To Dora's relief—her cousin's return made no difference in Mrs Harrington's plan—there was still nearly an hour before her; and in that time it was barely possible that her papa might return and insist upon Emily's remaining at least another day. It seemed, indeed, the height of cruelty to insist upon her going at such a time, for the state in which poor little Rose continued excited the greatest alarm. She had shown signs of consciousness, but the increasing fever and her continual moanings added every moment to Mrs Harrington's anxiety. She walked from room to room, and from window to window, listening for every sound; now upon the point of setting off herself in search of Dr Bailey; then seating herself by the side of her child's bed, with the determination that nothing should induce her to quit it; and again, as she felt the rapid pulse, and heard the sounds of suffering, starting up with the intention of seeking for some one who might advise her at once what was most necessary to be done. Dora, after remaining a short time, anxious to delay giving the painful information to Emily, went to see her cousin, in the hope of being the first to break to her, gradually, the painful news; but Amy had not been two minutes in the house before she had heard all, and rather more than all, for the news of Miss Morton's intended departure had spread rapidly, and was of course coupled with the accident.

Amy's first intelligence was, that Miss Morton had left Rose playing by the side of the stream; that the child had fallen in, and would have been lost but for Miss Cunningham's screams; that she was not expected to live more than an hour; and that Miss Morton was to go away immediately. The last words were so surprising, that Amy did not at first entirely comprehend them; she was bewildered between her deep sorrow for Rose and her dread of Miss Morton's departure; and stood for a few moments in a state of the most painful indecision, unwilling even to go to her mamma till she had learned the truth more certainly. "Going," she repeated; "do you really mean that Miss Morton is going now?"

"Yes, now, Miss," replied Morris, in a short, pert voice, and rejoicing secretly in the thought of getting rid of any one that patronised Susan Reynolds, who had lately become almost her rival. "The carriage is coming round directly. I think Jolliffe is just gone up to the stable to put the ponies in."

Amy did not wait to hear more. She flew to Emily's room; but just as she reached it, Dora stopped her.

"Oh Amy!" she exclaimed, looking earnestly at her, "I see by your face that you know everything. What is to be done for Emily?"

"I am sure it cannot be true," said Amy. "My aunt would never send her away now."

"But it is quite true," replied Dora; "nothing will have any effect. I have said all I could; and papa is not here."

"Where is she going?" said Amy. "I must run directly, and speak to mamma; she will entreat for her; and my aunt will never be able to refuse her. Has no one told mamma about it?"

Dora was about to reply, when Emily Morton opened the door, and in a voice so totally changed that Amy would scarcely have recognised it, asked them to come in.

The room presented a very different aspect from that which it usually wore. The pictures from the walls were lying about on the table and in the chairs; the floor was covered with trunks, band-boxes, and dresses; and the books had been taken from the shelves, and were piled together in regular order, preparatory to their being packed.

Amy did not speak; but Dora exclaimed instantly, "Oh Emily! why should you do this? you cannot manage it yourself."

"I must be alone," replied Emily; and again her voice sounded so strange, that Amy started. The gentle tone which had once sounded so sweet to her ear was changed for one that was unnaturally deep and hollow. There were no traces of agitation in her face—scarcely even in her manner; but her lips were perfectly colourless, and her eyes were dimmed and sunken.

"You must not,—oh! you must not go," exclaimed Amy, throwing herself into her arms, and bursting into tears.

Emily pointed to the floor, and, with a ghastly smile, said, "Will you help me? The carriage will be here."

Dora knelt down and tried to busy herself with the books, but she could not conceal her emotion; and Emily Morton, as she witnessed for the first time the sympathy of one who had hitherto so painfully neglected her, pressed her lips firmly together, and walked quickly up and down the room.

"I must go to mamma," exclaimed Amy; "she will see my aunt directly; and
I am sure she will be able to persuade her."

