The sun was shining brightly into Amy's room when she awoke the next morning—so brightly, that she started up in alarm at what she knew must be the lateness of the hour; but the next moment brought the thought of her father to her mind, and with it a feeling of entire happiness and peace. Her mother's gentleness seemed frequently overpowered by her aunt's sternness, but no one would dare to find fault with her in Colonel Herbert's presence: and for the first time Amy felt sure that she could be perfectly at her ease even if Mrs Harrington were there. Yet, on remembering what had passed, and recalling her father's grave, calm features, she was not entirely free from fear. His height, his voice, his age, his manner, placed him in her imagination at an immeasurable distance from her; she could not believe it possible that he should be satisfied with her; he must expect to see some one taller, and cleverer, and more accomplished: if she could but sing and play like Miss Morton, and speak French and Italian like Dora, she should not care; but as it was, she was convinced he must be disappointed; and as these thoughts crossed her mind, Amy stopped in the middle of her toilette, and began repeating French phrases, and reckoning how many drawings she had to show, and playing over the most difficult passages in her music with her fingers on the table. A knock at the door interrupted her. It was Emily Morton, looking so happy, that Amy fancied for the instant she must have some personal cause for joy. But it had been long since Emily had known what it was to be light-hearted for herself. Peaceful and contented she could always be; but when her countenance was the most brightened by smiles, and her voice sounded the most cheerfully, the happiness of others rather than her own was invariably the cause. She had learned to "weep with those that weep," and now she was learning to "rejoice with those that rejoiced."

"You would have looked more frightened yesterday, Amy," she said, "if I had told you breakfast was ready, and every one wondering at your absence."

"Ah, yes," replied Amy; "but I cannot feel frightened at anything this morning, excepting—I am afraid perhaps you will think it wrong—but do you think papa will be pleased with me? I don't mean exactly with my face, and my manner, because he will not care so much about that, as I am his child; but will he think me very stupid, and dull, and different from everybody else?"

"If he should feel as I do," said Emily, as she fastened Amy's dress, and smoothed her dark ringlets, "he will love you so dearly, that he will not be inclined to criticise anything; but we must not wait to talk now—breakfast is really ready, and your uncle asked me to come for you."

"My uncle!" said Amy; "but shall we not be in the school-room as usual?"

"No," replied Emily; "every one was so late this morning, that Mrs
Harrington thought it better not."

"And will all the company be in the breakfast-room, then?" said Amy, in great alarm; "and am I the last?"

"Not quite," replied Emily; "Mrs Danvers is not come down yet; and there is a special place left for you at the bottom of the table, between your papa and your uncle."

"I do not think I can go," said Amy, stopping as she was about to leave the room; "there will be so many—and it will be just like seeing papa quite new—I can hardly recollect now what he was like last night."

"But he asked so often if your cousins had seen you, and was so anxious about you," replied Emily, "he could scarcely attend to anything else; and your mamma was obliged to beg him not to have you disturbed, or I am sure he would have sent for you half an hour ago."

"If I thought he would not be disappointed, I should not care," said Amy, as she moved slowly along the gallery; "but I know all my ideas will go when he speaks to me, and then he will think me so dull, and be so vexed."

"Will you, dearest, try and not think of yourself at all?" replied Emily. "It is distrusting your papa's affection to have such fancies, and it will do you harm in every way."

"I would if I could," answered Amy; "but I must wish to please him."

"I do not say there is any harm in it," replied Emily, "only it will make you awkward and uncomfortable if you dwell upon it; whatever you feel, however, it will last but a short time; you will be quite at home with him in a few days."

