It was happy for Emily Morton that the attention which Mrs Harrington's situation demanded, when the fact of her loss forced itself upon her mind, obliged her in some degree to forget the misery of her own feelings. So much was required to be done, that she had no time to realise the vast blank which that one moment had made in her existence; and her chief anxiety now was to prevent Mrs Herbert from being disturbed. This, however, was impossible. She had not, indeed, heard the bell; but she soon learned all that had happened, and went directly to Mrs Harrington's room to entreat that Emily would allow her to take her place, and at least lie down for a few hours herself, even if sleep were, as she feared, out of the question. But Emily's only support was in exertion. To have been left alone in her own chamber, with everything around to remind her of the treasure which had been taken from her, would have been a trial so great that she could not suffer herself to dwell upon it. "I must stay," she said; "it is all I can do; and I do not need rest."

Mrs Herbert looked at her anxiously. "You do not know what you need just now, my dear; but perhaps you are right; only," she added, as she kissed Emily's burning forehead, and observed the trembling of her limbs, "I have felt lately almost as if you were my eldest child; and you must allow me a mother's authority."

Emily could not answer; but Mrs Herbert's affection, even in that hour of bitterness, relieved the oppressive sense of desolation which had before weighed her spirit to the earth; and when again left to herself, she was able to dwell with greater composure upon the scene through which she had just passed, and felt truly thankful that her prayers had been heard, and that strength had been given her to support it.

The morning had dawned before Mrs Harrington was sufficiently recovered to allow of her being left; and while Emily was still lingering, unable to summon resolution to go to her own room, a gentle knock was heard at the door, and Amy's voice asked permission to enter. "Mamma sent me," she said, as calmly as her agitation would allow. "She wishes you so much to go to bed; and we have been getting my room ready for you, that you may be near us, if you want anything. I am to be in mamma's sitting-room, so that no one shall go to you unless you like it."

"You had better go," observed Mrs Harrington, faintly; "you must require rest more than any one. Pray do not stay with me."

Emily hesitated. She thought that, if the effort she dreaded were made at once, the most painful trial would be over. But Amy's pleading look could not be resisted. "It has been my only comfort the last half hour," she continued, "to try and make all nice for you; and poor Dora has been helping me; and Margaret sent her love to you, only she cannot bear to see any one."

"You must go," insisted Mrs Harrington, "If Morris is left with me, I shall not require any one else." And Emily did not wait any longer, for she was beginning to suffer from the effects of all she had undergone.

The room had been so prepared by Amy's thoughtfulness, that it almost looked as if Emily had inhabited it for weeks; and little as she then cared for personal comfort, she yet felt unspeakably relieved by these tokens of affection; for a child's love had lately been so associated with every thought and feeling, that without it there was an aching void in her heart which nothing else could fill.

Her rest, if such it could be called, was short and broken; but in her half-waking intervals. Amy's face came before her with its expression of peaceful innocence, as if to remind her that something was still left in the world to which her affections might cling: and when she arose to the full consciousness of sorrow, her first comfort was the thought that it was God who had ordained her trial, and the second that He had remembered her in her distress, by giving her such friends as she felt Mrs Herbert and Amy to be.

The day passed slowly on, but Emily had neither the power nor the inclination to leave her chamber. She was completely exhausted by the night's fatigue; and Mrs Herbert entreated her on no account to make any exertion, till her strength had been in some degree recruited. There was not much indeed required, for Mrs Harrington had been considerably refreshed by a few hours of sleep, but her spirit was entirely crushed by the blow. She seldom spoke, or paid any attention to what was going on, but sat gazing upon vacancy, or walking up and down the room, unmindful of every effort that was made to rouse her. It was now that Dora's energy and principle were fully called into action. The selfishness which she had sometimes previously shown had been the result rather of education than disposition; and she had lately struggled so much against it, that, at a time when every feeling of sympathy and affection was awakened, it seemed entirely to disappear. She attended upon her mother, and talked to her father, and comforted Margaret, without apparently once consulting her own wishes, though there were moments when the recollection of Rose, or the sight of some book or plaything which had belonged to her, brought such a pang to her heart, that she longed to rush away and give vent to the misery of her feelings alone.

