Mrs Harrington's message was delivered to Miss Morton at the moment when her uneasiness was becoming extreme; and she was endeavouring to make up her mind to go, without waiting for the effect of Mr Cunningham's interview with his sister. The carriage had been announced, and Mr Harrington's well-known dislike to its being kept waiting made her feel it wrong to delay; though Amy, whose hopes of Mr Cunningham's success, and dread lest Emily should never see Rose again, overcame every other consideration, entreated her to wait, if it were only for five minutes, in the certainty that they must soon hear something from him.

"It is only deferring the evil moment," said Emily. "I have been trying to collect resolution to bear it, and I hope I can now. It might be worse an hour hence. The last accounts were more comfortable; and I know your mamma will manage that I should hear again to-night. I wish I could see her; but it will be better not. You must say how I thought of her, and of the kindness she has shown me."

"It cannot signify for once," observed Amy, "if the carriage is kept a few minutes. I am almost sure Mr Cunningham will be able to do something."

"It is not real kindness to tell me so," replied Emily; "I shall only feel it the more difficult to do what is right. Indeed, I must go."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy, trying to stop her, as she moved towards the door; and at that moment Susan's knock was heard. "It is all right now," said Amy, when the message was repeated; "my aunt never would have sent for you if she had not changed her mind."

Emily thought the same, though she scarcely ventured to hope it; and Amy's anxiety was nearly at an end, when Susan, who guessed her feelings, told her that the carriage had been sent away. Miss Morton did not hear her exclamation of pleasure, or she would perhaps have trembled less on entering the school-room; but Mrs Harrington's countenance very soon reassured her. She was evidently aware of having behaved with impatience and injustice, and desirous of making amends, though her tone and manner would have seemed painfully repelling in any other person. Emily, however, thought of nothing but the purport of her words. They were few and chilling; but she acknowledged that she had been wrong in her opinion as to Miss Morton's neglect, and said she was sorry that Margaret and Miss Cunningham had allowed her to remain so long in error. Their conduct was highly culpable—in fact, quite unpardonable; and Margaret should certainly be spoken to most seriously on the subject. But at that moment it was impossible to think of anything but Rose; and she should be obliged if Miss Morton would go with her to the poor child's room, that they might see if it were possible to take any measure for allaying the fever before Dr Bailey arrived.

Notwithstanding the set, formal style of this speech, it was received by Emily with the most sincere gratitude, for she knew that it must have been a great effort for a person of Mrs Harrington's proud temper; and, considering only the intention, she followed her with a sensation of indescribable relief, which, on any other occasion, would have appeared quite incompatible with her great anxiety. Amy was waiting in the passage, and delayed her for one instant to ask if all were right. The question was scarcely needed, for Emily's change of countenance was a sufficient index to her mind; and Amy, as she heard her whisper, "It is your doing, and I shall never forget it," felt completely satisfied.

She was now at liberty to go to her mother, who, she feared, might be astonished at her absence. But Mrs Herbert had not long known her return from the cottage, and was only just beginning to wonder why she did not come to her.

Amy was full of eagerness to tell all that had passed; but her mother's first inquiry was for Rose.

"Your aunt particularly begged me to leave her," she said; "and I found that whilst Miss Morton was there I could not be of any use. But I really cannot remain here. I can see none of the servants; and I do not like constantly to ring, because of giving them additional trouble when there must be so much to be attended to."

"I don't think they are engaged particularly now, mamma," replied Amy. "Poor little Rose is quieter, and my aunt does not know what more to do."

"Perhaps, then," said Mrs Herbert, "she would not object to my being with her. I should have no occasion to exert myself much, and I might be some comfort to Miss Morton at least."

"A little while since," said Amy, "I am sure Miss Morton would have been more glad to see you, mamma, than any one else in the world—she was so very miserable; but she would not let me tell you, because she said it would worry you and make you ill."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs Herbert; "has anything been going on in which I could have been of use?"

Amy soon related the whole affair, and concluded by anxiously asking whether her mamma thought she had done wrong in applying to Mr Cunningham.

"No," said Mrs Herbert; "I think, considering all the circumstances, you were quite right. It would have been a cruel thing for Miss Morton to have been sent away now. But have you seen Mr Cunningham since? and do you know whether he is going?"

