In her after-life Amy enjoyed many and great blessings; but she could never recur to any which equalled the pure, intense pleasure of that moment. Colonel Herbert's return seemed the restoration of both her parents; and even before she had again looked in her father's face, and wondered at the strangeness of his sudden arrival, she had thought of the unspeakable relief her mother would experience, and involuntarily rushed to the door of her chamber. She was stopped, however, by Mr Harrington.

"We must be careful," he said; "your mamma is too weak to bear such a surprise. I will break it to her gently."

"Mamma is moving," said Amy; "she will hear us. May I not go?"

Mrs Herbert had caught the sound of voices, and asked if Amy were there.

"There is nothing to be done, then," said Mr Harrington, in answer to
Amy's imploring look; "but remember you must be cautious."

Colonel Herbert came forward and stationed himself near the door. "I cannot bear this long," he whispered. "Amy, my darling child, I must go to her soon," and Amy, unable to restrain her own eagerness, answered her mothers summons.

"Who is in the ante-room?" said Mrs Herbert. "You were speaking to some one."

"My uncle was there," answered Amy; "he did not know at first that you were asleep."

"Is it late?" asked Mrs Herbert. "You look so flushed, my love; have you been dancing much?"

"No, not much, mamma; there were so many; and I sat still a great while, and then I came up to you."

"I must have slept very long," said Mrs Herbert; "and I would willingly sleep for ever, if my dreams could be as happy; but I will not murmur; it is an infinite blessing to have an hour's rest to the mind, even if it be unreal."

"It may be real soon, mamma," said Amy, and her voice trembled as she spoke.

Mrs Herbert looked at her anxiously. "You are worn out with excitement and fatigue, my dear; that flush on your cheek is very unnatural."

"I don't feel tired at all, mamma," replied Amy; "but my face is rather burning, I think."

"There is something the matter, I am sure," said her mother; "you never looked so before. Are you sure you have not been vexed at anything?"

"Vexed! oh no! mamma, anything but that."

"You must go to bed soon," said Mrs Herbert, "or you will certainly be ill to-morrow."

"I had rather not go to bed," replied Amy; "I could not sleep if I did."

"Not sleep!" repeated Mrs Herbert; "then you must be ill, my dear child, or," she added, after again gazing upon Amy intently, "there must be something very unusual to prevent it."

Amy did not reply, her lip quivered, and her self-command almost forsook her.

"There is something," said Mrs Herbert, starting up, "I am sure there is. Oh! tell me quickly, is it sorrow!"

"No, no, mamma," exclaimed Amy, as she knelt at her mother's side, and hid her face in her lap, "it is not sorrow,—it is great, great joy; but my uncle says you will not be able to bear it."

"Is he come?" asked Mrs Herbert, in a low, half audible voice.

There was no time to answer. Colonel Herbert had heard the question, and entered the room. For an instant Mrs Herbert fixed her eyes wildly upon him, doubting the reality of his appearance; and then, as the truth forced itself upon her mind, she tried to rise from the sofa, and, unequal to the effort, fell back and fainted. With returning consciousness came an indistinct sense of great happiness, but it was some time before she could entirely realise what had happened. She asked no questions—she did not even seem surprised at her husband's unexpected arrival; but sat with his hand in her own looking at him earnestly, as if still fearful that it was but a vision which she saw, and that it would quickly vanish away.

Colonel Herbert's feelings were not quite of so unmixed a nature. Mr Harrington had prepared him in some degree for the change which illness and anxiety had made in his wife's appearance; but he had not pictured it to himself as great as it really was. He had imagined that he should yet see the fair, clear complexion, and the bright glow of health which he had so much delighted in when they parted; and now, when his eye rested upon her wasted features, the sad foreboding crossed his mind, that they had met only to endure a more terrible separation. It was not a time, however, for the indulgence of sorrowful thoughts. Mrs Herbert gradually recovered from the stunning effect of an overpowering joy, and was able to inquire into the cause of his strange silence, and his sudden return.

The story, when told, was very simple. Colonel Herbert had gone on an expedition into a distant province, as he had stated in the last letter that had been received from him. The servant who had accompanied him he had trusted entirely, and had confided to him several packets intended to be forwarded to England. After the lapse of a considerable time, complaints of his silence reached him from several quarters; and he then first discovered the man's negligence, and wrote again to his wife, hoping that his letter had been secured from all risks, though the unsettled condition of the country through which he was travelling rendered it very doubtful. Before an answer could be received, he was seized with a dangerous illness, and left entirely to the care of the uncivilised natives, in a state of pain and weakness which prevented him from making any exertions for himself; and, on his recovery, hearing of the breaking out of the war, as Mrs Herbert had expected, he hastened to join his regiment; but the insurrection, for it was scarcely more, having been quelled before his arrival, he made arrangements for an immediate return to England, feeling much distressed when he discovered, from Mrs Herbert's letters, the dreadful anxiety she had undergone, and the alteration it had effected in her general health.