Amy was very much inclined to pause when they reached the breakfast-room, and continued talking, but Emily hastily opened the door, and she was obliged to enter. The room was quite full, and she did not at first see either her mamma or her cousins; even the persons she knew the best seemed quite strangers to her; but Emily led her to the bottom of the room, and Colonel Herbert came eagerly towards her; and as she seated herself in the vacant chair by his side, looked at her with an expression of such deep, heartfelt satisfaction and love, that she would have been quite satisfied and happy, if bashfulness and humility had not prevented her from understanding its meaning. At first, she was very silent, feeling rather bewildered by the sound of so many voices, and the attention which every one was inclined to bestow upon her, for her father's sudden return had excited a general interest; but by degrees she summoned courage to make a few voluntary observations; and the eagerness with which he answered her so increased her confidence, that before breakfast was ended, she had given him a full description of her life at the cottage, and her studies and amusements. Colonel Herbert listened with unwearied pleasure. In many a solitary hour he had solaced himself by imagining what his child would be like, and now his fondest expectations were realised. By the side of her cousin Margaret, indeed, Amy might have been little regarded, at least by those who cared only for personal beauty; but to this Colonel Herbert was indifferent. One glance was sufficient to show that Amy was a lady in every word and movement, and with this he was satisfied; and even had her eyes sparkled less brightly, and her countenance been less interesting, he would not have been disappointed; for in the expression of every feature, as well as in every sentiment and feeling, he could read the gentleness, meekness, and purity of the spirit within. Once only Amy paused in her account, when her attention was caught by a sound which she had not heard before for many months; it was her mother's laugh—so clear, and sweet, and joyous, that it might almost have been the echo of her own; and when she turned eagerly to look at her, and saw the change that even one night had produced, the last remaining shadow which rested on her mind passed away, and she felt that Dr Bailey's words must be true, and that now there was little cause for fear.

"You will wish to go to the cottage, I suppose, by and by," said Mrs Herbert, before they left the breakfast table, "and Amy can go with you."

"There will be the carriage at your disposal," said Mr Harrington, "if you are not afraid to venture out."

Mrs Herbert was very much inclined to take advantage of the offer, but her husband interfered.

"I have a disappointment in store for you both," he said, "not a very great one, though—so, my darling Amy, you need not look so blank; but I must ride into the town to-day. I have a message from a very great friend of mine, to his mother and sisters, and I promised, if possible, to deliver it personally on my arrival in England; you will not ask me to delay it, I am sure."

"Oh no, no!" exclaimed Mrs Herbert, recollecting her own feelings a short time since, and the relief any intelligence would have afforded her; "but you will pass the cottage—cannot you contrive to take us with you so far?"

"Not you," replied Colonel Herbert; "it would be too great a risk in this weather; for if we were once there together, we should spend hours in wandering about and talking over old times, and I have learned Dr Bailey's opinion by heart—he says there must be no excitement, and no exposure to cold."

Mrs Herbert again urged her wishes, but her husband was inexorable. He prized too dearly his newly-recovered treasure, he said, to allow any risk to be run, but he should like, if possible, for Amy to be with him.

"I could walk, indeed, I could walk quite well, dear papa," said Amy; "I have done it before; and it would seem such a short distance with you."

"There will be no occasion for anything of the kind," said Mr Harrington; "you can easily go with your papa in the carriage, Amy, as far as the cottage, and one of the grooms shall take a horse to meet him there, and then he can go on to the town, and you can return here."

Amy thought the plan delightful, though she wished her mamma could go too, but Colonel Herbert again expressed his fears; and it was agreed that this day at least should be given to perfect rest and quietness. The carriage was ordered almost immediately, and Amy ran up-stairs to prepare, but on her way she was stopped by Mary Warner.

"I am so sorry you are going out this morning, for my own sake," she said, "as we shall be gone probably before you return, and I have seen nothing of you; and besides, I wished very much, if I could, to talk to you about Miss Cunningham. Your cousin tells me that you know how angry I made her last night."

"Yes," replied Amy, "I wish I could help you, but I am afraid it is impossible, and papa will be waiting; can you not come to my room whilst I am dressing?"

"If I may," said Mary, "I should be very glad, for I am not at all happy about it."

"But, indeed," answered Amy, "you must not think I can do anything; you know I am so much younger than Miss Cunningham, and she will never bear my interfering in any way."

"I do not wish you to interfere," said Mary, "only to tell me whether you think I was very wrong, and if I ought to make any more apologies."

Amy led the way to her room, and endeavoured to give Mary her full attention, though her thoughts would frequently wander to the cottage, and the drive with her papa, notwithstanding all her efforts to prevent it.

"You know the beginning of the affair, I suppose," said Mary. "It was merely an observation of mine about the advantage it would be to Miss Cunningham to have music lessons. I know it was foolish in me to say it, because it was just after she had broken down in a piece she was playing; but I am in the habit of saying just what I think, so I often get into scrapes. I cannot tell why she should have been so angry, though; but she declared every one was trying to be impertinent to her, and that it was not my place to say what would be an advantage to her, that I was but a school-girl, and could not possibly know anything about it; and then she went on muttering something to herself about London, and that all the world would be mistaken; but I could not in the least understand what she meant."