Mrs Herbert would probably have suffered much from her exertions if it had not been for Dora's assistance; but she was able in consequence to spend the afternoon in her own room; and however she might sympathise in the grief of her brother and his family, there was a happiness in the knowledge that her husband was near, which nothing could entirely destroy. Her chief anxiety was for Emily Morton. She knew that the first bitterness of sorrow would in time be diminished, and that even Mrs Harrington would probably soon recover from its present overpowering effects; but to Emily the change it would cause must be lasting. There was but little prospect of her continuing at Emmerton, now that her principal occupation was taken from her; and Mrs Herbert shrunk from the thought of her being sent again amongst strangers, to meet, perhaps, with still greater scorn and neglect than she had yet experienced. She had no home and but few friends, and might, therefore, be compelled to go immediately into another situation, with the recollection of little Rose weighing upon her spirit, and adding tenfold bitterness to the trials she would probably be called on to encounter.

Mrs Herbert was thinking upon this subject, and endeavouring to form some plan for Emily's comfort, when her husband entered. He had been talking with Mr Harrington, and had left him, he hoped, more tranquil and resigned.

"I am not so much afraid for him," said Mrs Herbert, "as for my sister. A person of her disposition can seldom entirely recover from a sudden shock of this nature."

"Perhaps," he replied, "it may not be intended that she should. One hardly likes to think of the reason for which afflictions are sent to others, because one may judge so wrongly; yet a deep, quiet, lasting grief will sometimes, I am sure, win back our hearts to God when everything else has failed."

"Poor Charlotte!" said Mrs Herbert; "it is a bitter discipline. And I never see other people suffer without thinking that I may require it next myself."

"Have you seen Miss Morton lately?" asked Colonel Herbert,

"I am afraid the change this will bring upon her will be greater than upon any one, as far as outward circumstances go."

"Amy has been keeping watch upon her all day, and told me just now she thought that she was trying to sleep again, so I did not like to disturb her; and indeed I have only seen her twice since the morning, and then only for a few minutes, for I saw she required rest and solitude more than anything else."

"She will scarcely remain here now," said Colonel Herbert.

"Her chief employment and interest will be gone. And I suppose she would not be happy even if Mrs Harrington wished her to continue."

"Charlotte will not wish it. She told me a short time since that her principal reason for desiring to keep Miss Morton was on account of little Rose, as Dora and Margaret did not like having her in the house, and she felt herself that the position was an awkward one. She did not choose her to be a companion; and she was not old enough to have any authority."

"And what will become of her?" said Colonel Herbert.

"She will go into another situation as soon as possible; but the difficulty will be to find one that will suit her."

"It will be a miserable life for her, I fear," he continued. "Some people seem born to struggle against the hardships of the world; but she is so very gentle that it appeals as if the smallest unkindness would completely crush her."

"You do not know her," replied Mrs Herbert. "She can never be crushed by anything, not even by the grief which she is now enduring. Her principles are far too high."

Colonel Herbert paced the room thoughtfully for several minutes; and then, suddenly stopping, he said, "Amy is very fond of Miss Morton, I think."

"Yes; and the acquaintance has been of infinite service already. Amy is very quick at discerning character, and notices everything; and I can constantly see how the example of Miss Morton's patience and goodness has strengthened her own right feelings. I quite dread to think of what she will suffer when they are compelled to part."

"Are you quite sure that parting is necessary?" said Colonel Herbert.

"Only as you are quite sure yourself. Miss Morton will not wish to stay, and my sister will not wish to keep her; and of course in such a case she must go."

"Supposing—remember I am not expressing any wish upon the subject—but supposing it were suggested to Miss Morton to return with us to the cottage, and take your place as Amy's governess, would it meet your wishes; and do you think she would like it?"

"Would you really agree to such a plan?" exclaimed Mrs Herbert. "It crossed my own mind once, but I thought it would not please you; and I could not bear to propose anything which it might give you pain to refuse."

"Why should you imagine it would not please me?"

"Because it might interfere with your notions of domestic comfort to have a stranger in the house. And then you cannot feel for Miss Morton as I do."

