When Amy met her new acquaintance the next morning, after having thought them over attentively while she was dressing, she had quite decided on the one she liked best. Julia Stanley had at first amused her so much, and was so very lively and good-tempered, that it seemed impossible not to give the preference to her; but even then there was something in her quick manner and hasty expressions which rather annoyed Amy's feelings, when contrasted with Miss Morton's gentleness and refinement; and in the course of the evening, as she observed her more narrowly, her conduct to Miss Cunningham had struck her as peculiarly disagreeable. It required but very little time to perceive Miss Cunningham's deficiencies; and Julia, who was remarkably quick and clever, had not been in her company for half an hour before she had discovered them; and her great amusement was to turn everything she said into ridicule. For the first few minutes Amy had been amused; but afterwards an endeavour of Emily Morton's to check some satirical observations, had shown her that she was wrong; and a sense of politeness soon made her aware that Julia allowed cleverness and high spirits to carry her beyond the bounds of propriety. When Dora gave Miss Cunningham what Frank would have called "a set down," it was done in a lady-like way, as far as manner was concerned. She delighted in saying the most pointed things in the most pointed tone, yet she would on no account have neglected the little attentions which Miss Cunningham's position demanded; but Julia Stanley, feeling herself infinitely superior to Lord Rochford's daughter in intellect and accomplishments, considered that she was, on this account, freed from any demands upon her politeness; and had made no scruple of pushing into a room before her, interrupting her when speaking, and endeavouring to show that she did not consider her as entitled to any respect or attention. All this was peculiarly disagreeable to Amy, who, having always lived with persons who were polite upon Christian principles, could not in the least comprehend the rudeness of self-conceit; and if Julia had offended her in one way, her sister's manner had been equally unpleasant in another. She had been Miss Cunningham's shadow and echo; she had followed her from place to place, admiring her dress and her ornaments, and begging her to describe Rochford Park, and hinting how much she should like to see it; and once or twice she had turned to Amy to extort her admiration also, when sincerity had obliged her entirely to differ.

A little of the same flattery had also been bestowed upon Dora, but it was received so coolly, that there was no temptation to repeat it a second time; for Dora, though she loved praise and flattery, still required it to be administered delicately, through the medium of a third person; and fancied herself insensible to it, because she never encouraged any one to tell her, in direct terms, that she was beautiful and clever. Mary Warner's manner resembled neither; it was not quite so polished as Amy would have liked, but it was simple and straightforward. She had never seen any place so beautiful as Emmerton, and she said so plainly; but she also said that she thought there were too many trees about it, and she should have preferred the house being built higher. It was the same with everything else—she expressed her opinion when asked without reserve; but she did not, like Julia, intrude disagreeable observations uncalled for, nor, like Hester, pretend to see beauties where there was nothing to admire. The uprightness of her father's character seemed to have descended to her; and Amy willingly forgave any little awkwardness of manner when she saw Mary's firmness and simplicity; while even Dora was rather won by the unconcern with which she listened to Miss Cunningham's impertinences, and the openness with which she acknowledged the inferiority of her own home to Emmerton—apparently thinking it a matter of indifference whether she lived in a large house or a small one. It was a point of character which Dora could appreciate and admire, though it was not one she thought it necessary to imitate. But Miss Cunningham felt very differently; and her good-humour was not at all increased by the failure of her endeavours to inspire both Julia and Mary with awe and admiration; and to complete her discomfort, when breakfast was over, Miss Morton gently proposed her practising for half-an-hour; adding that Lord Rochford had again mentioned the subject, and begged that she would assist her in perfecting the piece she had been trying, so that it might be played in the evening. Miss Cunningham did not speak, but she looked her thoughts, and yet she did not venture to rebel; for Lord Rochford, with all his fondness, had some peculiarities; and the arrangement of his daughter's studies was his peculiar hobby. It seemed, however, as if she had secretly resolved that the pleasures of a London journey should not be marred by any progress she might make under Miss Morton's tuition; and bad as her performance had been before, it was much worse this morning. Miss Morton, with unwearied patience, corrected her false notes, asked her to repeat the difficult passages, and showed her again and again how they were to be played; but the long, stiff fingers appeared to possess some innate spirit of obstinacy; they would move exactly in the way in which they should not have moved; they would play sharps for flats, and turn crotchets into quavers, and minims into crotchets; until Amy, who, with the exception of Julia Stanley, was the only person present besides, wondered how it was possible for Miss Morton to persevere, and Julia, after a pretended attempt to conceal her amusement, laughed aloud. Miss Cunningham heard the laugh, and felt it keenly, and forgetting everything but her annoyance, she jumped up from her seat, closed the book, and without speaking, rushed out of the room.

