Dora's time was so fully occupied for the rest of the morning that she was quite unable to form any scheme of amusement; and three o'clock arrived, and with it carriage after carriage, each bringing an importation of visitors, before she had at all decided upon what was to be done with them. Frank had gone out with the young Dornfords, who came early, according to their engagement; and the three boys who arrived afterwards were immediately despatched to the lake to find him, and amuse themselves with skating.

"Boys are no trouble," thought Dora; "they always go out of doors, and take care of themselves; but girls——" and she sighed as she looked upon the five young ladies who, dressed in their best silks and gayest bonnets, stood each by the side of her mamma, very silent, very shy, and very uncomfortable.

"You will take your young friends into the schoolroom, Dora," said Mrs Harrington, in her most gentle tone. "I suppose none of them will like walking such a cold afternoon as this; but you will find plenty of entertainment for them there; and with Margaret, and Miss Cunningham, and Amy, you will make quite a pleasant little party."

"There can be no doubt of that," said a tall, good-natured looking lady, who had brought her two little girls to pay their first visit from home. "In a house like this there is always something agreeable to be done; and then it is so pleasant for young people to be together. My children live in such retirement that it is an especial treat to them to have companions."

The two little girls clung more closely to their mother's side as she spoke, apparently thinking that the greatest treat at that moment would be to remain under her protection; but Dora led the way to the door, and they were obliged to follow, hand in hand, and casting imploring looks upon their mamma to persuade her to go with them. She half rose from her seat, but Mrs Harrington stopped her. "You need not be uneasy, Mrs Danvers," she said; "Dora will take care of them."

"Oh yes! of course, of course," repeated Mrs Danvers; "but they are so shy, poor children; I should just like to see how they manage to go on amongst so many strangers."

"Certainly," replied Mrs Harrington; "we will look in upon them by and by. Would you like to take a little walk before dinner, or should you prefer remaining in the house, as it is so cold?"

"I should be glad to know what the children will do," said poor Mrs Danvers, in a fever of anxiety for their enjoyment, the moment they were out of her sight.

"We will inquire presently," persisted Mrs Harrington, who was always firm, even in trifling matters; and had made up her mind they should be left to themselves at first, to become acquainted with the rest of the party.

"If I could just ask them," said Mrs Danvers; "I dare say I could easily find my way to the schoolroom—where is it?"

"At the other end of the house," replied Mrs Harrington.

"Oh, just along the passages that we passed as we came in, I dare say."

"No, quite in a contrary direction. If you wish to know what your children prefer doing, Thomson shall ask for you."

Mrs Harrington rang the bell, and Thomson was sent to the schoolroom, while Mrs Danvers sat pondering upon the extreme unpleasantness of being a visitor in the house of any lady who was determined to have her own way.

Amy was in the schoolroom, waiting for her cousins, and a little time was spent in introductions, and in discussing whether it was a pleasant afternoon, and whether the snow would be disagreeable if they went out on the terrace; and when at last it was decided to be very cold, and that they had thin shoes on, and that one was rather liable to cold, and another to cough, &c., Dora found they were resolutely bent on an afternoon in the house, and all that was to be done was to show them to their respective apartments to take off their bonnets and shawls, and to wish heartily that they would remain there till summoned to the drawing-room for the evening. Quickly, much more quickly than Dora had supposed possible, they appeared again, full of expectation that something was to happen which was to give them very great pleasure. The visit to Emmerton had been talked of for weeks before; it had been the subject of their thoughts by day and their dreams by night; and the three school-girls (Dora's particular dread) had exulted when they announced to their companions that a portion of the Christmas holidays was to be passed at Emmerton Hall. In former days Mr Harrington's family had been not only the richest, but the gayest in the county, and every one associated with the name of Emmerton visions of breakfast-parties, dinner-parties, riding-parties, music, balls, and every kind of festivity; and though too young to be admitted to all these pleasures, the young ladies had still a bright, but somewhat indistinct notion, that a visit at Emmerton must be the height of human enjoyment; whilst poor Dora was expected to realise all these gay expectations when she was dissatisfied with herself, unhappy at the recollection of Wayland and her brother Edward, and with no one but Amy to assist in making every one comfortable.

A faint, despairing smile passed over her face as they entered, one after the other; and she cast a hopeless glance at Amy. Margaret had promised to appear, but Miss Cunningham considered it necessary to make some change in her dress, and her inseparable companion could not possibly leave her.