"You would have heard from me before I reached Emmerton," concluded Colonel Herbert, "if this place were not so much out of the regular posting line; but I knew I should be with you before a letter could be forwarded."

"You went first to the cottage, of course," said Mrs Herbert; "it must have worn a desolate face, with none to greet you."

"I inquired for you first in the village," he replied, "and learned there that you were spending your Christmas at the Hall; but they gave me a sad account of you, my love, and I hardly know that it is worse than the reality."

"Worse!" repeated Mrs Herbert, with a smile which made Amy's heart bound in ecstacy; "it would seem worse than the reality now, to say that even my finger ached. Years of health seem to have been granted me in the last hour."

"So you say to-night," replied her husband; "but you must look very different before I shall be quite happy."

"We must not doubt," said Mrs Herbert, gravely, "though I am the last person to find fault with another on that account: I have had dreadful forebodings lately; and Amy, I suspect, can tell you of some also, for my fears were beginning to infect her."

Colonel Herbert drew his child fondly towards him. "She shall tell me everything to-morrow," he said; "to-night she is over tired."

Amy wished to speak; but her first delight had been succeeded by something of shyness and restraint: for her father was in many respects so different from what she had anticipated, that a feeling of awe was partly mingled with the intense interest excited by every word he uttered. Amy had seen but few gentlemen in her lifetime, and Colonel Herbert was unlike them all. She had been accustomed to his picture, until the alterations occasioned by years and a foreign climate were quite forgotten; and the many tales she had heard of his kindness and benevolence had made her unprepared for the firmness and decision evinced in all he said. Even the tone of his voice so little resembled any to which she had been in the habit of listening, that it prevented her from being at ease with him, although this very difference served to increase her pleasure; for to be loved and caressed by one whose every word showed that he had been used only to command and be obeyed, was a happiness she had before been incapable of imagining. To sit by his side, and look at and hearken to him, was all that she now desired; and whatever fatigue her countenance might express, she was herself too much absorbed to think about it; and it was not till some time had passed, and she found herself alone, after having received her father's blessing (it seemed to her for the first time), that she began to feel the effects of the excitement undergone in the space of a few hours. Wearied and exhausted, she seated herself by the fire, and, unwilling to wait for the assistance of her mother's maid, was endeavouring to summon resolution to exert herself, when a gentle tap was heard at the door, and immediately afterwards Dora entered.

"I could not go to bed, Amy," she said, "without coming to you for one minute. I wish I could tell you, but you know I can't say things, only I am sure no one in the house can be as glad as I am, except yourselves."

"Dear Dora," exclaimed Amy, "I thought of you when I began to think of anything; and there is so much I should like to say to you; but I must wait till to-morrow, for I am so tired with being happy."

"That was another reason for my coming," replied Dora; "I knew you would want some one to help you, and that my aunt's maid would be engaged with her, and perhaps you would not like to ring for Morris; so I thought perhaps you would let me be with you instead."

"Oh no," replied Amy; "it was very kind in you to remember me, but you cannot be any better than I am; you have been dancing all the evening."

"But I have set my heart upon it; you would not refuse if you could tell the pleasure it would be; I don't mean to talk at all, but just to do everything for you. Perhaps, though, you would rather I came again presently."

Amy hesitated, but Dora insisted on having her own way; and only left her on condition of being allowed to return in a quarter of an hour. When her cousin was gone, Amy tried to collect her thoughts, and oblige herself to attend to her evening prayers; but at first it seemed impossible. She longed to be grateful, but fatigue overpowered every feeling; and when, closing her eyes, and hiding her face in her hands, she endeavoured to shut out everything that might divert her attention, the vivid remembrance of all that had passed flashed upon her mind, and effectually distracted her thoughts. Again and again she repeated the form of words, but it was merely a form; she could attach no meaning to it; and once she was tempted to yield entirely, and content herself with the notion that it was better not to pray at all, than to do so when it appeared only a mockery. The next instant, however, she was shocked at her own idea, and, after asking for forgiveness and assistance, at length in some measure succeeded in fixing her attention. The effort was great, and Amy's conscience reproached her, when she had ended, for the manner in which this most solemn of all duties had been performed; but her endeavours had been sincere, and she knew well that even her imperfect prayers would be accepted, when they were offered in the name of her Saviour. She was now also better able to feel grateful to God for His great mercies; for the name of her father had never sounded so precious as when she had asked for God's blessing upon him, and had been able to bring his countenance before her, such as she had that evening seen it. Dora's knock was heard at the door before Amy had time to read her accustomed psalm; and, on her entrance, she was looking so tired, that Amy was vexed at having allowed her to return. She declared, however, that it was only her cousin's fancy, and immediately began assisting her with as much energy as if she had borne no previous exertion. Amy was not very much inclined for conversation; but she was anxious to learn a few particulars of her father's arrival, and especially, whether the sound in her dream had been real or imaginary. "It was so startling," she said, "I should like to be quite certain that it was real."