"Well! that is delightful," exclaimed Julia; "I would have laughed before, if I had thought it would bring matters to a conclusion."

Amy wished to say something, but she felt painfully shy, for she had begun to dread Julia's satire; and, happily for her, Emily Morton spoke instead.

"I should be very sorry," she said, "to believe you in earnest, you would hardly acknowledge so openly that you took pleasure in hurting the feelings of another."

"Only she took pleasure in hurting my ears," replied Julia.

"Not intentionally," said Miss Morton; "but I am sure you cannot really mean what you say; you must be sorry for having given pain."

"Miss Cunningham is so very silly," persisted Julia, who was never willing to confess herself in the wrong; "it really is impossible to help laughing at her. You know there can be no harm in being amused at people's folly."

"I cannot agree with you at all," said Emily; "and as to Miss Cunningham's sense, it is not her own choice to be less clever than others."

"To be sure not," exclaimed Julia, pertly; "who would be stupid if they could help it? But it does not make people at all the less absurd, because it is not their own fault."

"There again I must differ from you," replied Emily. "It makes all the difference possible. Self-conceit, and vanity, and pride may be ridiculous, but not mere deficiency of understanding; it is the appointment of God, just as much as poverty or illness may be; and I think, from something I heard you say yesterday, you would not be at all inclined to laugh at any one who had less money than yourself."

"Oh no! certainly not," said Julia; "but cleverness is quite a different thing. I do so like bright, clever people; and I do so delight in laughing at stupid ones. All the world thinks more of cleverness than of anything else."

"But it does not follow that all the world are right," replied Emily.

"But a great many strict people that I know think so," said Julia. "I very often hear some friends of ours say—such a person is not quite right, but then he is so clever; and it does make up for a great many things; you must own that."

"Indeed I cannot own it," replied Emily: "I do not see that it makes up for anything."

"But don't you like it?" asked Julia, in a tone of great surprise.

"Yes, very much—just as I like to see a pretty face, or to listen to beautiful music; but I do not esteem it. I mean," she added, observing that Julia continued silent from astonishment, "that I do not think it forms part of a person's character, any more than his houses or his clothes do."

"But have you no value at all for it?" said Julia,

"Yes," replied Emily; "and so I have for riches—both may be made the instruments of good; but I do not value a person who is rich, because he is rich—neither do I value a person who is clever, because he is clever. If the rich man turns his riches to good account, I value him for his generosity and self-denial; and if the clever man uses his talents well, I value him because I see he is trying to serve God; but I should have just as much esteem for a poor man, or a man with inferior understanding, if they were equally good."

"But," said Julia, "all the celebrated people one reads of were not good, and yet there is just as much fuss made about them now as if they were angels—every one talks of them and praises them."

"Yes," replied Miss Morton, gravely, and then paused as if lost in her own thoughts.

"What were you going to say?" asked Amy.

"I did not like to say what was in my mind," replied Emily; "it is so very painful; but, you know, the opinions of men can be nothing when a person is dead."

Julia seemed struck with the observation, but did not speak, for she began to feel ashamed, and was endeavouring to summon courage to confess herself in the wrong. "I wish you would go on talking," she said, after the silence had continued for several minutes; "but then you think me so rude that perhaps you will not take the trouble."

"It is not what I think, but what Miss Cunningham thinks, which is of importance," replied Miss Morton; "you have not been rude to me."

"Well! I was not quite polite perhaps, only really I could not help it.
Shall I beg her pardon?"