"No," said Emily, forcing herself to speak, as Amy was about to leave the room; "you must not say anything to Mrs Herbert. I went to her myself just now, before everything was settled, that she might not be shocked suddenly; and even then, though I could speak comfortably to her, I could see how much she suffered. She went immediately to Mrs Harrington, and would have remained with her but for your aunt's insisting to the contrary. I would not for the world that she should be distressed again on my account."

"But she will be so very, very sorry," said Amy: "and I am sure my aunt will listen to her."

"Indeed, it must not be," replied Emily. "Remember what Dr Bailey said; and your mamma will not care so much when she knows where I am going. I have written a note to Mrs Walton, to ask her to receive me for the next few days. I could not go far away whilst——' The sentence remained unfinished; but both Dora and Amy knew well what it meant.

"If you would leave these things," said Dora, "Amy and I could take care of them for you."

"Perhaps it would be best," replied Emily, "I don't think I quite know why they were taken down, for I could not pack them in so short a time."

"Do you know, then, about the carriage?" asked Dora.

"Yes," replied Emily; "Susan Reynolds told me, and offered to help me; but I sent her away. I want nothing now, excepting to know——"

"How Rose is," continued Amy. "I will go directly, and ask."

Amy ran out of the room, and Dora followed her. "Stop one moment, Amy," she said. "I don't think Emily Morton knows about poor little Rose being worse; when she left her, she thought she was better. It will half kill her to go away when she hears it."

"Let us both go to my aunt, and beg," said Amy, "only for one day. If she would just let her stay to-night, I could be happy."

"You don't know mamma," replied Dora; "she thinks Emily Morton has equivocated."

"Oh!" exclaimed Amy, "no one could think so."

"Mamma believes it firmly; and so there would be no hoped persuading her. But, Amy, I think there is something hidden—something which Margaret and Lucy Cunningham know, only they will not tell. I must go back to mamma. But, perhaps, if you were to talk to them, you might find it out; only be quick."

"Will you let Miss Morton know about Rose, then? and I will try; but I don't know what to say. I wish you could be with me."

"Indeed I must go," replied Dora; "but I will see poor little Rose myself, and then return to Emily for a minute. You will find Margaret and Lucy in the schoolroom."

"But what does my aunt say?" continued Amy. "Why does she not ask them about it?"

"She would not listen to me just now," said Dora; "and when I left her she was in such an agony about Rose that I did not dare speak to her; indeed, Amy, you are the only person who can do anything."

Amy did not wait to be again entreated, but went instantly to the schoolroom. Margaret and Lucy were still there, as Dora had told her; and neither of them seemed at all pleased at her interruption.

"Have you seen Rose lately?" asked Amy, hardly knowing how to begin, and yet extremely anxious that no time should be lost.

"No," replied Margaret. "Mamma has sent us word that it is better to keep her quite quiet; and she begs that no one may go to her room except Dora, unless she rings. Morris is there with her too, I believe."

"I should so like to see her," said Amy; "I am afraid she is very ill.
Do tell me, Margaret, how it was she fell in."

"She was running fast down the hill," replied Margaret, "and could not stop herself. I shall never forget what I felt when I saw what was going to happen."

"But how did you get into that field? Somebody said just now you were going to Stephen's cottage; that is not the way to it."

"No," interrupted Miss Cunningham, who began to be uneasy at Amy's questions; "we went down to the water to look at the ponies."

"And I suppose Miss Morton sent Rose to you, then," said Amy.

"No," replied Lucy. "Poor child! she came running to us of her own accord."

"I do so wonder at Miss Morton's leaving her," observed Amy; "she is so particular about her in general."

Miss Cunningham made no reply, and Amy felt quite disheartened. In a few moments, however, she began again— "I cannot understand it at all, Margaret. What made Miss Morton and Rose go into that field?"

"You are very stupid this morning, I think," exclaimed Lucy. "How can we know what reasons Miss Morton has for doing strange things? And why should you ask so many questions?"

"Because," replied Amy, summoning up all her courage, "I cannot think that Miss Morton really did leave Rose all by herself in that dangerous field."

