"We had better go at once to the cottage, Frank," said Dora, when her father was gone; "we shall be sure to find them there; and I dare say they have been kept longer than they intended, talking to old Stephen."

"And who is Stephen?" said Frank.

"Oh! I am sure, I don't know," replied Dora; "only an old sort of servant of grandpapa's, who always has the gout. He was steward, I believe, once. I never trouble my head much about him; but Amy talks a good deal of him."

"And what makes you go and see him, then?" said Frank.

"Nothing at all, but because I wanted something to do, and Amy and
Miss Morton were gone, and I could not bear staying at home with Miss
Cunningham."

"How you sigh! Dora," said Frank; "and how grave you look. I don't think you have laughed heartily once since I came home."

"There is nothing to make one laugh that I can see," said Dora, "in this gloomy old place, and the dull, cold weather."

"We were never dull at Wayland," replied Frank; "and the weather was much worse there last winter than it is now."

"Well, I don't know what it is," said Dora; "but everybody is grown so cross here, there is no bearing it; and it is not at all like Christmas time."

"Wait till Monday," answered Frank; "we shall be merry enough then; the young Dornfords are coming here quite early, that we may have some skating on the lake."

"Young Dornfords, indeed!" exclaimed Dora; "what good will that be to me? I shall not skate."

"But you used to like watching us," said Frank, in a disappointed tone.

"Times are changed," answered Dora, shortly; "I shall not like it now."

Frank turned away from his sister, and walked some paces off, thinking all the time how disagreeable she was, and how much pleasanter the walk home with his papa would have been. His own disposition was so happy, that he could neither understand nor endure one which was the reverse, and Dora's age and character made him always feel rather in awe; so that he could not tell her, what he saw was the fact, that the fault of everything lay in herself, and her own discontent. Silently and sulkily Dora walked on to the cottage; as they passed the window, she had a full view of what was going on within—and as she looked, her feeling of dissatisfaction increased. The room was small, but extremely neat, and ornamented with a few prints and pictures, and some wooden shelves, on which were ranged all Stephen's most valuable treasures—a large Bible, in two volumes, which had descended to him from his grandfather, "the Whole Duty of Man," given him by Mrs Herbert's mother, and several other books of a similar kind—all presents from different members of the family; some curious old cups and saucers, presents likewise, a wooden knife, made from the horn of the first buck which he had seen killed, the handle of the first whip he had used when he became coachman at Emmerton, and, above all, the leading rein with which he had taught all the young gentlemen and ladies to ride. There was a story attached to each of these relics—and Amy, though she had heard them a hundred times, still listened with pleasure as they were repeated again and again; and when Dora looked, she saw her seated on a low stool by Stephen's side, with her hand resting on his knee, while he was explaining to Miss Morton how nearly Mr Harrington had met with a serious accident when he first mounted his Shetland pony. There was poverty in the cottage (or what at least seemed such to Dora), and sickness, and pain, for Stephen had been very ill, and was even then suffering considerably; and yet she could not look upon it without something like a feeling of envy. Stephen was resigned to his illness, and grateful for its alleviation. Amy had forgotten herself entirely, and was watching with delight the interest Emily Morton took in hearing her old friend talk; and Emily was thinking of the many blessings which God has granted to soften the trials of life, and was learning a lesson of cheerful resignation, which none but herself would have imagined she required. Dora was young, and she had never been taught to think; but there was something in the general appearance of the cottage, and in the expression of the old man's countenance, which spoke more forcibly than any words. She had youth, health, and riches; he had age, sickness, and poverty—how was it that he could smile while she sighed, that he could be grateful when she was discontented? She did not put the question into words, but the feeling was so painful that she could not wait to think about it, and hastily knocking at the door, hardly awaited for an answer before she entered. Amy uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, and Stephen half rose from his seat to do honour to his unexpected visitor.

"I hardly thought ever to have seen you here, Miss Harrington," he said, trying to be cordial, and yet not able entirely to conceal his sense of the neglect which he had experienced. "'Tis so long since the master came back to the Hall, and none of you young ladies have found your way here before, that I began to think it wasn't the fashion now to go about as it used to be."