"I rather think he is," replied Amy, "for I heard one of the servants saying something about Lord Rochford's carriage, as I crossed the hall; and I hope so, very much, for I should not know what to say if I were to see him again. I could not thank him for having found out that his sister had done wrong; and yet it was very kind of him. But, mamma, do you really think poor little Rose is so ill?"

"I am very much alarmed for her, my dear, she is so young to receive such a shock; and I have often thought her delicate, myself, though no one agreed with me."

"What will Miss Morton do?" said Amy.

"She will feel it very bitterly," replied Mrs Herbert. "Rose was her chief earthly comfort; but she will not murmur."

"And all her long life to come," said Amy, "there will be nothing to look to—nothing that she will care for."

"Yes," replied Mrs Herbert, "there will be things to care for—and there must be, while she has duties to perform; and it is distrusting the love and providence of God to think that He will not give her comfort and peace again. If her mind were different, it might be feared that she required years of suffering to perfect her character; but as it is, we may hope and believe that she will never be entirely destitute even of earthly happiness."

"I cannot bear to think of her." exclaimed Amy, while the tears rushed to her eyes. "It seems so hard—so very hard, that she should suffer. And Rose, too,—Oh mamma! she is so young to die."

"And therefore, my dear, it is the greater mercy that she should be taken from a sinful world. Do you not remember that beautiful verse in the Bible?—'The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart: and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come.' If death is thus sent as a blessing to the good, surely we may think that it is sent equally in love to the innocent."

"Mamma," replied Amy, as she looked in her mother's face, "you say so; but I am sure it makes you very unhappy."

"I cannot talk about it now," said Mrs Herbert; "it will only unfit me for doing what I can to comfort your aunt and uncle, and Miss Morton. When your papa returns, I shall certainly go and beg them to let me be with them."

"I think," observed Amy, listening at the door, "I can hear a noise down-stairs as if some one were just come."

"I wish it may be your uncle and Dr Bailey," said Mrs Herbert.

"No," replied Amy; "it is papa; I am sure it is his voice. He is talking to Bridget; and she will keep him so long."

But Colonel Herbert was not a person to be detained by any one when he did not choose it. He quickly learned the outline of what had happened, and then hurried away to learn more of the details from his wife. Mrs Herbert, however, would not remain long with him. She could not endure the idea of being away from Rose, when every fresh account served only to increase her alarm; and, leaving Amy to answer all his questions, she went to Mrs Harrington with an earnest request to be allowed to stay in the room, even if it were not in her power to be of use.

Mrs Harrington was by this time in a state of such nervousness and excitement, that she scarcely comprehended what was said. She knew only that Mr Harrington ought to have returned long before; and that his continued delay might be fatal to the life of her child. Miss Morton did her utmost to soothe her; but her own anxiety was very great. Rose still continued in the same state, tossing from side to side, and occasionally fixing her eyes upon Emily, as she bent over her, with the fixed, unnatural gaze, which told, even more plainly than words, that reason had fled.

Dora took the opportunity of her aunt's presence to leave the room. She wished very much to see Margaret, and talk a little to Amy; and felt oppressed and confused by the sight of an illness which painfully recalled all she had suffered on her brother's account, only a few months before. Any active exertion would have been easily borne; but to sit by the side of a sick-bed, perfectly powerless, required a patient, trusting spirit, which as yet Dora was far from possessing. And she watched with astonishment the calm self-composure with which Emily Morton did all that was necessary for Rose, and then turned to Mrs Harrington to suggest a reason for Dr Bailey's delay, or give her some hope that the symptoms were rather more favourable.

Colonel Herbert was listening to Amy with a deep yet painful interest when Dora knocked at the door. She would have gone away, on seeing him; but he would not allow it, and, placing an arm-chair by the fireside, made her sit down, and begged her to stay with Amy, just as long as she liked; for he was sure she must want some one to talk to when she was in so much distress. Amy evidently did not quite like her papa to go away; and Dora, vexed at having interrupted their conversation, entreated him so earnestly to stay, that he could not refuse, though he determined not to be a restraint upon them for more than a few minutes.

"Papa knows everything now," said Amy. "I had just finished telling him when you came in."

"I met Lord Rochford's carriage on the road," observed Colonel Herbert; "and they stopped, and told me what had happened. I am afraid, Dora, your poor mamma must be in a dreadful state of suspense and alarm."

"I think Margaret is more unhappy than any one," said Dora. "She was crying so bitterly when I went to her room just now; and she had fastened her door, and would not let me in at first."

