Dora was quite satisfied the next morning when she saw the whole party engaged in decorating the saloon for the evening's amusement. Frank and his companions, indeed, were at times rather more troublesome than useful, from the very zeal with which they engaged in the work. They would put up boughs of evergreens where they were not needed, and insist on driving in a superabundance of nails; and they would also strew the floor with enormous branches, which only served as stumbling-blocks for every one who moved. But these were minor evils; all talked fast, and laughed merrily, and looked happy; and those who have ever had the responsibility of entertaining others, must be aware that no symptoms can be so encouraging as these. Miss Cunningham might perhaps have been considered an exception; for there was something like a sneer on her lip, as she seated herself by Margaret's side at the table that had been placed for the flower-makers, and began turning over the collection of roses, tulips, and lilies of every form and colour, which far out-shone in variety any that nature has produced. "I should like to know," she said, "what is the use of your all wasting time in this way? What will be the good of it when you have done?"

"It is for our pleasure," replied Julia Stanley, sharply; "and as to wasting time, why it is better than doing nothing."

"Such common, vulgar work, too," continued Miss Cunningham; "and all for a conjurer."

"Who said we were working for the conjurer?" asked Julia. "I said we were working to please ourselves."

"Then it seems to me very absurd to find pleasure in such nonsense," said Miss Cunningham.

"That is as people think; I see no difference between cutting out flowers and threading beads, which I think you were doing all yesterday; and if you do not like the work, you need not look at it."

"I am sure I do not want to look at that or the conjurer, or anything else," said Miss Cunningham; "tricks are far too vulgar to please me."

"But what do you mean by vulgar?" asked Dora.

"Vulgar?—why vulgar means—every one knows what it means."

"No," said Mary Warner, in her quick, decided tone; "every one does not know what it means, because no two people in the world think quite alike about it."

"Dear me! how silly you are!" exclaimed Miss Cunningham; "vulgar?—vulgar means common, I suppose."

"Then the conjurer is not vulgar, because his tricks are uncommon," said
Julia.

Miss Cunningham bit her lips and was silent; and Amy, who was becoming interested in the discussion, turned to Miss Morton, who had just entered the room, and asked her to tell them what things she thought were vulgar.

"What a request!" said Julia; "Miss Morton might go on all day, and she would not be able to answer it. You have not been taught to ask questions, that is quite clear."

Poor Amy looked confused, and said, timidly, that she thought she had expressed herself badly.

"I know what you mean, though," replied Miss Morton, who had of late ventured more openly to express her opinions, especially when called forth by Amy; "I don't think anything vulgar in itself, but only when it is not befitting the rank and station of the person concerned."

Miss Cunningham opened her eyes widely, and looked as if she would willingly have understood; and Amy begged Miss Morton to explain herself more clearly.

"Conjuring tricks," she asked, "are they vulgar?"

Miss Morton smiled. "I hope," she said, "you are not growing too proud to be amused; why should such a notion enter your head?"

"Miss Cunningham thinks them so," replied Amy.

"If Miss Cunningham were to exhibit them herself to any people that might choose to come and look at them," answered Miss Morton, "I should have reason to think her vulgar; but the poor conjurer is a common person who gains his livelihood by his ingenuity. There can be nothing more vulgar in his exhibition of tricks (if they are proper ones, I mean), than in a carpenter's making a table, or a tailor's making a coat."

"Really," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, "you have most extraordinary ideas. I exhibit conjuring tricks, indeed? I wonder how the notion could ever have entered your head."

"It is strange," said Julia Stanley, quietly: "conjurers are generally clever."

Miss Cunningham did not immediately perceive what was intended, but Hester did, and in her endeavour to be polite in contrast to her sister, contrived to make the meaning perfectly clear. "I do not see why you should think that, Julia," she said, "of course a person of Miss Cunningham's rank would never do anything of the kind, but it is wrong to say she could not do it."

"No one said so, of course," exclaimed Miss Cunningham.

"Oh dear! no," replied Julia; "all that I said was, that conjurers were clever."