"Oh! I don't know," replied Dora, who would willingly have been indifferent to the reproof which she felt was implied; "your cottage is so far off, Stephen, and the days are getting so short."

"So they are, so they are," answered Stephen; "'tis all very true, Miss Harrington; but somehow in the old times people did not think about far off and short days;—not that I mean to complain; for you know the Bible tells us we are not to ask 'why the former days were better than these.'"

"Here is my brother come to see you, too," said Dora, turning to the door to look for Frank, who had lingered on the outside. "You cannot find fault with him, for he only arrived on Thursday."

"Master Frank!" exclaimed the old man, while his clear, gray eyes were lighted up with an unusual expression of pleasure; "but you don't mean he is here, only coming?"

"No, not coming," said Amy; "really here; I saw him just now."

Stephen tried to move from his chair in his impatience to ascertain if her words were true; but he was not able to walk without assistance, and sank back again with a half-uttered expression of regret, which made him the next instant murmur to himself, "'tis God's will; and 'tis fit we should learn to bear it."

"Here he is, really!" exclaimed Amy, as Dora re-entered the cottage, followed by Frank. "I am sure, Stephen, you did not quite believe us."

Stephen only answered by taking Frank's hand in his, while, for a few moments, he fixed a deep, earnest gaze upon every feature of his countenance.

"Yes, it's like, very like," at length he said, in a low voice, as if speaking to himself; "like his mother, like all her family; but I could have loved it better if it had been different."

"Oh Stephen!" exclaimed Amy, who had caught the words, notwithstanding the tone in which they were spoken, "if you say so, Frank will think you are not glad to see him."

"No," replied Stephen, "there was never one of the name of Harrington that could think that yet, Miss Amy. The young gentleman will learn soon enough that it does my very heart good to look at him; but 'tis natural for an old man to think most of them that are gone—and, somehow, 'twas a foolish fancy, but I thought that maybe he might have his father's face too; but he hasn't not half so much as the young lady there; and she must be like Master Edward, for the people at the Hall tell me he was the very image of the master."

Dora had moved to the window on the first allusion to her brother, but, struck with Stephen's manner, she now came forward, and said, "Do you remember what any of us were like, Stephen, when we left Emmerton?"

"Remember!" repeated the old man. "Who wouldn't remember those who were as his own children? Ah! Miss Harrington, 'twas a sad day when the master told me he was going; but 'twould have been still more sad if I had known that there was one who was never to return."

Dora tried to restrain the tears which glistened in her eyes; and again she would have turned away, but Stephen prevented her. "And did you love him then so much," he said, earnestly, forgetting, at the sight of her distress, the neglect and indifference which he had so much felt. "Ah! 'twas right and natural, for he was the flower of all; and bitter it must have been to lose him, for 'twas your first sorrow; but if God should spare you to live as many years as I have done, Miss Harrington, you will learn, when you lay your treasures in the cold earth, to thank God for taking them out of a sinful world."

"It is hard for Miss Harrington to think so now, Stephen," said Miss
Morton, fearing lest his words and manner might increase Dora's grief.
"At her age there is so much to hope for, that it is impossible to
expect it."

"And I don't expect it," said Stephen; "I only tell her so now, that she may think of my words when I am gone; and I know that they are true, for I have felt it. I had four once, and I loved them all as my own life. The master himself and the family were not nearer to me, nor so near as they were; and when the first of them was carried to his grave, I thought that my heart would have broke; but God gave me to think better afterwards, for He sent me many a hard trial; and so, when my spirit was turned in a manner from the earth, He called for all the rest, one after another; and I watched them till the hour of their death, and heard that their trust was in Him; and then I laid them to their rest, and blessed Him for His mercy, for I knew that sickness and sorrow might knock at my door, but they could never knock at theirs."

There was a moment's pause after the old steward had spoken, for none but Miss Morton entirely understood his meaning—even Amy, though she had often heard him talk in the same way before, thought it strange; and she stood looking in his face, and wondering whether it could be possible for herself or her cousins ever to feel like him. Stephen smiled as he watched the expression of her countenance. "You don't half believe me, Miss Amy," he said, "any more than I believed you when you said the young gentleman was come to see me; and, perhaps, 'tis as well you don't; only 'tis fit for us all to think betimes that we are not to stay here for ever, and to expect to find things hard as we grow old; for so we learn to look above, and then it may be God may see good to spare us a long trial, and call us early to Himself."

