"Margaret," said Miss Cunningham, who had joined the walking party merely from not knowing how to employ her time satisfactorily while they were away, "I want you to talk to me a little; never mind the rest, they will manage very well; and really what I have to say is of consequence."

"Is it, indeed?" replied Margaret, who dearly loved a little mystery; "but you must be quick, for Dora said so much to me, before we came out, about being attentive to them all."

"It cannot signify what Dora says; she is not to rule every one; at least I am sure she shall not rule me. But what I wanted to say to you was about London. I talked to papa this morning; and he says, after all, he thinks there is a chance of your going."

"Oh no! he cannot really mean it; mamma was so very positive the other night."

"Yes, I know that; but it is something about Mrs Herbert which makes the difference. Your papa thinks her very ill, and he wants to have advice for her; and if Dr Bailey does not give a good report, he will try and persuade her to go, and then all the family are to go too."

"Well, that would be delightful; but the time would not suit you—it will be so soon."

"But if you were to go at once, papa would not object to being there earlier himself, for he is determined that we shall have lessons together."

"So then it is all settled," said Margaret, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "To be sure, I am sorry for poor Amy, but I daresay there is nothing very much the matter; and with a London physician Aunt Herbert will soon get well."

"I don't think it is settled at all," answered Miss Cunningham; "for I can tell you one thing, Margaret,—I never will go to London to be pestered by Miss Morton; she must stay at home, or I must. If you had only seen how she behaved this morning; she found as much fault with my playing as if I had been a mere baby."

"But," said Margaret, looking much perplexed, "there is no help for it; she must go with us; only it does not follow that you should learn of her."

"It does follow, though," replied Miss Cunningham, angrily; "how can you be so stupid, Margaret? I have told you a hundred and fifty times before, that if papa once has a thing in his head, not all the world can drive it out; and he said this morning that I should have lessons of her besides the other masters; but I won't—no, that I won't."

"That is right," said Margaret; "if you make a fuss about it, you will be sure to have your own way."

"But my way is to stay at home; I can do that if I choose, for mamma will like it; but I will never go near London to be laughed at by rude, vulgar people as I was this morning; so you may manage as well as you can without me."

Miss Cunningham walked on a few steps with her head raised, rapidly twisting the bag she held in her hand—a sure sign that she was working herself into a passion. Margaret followed, appearing very downcast, and feeling that Lucy's determination would prove the destruction of all her bright castles in the air. London, with only her own family, would be nearly as bad as Emmerton. "What do you wish me to do?" she said, anxiously.

"Nothing," was the reply; "but make up your mind to go without me, for I am quite determined; I can be as obstinate as papa, sometimes."

This could not be doubted; but it was no satisfaction to Margaret. "It is very unkind of you, Lucy," she said. "You sometimes tell me you love me; and yet you don't seem inclined to put yourself in the least out of your way to please me. You know very well that there will be no pleasure in London if you are away; we shall go nowhere and see nothing."

"Yes, I know it; but it can't be helped."

"That odious Emily Morton!" exclaimed Margaret; "she has been a torment in one way or another ever since she entered the house."

"And she will never be anything else," said Miss Cunningham; "I wish you joy of her."

"But is there nothing to be done?" again asked Margaret, whilst several most impracticable plans passed quickly through her mind, all having for their object the removal of this serious obstacle to her enjoyment.

"I can see nothing," was the answer; "unless you can make her go and see her friends whilst you are absent."

"I don't think she has any friends," said Margaret, "except an aunt, who is abroad; that is, she has never asked to go away, so I suppose she has no place to go to."

"That makes the case a great deal worse. If she has no friends you may depend upon it you will be burdened with her for ever."

"I believe, though," said Margaret, "there is a Mrs or Miss Somebody, who was her governess once, who could keep her for some time; but then, you know, it is no use talking about it; there is no chance of our being able to do anything."

"The loss will be more yours than mine," replied Miss Cunningham; "it will be just the same to me next year; but you will miss everything."

"Yes, everything," sighed Margaret.

"You would have gone to the opera, certainly; papa would have taken you there, and you would have been out half the day shopping, and driving in the parks; and you would have seen everything, and bought anything you wished,—for, of course, your papa would have given you plenty of money to do as you liked with; and then my aunt would have taken us to some delightful parties. But it is not worth while to think about it now; because if you go for your aunt's illness, and have no one to take you about, you will be at your lessons half the day, and staying at home with her the other half; and there will be nothing to be seen, because you must choose such a very quiet part of the town for an invalid."

"Oh Lucy!" said Margaret, "I wish you would not talk so. It is very unkind; for you know it will be all your doing."

"My doing! No, indeed I can't help it. Get rid of Miss Morton, and I will go directly. And now I have said all I wished, and so I think I shall turn back, for you told me you wanted to go to Dora; and really I have had quite enough of those school-girls this morning."

Margaret did not press her to stay, for she was becoming very indignant; but neither was she inclined to make any exertions to be agreeable; and, soon persuading herself that the walking party had advanced too far for her to overtake them, she rather sulkily turned back and followed Miss Cunningham, keeping, however, at a convenient distance, that she might be able to think over the conversation, and find some arguments which should induce her to break the resolution she had formed.