Amy looked at Miss Cunningham, and saw that for once in her life she understood; and anxious if possible to preserve peace, she returned again to the subject of vulgarity; saying she wished she could comprehend it better.

"You will comprehend it very well when you are older and have seen more of the world," replied Emily; "but I think now if you observe what things strike you as vulgar in persons, you will find they are always those which arise from a wish to be thought richer or cleverer, or higher in rank than they really are, or else from their having the manners and habits of a class who are inferior to themselves. Bad grammar is very natural in a labouring man, and very vulgar in a nobleman; a splendid dress is very proper for a queen, and very vulgar for the wife of a tradesman. All persons who go out of their station, or pretend to be what they are not, must be vulgar, whether they are princes or peasants. You often hear of persons of no education, who have made great fortunes from a very low beginning, trying to vie with those born to rank and riches, and then they are laughed at as vulgar. If they had kept to their own station, they might have had precisely the same manners; but they would have escaped ridicule, because then there would have been no pretence about them."

"But it is in little things that I am puzzled," said Amy. "Are persons vulgar who make pies and puddings, and mend their own clothes?"

"To be sure they are, Amy," said Frank, who had great notions of having every one belonging to him very refined and superior; "I hope you never intend to do such things, or you had better set up a dame-school at once."

"But do you think so, too?" asked Amy, looking earnestly at Miss Morton.

"No! indeed, I do not," replied Emily; "I think the more we know of common, useful things, the better, as long as we are not ashamed of them. It is the doing them in private, and pretending to be ignorant of them in public, which constitutes the vulgarity."

"I am always afraid of not knowing what I ought to do when I am with people," said Amy, "and I should be so sorry to do vulgar things."

Miss Morton smiled, as she looked at Amy's sweet face, and listened to her peculiarly ladylike pronunciation, and thought how impossible it would be for her to appear anything but a lady.

"Oh!" said Miss Cunningham, "it is quite out of the question for people who live always in the country to understand what things are proper and fashionable, and what are not. I should never have known myself if my aunt had not told me; and of course she knows, because she goes out constantly in London."

"Really," said Julia, satirically, "that quite surprises me; but then I am very ignorant, I have never even been in London."

"Do you think I shall ever learn to be fashionable?" asked Amy of Miss
Morton.

"I hope not," said Emily, regardless of Miss Cunningham's contemptuous smile.

"Why?" asked Margaret, "do you not wish her to be ladylike?"

"Yes," replied Emily; "but it does not follow that to be ladylike it is necessary to be fashionable. A fashionable manner is a manner put on; a really ladylike manner arises from a really ladylike mind—one is sincere, the other generally is affected; and when persons strive to be fashionable, they often end in becoming vulgar."

"Then what do you think we should try to be?" asked Mary Warner.

"Nothing," replied Emily; "those who possess a cultivated mind, and a gentle, humble disposition, need not try to be anything; they may be quite sure of not being vulgar; and as for being elegant and graceful, they will never become so by thinking about it; the very endeavour must make them constrained."

"But I should so like to be elegant," said Margaret.

"So would many others," answered Emily; "and they would like to be beautiful too, but they cannot make themselves so. Elegance is a gift as much as beauty."

A conscious smile passed over Margaret's countenance; she felt that one gift at least she possessed, and the sight of Miss Cunningham's plain face was more agreeable to her than ever; she was sure it must be such a contrast to her own.

"Then," said Mary Warner, "you would not advise any person to imitate the manners of another?"

"No," replied Emily; "because persons' manners ought to suit with their minds; and as all persons have different minds, so they must, to a certain degree, have different manners. Manners should be the veil through which the mind is seen, not the covering by which it is hidden."

"Come, Frank!" exclaimed Henry Dornford, who was tired of having to labour alone; "do leave all the young ladies to discuss their manners by themselves; it can be nothing to you, and I want you dreadfully."

"Coming, coming," said Frank, hastily, "only I must say one thing, that
I know I can see some persons' minds in their manners quite plainly.
Yours, Dora, for instance; any one might see you are as proud as a queen
by the way you march into a room."