"No!" exclaimed Emily, "pray do not do that; it would only make matters worse, because you must own then that you thought her ridiculous."

"But what shall I do?" asked Julia.

"Will you let me tell you without thinking I am interfering?" said
Emily.

"Oh yes, pray do. You know, at school every one speaks their mind, so I am quite accustomed to it."

"Well, then! I should recommend you to begin by keeping a strict guard over yourself for the rest of the day, that you may not be guilty of the same fault again, and not to force yourself upon Miss Cunningham, but to show her quietly a few little attentions; and if she is proud and annoyed, to try and feel that it is only what you have brought upon yourself, and therefore not to be angry with her."

"But that is not the least in my way," said Julia; "I could go just at this minute and say I am sorry, because I am in the humour; and I should be rather glad to make it up and be friends again, though she is so silly; but as for going on all day paying little attentions to a person who has not a single idea in her head, is what I never did and never can do."

"Never will, you mean," replied Miss Morton. "We often say can, when we ought to say will."

"Well! can or will," exclaimed Julia; "it is all the same. Only if I may beg Miss Cunningham's pardon now, I don't care; but if I must not do that, she must take her chance; and if she makes herself ridiculous, I must laugh at her."

"Because you think yourself cleverer," said Miss Morton; "is not that the reason?"

Julia blushed deeply. She was not accustomed to have her self-conceit brought before her so plainly, and yet she was too candid not to see the truth of what was said.

"I do not mean to pain you," continued Miss Morton, very kindly. "Perhaps it is not my place to interfere; but you promised not to be annoyed; and you must forgive me if I remind you, that in the sight of God the most trifling act of self-denial from a really high motive—I mean, of course, from a wish to please Him—is infinitely more valuable than the cleverest thing that has ever been said or done since the world was made."

Still Julia was silent—her cleverness did not at that moment come to her aid; and after gazing attentively upon the fire, playing with the ornaments on the mantelpiece, and turning over the leaves of one or two books, she found herself so very uncomfortable, that, hastily exclaiming she must go and look for her sister, she left Amy and Miss Morton alone.

"Are you vexed?" asked Amy, as soon as the door was closed. "You look so."

"I am rather," said Miss Morton, "for I am half afraid I have done more harm than good; and I am hurt especially about Miss Cunningham, because I know it was very disagreeable to her to have any lesson at all, and such a one as this will make her dislike it more than ever."

"But not you," observed Amy; "she cannot blame you for another person's rudeness."

"Only it is difficult," said Miss Morton, "to feel kindly towards those who have been the cause of placing us in awkward situations; and I do not suspect I have ever been a favourite with Miss Cunningham."

"I wish Miss Stanley had kept to her own room this morning," said Amy.
"I am afraid she will spoil our pleasure all day."

"Oh no! she will soon forget it all; and I do not think she will take Miss Cunningham's anger much to heart; it will rather amuse her than otherwise."

"I should not like her to be amused at me," said Amy; "she frightens me dreadfully. I felt just now as if I could not have ventured to speak before her."

"I must give you a lecture too," said Emily, smiling. "Why should you be afraid of people merely because they are clever, and say sharp things? It is making cleverness of as much consequence as Miss Stanley does; besides being a dangerous feeling, and one which often prevents us from doing our duty."

"Ah! but," said Amy, "I cannot feel quite as you do. I always have thought a great deal about it, and longed to be very clever myself, and for every one to admire me, and look up to me."

"And I have done the same," said Emily. "I will not say that I never do so now; but it is very contrary to what the Bible commands."

"Do you really think so?" inquired Amy, looking much distressed. "Yet it seems so natural; and cleverness is different from riches, or rank, or anything of that kind."

"Can you recollect any part of the Bible in which it is said that God takes pleasure in it?" asked Emily.

"There is a great deal about wisdom in the Book of Proverbs," answered
Amy; "and it is said to be better than anything else."