"To die!" exclaimed Amy, in a half-frightened tone.

"It sounds hard," said Stephen; "and yet God only knows how great a blessing it may be. But you need not look so sad, Miss Amy, the time may be very far off; and, when it comes, you may have learned to think like me; and there may be many a happy day in store for you all, only it may be near too,—aye, near even to that little one there, who looks as if she had never known what sickness was."

Amy looked at Rose; and certainly it did seem more difficult than ever to believe the truth of Stephen's words. She had left the rest of the party, not caring for what was passing, and was standing by the door, amusing herself with the antics of a young kitten, as it tried to catch the piece of cork which she held just out of its reach. Her bonnet had fallen back, and her bright, chestnut hair hung in clustering ringlets about her neck; the glow of health and happiness was on her cheek, and her dark eyes sparkled with delight, and her little hands were clapped in ecstasy at every fresh movement of the kitten; and, as Stephen spoke, she burst into a merry laugh, when the tiny animal, showing unusual agility, seized upon the cork, and, to her great surprise, carried it off in triumph.

"You will make us all melancholy, Stephen," said Miss Morton, as she watched the thoughtful expression of Dora's face. "My little pet has never known an hour's real illness from the day of her birth, so we will not begin fearing for her now."

"No, not fear," replied Stephen; "only," he added, in a lower tone, "'tis an angel's face; and at times I have thought that it was fitter for heaven than for earth. But I didn't mean," he continued, aloud, "to talk about such grave things just the first day of the young gentleman's visit. It isn't my way, Master Frank, in general, and so you shall know if you will come and see me again; and please God I get strong upon my legs, I shall hope to show you a good many things I've got together down here. There's the goats, that are as tame as children, and the old hunter that's been turned out to grass for these half-dozen years,—there isn't such another beauty in all the country round; and then there are the ponies that I had brought from the hills to train for the young ladies,—maybe you'd like to see them now; my grand-daughter will show you where they are."

Frank, who had felt strange and uncomfortable during the last quarter of an hour, gladly seized upon the idea, and the whole party immediately proceeded to inspect the ponies, followed by Stephen's lamentations that he could not exhibit them himself. Frank was just beginning to fancy he understood the merits and demerits of horses, and therefore examined them with a critical eye, and with every wish to show his knowledge by finding fault; but there was very little to be said against them—in colour and shape, they were almost perfect of their kind; and Frank's admiration, and Dora's earnest entreaties that they might be sent immediately to the Hall to be tried, soon recompensed Stephen for the disappointment he had at first felt respecting them. "To be sure, they are very well," was his reply to Amy's question, if he did not think them more beautiful than any he had ever seen before; "but they don't come up to the old ones, Miss Amy. There was the chestnut, that your own mamma used to ride when she was no bigger than you; that was worth looking at; not but what these are very well,—very well, indeed, for those who never saw any better."

"Ah! Stephen, that is so tiresome of you," exclaimed Amy, half laughing and half vexed; "you always will bring up something or other to make one discontented; you never can think that anything now is as good as it used to be."

"Well, so it is," said Stephen; "and when you come to my age, Miss Amy, you'll feel the same; not but what there is one thing which I like better now than all, and that's your own dear little merry face; 'tis always a comfort to look at it; and in the old times I didn't want comfort as I do now."

"And Dora, and Frank, and Margaret, will all come and see you now," said Amy, "and Miss Morton and Rose too. You will have so many visitors, Stephen, I am afraid you will get tired of them."

"They'll be welcome—all welcome, at all hours," answered Stephen, "any of the family; and if, please God, the Colonel should come back, as they say he will, why I think I shall begin my life over again,—'twill all seem so old and natural."

Amy's eyes brightened at the idea. "I want some one to tell me how long it will be before he can be here," she said, "that I may count the days; but they all say it is uncertain, and I must not think about it; but I do think about it all day long, and so does mamma, though she does not say much."