"And did you say you were sorry?" asked Amy.

"Yes; I begged her pardon immediately, but that did not satisfy her, and I saw she wished me to retract, or at least to say something in her praise; but that I could not do—I could not tell her anything that was not true, for the world."

"No, of course not," said Amy; "but how can I help you?"

"I don't know," replied Mary, "unless you could make Miss Cunningham less angry; she will scarcely speak to me now, and your cousin Margaret has taken her part; and Hester Stanley declares I was very rude, and has been quite lecturing me this morning, and Julia only laughs, and your cousin Dora says it does not signify."

"I cannot think there is anything to be done," said Amy, "and I wish you would ask some one who knows more about such things than I do."

"I have talked to them all, excepting you," replied Mary, "and I did not come to you for advice exactly, because I do not really think it can be helped; but I am very unhappy, and wanted some one to talk to. I wonder if it was very wrong in me to say what I did: I did not mean any harm; but I always think it right to speak what is strictly the truth. Should you have done the same if you had been in my place?"

"I daresay I should," replied Amy; "but mamma tells me I ought to be very careful always, and not to make hasty remarks, because I may vex people very much without meaning it."

"That is what I do sometimes, I am afraid," said Mary; "and yet I only mean to be sincere."

"Miss Morton is sincere," replied Amy, thoughtfully; "but I do not think any one could be vexed with her. I should like to be able to say straightforward things as she does."

"Miss Morton is so gentle," said Mary; "and once or twice I have noticed her manner when she has differed from any one, and it appeared as if she were so afraid of annoying them, I do not think any one could take offence at her."

"Perhaps," said Amy, hesitatingly, "it is what every one ought to be, and then——"

"I know what you mean," exclaimed Mary. "I know I am abrupt. Mamma is often telling me of it, and I daresay I was wrong last night; but what is to be done now?"

"There is papa calling me," said Amy, "I wish I could stay; but indeed I must not keep him waiting."

Mary looked heartily vexed. "I do not think I shall go down-stairs again," she said. "We are to set off very soon, and I cannot meet Miss Cunningham."

"But she will not think about such a trifle still," said Amy.

"Yes, indeed, she will," replied Mary; "I cannot tell you how she looked this morning at breakfast. I am sure that piece of music must be a tender subject with her."

Colonel Herbert's voice was again heard calling for Amy, and she had no time to attempt comforting poor Mary.

"I must not wait a moment," she said, as she wished her "good-bye," "but I daresay I shall see you at Emmerton again, some day or other; and then, if Miss Cunningham is not here, we shall be able to enjoy ourselves a great deal more."

Mary could hardly say with truth that she ever wished to come to Emmerton again, she was feeling so annoyed with herself, and almost every one about her; but she could and did express a most sincere hope of meeting Amy at some future time, and they parted with mutual feelings of kindness and interest. As they passed through the hall, Miss Cunningham was at the drawing-room door. She did not notice Amy, though she had not spoken to her before that morning, but her contracted brow and curling lip portended no common storm. Amy was too happy to think of her; she was standing by her father's side listening to his parting words to Mrs Herbert, and caring only for the pleasure before her; and when he stopped to give the necessary directions to the coachman, she was still too much occupied to observe the tone in which Miss Cunningham inquired, "whether anyone had seen Margaret lately, as she must speak to her directly."

The carriage drove off, and the footman at the door was despatched in search of Margaret, who soon made her appearance, with a face of eager curiosity, which was quickly clouded when she saw the expression of her friend's countenance.

"What do you want with me?" she asked; "I was very busy in the schoolroom; I hope it is something of consequence."

"Of course it is," was the reply, "or I should not have sent for you.
But it will not do to talk about it here; you must come to my room."

"Tell me whom it concerns," said Margaret. "Is it anything about
London?"

But Miss Cunningham either did not hear or would not answer. She led the way to her own apartment, and carefully bolting the door, exclaimed, with a scornful laugh, "Well, Margaret, I wish you joy; it is all settled, and you are going."