"Oh Frank!" half whispered Amy, as she saw the angry flush on Dora's check, "do not say such things as that; you have vexed Dora, I am sure."

"I did not mean any harm," said Frank, "only it is a truth; now I will just ask every one, don't you all think I am right?"

Poor Dora's dignity was shocked beyond expression at the idea of this public criticism; but she tried to laugh as her only resource. Every one looked and felt awkward; and Frank, who had spoken thoughtlessly from the impulse of the moment, wished his words unsaid. Happily Henry Dornford broke the silence by calling again to him to leave them; and Frank this time had no wish for any more last words. Dora strove to recover her equanimity, but in vain; she fancied every one must be thinking of and judging her, and she knew that what Frank had said was true. Perhaps, if he had expressed himself differently, her annoyance might have been less; for she had always imagined it dignified and suitable to her position to have rather proud manners—it kept people at a distance, and made them recollect who she was, and she fancied that pride and dignity must go together. But to hear her manners discussed in her presence by school-girls and school-boys, was a very different thing; and after a few efforts to appear unconcerned, she left the party to themselves, and retired to her own room. Amy saw by her countenance what was passing in her mind; but she did not like to follow her, for she knew there were times when pity and sympathy would be more distasteful to Dora than anything. When her cousin was unhappy, Amy had no hesitation in endeavouring to comfort her; but when she had done wrong, it would have seemed interfering improperly to take any notice of it, for Amy never forgot that Dora was her superior in age, and in the knowledge of many things she had acquired by being the eldest of the family, and by having been brought forward far beyond her years.

Dora's absence was not much regretted, and the work went on so quickly and merrily, that the sound of the dinner-bell was pronounced by all to be very unwelcome; but dinner was quickly ended, and Henry Dornford again summoned them to put the finishing stroke to the whole, and to say if anything more were needed. The question went round in rotation; and, being a little tired, they felt no inclination to suggest further improvements. But Amy, perceiving that Dora was not there, immediately proposed that her opinion should be asked.

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Margaret. "What will it signify what Dora says? We cannot all set to work again to please her. Why will you always interfere, Amy?"

"I did not mean to interfere indeed, Margaret," replied Amy; "but you know Dora never likes anything to be decided without her, and she has been the chief manager of this."

"She is the chief manager of everything, I think," said Miss Cunningham; "at least, she would be if she could."

"But she is the eldest," said Amy.

"She is not so old as I am; and if she were, I do not see why we are all to give up our taste to hers. If she wants to give an opinion, why does she go away?"

"She did not know that it would be all finished so soon, perhaps," answered Amy. "I wish I might go and tell her."

"There is no reason against it that I can see," said Frank; "only she must not expect us to begin working again, merely for her pleasure."

"I daresay," replied Amy, "she will think it does very nicely: but I am sure she would like to be asked, and it would be a pity she should be vexed twice in the day."

Frank's good-nature immediately took the hint; and without saying another word, he ran off himself to find Dora, and, if possible to soothe her feelings by making her the principal person in the business. A few months before, Dora's irritation would have continued a whole day after such a severe trial to her temper, and solitude would only have increased her annoyance, by giving her more time to reflect upon its cause; but since she had known Amy, and could contrast her gentleness, meekness, and constant cheerfulness, with things in her own character so much the reverse, she had for the first time felt her defects, and longed to correct them; and having earnestly and resolutely determined to realise those longings by putting in practice the rules she had laid down to aid her improvement, she was now beginning to feel all the benefit of them; for she had learned, as the first step, to distrust her own powers, and to ask for a higher strength. Happily Dora was gifted with an energy of mind which prevented her from delaying her duty when once it had been clearly pointed out; and the time spent by herself had been so well employed, that all traces of irritation had vanished even before dinner, very much to Frank's and Margaret's astonishment: and now, with apparently the most perfect good-humour, she gave her opinion as to what was required to complete the adornment of the saloon; and then, finding that no one was disposed to agree with her, relinquished her own idea, and declared herself willing to abide by the decision of the majority.