"She will never forgive me for having spoken to Mr Cunningham," said
Amy.

"Yes," replied Colonel Herbert; "she will forgive everything when she can forgive herself."

"Now Lucy is gone," said Dora, "she is left quite alone; and she thinks every one in the house is complaining of her, and that she is the cause of all mamma's misery; and she does not dare go out of her room for fear of meeting her."

"I wish she would let me go to her," said Amy; "I am sure she must think I have been very unkind. But indeed I did not mean to make her so wretched; I only thought of Miss Morton."

"She cares more about poor Rose now than anything else," replied Dora. "She says it will make her miserable for life, if she does not get better. And I know I should feel just the same. It would be so very dreadful to think of having caused such an accident."

"But," said Colonel Herbert, "it certainly seems to me that Margaret's deceit in Miss Morton's case was far worse than her having left Rose."

"Only the consequences may be so much worse," said Dora.

"The consequences of our actions are not in our own power, my dear Dora," answered her uncle. "If we look to them, we may just as well say that Miss Morton ought to be miserable, or the poor man who drove the cows into the field, they all had a share in the accident."

"Certainly," said Dora, "when Margaret and I were talking together just now, we traced it all back to Julia Stanley and Mary Warner. It was they who made Lucy so angry. And if it had not been for that, Margaret says she never should have asked her to go out; and then Emily Morton would not have left poor little Rose with them, and the accident would not have happened. How unhappy they would be if they knew all that had occurred from their laughing at Lucy and saying foolish things."

"It is a great blessing," said Colonel Herbert, "that we are not in general permitted to see the consequences of our actions; if we were, we should be afraid either to move or speak; but I believe God sometimes does show them to us, in order to make us fearful of doing the slightest thing that is wrong. When we have once known all the evils that a hasty word or selfish action may bring upon ourselves or upon others, we shall learn how carefully we ought to walk through life, avoiding, as the Bible says, even the appearance of evil."

"But, papa," said Amy, "if we do not think of the consequences of what we do, how shall we ever be able to tell what is right?"

"Do you not see, my dear child," replied Colonel Herbert, "that we never can tell the consequences of anything? we do not know what is going to happen the next minute; and therefore we must have some other guide."

"It is very difficult sometimes to find out what is right," said Amy.

"The best way of discovering our duty, my dear," replied her father, "is to have a sincere wish of doing it. People puzzle themselves because they do not really make up their minds to fulfil their duty, whatever may happen. They wish to escape if they can; and then they begin to think of the consequences, and so they become bewildered, and at last nearly lose their power of discerning right from wrong. You know, Amy, what our Saviour calls 'an honest and true heart;' if we possess that, we have a better guide for our conduct than any which the wisest philosopher could give us."

"I think I wished to do what was right just now, papa," said Amy; "but yet I could not make up my mind about it."

"I do not mean to say," answered Colonel Herbert, "that we shall always be able to decide at once; but I am sure that, if we patiently wait and pray to God to assist us, we shall find that something will happen, as was the case with yourself when you could not resolve upon speaking to Mr Cunningham, which will make it quite clear to us where our duty lies; only, generally speaking, persons cannot endure suspense and doubt, and so they act hastily, even with good intentions, and then blame themselves when it is too late."

"What did happen just now?" asked Dora.

Amy hesitated for a reply; she could not repeat the fears that were entertained for Rose; but her father came to her assistance, "One of the servants had seen Miss Morton," he replied, "and told her that your poor little sister was not so well; and the description of Miss Morton's distress decided Amy upon applying to Mr Cunningham."

"I would give all the world," exclaimed Dora, "if Dr Bailey were come; and it would ease Margaret's mind so much too."

"I wish it were possible to comfort her," observed Colonel Herbert; "but
I am afraid it would be out of the power of any one at present."

"Oh, if Rose should but get well!" exclaimed Dora, "we shall all be happy again then."

"Yes," replied her uncle; "but do you not see, my dear Dora, that nothing can really make any difference in Margaret's conduct?"

"Indeed, uncle," said Dora, "it would be impossible not to feel differently."

"I will quite allow that," replied Colonel Herbert; "and I am not wishing so much that Margaret should care less about Rose, as that she should care more about Miss Morton. The one fault was far greater than the other; and we must never forget that sorrow for the consequences of our faults is not repentance; it will not keep us from sinning again when the temptation offers. The only sorrow which can really be of service to us is that which makes us shrink from an evil action when it is done in secret, and apparently without having any effect upon others. I mean," he added, seeing Dora look surprised, "that we must learn to dread deceit, and selfishness, and vanity, for their own sake, because they are hateful to God, not because they make us disliked by our fellow-creatures."