"Then what do you think she did?" asked Lucy.

"I don't know; but it would have been much more like her to have left
Rose with you."

"Then you think," exclaimed Miss Cunningham, indignantly, "that Margaret and I have been saying what is not true."

"I don't mean to make you angry," replied Amy, whose naturally timid disposition was for the moment overawed; "but if there is any excuse to be made, Margaret, it would be very, very kind in you to say something to my aunt. I am sure you would, if you saw how miserable Miss Morton is at the idea of going away."

"What do you wish me to do?" asked Margaret. "Mamma will not listen to me."

"But she would listen to you," continued Amy, "if you had anything real to tell her,—I mean, not merely an excuse."

"I cannot see," interrupted Miss Cunningham, "why you should interfere and talk to us in this way; you would make out if you could that we had been keeping back something. Miss Morton can tell all there is to be told just as well as we can. Come, Margaret, do let us go up-stairs; I am quite tired of sitting here in my walking things."

"No, no," exclaimed Amy, seizing her cousin by the dress; "pray,
Margaret, do not go yet."

"What good can I do you by staying?" said Margaret, whose resolution was somewhat wavering.

"If you would only tell me," persisted Amy, "if there is anything that will make my aunt pleased with Miss Morton, I should be so glad. I am sure you never saw any one before look as wretched as she does now."

Margaret seemed inclined to remain; not that she had any intention of confessing the whole truth, but she was hardly able to resist Amy's earnest looks.

"Come, come, Margaret," said Lucy; "I cannot wait any longer. If you say a word more," she added, in a whisper, "it will all come out."

Amy caught the last words, and eagerly repeated them aloud. "Then there is something. Oh Margaret! you would not be so cruel as to hide it!"

"I think you are very unkind and unjust to suspect me of concealing anything, Amy," replied Margaret, her pride and her fears being awakened by the open accusation, "You may find out what you will, but you will hear nothing from me; I am not going to stay here to be accused of hiding things."

Margaret and Lucy had left the room before Amy could resolve on what was next to be said; and when they were gone she felt for some moments in despair of being able to do anything for Miss Morton. The time was quickly passing away; she did not dare go to her aunt; and she did not know what might be the consequence of applying to her mamma. Dora was not to be seen; and there was but a very slight hope that either her father or her uncle would return before Emily's departure; and yet she was fully convinced there was some secret between Margaret and Lucy, which, for private reasons, they did not choose to confess. At first she felt inclined to give up all idea of discovering it, and go again to Miss Morton's room; but the thought of what her distress would be on learning that poor little Rose was getting worse made it seem cruel to rest without another effort; and in the hope of possibly seeing Dora, and obtaining some advice from her, she went up-stairs, and lingered about in the gallery into which Rose's bedroom opened.

The window at the end fronted the terrace; and when Amy looked out, she saw Lord Rochford and Mr Cunningham pacing up and down in earnest conversation. At first she thought very little about them, but after waiting in vain for Dora, the idea struck her, that if something were said to Mr Cunningham he might be able to prevail on his sister to tell the whole truth. With the idea, however, came also the doubt, whether it would be right in her to mention the subject. She was but a child, and he might naturally be very much annoyed at her expressing any suspicion of his sister; and even if Lucy and Margaret had done wrong, it seemed unkind to be the means of exposing them; perhaps, if she waited, her uncle might return, and Dora might be able to speak to him;—at any rate, it would appear presuming and impertinent; and as Miss Morton was only going to Mrs Walton's, she could return again the next day if Mr Harrington wished it. Of Mr Cunningham's kind feeling towards herself, Amy had little doubt; he had shown it in the most marked way, especially since he had overheard the conversation on the preceding evening; and but for this it would hardly have been possible to think of taking so great a liberty; but with the certainty that he would willingly assist her, if it were in his power, she could not entirely banish from her mind the thought of applying to him. Again and again she endeavoured to decide whether it would be right, but still her mind continued in the same painful state of indecision. The thought of Emily Morton made her determine to go at once and beg him to interfere; and the remembrance that it would appear unkind and unsuited to her age, made her shrink from the idea, and resolve to wait patiently a short time longer in the hope of seeing Dora. Very earnestly she longed to go at once to her mamma; but it would vex Emily, and perhaps might make Mrs Herbert ill, and Lucy and Margaret would consider her very ill-natured. This last argument, however, did not seem a powerful one. If it were unkind to them to mention the subject, it would be still more unkind to Emily Morton to be silent: and again poor Amy began to doubt, and stood at the window looking at Mr Cunningham, and wishing with all her heart that some one would appear to tell her what she ought to do. Whilst still hesitating, Susan Reynolds came into the gallery, followed by Morris, the only one of the servants who had admission into the chamber of the sick child. Amy was going to beg that her cousin Dora might be sent to her, but Morris's movements were too quick; the bedroom door was opened but for one instant; and when it closed, Amy was so vexed and disappointed that her fortitude entirely gave way.

