which; only it is a queen of some kind. What shall you wear?"

"Oh!" said Margaret, sadly, "you know we are not yet out of mourning, so we can have nothing but white; only I wish mamma would give us new dresses."

"Of course she will. You can't possibly have a dance without a new dress; nobody ever heard of such a thing. My white silk is quite new; and the pink crape I only put on one evening for papa to see. We shall dance, I suppose, in the hall. And how many persons do you think there will be?"

Margaret had some difficulty in following the swiftness of her companion's imagination. It was very delightful to picture the hall, brilliantly lighted up and filled with company, and herself exciting every one's admiration by the side of her plain friends But then came another idea, not quite so agreeable,—Mrs Harrington's stern features and look of surprise, when the plan should be first proposed. Margaret trembled as she thought of it; and, but for Miss Cunningham's unshrinking courage, the wish for the ball would soon have passed away. When a fancy, however, takes possession of a weak, selfish mind, there is but little room left for any other consideration. Miss Cunningham's mind was of this description; it was seldom capable of retaining more than one idea at a time, and whatever that might be, it was all-engrossing. A little while ago, the journey to London had occupied every thought; now, her only wish was, that a dance should be given at Emmerton; and she was so firmly resolved that it must take place, that every obstacle, every notion of propriety, sank into nothing.

Margaret listened, and wondered, and wished, and at last ended in agreeing that a dance was quite necessary for their happiness, and for the happiness of each of the other members of the family, Mrs Harrington included; and that the only way to manage it was for Miss Cunningham to talk to her mamma about it that very day.

The first thing that startled Margaret from her new dream of enjoyment was Dora's look of astonishment when informed at dinner of their intentions. "Do you really mean," she said, turning to Miss Cunningham, "that you are going to tell mamma we ought to have a dance this Christmas?"

"Yes," was the reply. "I half thought of talking to papa about it first; but he might make some objection; and George might say no—so it is best to go at once to Mrs Harrington."

"And do you recommend Miss Cunningham to do it?" asked Dora, looking at her sister.

"Yes, why should I not?" said Margaret, half frightened. "Do you think mamma will be angry?"

"Try, that is all," replied Dora.

"Perhaps," said Miss Morton, "Miss Cunningham is not quite aware of the painful circumstances which might make Mrs Harrington unwilling, at this time, to give so large a party."

Miss Cunningham looked, in answer, astonished at hearing such an observation from Emily Morton in her presence. She did not, however, think the remark worthy of reply in words, and continued her account of what she thought ought to be done, and then again repeated her intentions with regard to her dress, ending by saying to Amy, "I suppose you have a white muslin; that will be well enough, as you are such a child."

Dora's amazement at Miss Cunningham's boldness was so great that she made no attempt to prevent her following her own inclinations; besides, she rather enjoyed the thought of her being put down by Mrs Harrington, and therefore ate her dinner in dignified silence; whilst Amy, whose astonishment was not less than her cousin's, felt she had no right to interfere, though she did hope something would be said to induce Miss Cunningham to refrain from taking so great a liberty.

But, perhaps, Margaret was the person who felt most uncomfortable. At first the notion of a dance had been so agreeable that every objection was overlooked; but Dora's manner had recalled her to herself, and she began heartily to wish that the thing had never been mentioned; for if her mamma were spoken to, her name was sure to be brought forward; and when dinner was over, she endeavoured most anxiously to inspire her friend with a little awe, by hinting at her own fears, and Mrs Harrington's particularities. But she hinted in vain. Nothing but the plainest meaning in the plainest language could ever be understood by Miss Cunningham; and Margaret was at last obliged to beg that she would speak to her papa, and get the plan suggested by him.

Dora was in the room whilst this was passing, and still secretly desired that the original intention might be persisted in; and at first there appeared every probability of it; for Miss Cunningham stared, pouted, and seemed quite puzzled at the idea that anything she could say could be taken amiss. However, if Margaret were really silly enough to be afraid about such a trifle, she would do as she wished, but merely to please her; she only rejoiced that she was not kept in such leading-strings herself.

"It would be a good thing if you were," muttered Dora, as she sat by the window, looking with a careless eye upon the quiet, wintry beauty of the garden.

It would have appeared lovely and peaceful had the tone of her mind been the same; but the contrast was too great to please her. The bright sky brought no cheerfulness to a heart discontented with itself; it only caused a sigh for the vanished pleasures of the summer; and the white frost, which still hung on the evergreens, called forth nothing but an exclamation against the miserable cold weather, and the desolation, wretchedness, and dulness of everything and everybody in the month of December. Amy was gone for her walk with Miss Morton; Frank had set out for a ramble with his papa; they were stupid and disagreeable, and to be pardoned for leaving her behind, after she had refused the entreaties of both to go with them, only when they were compared with Margaret and Miss Cunningham, who was at that moment more unendurable than ever. She really could not remain any longer listening to her never-ending chattering; and in the most desperate fit of ill-humour, with which she had been afflicted for weeks, Dora put on her bonnet and cloak, and sallied forth for a solitary walk. In which direction to go she was undecided; the shrubbery was dull, the hill was cold, the park not fit for a winter's walk, and the terrace far too near the house to be agreeable; and, as a last resource, she determined on finding her way to Stephen's cottage, in the hope of meeting Amy, though she had never before taken the trouble to visit it.

The path led along the side of the hill, which was covered by the Emmerton plantations, and then emerged into some open fields, though one of which flowed the deep, rapid stream, which at Emmerton almost expanded into a lake. A wooden bridge across the water, and a narrow lane, then led to Stephen's cottage, which stood alone in its small, neat garden, showing, even in winter, symptoms of the care and taste bestowed upon it. The beauty of the walk was, however, wholly lost upon Dora; she only felt that it was very cold, and would have returned home could anything have been found within doors at all more alluring than the severity of the weather without. The sound of approaching voices first roused her from her discontented reverie; and, as she looked hastily round, she perceived her papa and Frank coming down the hill.

Mr Harrington expressed surprise at finding her alone so far from the house, and objected to her proceeding farther, laying some blame on Miss Morton for not having accompanied her. Dora's ill-humour did not interfere with her usual quick sense of justice; and lately she had become peculiarly sensible to the habit which prevailed at Emmerton, of making Miss Morton bear the burden of other people's faults; perhaps, too, some compunction for having occasionally been guilty of the same offence, though not in an equal degree, made her now very desirous of explaining the truth. Mr Harrington was easily satisfied; he had rather an interest in Miss Morton; she was so quiet and unobtrusive and lady-like, and never troubled him with complaints; but he insisted upon Frank's accompanying his sister, if she still wished to go farther; and though Dora declared there was no doubt of meeting Miss Morton in a few minutes, he would not hear of her being left alone—and Frank, much against his inclination, was obliged to remain.