Mr Cunningham did not find his sister in her room; she had gone down-stairs again with Margaret, who could not endure to remain long stationary in one place, while there was so much cause for anxiety about her little sister. She fancied that it would be easier to learn what was going on by remaining in the schoolroom; and though fully resolved to allow everything to take its course, and not to say anything in Miss Morton's favour, she was still too uneasy to attend much to her friend's entreaties, that she would not put herself in the way of being again questioned by Amy or Dora.

Miss Cunningham was standing with her back to the door when her brother came into the room, and was much startled when she turned round and perceived him near her; for she saw immediately from his countenance, that something disagreeable was coming.

"I have been looking for you, Lucy," he said, in a voice rendered even more confused than usual by his eagerness, and the irritation of his feelings. "I wanted to speak to you particularly."

"What about?" replied Lucy, with as indifferent a manner as she could assume.

"You may easily guess what," he answered; "this sad accident—you were near the spot; how did it happen?"

"I cannot tell you all," said Lucy. "We were standing near the bridge, and just saw poor little Rose run from the top of the field, and fall in; and then we went to help her."

"But it is impossible," observed Mr Cunningham, "that Miss Morton should have left a child of that age quite alone. Are you sure she did not give you any charge about taking care of her?"

"I suppose she thought," said Margaret, anxious to evade a reply, "that as we were in sight it did not signify."

"But," continued Mr Cunningham, "if Miss Morton left Rose at the top of the field, and you were near the bridge, she could not have considered your being there as any security: in fact, I doubt if she could have seen you; you must have been nearer at first."

"How you puzzle one, George!" exclaimed his sister. "How is it possible to remember everything that happened, when we were all so frightened? I am sure I have felt bewildered ever since."

"Very possibly," replied Mr Cunningham, coolly. "But you will have the goodness not to be bewildered now: I must know the whole of this matter. Miss Morton is going away at a moment when it must be most distressing to her feelings, upon a charge of great neglect of duty. And I will find out whether the charge be true or false."

Lucy looked very frightened; she knew her brother's determination of character, and saw that there was no chance of escape, unless she chose to tell an actual falsehood; and this, notwithstanding her propensity to equivocation and deceit, she could not make up her mind to do. Margaret endeavoured to steal away unobserved: but Mr Cunningham prevented her. "You will excuse me; but this is a case in which I must be allowed to have my own way. I must beg you to remain; you may perhaps be able to assist Lucy's memory."

Margaret's colour went and came very quickly, her knees trembled, and her hand shook: but she did not dare disobey; and seated herself again, with her face turned from Mr Cunningham, and with the secret resolution of not speaking, if there were any possibility of avoiding it.

"Now, Lucy," said Mr Cunningham, again appealing to his sister, "I shall ask you one simple question, and I expect a decided answer. Did Miss Morton leave you in charge of Rose?"

"Really," said Lucy, hesitatingly, "I can't—I don't—you are very cross this afternoon, George, to come and tease us so, when you know how we have been frightened, and how very unhappy Margaret is."

"No one can be more sorry for the cause of her unhappiness than I am," he replied; "and when my question is answered, I will on no account tease either of you again. Perhaps you did not quite understand what I said; I will repeat it. Did Miss Morton leave you in charge of Rose?"

"You are vexing Margaret, I can see," replied Lucy. "I never thought you could be so unkind before. We came here to be quiet and alone."

"This is mere trifling, Lucy," said her brother. "You know full well that it will not answer with me; nothing will shake my determination of knowing the truth; and therefore the best thing you can do is, without any further equivocation, to tell me plainly what I wish to know."

There was a pause when Mr Cunningham had spoken; neither Lucy nor Margaret saw the least chance of evading the question, yet neither felt inclined to answer it. Mr Cunningham placed himself in front of his sister, looking at her calmly and sternly, and patiently waiting till she chose to reply; whilst she endeavoured to keep her determination of steadfastly gazing out of the window, and taking no notice of him. But it would not do; she stood far too much in awe of him to resist long; and at length, bursting into a fit of angry tears, she exclaimed, "I wish Miss Morton, and Rose, and all the family, had stayed at Wayland all their lives, instead of coming here to make me miserable."

"Then it is true," said Mr Cunningham. "You were left in charge of the poor little girl, and you went away from her; and then, when the accident occurred, you were too cowardly to take the blame upon yourselves, but occasioned great unhappiness to an innocent person, by allowing her to be accused unjustly. Yes, Lucy," he continued, observing that his sister rose hastily from her seat, and was about to leave the room, "you may well be anxious to hide yourself; but you will not be allowed to go till you have made the only reparation in your power. You will confess your fault to Mrs Harrington; I shall let her know instantly the mistake under which she has been labouring."

"Pray, pray, don't leave me," cried Lucy, as Margaret tried to escape. "Why am I to bear it all? you know it was quite as much your doing as mine."