Amy in the meantime, enjoyed her walk with her companions in perfect unconsciousness that anything was near to disturb her happiness. She laughed at Julia Stanley's strange stories, till she forgot by degrees she had been afraid of her; and although every tree and stone were familiar, there was a pleasure in pointing out to strangers all the beauties of the grounds, even in their wintry dress; and good-humour being proverbially infectious, the whole party returned home in all the better spirits that they had been spared Miss Cunningham's sulkiness and pride. The first news, however, that awaited Amy upon entering the house, was the information from Susan Reynolds that Mr Harrington had prevailed on her mamma to see Dr Bailey. Amy started and turned pale, and anxiously asked if her mamma were very ill.

"Oh, dear! no," replied Susan, frightened in her turn; "but I thought you would be glad to know your mamma was going to see a doctor, because then, perhaps, she will get strong again."

"Yes; but she must be worse, I am sure," said Amy; "she never would send for any one unless she were very ill indeed." And without waiting to hear more, she hastily ran to Mrs Herbert's room. But her fears were soon calmed. Mrs Herbert was looking much the same as usual, and seemed in tolerable spirits, and quite laughed at Amy's alarm.

"I have only consented to see Dr Bailey," she said, "just to satisfy your uncle; and it was very foolish in any one to frighten you, my dear child, so unnecessarily; so now go to your dinner, and forget me, and be happy."

"That would not be the way to be happy, mamma. I never enjoy anything till I have remembered that I can tell you about it. But are you sure you are not very ill?"

"I am quite sure that I am not feeling worse than I have done for the last six weeks," replied Mrs Herbert; "and I suspect the sight of your papa's handwriting would do more towards my cure than all the physicians in the world. I hoped to have heard from him by the same mail which brought the news of peace."

"Perhaps," said Amy, "the letter will come to-morrow."

"Oh no!" replied Mrs Herbert; "it is scarcely possible—I must be contented to wait. But you had better go now, Amy—there is the second dinner-bell."

Amy left the room much relieved. A natural buoyancy of disposition seldom allowed her to be unnecessarily anxious. She was too young to form any judgment of her own respecting the state of her mother's health; and Mrs Herbert's assurances outweighed the passing influence of her uncle's misgivings. She did, however, look oftener than ever to the door during the evening, with a vague expectation that her father would appear: and she persuaded Mr Cunningham to repeat again to her all he had before said of the probability of his arrival at any moment; while Mrs Herbert, also, listened eagerly, and laughed at herself for being as fanciful as Amy, though her heart beat quickly at the slightest unusual sound in the house.

"There is the second day happily over, Amy," said Dora, as she bade her good night: "and now I have no more fears; we shall do very well to-morrow. Frank has been proposing for us all to assist in ornamenting the outer saloon for the conjurer, and Mary Warner can show us how to make artificial flowers—so we shall have plenty of occupation; and in the evening I really think we may make up a quadrille. You know there are several people coming besides; and Emily Morton will play as long as we like. The only thing that worries me is about Julia and Lucy Cunningham; they are exactly like cat and dog."

"I daresay we can manage to keep them separate," replied Amy. "If Margaret will take care of Miss Cunningham, there will be no difficulty at all."

"But they will get together," said Dora. "And really, though I do cordially dislike—not hate, remember, Amy,—though I do cordially dislike Lucy Cunningham, yet I must say Julia behaves infamously; she has been snapping at her the whole evening; and, moreover, almost laughed at Mr Cunningham to her face."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy, "she could not do that; it would be so dreadfully unfeeling."

"But she could, though; she could do that or anything else that came to her head. You know she sets up for being clever, and thinks she may have everything her own way. I wish you would talk to her, Amy."

"Me!" repeated Amy, in a tone of the utmost surprise; "you are laughing at me, Dora."

"No, indeed, I never was more in earnest in my life. I heard her say to-day she thought you knew more of what was right than any one else in the house, and had more courage too."

Amy was silent from astonishment.

"It is your quiet way, Amy, which strikes her so, I am sure," continued Dora; "you never make a fuss about being good-natured, and yet you always do everything for everybody; and I am sure they must all see it, and love it too—at least if they are like me. There is always a difficulty when any one else is goodnatured, they seem to have achieved something."

"You know, Dora," replied Amy, gravely, "that I always ask you not to say such things to me, but you will forget. I don't mean that I don't like it, because I do very much; but mamma would rather I should not hear them, and so it vexes me."

"Vex you!" exclaimed Dora, earnestly; "if you knew half I would do to please you, Amy, you would not talk of my vexing you, at least not willingly; I never could have believed, before I came to Emmerton, how painful I should find it to be unkind to any one; but now I can never forgive myself when I have been cross to you."

The tears rose to Amy's eyes as she wished her cousin good night and hastened away; but the expression of Dora's affection amply rewarded her for any impatience she had repressed, or self-denial she had practised.