"Going! settled!"—repeated Margaret; "it cannot be true; no, I am sure it is not; you would not look in that way, if it were."

"Yes, but I should, though," exclaimed Lucy, "for it is quite true you are going; but you will not have me to go with you; that is all I wished to say."

"Pray, pray, Lucy," said Margaret, "do not tease me in this way. How do you know it is settled?"

"Because," replied Miss Cunningham, rising from the seat on which she had thrown herself, and walking quickly about the room, "because papa, and Mr Harrington, and Colonel Herbert have been talking of it. Papa said he must make one more effort before we went home, and he mentioned the subject directly after breakfast; and when Colonel Herbert heard it, he said he should be obliged to be in London about Easter; and then Mr Harrington turned completely round, and declared his being there would make all the difference in the world, and that he should certainly consent, and so they said it was settled; but they did not ask me," she continued, more vehemently, "and they shall find that I can have a will as well as themselves. I will never, no, never consent to be treated again as I have been treated here. To be taught by that Miss Morton—I would rather stay at home all the days of my life; and those school-girls too—actually Miss Julia Stanley had the impertinence to say, just now, that she should be glad to hear me play after I had had lessons, and see if I were improved; not that there is any chance of our meeting. London is a very different place from the country; and that she will soon know."

"Oh!" said Margaret, soothingly, "she will never come in your way there."

"But Miss Morton, that Miss Morton," exclaimed Lucy. "I am quite in earnest, Margaret; you may talk for ever, you may go down upon your knees to me, and I will never agree to go if she does."

"Dear Lucy," said Margaret, covering her with kisses, and speaking in her most persuasive voice, "you know how much I love you, and how miserable I shall be without you; you are only saying this in joke, I am sure."

"You may be sure of anything you like, it does not signify to me; nothing can make me change."

"But you will not care when those girls are gone away," said Margaret; "you are merely vexed because they are so rude."

"Vexed!" repeated Miss Cunningham; "when did I say I was vexed? who cares for school-girls? how can they know good music from bad?"

"No, to be sure not," said Margaret; "and Julia Stanley cannot tell a note."

"I never knew that," exclaimed Lucy, rather pacified. "How foolish she would have looked, if I had asked her to sit down and play it better."

"I wish you had done it, with all my heart," said Margaret; "but it is not too late now: they are here still,—let us go into the schoolroom and say something. I should enjoy making her ashamed of herself, and we shall not have another opportunity; for, as you observe, there is no chance of meeting her in London."

Margaret waited anxiously to hear what effect her words would have, and to remark whether the mention of London would bring back the thought of Emily Morton. But Miss Cunningham had now seized upon this new idea, and forgot that her indignation had been excited by any one but Julia. "Are they all there?" she said; "half the pleasure would be gone, if there was no one by."

"They were all there when I came to you," replied Margaret; "but we must make haste, for Dora was wishing to take them round to the farther side of the lake this morning, because it is the only part of the grounds they have not seen."

Miss Cunningham hardly waited to hear the end of the sentence; she hastened down-stairs, and to her great delight found the whole party lingering round the fire in the schoolroom, wishing to go out, yet unwilling to brave the cold. If Margaret had been rather quicker in perception, and not quite so anxious, she might have been amused at this moment in watching her friend's manner. Evidently she had determined on saying something very severe, which should put Julia completely to the blush; but in her great eagerness and her extreme dulness, she failed entirely, for she merely walked up to the fire-place, stationed herself immediately in front of Julia, and in a sharp, cross tone, said, "You found fault with my music just now; I should like to know if you can play it better."

Julia stared, and answered, "Oh, dear no; who would attempt to vie with you?"

"You are right, Margaret," exclaimed Miss Cunningham; "she cannot play a note, Margaret told me so, just now," she added, turning to Julia, "and so I was resolved I would ask you."

"You are quite welcome to ask anything you like," replied Julia, coolly.
"I am not in the least ashamed of not being able to play at all. Perhaps
I might be, if I pretended to know what I was ignorant of, and then
broke down before a large party."

Miss Cunningham's countenance expressed unutterable feelings of anger and disgust; and Dora, really alarmed lest a quarrel should ensue, quickly interposed, and, begging they would prepare for their walk immediately, hastened Julia out of the room.