"But I can feel for her because you do. And with regard to my notions of domestic comfort, I should consider them of very minor importance, even if Miss Morton were not a person to excite such deep interest, when compared with the advantage her assistance would be to you in Amy's education, and the pleasure it would be to Amy to have such a companion. The first thing that gave me the idea, was the knowledge that you required more relaxation than you were likely to give yourself, if you considered that Amy's instruction depended entirely on your own energy."

"I do not think we should repent taking such a step," said Mrs Herbert. "My own feeling for Emily is so sincere that I would make great sacrifices for her comfort if they did not involve yours."

"I do not see why they should; though, even if they did, I hope I should not hesitate. By arranging for Miss Morton to return with us, we may be the means of giving her peace, and even happiness, for several years at least. But in fact I do not feel that it would be any sacrifice now that I know you would like it."

"It would be a very great relief to my mind," said Mrs Herbert. "If you had seen her look of misery last night, you would have felt that it was impossible to rest satisfied till something had been done for her."

"It will not do to decide upon it hastily, though," observed Colonel Herbert. "Situated as we are, having known her family, and having a personal interest in herself, whatever we decided on doing we should be obliged to continue,—I mean that we could not allow her to leave us merely on the ground of its not suiting our convenience that she should remain. It would be cruel, after giving her the idea that we are really her friends, to throw her again upon the mercy of strangers."

"Still," said Mrs Herbert, "I am not really inclined to hesitate; my feelings are decidedly in favour of the plan; though for that very reason I should wish to consider all the possible objections in their strongest light."

"There will be no occasion to decide at once," said Colonel Herbert. "Miss Morton will scarcely be in a state to think of anything for the next few days; and by that time we shall be better able to judge whether there is any serious obstacle in the way—anything that involves a sacrifice of what is right, which, in fact, is all that is really to be considered."

"People would laugh," said Mrs Herbert, "at the idea of its being possible to act wrongly in taking an orphan girl into your family, with the earnest wish of making her happy."

"Very likely they would; but I have seen enough of life to have discovered that a hasty kindness is often quite as injurious as a hasty unkindness. Mere feeling, however good, should never be allowed entirely to guide our actions, especially where the happiness of another person is so materially concerned as in the present case."

"I do not well see how it could lead us wrong now," replied Mrs Herbert.

"It might induce us to decide without considering the sacrifices which will be required of us; and then when the time came for making them we should be vexed and disappointed, and should probably show it, and so destroy poor Miss Morton's comfort, or perhaps force her to leave us, whereas, if we well weigh them beforehand, we shall be prepared, and they will come as a matter of course."

"I believe you are right; and yet my first impulse, when you mentioned the subject, was to go at once and name it to Emily; of course, I felt in a moment it would be very absurd, if not really wrong; but it is so hard to know that suffering exists, and not make some effort to relieve it."

"Yes," replied Colonel Herbert; "and it is so hard to make up our minds that suffering is good for those we love. But we must do it now; we must bear to wait patiently till Miss Morton has formed her own plans, though we know how much it will cost her to do it, and also to see every one about us unhappy for many weeks, if not months, to come; no human power can at present give them consolation."

"It is but a sad welcome for you," said Mrs Herbert, smiling through her tears as she looked in her husband's face; "but I can be deeply thankful that the trial did not come sooner; I could not have borne it then."

"We might have been too happy without it," he replied. "I half dreaded that something might happen when I went with Amy to the cottage. To see you looking as you did on that morning, so much more like your former self than I could possibly have expected, and to discover in every word she uttered how entirely my fondest wishes for her had been realised, was greater happiness than it is usually permitted us to enjoy for any length of time."

"It is strange now," said Mrs Herbert, "to remember the unclouded pleasure I then felt; it is like endeavouring to realise the beauty of a summer's day when we are in the midst of winter. But there are some who seem to have had no summer to their lives—Miss Morton, for instance."

"Her summer may be to come, even on earth," replied Colonel Herbert; "at least, if it should be arranged for her to be with us, I think we shall agree in striving that it may be so; and if it should be otherwise ordered, she is hardly a person to grieve for the few wintry hours of this life, when she can look forward to the long summer's day beyond it."

"It would be a great blessing," said Mrs Herbert, "to feel that we had been the means of giving her comfort and relief; yet I fully see the necessity of considering the subject well. And one thing we must be careful about is the manner in which it is first mentioned to my brother and Charlotte. They would not be likely to object, and yet they might be annoyed if Emily proposed herself to leave them, and then came to us immediately afterwards."