"Oh Miss Herbert!" exclaimed Susan, as she noticed her distress, "pray don't cry so; Miss Rose may get better after all; though, to be sure, Morris says she never saw a poor child so ill before in all her life."

"Is she so very much worse, then?" said Amy.

"Oh yes, Miss," replied Susan. "Morris says, if the doctor does not soon come, she thinks it will be no good having sent for him. She is quieter now; but a little while ago she was moaning, when I passed the door, so that one might hear her all along the gallery. And, oh! Miss Herbert, isn't it dreadful about Miss Morton's going away?—she who is so good and kind to every one. And what shall I do without her?"

"I wonder whether Rose asks for her?" said Amy.

"She did at first, I believe, Miss," answered Susan; "but Morris says she is all wild and wandering again now, and does not know any one."

"Oh! how I wish I knew what to do," exclaimed Amy, forgetting that Susan was near.

"Miss Morton will never see Miss Rose again, I should think," said Susan, "if she goes away now. Mrs Bridget and Morris, and all of them, think she won't live out the night."

"And does Miss Morton know it?" inquired Amy.

"She does now, Miss," replied Susan. "She asked me herself, and I was obliged to tell. And it was miserable to see how she looked; I thought she would have gone off quite."

Amy made no reply, but turned to the window to see if Mr Cunningham were still below. While Susan was speaking she had made up her mind as to what was to be done. Emily's wretchedness overcame every other consideration; and without further delay she hastened to the terrace. Mr Cunningham paused in his conversation directly he saw her; and when she came up, breathless and silent from fear and agitation, he inquired eagerly for Rose.

"May I speak to you?" replied Amy, unheeding his question. "Pray don't be angry with me."

"What! secrets!" exclaimed Lord Rochford; "then I suppose I had better go; but you must tell me first how it is all going on with the poor little darling."

"She is very ill indeed," answered Amy; "and my aunt is very much frightened about her."

"It is a bad business," said Lord Rochford. "I wonder Mr Harrington ever trusted such a young creature as Miss Morton."

"Oh! indeed," answered Amy; "Miss Morton did not leave her—at least I don't think she did. It was that I wanted to speak about," she added, hardly daring to look in Mr Cunningham's face.

Lord Rochford walked away; and Mr Cunningham, in the kindest manner, begged her not to be frightened, but to tell him at once if he could be of any use. "We are old friends now," he said, with a smile; "and if you take my part, I must take yours in return."

"Miss Morton is going away, said Amy, feeling that her courage would entirely fail her, if she did not enter upon the subject at once.

"Not now," exclaimed Mr Cunningham, in surprise; "not while little Rose is so ill."

"Yes," replied Amy; "the carriage has been ordered, and she is to go this afternoon. My aunt believes," she continued, speaking very quickly, "that Miss Morton has not told all the truth about having left Rose in the field alone; and so she says she must go directly. But Margaret and Miss Cunningham were there too, and I think——"

"What do you think?" said Mr Cunningham. "Had they anything to do with it?"

