Miss Cunningham's temper was not likely to be improved by the pleasures of her wintry walk, and this Margaret quickly perceived, for it required all her powers of flattery and persuasion to prevent her from turning back at every step; and although perfectly sensible of the importance of humouring and soothing her, it was impossible to avoid occasionally showing a dislike to cross looks and harsh words. The walk through the plantation was tolerably firm, for the heat of the sun had not entirely penetrated it, but the open field was in many places very unpleasant, and but for the thought of her pony, Margaret would on no account have attempted to proceed. Miss Cunningham slowly followed her, sighing and muttering, and at length, stopping at a gate leading into the adjoining fields, she protested nothing should induce her to move one step farther.

"It is but a very little way," said Margaret; "you can see the cottage just among the trees; I daresay the lane will not be as bad as this."

"You can go by yourself, can't you?" replied Lucy; "there is no good in both of us getting into a mess."

"But I wanted to know whether you thought the pony as pretty as Dora's.
I am not going to have it, if it is not."

"Then we must come another day," was the reply. "I could as soon wade through a pond as this field."

"I do think," said Margaret, looking over the gate, "that it is much drier in this other field, and there is a bridge down at the bottom over the stream; I should not wonder if we could get to the cottage by going over it."

As she spoke, Margaret was about to open the gate, when she heard some one repeating her name, and turning round, saw Rose and Miss Morton, who were hastening towards her from the bottom of the field.

"I have been trying," said Emily, as she came up, "to find my way to Stephen's cottage, but the lane is in such a state, that it is almost impassable—at least for Rose—so I must beg you to take care of her for a few minutes, while I make another attempt. I shall be within sight, and almost within hearing the whole way."

"It is very provoking," observed Margaret; "is there no mode of reaching the cottage by the next field and the bridge? it looks a great deal drier."

"No," replied Emily, "you would find a hedge in your way, unless you went a considerable distance round; but can I say anything to Stephen for you? I must see him to-day, for his daughter is ill; and there are some directions for her medicine which no one can give but myself."

"You may tell him," said Margaret, "that I want very much to see the pony; and that I shall not have it, unless it is quite as pretty as Dora's."

"Shall I say that it is to be sent for?" asked Emily.

"You may if you will—that is, I must speak to papa about it first; but
I suppose there will be no objection to my having it to try."

Miss Morton secretly wished that Margaret would learn to be more grateful and courteous in her expressions; and then charging Rose to walk up and down the field in order to keep herself warm, and on no account to give her sister any trouble, she walked towards the cottage. She was hardly beyond hearing, when Miss Cunningham began complaining of the trouble that had been caused, and wishing that they had not met; declaring, at the same time, that she would not stay in such a bog for any one; it would be much better in the other field, and she should go there.

"Come, Rose," said Margaret, opening the gate, "you must go first. I will lift you over the bad places, and then we can keep to the dry part of the path."

"I was told to stay here," said Rose, "and, besides, I am never allowed to walk in that field, it is so steep, and there is water at the bottom."

"You must do as you are told by us now," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, "so come directly."

Still Rose resisted. Emily would not like it, she said, and would not be able to find her.

"It does not signify," observed Margaret, desirous from selfish motives to please her friend in every fancy.

"She can stay here if she wishes it. It can make no difference which side of the gate we are. If you are such a naughty child, Rose, you must remain by yourself, but don't be frightened, we shall not be out of sight."

Rose was half inclined to follow, but Miss Cunningham shut the gate, and she was prevented. The path certainly was much drier and more agreeable; and Margaret and Lucy paced up and down for several minutes, until, catching sight of some animals in a field adjoining the stream, Margaret declared they were horses, and she was sure her pony must be amongst them, and calling to Rose to remain exactly where she was till they came back, she hastened to satisfy her curiosity. Rose begged her not to go out of sight; but Margaret did not think it worth while to attend; and although the distance was not very great, the poor child immediately began to fancy she was left, and stood looking anxiously through the gate, and entreating Margaret to return, till she gradually worked herself into a state of great distress, which was brought to its climax, when, on turning round to see if Miss Morton were coming, she perceived that a few cows had been driven into the field, and that one of them was moving rather quickly in her direction. In an agony of alarm, Rose attempted to open the gate, but it resisted all her endeavours; and then, forgetting everything but her desire to escape from the cows, she made a desperate effort, and succeeded in scrambling over it, and seeing her sister standing by the bridge at the bottom of the field, ran at full speed towards her. Margaret saw, and called loudly to her to be careful, but the poor little girl's fright prevented her from attending, while the swiftness with which she ran, and the steepness of the hill, took from her the power of stopping, and in one moment, while yet unconscious of her danger, her foot slipped; her head struck against the projecting branch of a tree, and she fell with violence into the water. Margaret's scream of horror was echoed by Miss Cunningham, who immediately ran from the spot, calling loudly for assistance, while Margaret, with greater presence of mind, caught hold of a broken bough that lay upon the ground, and bent over the stream, in the hope of reaching her sister's dress, and so being able to save her. But the rapidity with which it flowed frustrated her hopes, and in another minute all probability of rescuing the unfortunate child would have been at an end, when the man whose cows had been the principal cause of the accident came to her assistance, and by the aid of a longer stick, and more powerful arm, succeeded in placing Rose once more in safety.