Dora could not entirely see the distinction; she thought her uncle harsh in his manner of speaking of Margaret; and Colonel Herbert soon perceived by her silence that she did not enter into what he had been saying; he did not, however, like to pursue the subject any further, for it hardly seemed the moment to discuss questions of right and wrong, when Dora's mind was in a state of so much anxiety; and he therefore contented himself with begging her not to think that he could not feel for Margaret most sincerely, because he wished that she could see her actions in a just point of view. "I am a stranger to her as yet," he said; "but I shall hope soon to show how real an interest I take in her, and in all of you. Even if I were not so nearly connected, I could not forget the kindness and affection you have shown to Amy, and that some of her happiest moments have been spent with you."

Dora's heart was a little softened by this speech; neither could she easily resist the polished dignity of Colonel Herbert's manner, which gave a peculiar charm to every expression of feeling. She did not, however, choose to acknowledge it, and exclaimed, when he left the room, "Your papa is so different from every one else, Amy; he almost frightens me. I wonder you could talk to him as you did this morning."

"I don't feel comfortable always," said Amy; "especially just at first when I begin; but afterwards I forget everything but the pleasure of having him home again, and then I can get on quite well."

"I wish Julia Stanley had talked to him a little," observed Dora; "he would have put her down delightfully."

"I wanted to ask you a few questions about her and the others," said Amy; "but there has been no time; and no one has been able to think of common things. Perhaps, though, you would rather not tell me about them now."

"Yes, I would," replied Dora. "I think it does me good to forget for a few minutes. I sat in that room just now, looking at poor little Rose, and watching mamma's misery, till I felt as if I could not breathe—there was such a weight upon me; and it will come back again presently."

"Don't fancy that," replied Amy; "it may all be right by and by."

"I cannot think so," said Dora. "I have often had a fear about Rose, though I hardly know why; but she was so beautiful and innocent, and everyone loved her so—she seemed born for something better than living amongst persons who are always doing wrong. Do you remember, Amy, the day we went together to Stephen's cottage, when he talked so gravely, and said that she had an angel's face, and that it was fitter for heaven than for earth? It gave me a pang to hear him; and I have thought of it so often this afternoon."

"I remember it quite well," said Amy; "and how grave you looked afterwards. But, Dora, would it not make you very happy to know that you never could do wrong any more?"

"Yes. And then Rose has never done any great harm as other people have, who are older; and, besides, she cannot look forward to anything."

"That is what I feel sometimes," said Amy. "It seems as if there were so many things to be seen in the world, and so much pleasure to come when one is grown up. I can quite understand that old people do not care about dying, or persons like Miss Morton, who have nothing to make them happy; but I cannot feel like them."

"Poor Emily!" sighed Dora; "she will be more unhappy than any one." And then, as if trying to shake off painful thoughts, she added, in a different tone, "But, Amy, you must tell me at once what you wish to know about Julia Stanley, or I shall have no time left. I promised Margaret to go back to her for a few minutes."

"It was nothing particular," said Amy; "only I wanted to hear what time they went away, and whether Mary Warner said anything more to Miss Cunningham."

"Lucy and Margaret went out almost immediately after you were gone," replied Dora; "so they did not meet again; and I don't think it would have been of any use if they had, for there was nothing really to be said—Mary had done no harm; and I am sure Julia Stanley would have rendered matters ten times worse if an apology had been made in her presence. She tried to make Mary as angry and pert as herself, but it would not do; and at last she quite laughed at her, and called her a tame-spirited girl, who was not fit to go through the world; and then Hester took Miss Cunningham's part, and said that they neither of them knew how to behave, and she would appeal to me to support her; so you may imagine my walk was not very agreeable; and I was quite glad when we came back to find that the carriage had been ordered and they were to go directly. They all left messages for you, Amy, excepting Mary, who told me she had seen you. Julia was really kind, and begged me to say how glad she was about your papa's coming home, and that she wanted to have told you so herself; and Hester joined with her, but I don't think she really cared much."

"And Mrs Danvers," said Amy; "when did she go?"

