The visit to Stephen's cottage had so engrossed Amy's mind, that she had for the time entirely forgotten Miss Cunningham and the dance, and even the dread of Mr Cunningham's conversation; but when the evening came, and they were to appear in the drawing-room, she felt a considerable degree of trepidation, and dressed herself much more reluctantly than usual, lingering in her room, in her anxiety to delay the awful moment, till she found that her cousins had left her to go down stairs alone. Mrs Herbert was tired, and proposed remaining by herself all the evening; and there was, therefore, no alternative for Amy, but to summon all her courage, and earnestly hope that no one would take any notice of her. This hope, however, was vain, for Mr Cunningham perceived her instantly, and seemed as much determined as before to enter into conversation. Perhaps he might have had more compassion, had he known what was passing in Amy's mind, and how anxiously she longed to be seated by Dora, at the other end of the room; but he was so accustomed to be understood by his own family, that he was not aware of the pain he inflicted upon strangers, especially upon a shy, timid child, and his only wish was to take notice of one whom he fancied others, and especially his sister, were inclined to neglect. Amy stood by his side, blushing and trembling, and trying to understand, and feeling really grateful for his kindness in troubling himself about her, but, at the same time, strongly inclined to laugh, as she watched his strange grimaces. Once, however, she caught Margaret's eye, and saw her slily attempting to imitate him, and in an instant she recovered herself, and making a greater effort to comprehend what he was saying, soon found it comparatively easy. After a few observations on indifferent subjects, Mr Cunningham made some inquiries about Colonel Herbert; and Amy's heart was quite won when he told her that he recollected him before he went to India, and that every one loved and esteemed him, and that he looked forward now with much pleasure to his return; and she then ventured to ask the question to which she had not been able hitherto to obtain an answer—how long it would be before her papa could arrive. Mr Cunningham, with great good-nature, began calculating probabilities; and Amy was more than recompensed for her previous attention, when he said that, now the insurrection was over, there was no doubt Colonel Herbert would be able to leave India immediately, and that, probably, he would be with them almost as soon as a letter could reach them to announce his return; he might even be in England before they heard from him; and as he spoke, Amy turned to the door on the entrance of a servant, with a vague fancy that even then her father might be near. Her cousins observed, with surprise, the notice that was taken of her; Dora felt pleasure, and Margaret envy; for she recollected her conversation in the morning, and already began to imagine that Amy would be put before her in everything; but Miss Cunningham would have disliked it more than any one, if she had not been occupied in watching for an opportunity to speak to her papa upon the subject of the dance. Margaret had suggested that it would be an inconvenient moment; but Miss Cunningham never allowed time or propriety to interfere with her wishes, and eagerly seizing Lord Rochford's arm as he finished his conversation with Mr Harrington, she drew him aside, and in an audible whisper commenced her entreaties. Lord Rochford listened, and smiled, and patted her shoulder, and called her his pet and his darling, but at first did not seem quite inclined to agree with her, and all that she could obtain was the promise that he would think about it. This, however, did not satisfy her impatience, and she declared she would not let him go till he had really promised to mention it. Lord Rochford saw the impropriety of the idea, and the objections which Mr and Mrs Harrington might very naturally make to it; but his daughter's will was all-powerful with him, and he hesitated, and half consented, and then looked at Mrs Harrington, and retracted, till Miss Cunningham, seeing her advantage, became so very urgent that the attention of every one was directed to her. Mrs Harrington could not help perceiving that the subject under discussion was one in which she was interested, yet she sat immovable, with her eyes fixed upon her work, thinking it contrary to all the rules of propriety to interfere; but Mr Harrington was not so particular.

"You have a most indefatigable petitioner there," he said, as he caught Lord Rochford's eye. "I wonder you have not yielded long ago, from mere weariness."

"Clever girl, clever girl," said Lord Rochford; "knows her own power; but it is not my affair, or she would have had her own way before this, I am afraid."

"Miss Cunningham looks as if it were something in which I am concerned," said Mr Harrington. "I should be most happy to give her pleasure."

"Yes, now, did I not say so, papa?" exclaimed Miss Cunningham. "I knew Mr Harrington could have no objection. It is only that we all want a dance this Christmas, like every one else. There is the hall, which will do so beautifully for it, and every one will enjoy it so much; and I brought a dress here on purpose."

Dora's countenance betrayed her vexation, when she found herself included in the general "we," and she turned with anxiety to her mother's, when the proposition was made. Mrs Harrington still kept her eyes on her embroidery, and appeared not to remark what was passing; but Dora saw that she bit her lip, and contracted her brow, and she well knew that a storm was at hand. Mr Harrington only looked grave and pained.