"'Twill be a blessed day," said Stephen, "when it does come; and if it please God, I pray that I may live to see it. Sometimes I have thought I could die more happy if I could see young madam smile as she used to do."

"Well, Stephen," interrupted Frank, who was becoming impatient, "you will send the ponies up the first thing to-morrow, won't you? No, not to-morrow though; to-morrow is Sunday; let them come up to-night."

"Why, Frank," said Dora, "what good can that do? Monday morning will be quite early enough; you cannot possibly try them before."

"But 'tis his wish. Miss Harrington," said Stephen, "and 'tis the first thing he has asked of me; so, if there's no offence to you, 'twould be a pleasure to me to have them up at the Hall to-night, and one of the grooms can quite easily come to fetch them."

Frank's smile spoke his thanks; and Dora, pleased at anything which made his holidays happier than she had feared they would be, took a most cordial leave of Stephen, and left his cottage in a much better mood than she had entered it.

"I think," she said to Amy, as they walked home, "that there must be something very pleasant in going to visit poor people when they are comfortably off, like Stephen; they must be so glad to see one, and there is nothing to make one melancholy; but I can't say I should like getting into those dirty holes which some people have such a fancy for."

"Oh Dora!" exclaimed Amy, "I can't think any one really likes dirty holes, as you call them; but, you know, if no one were to look after them, there would be nothing done for the people who live in them."

"But why do they live there?" said Dora; "why don't they have neat cottages like Stephen's, and look cheerful and be grateful for what is given them? I have heard people say that it is all their own fault being so miserably off, and that there is no good in doing anything for them."

"Only," replied Amy, "a good many people have no work, and then of course they have nothing to live on."

"How do you know?" asked Dora; "do you ever go and see any of them but
Stephen?"

"Oh dear, yes!" replied Amy, in a tone of surprise; "all the people in the village I know quite well; mamma always takes me with her to their cottages."

"And does aunt Herbert like going?" said Dora.

"Yes, very much, except when she is tired and ill; but she goes just the same; and they are so fond of her."

Dora looked thoughtful, and said that it must be a great deal of trouble.

"Sometimes it is," said Amy; "but mamma always seems better when she comes back."

"There is not anything done for rich people when they are unhappy," said
Dora; "no one thinks of trying to give them pleasure."

"Do you think that is quite the case?" asked Miss Morton. "I should have said that there was care and kindness shown to every one every day of their lives."

"Not to me," said Dora, "excepting, of course, from papa and mamma."

"I fear," said Miss Morton, "we should be very badly off if our parents' care were all that we had to depend on."

"I know what you mean." replied Dora, thinking for a moment; "but then the blessings which God sends are so different from the trouble which people say rich persons ought to take about the poor. Of course, He can do everything."

"Yes," said Miss Morton; "and when we think of His infinite power, we can hardly imagine that His actions can be any example for us; but there was a time when He condescended to live upon the earth; and we do not find then that He shrunk from taking trouble, as we call it, to do good."

Dora was silent and uncomfortable; she was beginning to get a faint notion of the extent of her duties, and of the care and thought which she ought to bestow upon her fellow-creatures as well as herself; and she turned from the idea in something like despair, fearing that it would be quite useless to attempt fulfilling them.

Amy watched her, and saw that something was amiss; and leaving Miss Morton, she went to the other side, and put her hand within her cousin's without speaking.

The action was understood; and again Dora felt self-reproach, as she noticed the gentle consideration of one so young, and thought of her own pride and selfishness. "I should like to go with you some day," she said, "when aunt Herbert takes you amongst the cottagers, just to know what you say to them, and how you behave."

"I never say anything," replied Amy, "except, perhaps, just to ask them if they are better; but I like hearing mamma talk to them."

"But there can be nothing said that you can care about," observed Dora.

"Yes, indeed, there is, generally," answered Amy. "I like to hear about all their children, and I like to hear them tell mamma about their being ill and poor. I don't mean that I wish them to be ill and poor, but it is very nice to see how mamma comforts them, and it gives me pleasure to hear her talk to Mr Walton about them; and when I go home, the cottage always seems so much larger and more comfortable than it did before. I never wish then that we had a larger house and more servants."