"You must have had a very cold drive," said Dora to the eldest Miss Stanley, a girl about her own age,—quiet, timid, and awed by the strangeness of everything about her. It was the fourth time the observation had been made; and for the fourth time the same low, half-hesitating "Yes," was given in reply; and there the conversation ended, and Dora turned to her other visitors, hoping to find them more communicative. Unhappily her manner was such as to repel instead of encouraging them; she really wished to be kind and agreeable, but she did not for a moment forget that she was Miss Harrington of Emmerton Hall; and her efforts to be polite were so evident, and she was so very condescending in everything she did and said, that it was impossible for the poor girls to be at ease.

Amy saw that her cousin was very different from what she usually was, but could not comprehend in what the change consisted, and only longed for her to leave off asking them if they liked music and drawing, and whether they preferred home or school, and how many brothers and sisters they had, and talk of something more interesting. Anything would have been preferable to the formality of asking a string of questions; even she herself was a little chilled by Dora's manner, and only ventured to say a few words in an undertone to a rather pretty, delicate girl, who stood by the fire near her. This most disagreeable constraint had lasted about ten minutes, when, to Amy's extreme satisfaction, Miss Morton's voice was heard in the passage, and almost immediately afterwards she entered, followed by Rose, laden with a doll nearly as large as herself, which she was only allowed to play with occasionally. She ran into the room with great glee, to exhibit her treasure to Amy, but shrank away on seeing so many strange faces; every one, however, seemed to feel her appearance an indescribable relief; the shy Miss Stanley stooped to kiss her, and ask how old she was; her sister begged to know the name of the doll; and Amy's friend was delighted to find in her a resemblance to a sister of about the same age; while the two younger children looked with envy and admiration upon the handsome pink frock and bright blue bonnet, which was always the holiday dress of the beautiful doll. But a greater charm than Rose and her doll was soon found in Emily Morton's manner. She went from one to the other, saying something kind to each, in a voice so sweet that it would have made even a commonplace expression agreeable; and after a few trifling questions, which gave her some idea of their peculiar tastes and dispositions, she managed, by making observations of her own, to induce them to do the same; and listening with real and not forced interest to whatever was said, she led them on to describe their companions and their school life, till Dora found, to her surprise, that Hester Stanley, whom she had decided in her own mind to be almost devoid of intellect, and certainly unutterably dull, was a good French and Italian scholar, very fond of drawing, and farther advanced than herself in her acquaintance with books in general; that her sister was extremely amusing; and that Mary Warner had travelled on the Continent, and had many stories to tell of the peculiarities of foreign manners and customs. The younger children looked at Rose for a few minutes without speaking, then ventured to touch the doll, and at last, with one consent, seemed to resolve on being sociable, and retired into a corner of the room to enact the parts of mamma, nurse, and doctor to the poor doll, who, in spite of her brilliant colour, was pronounced to be in a most dangerous state of health, and to require instant advice; while the party collected round the fire, growing bolder and bolder as the noise in the room increased, began at last so entirely to enjoy themselves, that when the dusk of the evening had stolen on them, and a proposition was made by the children for candles, there was a general petition for a few moments' respite, that they might have the luxury and freedom of talking by firelight prolonged. It was a strange contrast to the stiffness of the first half-hour; and Dora hardly knew whether she quite approved of it; it seemed to throw her so completely in the background; but to Amy it was delightful. It was so new, and so interesting to hear a description of a school life, that she thought she could have listened forever; and even Margaret and Miss Cunningham, who came into the room in the middle of one of Julia Stanley's most amusing stories, appeared to take some pleasure in what was passing. Margaret's interest was real; but Miss Cunningham's satisfaction arose from the comparison which she could make in her own mind between the splendour of Rochford Park and the very ordinary style of living to which her new acquaintances had been accustomed; and at every possible opportunity she broke out into exclamations of "Dear me! how strange! how very shabby! what a wretched place your school must be!" till she hoped she had fully convinced them of the fact, that the habits in which she had been brought up were immeasurably superior to theirs. Julia Stanley, however, was not at all awed by Miss Cunningham's grandeur; she continued her stories, talking very fast, and laughing heartily, and caring little what was thought as long as she could make others laugh also; but her sister was not equally insensible; and every now and then she endeavoured to check the flow of Julia's spirits, and to suggest that the customs of their school were not entirely as she had represented.

"You must not believe everything Julia tells you exactly," she said, turning to Miss Cunningham, who seemed quite unable to comprehend the fact of any young ladies being so ill-treated as to have no second course at dinner, no curtains to their beds, nor fires in their rooms. "She runs on so fast that she forgets. We always have puddings on Saturdays; and we have fires when we are ill; and there are curtains in the largest room, only we have never slept there."