"I do not think," he said, "this is quite the time for such an entertainment; and I should have hoped that Dora and Margaret's feelings would have prevented their wishing it. It is a different thing having a few friends in the house, to whom we are desirous of showing a little attention, and giving such a party as you mention. Even if we felt the inclination, which we are very far from doing, common propriety would be against it."

This was rather too long a speech for Miss Cunningham to listen to attentively; but she discovered that it meant "no;" and, unmindful of the annoyance expressed in Lord Rochford's face, and his muttered "Yes, yes, to be sure, I told her so—girls are so obstinate," she hardly waited till it was ended, before she was at Mrs Harrington's side, asking her most earnestly to consent.

Mrs Harrington slowly raised her eyes from her work, and, in a voice which sounded in Dora's ears like the murmuring roll of distant thunder, begged to be informed what it was she wished her to do.

"To have a dance," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, even then feeling but little doubt of her success: "a delightful dance in the hall; just such a one as Sir Francis Egerton gave at Tweeddale Park last year."

"And may I ask," inquired Mrs Harrington, calmly, "who Sir Francis
Egerton is, and why his actions are to be an example to me?"

"Oh, he is a cousin of ours," replied Miss Cunningham. "Mary Egerton is just my age; and she opened the ball."

"Indeed! then, in my opinion, she would have been much better employed with her studies in the schoolroom."

"You cannot really be in earnest," persisted Miss Cunningham; "it was the most charming thing in the world; and every one was so happy."

"Very probably," replied Mrs Harrington, again returning to her work.

"That is so kind of you," said Miss Cunningham; "then you will have no objection. When shall it be?"

"Never, with my consent," answered Mrs Harrington, rising in extreme indignation at what she considered impertinence and want of feeling. "My daughters have been strangely forgetful to allow such a thing to be mentioned. Dora, at your age, I should have thought you would have known better."

Dora instantly commenced an excuse, but stopped short in the middle, feeling the awkwardness of laying all the blame upon her sister, and her visitor; and Mrs Harrington, who had at first listened with the quiet determined air of a person resolved beforehand to accept no apology, turned from her, and began assuring Lord Rochford that she was quite aware that Miss Cunningham had nothing really to do with the business—she merely acted as spokeswoman for the rest. Of course, no young lady of her age would venture to make suggestions of the kind without being supported by others; adding, "I blame my own children, not her."

This was more than Amy could endure. She had been standing by Mr Cunningham's side during the discussion, with all the unpleasant sensations of being herself guilty; and her colour went and came, in the dread every moment that her aunt would include her in the reprimand. Margaret had quitted the room upon the first symptom of a storm; and there was no one but herself to vindicate Dora. It was a great effort, but she felt that it must be made; and, walking up to Mrs Harrington, she said, in a low frightened voice, "Indeed, aunt, I heard Dora, at dinner-time, telling them you would not like it."

"That is right," said Mr Harrington; "never let anyone be accused unjustly. I was sure Dora could not wish it. As for Margaret, she is so young and thoughtless, that it is not to be wondered at."

"It is all very well," said Mrs Harrington, who was far too angry to allow of any justification; "but Dora should have prevented its being named. She is the eldest; and Amy, too, though so much younger, is quite old enough to know better."

Poor Amy, for the moment, heartily repented having spoken, and returned to her former position with the thought that she had only made matters worse by interfering; but she remembered afterwards that she meant to do rightly, and that it was better to be blamed wrongly than really to be in fault. Miss Cunningham, in the meanwhile, satisfied with finding that she had escaped censure, cared little what any one else might be feeling, and carelessly taking up a book of prints which lay upon the table, began turning over the leaves with an indifferent air, much to the increase of Mrs Harrington's anger, which was in reality as much directed against her as against her own daughters, though politeness had induced her to conceal it.

The pause that ensued was felt by every one to be extremely awkward. Mr Cunningham wished to make some excuse for his sister; but his nervous anxiety rendered his articulation more difficult than usual, and after several efforts he coloured deeply, and gave up the attempt.

Lord Rochford fidgeted, first on one foot and then on the other, and at last walked across the room to get out of the reach of Mrs Harrington, who still stood looking as if she considered some one ought to make apologies; and seeing that something was expected from him, returned again to say that it was a thoughtless thing, perhaps, of the young people, but it would not do to be too hard upon them; they meant no harm.

"The excuse for everything," was all Mrs Harrington's reply; and Lord Rochford moved away with thoughts which it would have been uncivil to utter.