"Perhaps it would be best," observed Colonel Herbert, "to find out their ideas first, and, if they are what we fancy, to suggest our wishes, and gain their approbation before it is named to Miss Morton."

"Always remembering that we well weigh all the difficulties," said Mrs Herbert. "I see your mind runs on just as fast as mine; you speak as if you had no doubt what your decision would be."

"Perhaps I have not; however, it is as well to be reminded of prudence; so, for the next day or two, we will forget that we have any inclinations, and look only to the objections."

The entrance of Amy interrupted the conversation, which was not again renewed till the evening; and by that time Mrs Herbert's feelings were still more interested in carrying the plan into execution. She had spent nearly an hour with Miss Morton, and had found her more composed than she could have imagined possible; but it was evident, from many little expressions, that Emily fully contemplated the necessity of her removal. She spoke much of Mrs Herbert's kindness, and said that the remembrance of it would be carried with her as one of her greatest consolations, wherever it might please God to place her; and with timid hesitation she asked whether Amy might be allowed at times to write to her. "Perhaps," she said, "your slight knowledge of me scarcely warrants my making the request; but it is hard to part so suddenly from all that has given pleasure to life; and my heart will still cling to Emmerton, and to those who have rendered it so dear to me, even in a few short months."

Mrs Herbert longed to say that she trusted the parting might be unnecessary; but she contented herself with assuring Emily that Amy should write to her frequently, if they were separated, and expressing a general hope that she might always remain in the neighbourhood.

"I am afraid," replied Emily, "that it would hardly be for my good. I feel now as if to linger so near, to be so constantly reminded of lost blessings, would unfit me for the duties of life. I must act; and perhaps the greater my difficulties and my loneliness, the better it may be for me in the end. Even now I have forced myself to consider and decide upon the future, because I know that to sit alone and dwell upon the past would destroy all my powers of exertion."

"But to see us occasionally," said Mrs Herbert, "would surely be a comfort to you."

"In time it would," replied Emily, "but not now. To be within reach of you, and yet to be separated, as I must be by circumstances, would probably make me repine even more than I fear I am inclined to do at present. And I am trying," she added, while her pale lips quivered, and the tears rushed to her eyes, "to learn the lesson which it is the will of God to teach me. I know how quickly my heart will fix itself upon earthly objects."

"But you must not think, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert, "that it is God's will that we should live without affection. Why should He have bestowed such feelings upon us if they were not intended to be exercised? If we give the first place to Him, He will never forbid us to give the second to our fellow-creatures."

"I am afraid," said Emily, faintly. "I have thought before that I could give up all for Him, and yet when He required it I have shrunk from the sacrifice; and so it is now. I am not resigned as I ought to be; and I must never again put myself within reach of the temptation of loving an earthly being too well."

"You are speaking, my love, under the influence of an overstrained feeling," answered Mrs Herbert. "I know you would not change what has happened if the power were granted you at this instant; you would not bring back that sweet child to the sufferings of a sinful world, even if it were to give yourself years of happiness."

"No, no!" exclaimed Emily, eagerly. "I can and I do thank God that she is safe with Him—not in words only, but from the very bottom of my heart; and yet I may be afraid—it has always been so. Those whom I have loved the best have ever been taken from me the first."

"Only we may not presume to decide why," said Mrs Herbert. "It may have been for their good, quite as much as for your warning. And even now, if the loss of a darling child should be the means of bringing those whose happiness was wrapped up in her nearer to God, you would be the first to acknowledge the greatness of the blessing, and to see that the object of the trial might be principally their benefit. I do not mean to say," she added, observing that Emily continued silent, "that we are not all in danger of allowing our hearts to rest upon our earthly treasures; I am sure, indeed, it is one of our greatest temptations; but still we must not always think we have done so when they are taken from us; and, especially, we must not shut ourselves up in silent misery, and refuse the alleviations which God mercifully grants us."

"Perhaps," said Emily, "I could be more resigned, if I did not at times fancy that I had been the cause of everything. If I had never left her, many moments of self-reproach would be spared me. Not that I give way to the idea, because I believe it is false: I was doing what I knew to be my duty in going to the cottage; and the event was in the hands of God: but vet the notion haunts me; and even when I turn away from it, it still remains a load on my heart."