"Directly after breakfast; because she was afraid of the children being out late. I wish, oh, how I wish she had stayed, for then Rose would not have been taken for a walk. They had all left us before one o'clock; and Mr Dornford prevailed on papa to let Frank return with him for a day or two."

"I shall never think of any of them with much pleasure," said Amy; "though I enjoyed some things when they were here very much. I wonder whether they will ever stay with you again."

"I don't know," replied Dora. "Mary Warner may, perhaps, because her home is not very far off; but Mr Stanley intends to live in London soon; so that unless we meet there, I suppose there is not much chance of their ever coming in our way again. But one thing more, Amy, I must tell you: I saw Mr Cunningham and Lucy before they set off. Lucy was very sulky, and would hardly speak; but Mr Cunningham was extremely kind; and I could see how much he felt for us all. He begged particularly to be remembered to you, and said he wished he could have said good-bye to you."

"I think he is the kindest person I ever met with," replied Amy; "but still I am very glad he went away. And if I had seen Miss Cunningham, I cannot think what I should have done."

"Perhaps her brother will not speak of you," said Dora; "but as it is, I don't think she is very fond of you. She looked more sulky than ever when your name was mentioned. And now I think I have given you the history of every one, so I had better go to poor Margaret."

"Margaret will not like to see me, I am sure," observed Amy. "But I wish you could tell her how sorry I am,—I don't mean that you should give her a message; but only if, in talking to her, you could make her think me less unkind."

"She does not know that you had anything to do with the affair," replied
Dora.

"But I would much rather she should know," said Amy, looking vexed. "I could never bear her to love me, and yet feel all the time that I had been deceiving her."

"I will tell her, if you desire it: I did not like to do it before. But if I were in your place I could not keep such a thing back."

"No," answered Amy; "I do not wish any one to love me when they do not know I have done things to vex them: it would seem as if I were taking what did not belong to me. But, Dora, perhaps you will say to Margaret, now that I wished her to know it myself, and that I am very, very sorry about it, and that I hope, with all my heart, she will forgive me."

"She would never be angry with you if she felt as I do," said Dora.

"Hark!" exclaimed Amy, interrupting her, "is not that the hall door-bell?"

Dora ran into the gallery to listen, but came back with a disappointed countenance. "It was not the bell," she said; "but I could see the groom who went with papa riding down the avenue, what can have made him return alone?"

Amy had scarcely time to answer before Dora was gone to make inquiries. They were not satisfactorily answered. Mr Harrington had not found Dr Bailey at home, but hearing that he was only absent on a visit to a patient, about a mile from his own house, he thought it better to follow him himself, and had sent the servant back with a little pencil note, explaining the reason of the further delay. The information, however, in some degree relieved Mrs Harrington's uneasiness, for a thousand vague fears had arisen in her mind; and notwithstanding her alarm for her child, she could now feel comparatively composed.

Rose also was again becoming more tranquil; and her mother began to cheer herself with the hope that even before Dr Bailey's arrival, there might be a considerable change for the better. But in this hope Emily Morton did not participate. Though equally anxious, she watched every symptom with far greater calmness; and, young as she was, had seen too much of illness not to perceive that the change which appeared to be taking place was likely to end fatally, unless Rose possessed a strength of constitution sufficient to enable her to bear up against the excessive weakness with which it was accompanied. The remedies that had already been tried had in a measure allayed the fever; but the poor little girl was evidently suffering from some internal injury; and her low moanings were as distressing to Emily now as her vehemence had been before.

The moments passed wearily by. Colonel Herbert and Amy walked up and down the avenue, although the evening had closed in, listening for the trampling of the horses' feet: Dora remained with her sister; and Mrs Herbert sat in the chamber of the sick child, forgetful of herself, as she tried to console those whose sorrow was greater than her own. Emily Morton was the first in the house to catch the distant sound; and immediately afterwards Amy's voice was heard at the door, whispering that her uncle and Dr Bailey were just arrived. Emily left the room, thinking that Mrs Harrington might prefer her being absent; and while the physician was deciding upon a case on which it seemed that her own life depended, she paced the gallery quickly with Amy at her side, without uttering a single expression either of hope or fear, and endeavouring to bring her mind into a state of perfect submission to whatever it might be the will of God to appoint.