"It must have been just when your papa came to the door," replied Dora. "We heard the carriage drive up, and thought it was one that had been just ordered, so no one took any notice. I remember I was talking to Mary Warner, and trying to pacify her, for she has offended Miss Cunningham; and suddenly there was a great exclamation; and when I turned round, my uncle was standing in the door-way, and papa was looking so happy. I knew in an instant who it must be. There was something said about my aunt, and that she would hear; and then every one inquired for you, and you could not be found, and Emily Morton said you were with her."

"Then you did not miss me," observed Amy, rather in a tone of disappointment.

"I did," replied Dora; "but Emily told me you were unhappy about my aunt."

"Yes," said Amy, shrinking from the remembrance of what she had suffered, "I hope I shall never feel again as I did then."

"Do not think about it now," said Dora, kindly: "let me draw the curtains, and make you quite comfortable, and then you shall go to sleep."

"Would you do me one more favour?" asked Amy. "Mamma always likes me to read something in the Bible at night, only a short psalm, or a few verses that she has chosen for me; but my eyes are so dizzy now, I can hardly see."

"And you would like me to read to you?" continued Dora, taking the Bible from the table.

"Just tell me about Miss Cunningham before you begin," said Amy; "but no," she added, stopping herself, "I will hear it to-morrow. It will be better than thinking about it just now."

"Oh! it is nothing at all," replied Dorn. "Lucy would play as usual, and broke down, and when we were talking afterwards, Mary asked her if she had not some notion of having lessons of Emily Morton, and said what an advantage it would be, and this put her into a great rage, because she declared it was laughing and sneering at her—not that it was at all, for Mary Warner is the last person to sneer, and was quite vexed at having given offence; but, Amy, why did you say it would be better to hear it to-morrow?"

"Because you were just going to read the Bible," replied Amy, "and I thought it might put things into my head, and prevent me from attending."

"But you could have heard it afterwards."

"No," answered Amy, "I generally read the last thing, and then mamma tells me to try and not attend to common things; she says our last thoughts should be of God."

"We should think of Him always," said Dora.

"Yes," replied Amy; "but you know, Dora, sleep is like death, and perhaps we may never wake again."

"That never entered my head before," said Dora, gravely. "I shall not go to sleep so comfortably now as I used to do."

"Why not?" asked Amy.

"It is so awful. I should not care if I were you, Amy, and had never done anything wrong; but I could not bear to die now."

"Oh Dora!" exclaimed Amy, "you know no one could bear to die, if they thought only of what they had done wrong, and I am sure the idea would make me miserable if I did not say my prayers every night; but when I have done that, and remember what mamma has shown me in the Bible about our Saviour, and that God will love us for His sake, though we are so wicked, I am quite comfortable; and sometimes, after I have read my psalm, I can go off to sleep so happily, with the thought that angels are watching all round my bed."

"Yes," said Dora, earnestly; "if angels watch over any one, they must over you, Amy."

"The Bible says they are sent to take care of us all," replied Amy.

"I should like to think so," said Dora; "but it is so strange."

"It must be true," answered Amy; "if it is in the Bible, and I like to think of them so much. It seems as if one could never be alone; and sometimes I fancy that they are quite near, amongst the trees and flowers. Will you read the psalm to-night which says 'that God will give His angels charge over us?' I don't quite know which it is, but I think I could find it."

Dora read the psalm, but she did not make any more observations; and having thought of every little trifle that could contribute to Amy's comfort, she gave her one kiss of the truest affection, and left her to the enjoyment of a calm and innocent repose. Her own thoughts, when she retired to rest, were far from being happy: indeed, she seldom now had any conversation with her cousin, without its being succeeded by a deep consciousness of her own inferiority in those principles which she was just beginning to consider of the utmost importance; and to this was now added a feeling of great loneliness. Colonel Herbert's return would most probably cause a considerable change in Amy's life. She would be far less dependent upon Emmerton than formerly, and Dora found that her cousin was gradually becoming so necessary to her comfort, that the idea of any arrangement which might prevent her from being with them constantly was excessively painful. Yet they might be separated at any moment. Colonel Herbert might leave the cottage: he might choose that Amy should travel, and then all sympathy and consolation would be taken away; and while dwelling sadly upon these probabilities, the image of Emily Morton came before her, and with it the feeling that once she might have been her friend, but that no present attention could atone for the neglect and scorn that had so long been shown her. Dora saw that she had injured her as far as lay in her power, by destroying her comfort for months, and it was vain to hope that now she would be willing to forget it. Amy would have thought differently; but she understood better than Dora what is meant by forgiving our brother "until seventy times seven," and she knew also that there was no Christian virtue, however difficult, which Emily Morton did not endeavour to attain.