"And do you ever wish so now?" asked Dora.

Amy blushed, but answered without hesitation: "I am afraid I do wish it very often; but I know it is so wrong that it makes me very unhappy."

"Wrong!" exclaimed Dora; "how can it be wrong? Every one in the world wishes for something or another; not that you would be one bit better off, Amy, if you were to live at Emmerton to-morrow; at least, I think you are much happier than I am."

"Mamma says the same," replied Amy, "and of course she knows best; only it does not seem so—but I know it is wicked in me to indulge such feelings."

"That is so silly," said Dora; "how can it be wicked when everybody has them? Don't you think now, Emily, that every one wishes for something better than what they possess?"

"Yes," replied Miss Morton, "but some persons wish for things that are right and good, and others for those which are wrong, and this makes all the difference."

"There can be no harm in houses and servants," said Dora.

"Only," said Miss Morton, "that they are apt to make us think proudly of ourselves, and despise those who are without them; and that at our baptism we promised to renounce the pomps and vanities of the world."

"Then what would you have people think of and long for?" asked Dora.

Amy looked at her cousin with a slight feeling of surprise at the question; but Miss Morton did not appear to consider it strange, for she answered immediately: "I think if persons were quite good as they ought to be, all their wishes would be for the blessings which are promised us in the Bible, and that they would care no more for earthly grandeur than a person who is passing through a foreign country does for what he may see there, when he has much better things at home."

"What," exclaimed Dora, "not think about having comfortable houses, and pretty places, and plenty of money! we might just as well all be poor at once."

"Perhaps," said Miss Morton, "you may remember a verse in the New Testament, which says that the poor are blessed. It is very hard to believe, but if the Bible tells us so, it must be true."

"That is just what mamma would say," observed Amy; "but I don't think I quite like to hear grown-up people talk so, because I am sure it is right to think it; and yet it seems quite impossible, and as if it would make one always melancholy; only you are not melancholy," she added, looking at Miss Morton.

"It would not be possible for any one at your age to feel like a grown-up person who has had a great many trials," replied Emily; "but it is quite right for you to try at once to overcome your longing for grandeur and riches, because it is one of the lessons which we are sent into the world to learn, and one of the best ways of learning it, is by doing what Miss Harrington mentioned just now,—going amongst poor people, I mean."

"I don't see what that has to do with it," said Dora.

"If the poor people we visit are happy," replied Emily, "we shall see that God has given them pleasures quite independent of those we value so much, and we shall learn to think them of less importance; and if they are unhappy, we shall thank God for having placed us in a different situation; and whatever may be our trials, we shall bear them with far greater patience, when we see what the poor are forced to endure. A visit to a sick person, in want, will often do more to make us contented and grateful than all the sermons that ever were preached."

"Do you really think so?" said Dorn, gravely; "I wonder whether it would make me happier."

"Will you try?" asked Miss Morton, eagerly. "Will you, if Mrs Harrington has no objection, go with me some day, and see the poor people? Mr Walton has often said he wished you would."

"Oh Dora! do go," exclaimed Amy; "I should be so delighted if you knew them all, as mamma and I do."

"I don't know," answered Dora; "mamma will object, I am sure."

"But just try," persisted Amy; "never mind if she does say No; there is no harm in asking."

"Ah! but mamma's 'No' is different from aunt Herbert's," replied Dora; "it always means she is angry."

Amy felt this was true, and could not urge her cousin to do what she knew would be so alarming to herself; and Miss Morton's experience of Dora's disposition was sufficient to render her aware, that to urge anything was the most certain method of making her determine upon not doing it. She, therefore, was silent, and the conversation dropped, for they had now nearly reached the Hall; but it did not pass from Dora's mind. It had given her a new idea of duty, and a hope of increased pleasure and interest, in a way which was not only innocent but good; and before she again met Miss Morton she had determined upon making the request to her mamma, that she might be allowed to go into the village, even at the risk of encountering her awful frown, and very decided "No."