Amy noticed the change, and asked herself whether she could have been equally good-humoured; and Margaret remarked it also, in so loud a whisper to Miss Cunningham, that it was impossible for Dora not to overhear it. The heightened colour told in an instant that she did; but she had conquered her temper once that day, and the second trial was comparatively easy; it required but one moment of recollection, and a slight effort at self-control, and to all appearance she was perfectly unruffled.

The party separated almost immediately afterwards; and Amy went to her mother's room. Mr Harrington was with her, and they were talking, as usual, of India, Colonel Herbert, and the probability of hearing from him. The same things had been repeated again and again; but this subject was now the only one in which Mrs Herbert could take any real interest, and her brother's affection prevented him from ever feeling it wearisome.

"And do you really think, then," were the words Amy heard as she entered the room, "do you really think that it is possible there may be a letter by the last mail?"

"Only just possible," replied Mr Harrington, "as this place is so retired, and my own letters sometimes go astray; but you must feel that such a hope as that is a mere shadow. I earnestly wish you could make up your mind not to think about it. The anxiety is doing you more harm than you can imagine."

"Dr Bailey will be here this evening, I suppose," said Mrs Herbert, with a smile; "and then he will set your mind at ease about me. I have felt so much better since I have had something like a certain hope to build on, that I have very little fear for myself now."

"But the suspense," replied Mr Harrington; "no mind can bear that, and the constant dwelling upon one subject. If you could only divert your thoughts, I am sure it will help you."

"I do try, indeed I do," said Mrs Herbert; "for your sake, and for Amy's, I make the effort continually; but the one idea will remain; and even when I believe I am interested in what I am doing, I find that the slightest unusual sound, or the sudden opening of a door, will make my heart beat violently, and bring on the faintness to which I am subject, so as completely to take away my strength. But I am not going to give way to this, you may be quite sure," she added, seeing that Mr Harrington looked very grave; "and to prove it, I intend to make Amy tell me all she has been doing this afternoon."

Mr Harrington went away, and Amy did her utmost to amuse her mother, and found so much to relate, that she had scarcely time to dress before she was summoned to tea. The conjurer was expected to arrive about seven o'clock, and Dora had arranged everything satisfactorily to her own wishes, with Mrs Harrington's consent, for their having a dance when the exhibition was over; and even Miss Cunningham condescended to say, on hearing it, that she expected to have a very pleasant evening.

Amy rather shrank from the idea of dancing before strangers, and wished that the few persons invited for the evening would find some reason for staying at home; but her anticipations of pleasure were still great, and when the party adjourned to the saloon to await the conjurer's arrival, there were few whose eyes sparkled as brightly, or whose laugh was as joyous as hers.

"Who has ever seen a conjurer?" asked Henry Dornford, as they stood round the fire.

Mary Warner was the only one who had been so fortunate, and the exhibition she had witnessed was but an indifferent one.

"Well, then!" exclaimed Henry, proud of his superior knowledge, "I advise you all to take care of yourselves, or you will lose your senses."

"Why should we do that?" said Julia. "Is the conjurer going to steal them? I shall congratulate him on the treasure he will get from some of us at least;" and she looked round to see if Miss Cunningham were near; but she had not yet made her appearance, and Julia's satire was lost.

"I really am afraid for the little ones," continued Henry. "Conjurers do such wonderful things, and they generally dress themselves up in an outlandish way; and the one I saw talked a sort of double Dutch, just to make us think that he came from Timbuctoo."

"If that be a qualification for a conjurer," said Julia, "we had better get poor Mr Cunningham to exhibit. I defy any one to know what part of the world he comes from."

"So he would make a capital conjurer," said Henry Dornford; "and he would not want a mask either; for he can twist his face into a hundred and twenty different shapes in a minute. Just look, I am sure I can do it exactly like him."

"Ah: but can you talk too?" said Julia: "it is nothing without the stammering and stuttering."