Much as Emily had loved Rose before, though she had been for months the very sunshine of her existence—the one bright gem which alone gave a charm to her daily life—she had never fully realised how much her happiness depended upon her till that moment; and when at length the door again opened, and Mr Harrington and the physician came into the gallery, all power of utterance seemed denied her, and unconsciously she caught Dr Bailey's arm, and looked in his face, with an expression of such fearful anxiety, that, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, it for the moment almost overcame him. But even before he had spoken Emily had learned the truth from Mr Harrington's countenance. She had never seen the same look of anguish before but on one occasion, when he stood by the death-bed of his eldest son. "I know it," she exclaimed, with the same unnatural hollowness of voice which had startled Amy before: "you need not tell me; I felt there was no hope."

"We will not say there is no hope," replied Dr Bailey, kindly, yet gravely. "She is so young that her strength may rally again."

"It is better to know the worst at once," said Mr Harrington. "But can you indeed do nothing?"

"I fear not," was the reply. "There is apparently some internal mischief. But of course I will do everything that lies in my power; and I shall hope to return here very early in the morning, when I shall be better able to judge of the case from the effect of the medicines I have ordered."

"Do you think she will know us again?" asked Emily, rousing herself from the first stupor of grief.

"It is probable she may," replied Dr Bailey. "The fever will most probably diminish; and the pain she is suffering may, I think, be soothed by opiates."

"And is it quite impossible that you should remain with us to-night?" inquired Mr Harrington. "I need not say that where the life of my child is at stake no sacrifice would be too great."

"You must not talk of sacrifices," replied Dr Bailey. "No one could look at that sweet child without feeling that to be the means of restoring her would be more than a sufficient recompense for the greatest exertions. If it were not that I have a still more urgent case requiring my presence, nothing would induce me to go. But I have no immediate fear for your poor little girl; there is not likely to be any great change for several hours; and you must remember she may rally after all."

Whilst Dr Bailey was speaking, Amy had brought a chair for Miss Morton, and stood by her side, earnestly desiring to comfort her, yet not daring to do more than show it by her manner. It was a grief so deep that she could not venture to speak of it; and her own tears fell fast, as she remembered what Rose had been, only a few hours before, and thought of the condition to which she was now reduced.

But a few more words passed between Mr Harrington and Dr Bailey; and when they parted, there was a promise given, that, if possible, the latter should return to Emmerton by day-break. Mr Harrington was rather relieved by the idea, and hastened to his wife to give her the same comfort; but he found her in a state which rendered her incapable of receiving it. Her expectations had been so sanguine before Dr Bailey's arrival, and she had hoped so much from the decrease of the fever, that the disappointment was doubly felt, and she now required almost as much attention as Rose. Cold as she generally appeared, her affection for her children was very great; and Rose from her infancy had been her especial delight; and now that she was called suddenly to part from her, at a time when she was still suffering from the loss of her eldest boy, her whole mind seemed to sink under the trial. Emily Morton's love, indeed, was not less; but there was a principle to support her, of which Mrs Harrington knew but little; for she felt only that Rose was dying, and her thoughts could not dwell with comfort upon the world in which she would live again. At this season of distress the blessing of Mrs Herbert's presence was particularly felt. The sight of so much sorrow made her insensible to all pain or fatigue; she seemed to possess a power of thought and feeling for every one; and her natural energy enabled her to decide at once upon what was best to be done.

Dr Bailey's orders for Rose were quickly attended to; Mrs Harrington was conveyed to her own room almost insensible; and a few words of kindness and sympathy were spoken to Emily, which gradually recalled the feeling of resignation to which her mind had been so long tutored, and restored her power of action. Mr Harrington went himself to inform Dora and Margaret of Dr Bailey's opinion, and then stationed himself at the door of the sick chamber, that he might be informed of every change that took place; whilst Amy, after doing her utmost to assist Mrs Herbert, went to her father, who was now left solitary and anxious in the room, which only the evening before had been filled with company, and resounding with music and merriment. The contrast was indeed strange; and Amy, when thinking of it, could scarcely believe it possible that so much had happened in so short a space of time. It was her first lesson in the changes of life; and it spoke even more plainly than her mother's warnings of the utter insufficiency of wealth to afford anything like real happiness. At that hour she felt how little comfort her uncle could derive from being possessed of the means of gratifying every passing fancy. He would have sacrificed all, without a thought, to have restored his child to health; but his riches and his luxuries were powerless; and the one only consolation now remaining was that blessing of prayer, which was equally the privilege of the poorest of his neighbours.