"Come," exclaimed Mr Harrington, feeling rather ashamed that so much had been said; "I quite agree with Lord Rochford, that no harm was intended. You know, Charlotte, they could not be expected to feel as you and I do; and besides, after all, we had thought of giving them something like an evening's amusement, though not quite what Miss Cunningham proposed. There is a celebrated conjurer just arrived in the neighbourhood, and we had settled that he should come here on Wednesday to exhibit, if the young people fancied it; and then afterwards, if they choose to get up a quadrille just among themselves, I daresay Miss Morton will play to them."

Amy felt very much relieved at the turn which this was likely to give to the conversation, though she little cared what amusement was proposed, if she could only see her aunt resume her seat and her work; but Mrs Harrington appeared to be struck by the idea of a fresh person with whom to find fault, for she repeated quickly to herself "Emily Morton! yes, she ought to have prevented it," and immediately left the room. Her absence at once caused a sensation of freedom and relief. Miss Cunningham, though inclined to imagine that conjuring tricks were rather vulgar, still felt sufficient curiosity to make some inquiries about them; and Amy, to whom all things of the kind were entirely new, began expressing her pleasure to Dora, and when Mrs Harrington returned, followed by Miss Morton, the storm had apparently passed away. Miss Morton's countenance was as gentle and calm as usual; but there was a slight nervous agitation in her manner, which Amy had learned to notice as the consequence of one of Mrs Harrington's lectures; and, when at Lord Rochford's request, she sat down to the piano, to perform her thankless task of playing and singing for the general amusement, her voice trembled so much as to oblige her to give up the song which had been asked for, and only attempt an instrumental piece.

Amy stole quietly to her side, and, with a look and voice which were fully understood, asked if she might be allowed to stand by her and turn over the leaves. There was a tear in Miss Morton's eye, though she smiled and thanked her, but Amy's attention gave her at that moment all that she required—the consciousness that some one was near who could feel for her; and in a short time she had recovered her self-command.

"Who was it I heard playing the airs in the last new opera, this morning?" said Mr Harrington, when Miss Morton had finished her piece. "Whoever it was seemed to me to be getting on extremely well."

Amy was going to answer, but Miss Cunningham prevented her. "I was trying them over after dinner," she said; "but I had never seen them before, and therefore, of course, I made one or two false notes."

"Oh!" exclaimed Dora, "there must be some mistake; for if you remember, you were at the piano just before I went out for my walk, and I heard you say you found them so difficult, you wondered any one could take the trouble to learn them. It must have been Amy—she has been regularly practising them."

"I don't know, indeed," replied Miss Cunningham, angrily; "I never heard her."

"I dare say Dora may be wrong," said Mr Harrington; "suppose you were to favour us now."

Miss Cunningham hesitated a little; but her self-confidence induced her to make the attempt, though it did not prevent her from blundering so sadly, that Mr Cunningham, in despair at the discordant sounds, at length walked to the piano, closed the book, and said in a low, stern voice, "Pray, Lucy, spare us any more; you must have known you could not play it in the least." There was no reply; for Miss Cunningham feared and respected her brother more than any one in the world, and saw that he was very much annoyed. Mr Harrington began to make excuses for her, and was unwilling that Amy should play instead; but he was forced to yield to Mr Cunningham's wish, and she was sent to the instrument; and, notwithstanding her alarm, satisfied every one that her talent for music was of a very superior kind. Even Lord Rochford, though vexed at his daughter's failure, could not help exclaiming, "Very good, very good, indeed—very correct time—who taught her, Harrington?"

"Her mamma was her only instructress for several years," replied Mr Harrington; "but latterly Miss Morton has taken her in hand, and I must say she does her infinite credit."

"Yes, certainly," said Lord Rochford, "very great credit indeed. What should you say, Lucy, to persuading Mrs Harrington to let you benefit a little by Miss Morton now, as a preparation for London? She would improve you, I dare say, even in these few days, and then when we were in London she might give you some hints as she saw you wanted them."

"Really," said Mrs Harrington, who thought this a very strange mode of appropriating the time and talents which were intended for the benefit of her own children, "it is quite useless to form any plans for London; I have every reason to be satisfied with the progress my children are making in the country, and shall not think of London masters at present; I have expressed my determination to your lordship in a very decided way from the first."

"True, quite true," replied Lord Rochford, feeling that the refusal had been very decided; "only people change; but we won't talk of London, you don't wish it, I see; but I should like this young lady to hear Lucy play over a piece or two while we are here."

Miss Cunningham's countenance expressed anything but amiability; and she gave her father a look which had often been found efficacious in preventing disagreeable plans, but his head was turned away, and she looked in vain; and the next moment he was at Miss Morton's side, praising her music, and begging, as a great favour, that she would take a little pains with Lucy, and hear her play occasionally; in fact, as Mr Harrington had said, take her in hand for a few days.