"Yes," replied Emily; "but then, you know, we ought to compare different parts of the Bible together, if we wish to know its real meaning. And there is a verse at the end of a very beautiful chapter in the Book of Job, which tells us what wisdom really is. Perhaps you may remember it. It says, 'The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding.' Now, a poor man, who cannot even read, may have just as much of this wisdom as the most learned man that ever lived."

"Then," said Amy, "there is no use in trying to learn things."

"Indeed," replied Miss Morton, "there is. It is our duty to improve the understanding God has given us to the utmost, by exercising it in every right way. Our Saviour's parable of the talents gives a most impressive warning to us on this point, though talents there mean likewise advantages of every kind; and besides, the more we know, the more we are able to teach others."

Amy still looked unconvinced, and Emily continued, "You will see what I mean, if you will think of being clever in the same way as you do of being rich. We all know that it is the way of the world to value people for their money, but common sense tells us that it is very absurd; and yet no one would deny that riches may be made of great use to our fellow-creatures, though they do not make us in the smallest degree more acceptable in the eye of God. I wish I could explain myself more clearly. Perhaps, if I were very clever, I might be able to do it; and then, you see, my knowledge would be of use to you, though it would not make me either better or worse in myself."

"I think that is clever," said Amy, laughing; "for I can understand you much better now, though I am afraid I shall never learn to think rightly about everything."

"You must not say that," said Emily. "You know you are not very old yet; and if we thought about everything rightly at the beginning of our life, it would not be necessary for us to have so many years to learn in. As long as we are not standing still, we may be tolerably happy, though we do happen to blunder in the dark way."

"I think I am always blundering," said Amy; "at least I know I am always wishing for something which mamma and you tell me I ought not to wish for. But I think it is because I hear Dora and Margaret and Miss Cunningham talking so much about such things. You know Dora makes a great deal of being clever, and Miss Cunningham is always speaking of rank and riches, and Margaret is so pleased to be pretty. I know it is really all nothing; but when I hear them I cannot help longing for it all, and thinking that it must be of consequence."

"Yes," said Miss Morton, "it is very natural. This place is to you just what the world is to grown-up people."

"I remember," replied Amy, "thinking something just like that the very first night my cousins came; but I did not imagine," she added, "that there would be any one in my world like you."

Miss Morton could have answered, with truth, that she had never expected to meet with any one like Amy at Emmerton; but at that moment Dora and the rest of the party entered, and Miss Cunningham with them.

"Must you go?" whispered Amy, as Miss Morton prepared to leave the room.

Emily replied that she had letters to write, which would keep her engaged the whole morning; and Amy scarcely wished her to remain, when she observed the expression of Miss Cunningham's face, and saw that her good-humour was by no means restored.

It was not indeed a very easy task at any time; and Julia Stanley seemed resolved that this morning it should be more difficult than ever. She had given up the idea of confessing her fault, and trying to make amends, because she could not have her own way as to the manner in which it should be done, and had become angry with herself, and, as a natural consequence, angry with every one else. There was, in fact, a regular feud between her and Miss Cunningham; and Dora soon saw that to preserve peace would be a difficult matter. Julia's manner was more sharp and abrupt than ever, as she took every opportunity of repeating Miss Cunningham's words, and turning them into ridicule; while Miss Cunningham, on her part, endeavoured to make sneers and scornful looks as effective as words. Amy was very uncomfortable, and once or twice tried to divert their attention by talking to the younger children, and making them bring their dolls and playthings to the table where the elder girls were working. But her efforts were in vain; and, as a last hope, she ventured to suggest to Dora, that perhaps it might be pleasant if some one were to read out. The idea was the greatest possible relief to poor Dora, for all her antipathy to strange school-girls, and three days' visits, was returning in full force; and having asked, as a matter of form, whether any one would dislike it, she quickly produced half-a-dozen volumes to choose from.