"Well, then, bad is the best, is all that I can say for your school," said Miss Cunningham; "and as for ladies being brought up in such a way, how is it possible for them ever to know how to behave, if they are not taken more care of?"

"It must be very uncomfortable," said Dora; "but really I cannot see what a second course, and curtains, and fires, have to do with manners."

"To be sure not," exclaimed Julia; "what does it signify? It is very hard and disagreeable sometimes, and we cry a good deal when first we go there—that is, some of the little ones do; but after a few weeks it is all right, and we eat our cold rice pudding, and think it delicious."

"Cold rice pudding!" repeated Amy, who had a peculiar dislike to it; "do you never have anything but cold rice pudding?"

"Not very often," replied Julia; "but, as I said before, it really does not signify. I assure you, if you were up at six o'clock every day, as we are, and had nothing but hard lessons from morning till night, you would think cold rice pudding one of the nicest things you had ever tasted. I don't think I ever like anything we have at home half as well."

"Well!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham, "I never heard of such a school before; all my notions were, that young ladies lived together, and learned a few lessons, and had French and drawing masters, and ladies' maids, and carriages—that would be agreeable enough; but you might just as well be cottagers' children, if you live so shabbily; and what a difference it must make after your home! How you must miss your carriage and servants!"

"I do not," said Mary Warner; "we have no carriage."

"Not keep a carriage!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham; "then how do you manage to get from one place to another?"

"Really," interrupted Dora, "I do not think you should cross-question any one in that way. Of course, there are carriages to be had, even if people do not choose to keep them."

"There are coaches always passing near us," said Mary; "and so it is very convenient."

"Coaches!—you mean stage coaches, I suppose," said Miss Cunningham.

"Yes," replied Mary; "one of them goes to Sandham, where our school is; so there is no difficulty about my travelling."

"That is the strangest thing of all," said Miss Cunningham. "Do you mean really that your papa and mamma allow you to travel about the country in a stage coach?"

The tone in which this was said sounded even more disagreeable than the words; and Julia Stanley instantly took offence. "And why not!" she exclaimed; "why should not people ride in stage coaches if they like it?"

"Of course, if they like it," said Margaret, who was always willing to side with her friend; "but liking it is a very different thing from being obliged to do it."

"So it may be," replied Julia; "but almost every one does it now."

"I never do," said Miss Cunningham, pointedly.

"Very likely," answered Julia; "but then you are only one person; and almost all those I know go in stage coaches constantly; so you need not be so much surprised at Mary Warner."

Miss Cunningham pouted and drew up her head, and thought Julia one of the most forward, impertinent girls she had ever met with; and Hester began to fear there must be something very derogatory to the dignity of a lady in travelling by a public conveyance; and yet remembering that once, when their own horses were lame, she had been obliged to avail herself of it, she could not with a clear conscience deny her acquaintance with them; she could, however, abuse them heartily, and lament the necessity which had induced their papa to allow it—quite agreeing with Margaret and Miss Cunningham, that it was not a common thing for people to do.

"Nonsense, Hester," exclaimed Julia; "you know as well as I do, that it is the most probable thing in the world that we shall go back to school by the coach; and what will your pride say to that?"

"Oh, papa mentioned something about it one day," replied Hester; "but of course he was not in earnest."

"But he was," answered Julia. "He said that now our cousins had left school, it would be a great expense for us to travel by ourselves, and that he should certainly put us into the stage coach, and let William take care of us, and then there would be no trouble about the matter. I wish," she added, turning to Amy, who stood next her, "that Hester would not try, as she always does, to make herself as grand and as fine as the people she is with."

Amy felt a slight pang of self-reproach as Julia spoke this; for when the conversation had first begun, she felt she should not like to say, as Mary Warner had done, that her papa and mamma did not keep a carriage; and it appeared almost like deception to blame another for a fault she was conscious of herself. "I think," she said, in reply to Julia's observation, "that it is not right to wish to be just the same as other people; but I am afraid I should like it; and I am sure, indeed," she added, with an effort, "that I should be glad to have a carriage to take me wherever I wanted to go."

"Then you have not one," said Julia; "that seems strange, being Mr
Harrington's niece."

"My uncle's being rich does not make any difference to us," was the answer, "except when we are staying here, and have the use of his things; but I think I should almost prefer being without them, because then I should not miss them."

"I used to think," said Julia, still speaking in a tone only to be heard by Amy, "that it signified a great deal about the way in which people lived till I knew Mary Warner; but she had such different notions that she made me think differently too."

"What notions?" asked Amy.