But Margaret did not choose to attend; she was willing to be Miss Cunningham's friend when everything went smoothly, but she saw no reason for putting herself in the way of her mother's anger unnecessarily. And Mr Cunningham, having gained his point, hardly felt justified in interfering any farther. Without again speaking to Lucy, he wrote a note to Mrs Harrington, apologising for intruding upon her distress, but begging her to allow him a few moments' conversation on a subject of much consequence. And when the servant returned with the answer, he merely said to his sister, "Mrs Harrington will be here directly; you had better make up your mind to tell the truth in as few words as possible. It will be out of your power to conceal anything, as Miss Morton's own account will certainly be compared with yours."

Mrs Harrington's mind was now in a very different state from what it had been when Lucy had last seen her. The moments spent by her little girl's sick-bed had increased her anxiety, and subdued the irritation of her temper. Her feeling against Miss Morton was deeper, but less vehement; and occasionally, as she had listened to the moaning of the suffering child, and heard her repeat Emily's name with a wandering entreaty that she would come to her, her heart had relented, as she had felt inclined, for the sake of poor little Rose, to allow Emily to continue at Emmerton a few days longer. But on a second consideration the idea vanished; and her only wish then was, never again to be compelled to see or speak to a person whose neglect she believed had been the cause of so much wretchedness. Still Mrs Harrington was outwardly much calmer; and her harsh tones sounded as coldly as ever when she asked Mr Cunningham to do her the favour of mentioning his wishes quickly, as she could not be spared from her child's room.

"It is my sister's business rather than mine," he replied. "She has been induced, from fear of your displeasure, to conceal her own share in this most unfortunate accident; and she is now going to confess the truth, in hopes that you will allow Miss Morton to remain."

"It was Margaret," exclaimed Miss Cunningham; "I never should have moved from the gate but for her. I only went to the other side, at first, because it was drier; and then it did not signify; but it was Margaret who begged me to go down to the bridge, and look at the pony."

"And do you mean then," said Mrs Harrington, "that Miss Morton left Rose with you, and that you went away from her?"

"We only went into the steep field because it was dry," answered Lucy; "and Rose was quite in safety."

"I do not entirely understand you," said Mrs Harrington. "Perhaps you will have the goodness to explain yourself more clearly."

Miss Cunningham complied with evident reluctance, yet she did not venture to distort any of the facts, knowing that her brother would easily discover the whole truth upon a reference to Miss Morton. She only endeavoured to lay as much of the blame as possible upon Margaret, and to make Mrs Harrington believe that she would have spoken before if she had understood the cause of Miss Morton's sudden departure. The excuse, however, was too weak to succeed; a bitter smile curled Mrs Harrington's lip as she said, "You need not trouble yourself to give your reasons for what you have done; your brother, I am sure, must be as fully aware of them as I am. Margaret's conduct I shall inquire into immediately. I am afraid," she added, turning to Mr Cunningham, "there is a heavy punishment in store for her thoughtlessness and selfishness. My poor little girl is very ill."

The real feeling which was expressed in these words, and in the tone in which they were uttered, touched Mr Cunningham deeply; and his voice faltered as he replied, "It would be a punishment felt by very many; but we will hope and pray that it may please God to avert it."

"I will counter-order the carriage," said Mrs Harrington, recovering herself, and ringing the bell; "and I will inform Miss Morton of the change."

"Perhaps, at the same time," observed Mr Cunningham, "you would allow me to order our own. My father was speaking to me, just now, of the wish you had expressed this morning, that our visit should be prolonged; and doubting if it would be advisable after what has now transpired. Of course, we would on no account intrude upon you; my sister's presence, I fear, will never again be anything but painful."

Mrs Harrington could not contradict his words, and felt at a loss for a reply, when the entrance of the servant relieved her from the awkwardness. The carriage, which had just come to the door, was remanded; and a summons was sent for Miss Morton.

"You had better prepare for going immediately, Lucy," said her brother. "And if you have anything farther to say to Mrs Harrington, any apology to make for your conduct, or any message to leave for Miss Morton as a proof that you are really sorry for the pain your deceit has occasioned her, you had better speak at once."

Lucy, however, did not speak—at least she did not say what her brother desired; but, muttering sulkily that it was very hard she should have all the blame, and Margaret none, without venturing to look at Mrs Harrington, left the room.

Mr Cunningham quickly followed, in no very enviable state of feeling. He saw, from Mrs Harrington's manner, that she was seriously alarmed for Rose; and his sister's indifference was startling to him. He could not have supposed it possible that she would have been so insensible to the probable consequence of her neglect; for, with a disposition peculiarly free from selfishness himself, he did not understand how soon it blinds us to the sufferings of others, and how quickly it buries, if not entirely destroys, even in very early life, every better feeling of human nature. Miss Cunningham was not entirely cold-hearted; it is a rare thing, indeed, to find any one who is. But she was from nature and education intensely selfish; and it was this which made her dwell only upon the blame she had incurred herself, when others might have grieved for the misery they had caused their friends.