"I don't know," replied Amy; "but when I spoke to them just now, they did not seem quite to like telling me everything; and I thought that perhaps if you were to ask Miss Cunningham, she would not mind talking to you, and then you might be able to find out something which might prevent my aunt from being so displeased, and she might allow Miss Morton to stay till Rose gets better."

"I am not sure that I entirely understand what you mean," said Mr
Cunningham. "Let me hear again what you wish me to do."

"If you would go to Miss Cunningham," repeated Amy, "and ask her to tell you the whole story, perhaps you would find out that Miss Morton did not leave Rose quite alone, as my aunt thinks she did, Margaret says they were a great way from her when she fell in; but then they might have been near her before."

"And will they not talk plainly?" said Mr Cunningham, looking very much annoyed.

"They would only say a little," answered Amy; "and then they went away.
And I do not think they liked me to ask them any questions."

Mr Cunningham was fully aware of Amy's meaning, though she had endeavoured to express it as gently as possible. He had long and anxiously watched his sister's disposition, and had noticed too often the deceit which she did not hesitate to practise when it suited her purpose, for him to be surprised on the present occasion. If she had had any share in the accident, she would certainly be desirous of concealing it: yet the thought was extremely painful; and his countenance, as he walked with hasty steps towards the door, made Amy fear that she had offended him deeply. "I am afraid," she said, "that I have done wrong; but I was very unhappy, and the hour is nearly up, and then Miss Morton will go, and perhaps she will never see little Rose again."

"You have been right—quite right," replied Mr Cunningham. "But I must see Lucy directly: where shall I find her?"

"She is in her bedroom, I believe," said Amy. "She will think me very unkind."

"You need not be afraid," he answered. "No one shall think anything of you but what is right and good. You must not let Miss Morton go till you have seen me again."

The words were quite a reprieve to poor Amy, though she knew how great an offence it would be to keep the carriage waiting; for Mr Cunningham had been so kind to herself, that even if her suspicions were unfounded, and Rose had really been left carelessly, he might perhaps speak to Mrs Harrington, and prevail on her to change her determination. With this idea she was going immediately to Miss Morton to give her the hope of remaining, when Dora stopped her. "Well, Amy," she exclaimed, "what have you done?"

"Nothing," replied Amy; "at least, nothing with Margaret: but I have done something which I hope will be of use; I have spoken to Mr Cunningham."

Dora started. "Oh Amy! how could you be so bold? If I had been ever so great a favourite, I never could have done such a thing as that."

"I could do anything for Miss Morton," replied Amy. "But, Dora, do tell me how Rose is."

"Very much the same. Mamma is becoming dreadfully anxious; she can think of nothing else: if she could, I would have made one more effort for poor Emily. I wished we had asked her just now, when we were with her, to tell us everything just as she told mamma, for I am sure mamma did not half understand it. I did not think of it at the time, for it all seemed to have happened so suddenly, and everything was so confused."

"Supposing we were to go now," said Amy: "I am sure she must wonder what has become of us."

"I am afraid I cannot," replied Dora; "for mamma begged me to come back again directly. I was only allowed to leave her because she wished so much to know if there were any signs of papa or Dr Bailey coming down the road. I wish I could hear all you said to Mr Cunningham. But we must not stop now: you had better go to Emily."

"I will beg her to repeat the story, if you think it would be any good," said Amy.

"I am afraid that nothing would make mamma listen to anything from us now," replied Dora: "we must trust to Mr Cunningham. Lucy would hardly dare be deceitful with him; and I am sure Margaret would not."

"I would give anything to know what he has been saying since we have been here," observed Amy.

"You will know in a few minutes, if it is anything good," said Dora. "But I wish you would go now, and give poor Emily a little hope: and you may tell her that Rose has not been worse within the last quarter of an hour." And as she said this, Dora walked away, and Amy went to Miss Morton's room.