"It is your fault, it is all your fault, Margaret," exclaimed Lucy, when they were again left together; "you are always getting me into scrapes; and that girl, that odious girl, why did she ever come near the place?"

"Really, Lucy," began Margaret, "I do not see what reason you have to blame me," and then, recollecting how important it was that her friend should be soothed, she added more gently, "I could not have supposed any one would behave so rudely as she has done."

"I shall go home," said Miss Cunningham; "I have had nothing but vexation ever since I came here, and I will not bear it any longer."

"But Lord Rochford has promised to stay till after New Year's day," observed Margaret. "You know we cannot have any one else, because it was poor Edward's birthday."

"Papa will do as I wish him," said Lucy; "if I want to go home he will not prevent me."

"And he will do as you wish about London, you may be sure," continued Margaret, who, in her extreme anxiety, could not avoid recurring to the subject, even at the risk of again exciting Miss Cunningham's vehemence.

"I have told you a hundred and fifty times before," was the reply, "that my lessons are quite different from everything else; you do not think I have been so silly as not to try all I could about it long before this."

"But you will stay over New Year's day," said Margaret, coaxingly: "if we try hard we may be able to manage something together."

The notion seemed rather plausible, and Miss Cunningham condescended to say that she would see about it; perhaps she might, if she were not plagued any more with the school-girls.

"They will be gone soon," said Margaret; "and if you would come with me now, you might get quite out of their way, and not speak to them again."

"Where are you going, then?" asked Lucy.

"I wished very much to walk to our old steward's cottage. He has had a pony training for me some time, just like Dora's. I want to see it, and mamma always scolds us if we go out of the grounds alone; but she will not mind if you are with me."

Miss Cunningham walked to the window to look at the weather, which certainly, but for the cold, would have been very inviting, although the melting of the ice and snow rendered the walks in some places dirty and disagreeable.

"My pony is much more beautiful than Dora's," said Lucy, "and much larger too. I wonder she likes riding such a little thing. Is yours the same size, Margaret?"

"I do not know exactly; but do come and see it, it is not very far. I don't think Dora will be able to get to the other side of the lake, as she wished, and if so, we shall have the girls back again in a minute."

"I shall go away, then," said Lucy.

"Oh, do not do that," exclaimed Margaret. "You will be so dull, for I cannot be with you, because they will all be setting off, and mamma will find out if I am in the house, and make me stay with them. There is no way of avoiding it, unless we go out."

"Is it far?" asked Lucy.

"Oh no, only through the plantations, and then across a field. I do not think we have ever been there with you. The field next to the one we shall go through is very steep indeed, and the river runs at the bottom of it, and I daresay it might be muddy and dirty just by the banks, but our path will not be at all so."

"Well," said Lucy, sulkily, "if we must go, we must; anything is better than those girls."

Margaret thought the same; of all things she dreaded another quarrel, and she hoped, by a little quiet flattery, to bring her friend, when they were alone, into something like good-humour; and without waiting for Lucy to change her mind, she hurried her up-stairs to prepare for the walk.

Amy, in the meanwhile, was enjoying herself to the utmost. A very short time had sufficed to remove almost all dread of her father, and only enough remained to increase the interest of his conversation. At first it was entirely about India and his travels; and Amy listened as she would have done to a romance or a fairy tale, and thought her papa a greater person than ever, as she discovered how much he knew, and the wonders he had seen: and then again he recurred to his long silence, and the uneasiness he knew it must have occasioned them, and spoke of the eagerness with which he always inquired for letters, and the pleasure it had been to hear from her of all she had been doing; "though you did not tell me many of the things you mentioned this morning," he said,—"the little things, I mean."

"I should write differently now, papa," replied Amy. "I did not quite know what to say then, and I always fancied you were a great man, and would not care for little trifles."

"But, Amy," said Colonel Herbert, "if persons are really great, they can care for, and attend to everything. It is only those who think themselves great, when they are not, who despise trifles."

"It is very nice," said Amy; "but I cannot think now that you really like to hear about my donkey, and my flowers, and my lessons."

"I will tell you when I am tired of it all," replied her father; "but now you must talk to me a little about Emmerton, and your cousins. Do you like them very much, and is it very pleasant staying there?"