"But he does not stammer," observed Mary Warner. "Never mind," said Henry. "Listen—yet wait—I will go out of the room, and come in again in his blind way, with a glass to my eye, and then speak, and you shall tell me if you would have known us apart."

Julia laughed heartily at the idea, and Henry was just going when he was stopped by Amy.

"I wish," she said, timidly, "you would not do it, because"—— and here she paused.

"Because what?" asked Henry, in great astonishment.

"Because," said Amy, more firmly, "it is not quite right, is it, to laugh at people and mimic them?"

"Not right to laugh at people!" exclaimed Henry; "what a girl's notion that is!—why, half the fun in the world would be gone if we were not allowed to laugh at any one."

"I don't think that makes it right," said Amy.

"Oh nonsense, nonsense!" was the reply. "I will soon teach you to think differently from that; now, just look at me, and see if it is not capital sport."

Henry ran to the door, and then re-entered, with a manner and voice so exactly like Mr Cunningham's, that all burst into aloud laugh;—all, except Amy, who tried very hard to prevent even a smile; and when she found this was impossible, began blaming herself, and anxiously repeating her request that Henry would not do it.

"It is quite Mr Cunningham's misfortune," she said; "and he is so good and kind—he has been so very kind to me."

The peculiar sound which always preceded Mr Cunningham's sentences was heard when Amy had spoken, and some one said "Thank you;" but it was not Henry Dornford, for he looked completely frightened, and fixed his eyes on the door. No one ventured to utter another word, and in the silence retreating foot-steps were heard along the passage.

"Do you think he heard all we were saying?" asked Henry.

"Don't say we," replied Hester Stanley; "you know no one had anything to do with it but yourself. Why did you not take care to shut the door?"

"I daresay he only caught the last words," said Julia; "and if so, there is no harm done; besides, listeners never hear any good of themselves. It is his own fault; people who don't know how to talk should stay at home."

"I think it served us right," said Mary Warner. "I felt it was wrong all the time, only it amused me so."

"Well! there is no use in troubling ourselves about it," said Julia; "he is neither father, brother, nor cousin to any of us, and most probably we shall never see him again after to-morrow; so do let the matter rest."

Amy thought that the never seeing him again could not make any difference in the action; but it was not her place to speak. She only felt glad that Mr Cunningham would not consider her unfeeling and forgetful of his kindness, and wondered at Julia's appearing so indifferent to the thought of having given pain, for she continued laughing and talking as before, and trying to make the others do the same. Her efforts, however, were not quite successful; the circumstance had cast a blank over their enjoyment, and many anxious eyes were turned to the door to see if Mr Cunningham were likely to appear again, and all felt relieved when the conjurer was announced, and the rest of the company came into the room. Mr Cunningham was with them, but their thoughts were now diverted from him, though they all remarked that he took especial notice of Amy, and placed her by his side in the best position for seeing everything.

Amy was grateful for his kindness, but wished it had been differently shown. At first she felt uneasy in her rather elevated situation, and she dreaded very much lest he should begin talking, and especially lest he should refer to what had passed; but this evening he was peculiarly silent; and Amy soon forgot everything but the delight of seeing flowers grow out of egg-shells, chickens hatched in a gentleman's hat, rings and brooches found in the possession of every one but their right owners, and all the other wonders which made the conjurer appear to possess some unearthly power. She hardly wished for an explanation of them, and felt quite vexed when she heard Henry Dornford whisper to Frank that some of the tricks were quite nonsense—things he could do himself; while Mr Cunningham rose in her favour when he told her that great part of the exhibition was beyond his comprehension, and that what Henry had said was merely a school-boy's boast. It seemed now less difficult to believe the marvellous stones of fairies and genii which she had so often read, and she was considering in her own mind whether Aladdin's lamp might not actually be in existence at that moment, when the green curtain fell, and they were again left to the realities of every-day life. There was an exclamation of regret from all the party, with the exception of Miss Cunningham, who said she was tired of sitting in a dark room. Even little Rose, though she rubbed her eyes, and was almost inclined to cry from mere weariness, begged that the funny man might come back again, or that at least she might have one of the eggs with the pretty flowers in it; and Amy secretly wished the same thing, though she was ashamed to own it when she found every body laughing at Rose and promising her sugar plums and sweetmeats to pacify her.