Margaret's first feeling was one of overpowering relief and gratitude; but when she looked at her sister's face as she lay perfectly senseless in the labourer's arms, her terror returned; and unable to decide upon what was next to be done, she stood by her in silent despair, unconscious of the approach of Miss Morton, who, alarmed by Miss Cunningham's cries, as she was returning from the cottage, had quickly guessed the cause, and was hurrying towards them, followed by another man.

"To the Hall! carry her to the Hall!" were the first words she said; and they were spoken so calmly, that but for the expression of her countenance, no one could have guessed the extent of her feeling.

The man in an instant obeyed, and strode rapidly across the field, but Emily's anxiety gave her for the time a strength far beyond her nature; and she kept pace with him, and even occasionally outstripped him, urging him at every instant to hasten, for that life and death depended on his speed. Margaret and Miss Cunningham were left far behind, and as they drew near to the house, almost unconsciously, Margaret lingered. Neither she nor Lucy had spoken during their walk, and ample time had been given to both for reflection. At first Margaret had felt stunned by the alarm; but as she thought of meeting her mother, the horrible idea crossed her mind, that she had not been entirely guiltless of the accident.

"Oh Lucy!" she exclaimed, when they stopped at the Hall door, "why did we leave her?"

"She will get well soon," said Miss Cunningham; but her manner was subdued, and she spoke less confidently than usual.

Margaret did not wait to reply, but hurried to Miss Morton's room. Rose, however, had not been carried there, and the house was in such commotion, that it was some time before she could obtain any information as to what had been done; but at last she was told that Mr Harrington had ridden off himself for Dr Bailey, and that Mrs Harrington and Miss Morton were together using every means for restoring the poor child to life. Morris named the room to which Rose had been taken, but when Margaret tried the door, it was bolted; and though there were voices within, no attention was paid to her entreaties for admittance. As she turned away in disappointed misery, Dora met her.

"Oh Margaret!" she exclaimed, "is it your doing?"

"No, no," replied Margaret; "why are you so cruel as to say it? Do you know how she is?"

"Better," answered Dora, trying to command herself; "she has shown signs of life, but they will not let you in."

"Who will not?" inquired Margaret.

"Mamma and Emily Morton; they are talking together, and they have fastened the door. Hark! you can hear them now."

Mrs Harrington's voice sounded strangely in the chamber of anxiety and fear. She was evidently in a state of the utmost excitement, and Emily's gentle answers seemed hardly listened to for an instant. Dora and Margaret gazed at each other in silent amazement; in a few minutes the bolt was hastily and angrily withdrawn, and Emily Morton entered the passage. Dora caught her dress, and was about to speak; but when she looked in her face, she felt it was impossible. Such intense suffering was expressed in every feature, in her firmly compressed lip, and the ghastly paleness of her check, and the contraction of her forehead, that Dora did not dare inquire the cause. Yet, even then, Emily had a thought for others. "Rose is better," she said, and pointed to the open door, and then, turning away, she passed in a moment from their sight.

"What can be the matter?" exclaimed Margaret.

"Mamma is angry that Rose was left, I suppose," replied Dora.

"She would have thought nothing about it, but for the accident," said Margaret, with a painful consciousness of being infinitely more to blame than Miss Morton.

"I don't know any of the particulars," observed Dora; "no one has had any time to ask; but I wish you would tell me now."

Margaret was beginning her account, when the door again opened, and Mrs Harrington seeing them in the passage, called Dora into the room, and ordered Margaret to send Morris to her immediately.

Margaret delivered the message, and then went to the school-room, where she found Miss Cunningham seated by the fire, with a book in her hand, and not only composed, but cheerful.

"You are not unhappy now, Margaret, are you?" she said; "I dare say little Rose will be quite well again tomorrow. Susan Reynolds told me just now that she was a great deal better."

"Yes," replied Margaret; "she is better, certainly, she would not be alive else; but it is nonsense to talk of happiness. What will mamma say when she knows how it all occurred?"

"Who is to tell her?" said Lucy. "We need not."

"No," replied Margaret; "but I rather suspect mamma thinks it is owing to some carelessness of Emily Morton's. She was talking to her very angrily a little while ago, and when Emily came away she looked like a frightened ghost."

"But it was careless in her. What business had she to trouble us with the care of such a child? she might have known that it would be very inconvenient.

"If mamma has a notion that it was her fault, she will send her away," said Margaret, while a feeling of satisfaction dawned upon her mind as she thought of the London journey.

"Will she, indeed?" exclaimed Lucy; "then we shall enjoy ourselves after all."

Margaret shrank from having her own idea put into words. "You must not be too sure of that, Lucy," she replied: "I only said that Emily would be sent away if mamma considered the accident her fault, but, in fact, it was no one's fault; and this she will find when inquiries are made."

"Mrs Harrington is coming now," said Lucy: "I am sure that is her voice; she is speaking to Dora."