"I like Dora, papa," exclaimed Amy, "so much—so very much. She is so kind, and so thoughtful; and yet"—she added, pausing—"I do not think she is kind and thoughtful either, not to every one, at least."

Colonel Herbert smiled. "You seem to have made a new discovery," he said. "Is Dora's character such a puzzle to every one?"

"I never thought about it before," replied Amy; "and now I do not think I quite know what she is; but I love her very much, though she is not at all like Miss Morton."

"Miss Morton is the governess, is she not?" said Colonel Herbert; "I used to know her very well as a child."

"She is not exactly the governess," replied Amy; "but she teaches my cousins some things, and she has taught me too. Emmerton would be so different if she was not there."

"I thought," said Colonel Herbert, "that you were always delighted with
Emmerton before your uncle came."

"Ah! yes," answered Amy; "but that was before I knew any better; when I only thought about all the old lords and ladies who they said used to live there. There was nothing real then; but I liked to make them out very good and beautiful—and sometimes I wished I had lived in those days, because no one I could ever hear of was quite good, except mamma and Mrs Walton; now, I never care about such things, for Miss Morton is better, I think, than I ever imagined, and prettier too; don't you think she is?"

"She has a very sweet face, certainly," replied Colonel Herbert; "but,
Amy, how good you ought to be after being so much with her."

Amy looked rather grave: "I have thought of that sometimes," she said; "but I hope you will not be very much vexed with me, dear papa; indeed I do mean to try so hard."

"You must not think I doubted it, my love," he replied; "but, you know, we shall be obliged to answer for the use we have made of our friends, just as much as for the use we have made of our money or talents. I do not think, though, that Miss Morton has been thrown away upon you."

"It was mamma who made me see Miss Morton's goodness," replied Amy. "I do not think I should have noticed it half as much if she had not been so like her; and that was the first thing which made me love her. Margaret and Dora did not appear to think anything about her for some time."

"And do they now?" asked Colonel Herbert.

"I am not quite sure as to Margaret," replied Amy; "but I think Dora does, though she will not acknowledge it; and, by and by, I dare say, she will love her as I do, and then Miss Morton will be happier; for it must be very dreadful, papa, to live all by one's self, without any person to care for one."

"Who does live so, Amy? Not Miss Morton, I am sure, from your account of her."

"Yes, but indeed she does live alone very much. Rose is a great deal too young to be a companion to her."

"Does she say herself that she has no one to care for her?" said Colonel
Herbert, looking rather graver than usual.

Amy thought for an instant, and then answered, "I do not think she would say so, because she told me the other night that wherever God was, was our home; and she is so good, that I daresay loving Him does instead of friends; but, papa, I am afraid I shall never feel like that."

"It is a hard lesson," replied Colonel Herbert, as he looked at his child, and thought what his feelings would be if he were obliged to part from her. "But here we are at the cottage, Amy," he added, after a few moments' silence. "I must go over it quickly, for I have but little time to spare."

Amy eagerly ran into the house, but her father followed more slowly. Every tree and stone served to recall some vision of the past, some walk, or book, or conversation, which at the time he had been hardly conscious of enjoying, but upon which he now looked back with almost melancholy regret. Amy soon noticed the change in his manner; and leaving him to his own reflections, wandered about by herself, finding sufficient occupation in repeating the instructions which Mrs Herbert had sent to the servants, inquiring for the people in the village, whom she had seldom before left for so long a time, and visiting her pet rabbits and her donkey. It was a slight disappointment to see her father so abstracted; but the feeling quickly passed away, when he made her go with him into the drawing-room, and began pointing out a few alterations which he hoped to make in the house, and talking of the new piano he intended to procure for her when next he went to London; and then showed her the books he wished her to read, promising that, if possible, some portion of his time should be given every day solely to her, to perfect her in the knowledge of history and languages, before he took her abroad. Every word realised more fully the blessing of her father's return; and though the time thus spent was but short, it was sufficient to open many new sources of enjoyment; and when at length Colonel Herbert placed her in the carriage by herself, she was so occupied with all he had been saying, that she forgot to give directions for being driven to the rectory, though at another time a visit there would have been her greatest delight. The servants, however, had received previous instructions, and Amy soon found herself in Mrs Walton's drawing-room, recounting to her all the changes of sorrow and of joy which she had experienced since last they met.