Dora could scarcely forbear smiling, as she observed the expression of Miss Cunningham's face—it told of pride, mortification, and anger; and Amy noticed it also, but she was not amused; she was sorry for both parties; for whatever might be Lucy Cunningham's disinclination to become Miss Morton's pupil, it certainly could not exceed Emily Morton's unwillingness to become her instructress. Lord Rochford shared his daughter's dulness of perception; and to complete the unpleasantness of the proposition, he spoke to Amy, hoping that she and Miss Cunningham would learn a few duets together. Poor Amy blushed, and tried, though with difficulty, to express acquiescence; and Mrs Harrington, observing her hesitation, reproved her for her rudeness, and assured Lord Rochford that Dora and Margaret would practise with Miss Cunningham whenever she wished it. It would be a more convenient arrangement, as Amy was only an occasional visitor; and though she had played tolerably well once, she had not received by any means the same advantages as her cousins. Amy could almost have cried with annoyance, but painful as it was to be so undervalued and misunderstood on every occasion, it was, in this instance, a very useful lesson to her, for it prevented the indulgence of vanity at being brought forward in so unusual a manner; and when she saw how Emily Morton was slighted, and remembered her meek, uncomplaining temper, she could only feel vexed with herself for caring so much about it, and long to possess a spirit as humble as hers. The events of the evening, though trifling in themselves, were not so in their consequence. Miss Cunningham went to bed angry with her father, angry with herself, and, above all, angry with Emily Morton and Amy. Of the affair of the dance, she thought but little, for she was not aware that any blame had been attached to her; but she had been foolish in attempting to play, and her father still more so, she decided, in teasing her with lessons, and making a fuss about Miss Morton, instead of depreciating her, and so increasing the difficulties in the way of the London expedition. Amy had been made her rival, and had gained approbation which might have been hers, and, above all, had been noticed by Mr Cunningham, whose last words, as he wished his sister good-night, were, that it would make him entirely contented to see her as sweet-tempered, humble, and unaffected as Amy Herbert. With these feelings the idea of their both going with the rest of the family to London, in case Lord Rochford gained his point, was most provoking; and very earnestly did Miss Cunningham hope that something might occur within the next two months to remove Emily Morton from Emmerton. In her absence, Amy was too much of a child to be cared for, but together they would form a very considerable drawback to the pleasure she expected; and she thought it would be preferable to give up the journey at once, than to be continually troubled with Miss Morton as an instructress, and Amy Herbert as an example. Amy went to her mother as usual, not quite satisfied with herself. The first elation had subsided, and she was aware of the evil feeling that had arisen in her mind, and at once acknowledged it to Mrs Herbert; and then, referring to the dance, she wondered that Miss Cunningham could have been so blind to the impropriety of the suggestion.

"I should have thought, mamma," she said, "that Dora's face would have shown her she was wrong."

"It does not surprise me," replied Mrs Herbert, "because the same thing happens continually with every one. Whatever we wish for we easily persuade ourselves is allowable."

"But there cannot really be any harm in wishing, can there?" said Amy.

"Only so far harm as it is the seed of all evil," answered her mother.
"If our wishes were good, our actions would be good also."

"But there are a great many wishes which are neither good nor bad, mamma—wishes, I mean, that are of no consequence."

"I think that is a mistake, my dear; we are so ignorant that we never can tell whether even a passing thought may not be of consequence; and, with regard to our wishes, the moment we see that we shall not be permitted to indulge them, we must try and get rid of them."

"I do not quite see why it is necessary," said Amy.

"Because," replied her mother, "our will ceases then to be the same as the will of God. There is a very fearful lesson given us in the Bible on this subject in the history of Balaam. He wished to go with the prince of Moab in the expectation of receiving a great reward, and God forbade him. His duty then was to conquer his inclination; but, instead of this, he only obeyed outwardly and still continued to wish, and at last he was permitted to follow his own way; but we are told that the anger of God was kindled against him."

"I see that he was wrong," said Amy, "but must we not wish for little things?"

"If we were quite good, we should never do so, my love; we should see plainly that even the smallest events of our lives are ordered for our good; and it is better to begin with controlling our wishes in trifles, and then we shall not be led astray by them in great things. Of course there is no harm in wishing for innocent things, as long as it is permitted us to enjoy them; but when they are put beyond our reach our wishes must cease."

Amy was too tired to converse more; but, although she felt that the idea was a difficult one to realise, she did not the less resolve on putting it in practice.