Margaret trembled extremely. "I hope mamma is not going to ask about it,
Lucy."

"What are you afraid of?" replied Lucy: "we had nothing to do with it."

Margaret's conscience did not fully acquit her; but her uneasiness was lessened when her mother entered, still talking to Dora. "I have ordered the carriage, and she shall go," were her first words. "I shall never bear the sight of her again, and she wishes it herself. She says Mrs Walton will receive her."

"But was it really her fault, mamma?" asked Dora.

"Whose could it be?" replied Mrs Harrington. "She left her—left her in that field, notwithstanding my strict charge to the contrary, for such a child could never have opened the gate: and she must have known that there was danger."

"But Margaret and Lucy were near," continued Dora.

"So she says," replied Mrs Harrington; "but they could not have been, or they would have taken care of her."

"Where were you when poor little Rose fell in?" asked Dora, appealing to her sister.

Margaret was about to reply, but a glance from Miss Cunningham stopped her, and she suffered her to speak instead.

"We were standing near the bridge, looking for Margaret's pony; and when we saw what had happened, we ran directly and tried to save her."

"I told you so, Dora," exclaimed Mrs Harrington, in extreme indignation.
"I knew she equivocated: she shall not remain in my house another hour."

Mrs Harrington rang the bell violently, and Dora felt almost too much alarmed to speak; she did, however, suggest that Margaret and Miss Cunningham should tell the whole story, as she felt certain there must be some mistake. Again Margaret would have replied; but Miss Cunningham, who was standing at her side, pressed her hand as a signal for silence, and at that instant the servant entered.

"Let the pony-carriage be ordered directly," said Mrs Harrington: "I wish it to be at the door in an hour's time. I will not hear another word, Dora," she added: "the case is quite clear. Go immediately, and let Miss Morton know when the carriage will be ready."

"Oh mamma!" exclaimed Dora, while tears rushed to her eyes—"if you would send Morris."

"Dora, I will be obeyed instantly," said Mrs Harrington.

"But Amy is not come home yet, mamma," persisted Dora, seizing eagerly upon any chance of a respite.

"Did you not hear me order the pony-carriage?" was the answer. "Of course, I knew that your cousin was not returned."

Mrs Harrington left the room, and Dora was about reluctantly to follow, when the servant came back to say that the carriage was just coming down the avenue, and to inquire whether it would make any difference in the order.

Dora for once in her life heartily wished that Amy had remained longer away, for she feared that even less time might now be allowed Miss Morton; and she fancied every delay might be of use. "I will ask mamma myself," she said, unwilling that anything should be settled without her knowledge. And after lingering a few minutes longer, she walked slowly away; and Margaret and Miss Cunningham were again left alone.

"I hope you give me credit for my management, Margaret," said Lucy. "We have had a happy escape."

"I don't know," replied Margaret; "it must all come out by and by."

"Why, I should like to know? Why should anything more be said if we keep our own counsel?"

"But Emily Morton," replied Margaret, "she will never allow herself to be sent away without making some defence."

"If she does," answered Lucy, "what will it signify? You may see your mamma does not believe her."

"But if mamma should ask us any more questions, we could not tell a story about it, you know."

"Did I tell one just now?" asked Miss Cunningham. "Was not every word exactly the truth?"

"Yes," said Margaret; "but I think Dora suspects something."

"Never mind Dora," replied Lucy; "she cannot know what we do not choose to tell. It is quite silly of you, Margaret, to be so fidgety; this is just all that we wanted; and if we only take care, we shall go to London, and enjoy ourselves to our hearts' content. You would have been delighted at the idea yesterday; and now that everything has fallen out just as we wished, you look grave."

"It is not just as I wished, though," repeated Margaret, rather angrily; "it is not at all pleasant to have poor little Rose so ill."

"Certainly that is disagreeable," said Lucy; "but it is a mere trifle; she will be quite well to-morrow; besides, what would you do? You would not dare make a great fuss, and complain of yourself to your mamma."

"No, indeed," exclaimed Margaret; "I would suffer anything first. I should say nothing about it, if Emily Morton were not going."

"But that is the very point," urged Miss Cunningham. "It is the
principal reason we have for being silent. London—think of London,
Margaret;—and nothing would induce me to go if Miss Morton went too.
How much you would miss me if I were not there."

"To be sure," replied Margaret, after a short pause, "we have not said anything that is not true; and Emily Morton is quite able to defend herself; and if mamma will not believe her, it is not our fault."

"Certainly not; let us leave her to herself; and when she is once out of the house everything will go right."

Margaret's conscience told her that all could not be right; that there was such a thing as a practical falsehood; but she had so long accustomed herself to trifling prevarications, that her self-reproach was not very great. Probably she would not have felt any, if the consequences of her deceit had been less important. Miss Cunningham perceived that she had gained an advantage by the mention of London, and, eagerly pursuing the subject, expatiated in glowing terms upon the amusement they should find there, till Margaret forgot by what means the pleasure was to be obtained; and by the time the conversation was over, was so strengthened in her resolution, that Miss Cunningham's fears were completely at rest.