"Oh, I cannot tell you all now; but her papa was very rich—very rich indeed, and lived in a beautiful place; but in some way—I cannot quite understand how—he lost all his money, and was obliged to sell his property, and live in a much smaller house. If he had chosen, he might have had it all back again; but he is a very good man, and would not do something which he thought was not quite honourable; and so they continue living in the same inferior way, though no one, of course, thinks the worse of him for it, because every one says he has acted so nobly. This makes Mary care little for the change. She says her papa is so respected, and she is so fond of him, that it seems better to her than if they had all the fine places in the world."

Amy looked with interest at Mary as she heard this; but she was not able to continue the conversation, for the servant entered with candles, and tea immediately followed; and after tea they were all to dress for the evening.

To Dora's satisfaction, it had been decided that the boys were to dine late, so she was spared the task of keeping them in order; and, finding that every one was beginning to feel comfortable and at home, her own dignity a little relaxed, and she began to think that, after all, the infliction of a three days' visit from the school-girls might not be so very unendurable.

Amy hastened to her mother's room as soon as tea was over, in the hope of finding her there; for she had intended dining by herself, and appearing in the drawing-room only in the evening. "I must talk to you one minute, dear mamma," she said, as she entered. "We have been getting on so nicely in the schoolroom—so much better than I expected, only it was dreadful just at first. They were so silent, and Dora looked like a duchess. If I had not been her cousin I should have laughed; but I fancied they would think I ought to entertain them, and that made me feel more shy than ever; and then they all spoke in such a low voice that every word I said was heard."

"Well!" answered Mrs Herbert; "but who broke the spell?"

"Miss Morton, mamma," replied Amy; "and I should like to understand what made her so different from Dora."

"She is much older," said Mrs Herbert; "naturally that would make a difference."

"It was not quite that," continued Amy; "for if it had been my aunt Harrington, I don't think we should have ventured to speak a word; but there was something in Miss Morton's manner that made every one appear at ease. Can you tell me what it was?"

"You must imagine me to be a fairy. How can I possibly judge of what
Miss Morton did when I was not present?"

"But can you not guess from her character?" asked Amy. "You have seen so much more of her lately, that I think you must know."

"At least, you are determined, as usual," said Mrs Herbert, smiling, "that I shall give you a reason for everything which you cannot quite comprehend. I suspect, in the present instance, the secret consisted in Dora's thinking of herself all the time she was talking, and Miss Morton's thinking of others."

"That is not quite clear, mamma," replied Amy. "Does thinking of one's self make one stiff and formal?"

"Generally, either stiff or affected," replied Mrs Herbert; "yet it is very difficult to avoid doing it. You will often hear persons speaking of what are sometimes called 'company manners,'—not meaning exactly affectation, but a manner approaching to it, which is not quite natural; and it almost always arises from this same cause. It is, in fact, very nearly allied to selfishness; for we care so much more for ourselves than others, that we take a greater interest in thinking of ourselves than of them, and so we become disagreeable."

"But how can we help it?" asked Amy.

"By trying, every day of our lives, to consult the happiness of those we live with," answered Mrs Herbert. "I mean, in the merest trifles, such as giving up a pleasant seat, or an amusing book, or fetching things for them to save them trouble, or listening to them when they wish to talk to us. By these means we can acquire a habit of forgetting ourselves which will remain with us whether we are in company, or only with our own family."

Amy listened to her mother with an earnest wish to follow her advice; and when she joined the party in the drawing-room she found immediate opportunities of putting it in practice.

The evening was a cheerful one, for Mr Harrington proposed some Christmas games, and insisted upon every one's joining them; and although Dora and Miss Cunningham held back, and thought themselves too old, and too dignified, they were at length obliged to yield; and the rest of the party were so merry that they did not notice their grave looks and slow movements. Amy enjoyed herself thoroughly; and when her gay laugh caught Mrs Herbert's ear, it gave her more happiness than she had felt for many months, since she could now venture to dwell on the delight which Colonel Herbert would experience on seeing her so entirely what he could most have desired his child to be. Dora was almost jealous as she noticed the regard which Amy attracted, and wondered what the secret could be. Perhaps, if she had followed her cousin's example, and given up a seat to Mary Warner when she was tired, and assisted Hester Stanley when her sandal broke, and soothed one of the children when she fell down and was frightened, she too might have been a favourite; but without intending to be unkind, she managed so openly to show her dislike to what was going on, that every one endeavoured to keep aloof from her; and if they did speak, the answer was so cold, and the manner so proud, that the wish to make another attempt was impossible.