The choice being settled, the next question to be decided was, who should read. There was a general burst of excuses as the inquiry was made. Every one would read, only there was a piece of work to be finished, or a drawing to be begun, or some beads to be threaded, or they were so soon tired that it was quite useless to begin, or they were suffering from a cold and hoarseness, which would make it disagreeable for the rest to listen. Dora put down the book on the table, considering it, as a matter of course, that she should not be obliged to do it. She had seldom been called on to give up her own will for others, but had always ordered and managed, and told others their duty; and when this was done, her part was considered finished. So, in the present instance, she had decided it would be a good thing to read, and had chosen the book, and supposed that some one would easily be found willing to amuse the rest. But Dora was mistaken.

The only person who had not excused herself was the only one whose excuse would have been really a good one. Poor Amy's heart beat fast as she thought that it might fall to her lot to read. She had never read aloud to any one but her mamma; and she was the youngest of the party; and, moreover, she knew that in the book which had been fixed on there were some long French quotations, which must be pronounced or translated, either alternative being equally disagreeable. "I wish I could read," she whispered to Margaret, who was sitting next her; "but I am so frightened."

"Oh! it does not signify," answered Margaret, aloud; "there is no occasion for us to trouble ourselves—Emily Morton will come directly; I have known her go on for hours when mamma has been ill."

"Yes," said Dora, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she spoke, "she is much more used to it than we are. Rose, go and tell Emily Morton that we should be very much obliged if she could read out to us this morning whilst we are working."

The message was more civil than it would have been some months before; and Dora's conscience was rather relieved; but to Amy it seemed only selfish and thoughtless.

"Miss Morton told me she had letters to write, Dora," she said, timidly.
"Don't you think reading to us would be an interruption to her?"

"Not more than giving us our usual lessons," observed Margaret; "it is only occupying the same time in a different way."

"But," replied Amy, "indeed I think the letters are of consequence; and the post goes out so early."

"Well, then, Amy," said Dora, rather sharply, "if you will insist upon our not sending for Emily, you must read yourself, for you are the only one of us all who is not busy."

Amy was busy finishing a purse to be given to Mrs Walton on her birthday; but anything was better than to allow Miss Morton's time to be intruded on; and although the slight trembling of her hand, and the bright crimson spot on her cheek, showed the greatness of the effort, she did manage to begin, and even to get through the first long French sentence without breaking down. Dora listened to the words, but they made very little impression; she was thinking all the time of her own selfishness, and how easy it was to make good resolutions, and how very difficult to keep them. It was only on that very day that she had been reflecting on her conduct to Miss Morton, and had determined to be more thoughtful for her comfort; and now, on the first temptation, she had weakly given way, and, but for Amy, would have sacrificed Miss Morton's whole morning merely to gratify her own fancy for work. Happily, Dora's was not a mind to be contented with the bare acknowledgment of having been wrong; it was too active and energetic to rest in fruitless wishes for amendment; and now, finding that Amy's voice was becoming weak, and that she read with difficulty, she threw down her work just as she was about to put the finishing stroke to it, and offered to read instead. It was but a trifling action, but it made Dora feel happier than she had been before; it proved to herself that she was in earnest; and when she had made one endeavour it was much easier to make another. Her manner grew softer, her thoughtfulness for others increased; and before the morning was over, she had even taken Miss Cunningham's part against Julia Stanley, when she had made an observation on the book they were reading, and had given up her seat near the fire, fearing she might be cold. The book was so interesting, and the oriel-room so comfortable, that no one thought of the time or the weather; and when Mrs Harrington made her appearance with Mrs Danvers, and begged them all to go out before dinner that they might not lose the best part of the day, there was a slight murmur of disapprobation. Mrs Danvers sympathised, and pitied, and declared the room looked so warm and cheerful, it was almost impossible to leave it; now she had once found her way there, she should be a frequent visitor.

"I always think young people manage best when left to themselves," said Mrs Harrington. "Dora, you must be quick, and go out; and as many of your young friends as choose to go with you had better get ready also."

The sending them out did not seem like leaving them to themselves; but Mrs Harrington's manner prevented almost every one from differing from her; and Mrs Danvers, who was rather young, and soon awed, said nothing, but began fondling her little girls, and proposing to stay and play with them if they liked it better than going for a walk; whilst Dora, who knew the exact meaning of every word and tone of her mother's, hastily put up her work, and prepared to obey.