Miss Cunningham was the first to follow Mrs Harrington to the drawing-room, and to propose that they should begin dancing immediately—a proceeding which excited considerable surprise in Amy's mind, and induced Mr Cunningham to take his sister aside, and beg her to remember that she was not in her own house, and therefore it could not be her place to make suggestions. Dancing did, however, commence almost immediately. Emily Morton was placed at the piano, and no one but Amy appeared to consider that the trouble given required either thanks or apology. It was her business and her duty; and whether agreeable or not, it was a subject of trifling moment. Amy indeed had more leisure to think about it than the rest; for the number of dancers being unequal, she was the only one left out. Dora and Margaret had been first thought of by every one, and Mrs Harrington had taken care of the visitors; but Amy had no claim; she was looked upon as sufficiently at home to be left to herself, and not of consequence enough to be noticed; and the quadrille was formed, and the music had begun, before any one recollected her. Not to dance was rather a relief, but not to be asked was a neglect to which poor Amy was peculiarly alive. The occupations of the last few days had been too varied and interesting to leave much time for her old feelings to return, and she had fancied that they would never trouble her again; but now, as she stood by Miss Morton's side, the only one of the young party who was disengaged, they pressed upon her mind most painfully. Had her mother been in the room, she would have felt it much less; but Mrs Herbert seldom came down when so many persons were present, and Amy in consequence was completely alone. It was the gayest scene she had ever witnessed, and the bright lights and the joyous music alone, would at another time have given her thorough enjoyment; but now they were only a source of discontent, for they were looked upon as intended for others and not for her. She watched Dora, and thought how delightful it would be to be like her, the object of general attention, and she listened to the whispered admiration of Margaret's beauty, till she fancied for the moment that to be beautiful must constitute happiness. But Amy's delusion did not last long; she turned from her cousins to Emily Morton, and the sight of her in some measure recalled better feelings. With beauty, elegance, and goodness, she was as unnoticed as herself. She had no mother, no friends; her daily life was one of wearying mortification and self-denial; and yet Emily Morton had never been heard to utter a single murmur. She had never been known to compare her lot with others, or to wonder why she was deprived of the comforts enjoyed by them; and her heart was a perpetual well-spring of quiet gratitude, which made the heaviest trials of her life sources of improvement to herself, and of blessing to those around her. Even at that moment, her sweet smile and cheerful voice, as she begged to be told whether she was playing to please them, were a lesson which Amy could not but profit by, for she knew that in Emily's place she should have felt very differently; and she sighed, as the thought crossed her mind how difficult it would be to imitate her. She did, however, make the effort at once, and, when Dora approached, tried to speak gaily and to overcome her vexation; but a second and a third quadrille were formed, and still she was not asked to dance; and then the tears rushed to her eyes, and she longed to steal away unobserved, and go to her mamma for the remainder of the evening. Yet she was too shy to venture across the room by herself, and nothing was to be done but to sit quietly in the corner, watching the others, and trying not to be envious of them. Mr Cunningham would willingly have done his utmost to amuse her; but he was obliged to dance himself to make up the set, and it was not till the termination of the third quadrille that he came to her and began talking. Amy was getting accustomed to his voice, and found his conversation such a relief to her loneliness, that it restored her to a feeling of something like pleasure. She was certain also, from his manner, that he had overheard what had passed in the saloon; for, although his behaviour to Henry Dornford, and the rest of the party, was exactly the same as usual, yet he was evidently more anxious to please her than he had ever been before, and she felt his kindness peculiarly after the disappointment she had suffered. She could not, however, quite recover her accustomed cheerfulness even when at length she did join the quadrille; and the enjoyment of the evening was almost lost, especially when she thought how she had looked forward to it, and compared her brilliant expectations with the unlooked-for reality.