"And it will remain there, my dear, till the first misery of your feelings has worn off, and you can see things in a truer light. It is impossible to argue against it; or rather, no arguments which any person can use will entirely satisfy you; but you must, indeed, force yourself to turn away from it, or it will grow into a certainty, and then the whole energy of your mind will be destroyed. If we once allow ourselves to dwell too much upon the consequences even of our slightest actions, we shall be quite unfitted for the duties of life."

"Then you do not think I was wrong?" said Emily.

"No, indeed, I do not. You went on an errand of kindness, where your services were really required, and you left that dear child, as you believed, in a place of safety with those who were certainly quite old enough to have taken care of her during the few minutes of your absence. Consider what your feelings would have been if you had neglected to go to the cottage, and fatal consequences had been the result. You might have reproached yourself then, perhaps justly; but you can have no cause for it now. If any one has reason to be distressed, it is poor Margaret; and I am afraid she is suffering very much."

"Have you seen her?" asked Emily,

"No," replied Mrs Herbert; "but Dora tells me she cannot comfort her at all. I have sent several messages, and hope, by and by, she will let me go to her."

"Will you say something from me," said Emily; "I hardly know what; but only let her feel that I think of her."

"I wish it were possible to convince her how wrongly she has acted towards you," answered Mrs Herbert. "I fear that what she is suffering now will have but little real influence on her character. It is mere feeling, and will pass away; for she will soon discover that she has exaggerated her negligence, and then she will care but little about it."

"I am very sorry for her," said Emily; "and I could not bear to think that she was made more miserable now on my account."

"But it would be for her good, my dear; and if I attempt to comfort her by proving that she has over-estimated one fault, I shall certainly endeavour to make her sorry for having thought so little of the other. It will be useless to attempt it by and by; but now Dora says she really feels for you, and therefore there may be some hope."

"You must not let her think that I remember it," replied Emily, "I wish she could know how entirely I have forgiven it."

"I am not sure that I do wish it just now," replied Mrs Herbert. "To be forgiven before we have acknowledged our offences makes us think too lightly of them. When Margaret can see how utterly selfish her conduct was, and grieve heartily for it, although no evil consequences have followed, then it will be time to talk of forgiveness. And now, my dear, I must leave you; but Amy shall come to you whenever you wish it."

"Shall I ever thank you enough?" said Emily.

"Do not talk of thanks," interrupted Mrs Herbert; "or, if you will, you must listen to all I have to say of your kindness to Amy."

The substance of this conversation was repeated to Colonel Herbert in the evening: and as there was now no doubt of Miss Morton's intentions, the only thing that required to be decided was the practicability of her residence at the cottage. Colonel Herbert insisted strongly upon every objection, feeling in his own mind how much his inclinations led him the contrary way; and having been the first to propose the plan, he was the more anxious that Mrs Herbert should not afterwards see cause to repent it. The expense, the responsibility, the interruption to their own privacy, were all brought forward; but Mrs Herbert overruled everything; and after an hour's earnest conversation, it was finally determined that the subject should be named to Mr and Mrs Harrington as soon as they had heard of Emily's intentions. "And then," said Colonel Herbert, with a smile of heartfelt pleasure, "if Miss Morton will consent, we will see whether the quiet of the cottage, with you for a companion, and Amy for a pupil, will not in some degree restore her to happiness."

"If it should please God to grant it," replied Mrs Herbert, "I believe it will be through Amy's means. I can see, even now, how she turns to her for comfort. She half-smiled this afternoon when Amy came into the room, and then checked herself, as if afraid to allow her thoughts to dwell upon her."

"Who would not find comfort in Amy?" said Colonel Herbert. "I have often tried to fancy what she would be like; but I could not have expected to find her so entirely simple and sincere, with a mind in many respects so far beyond her age."

"It has been a great relief to me to observe how little she has been altered by the change of her life since she has been so much with her cousins," answered Mrs Herbert. "It was my principal fear at first; but she has had a much greater influence upon them than they have had upon her."

"I suspect," replied her husband, "that we are not at all aware of the real strength of principle in the mind of a child who has always endeavoured to do right. Children injure themselves for their whole lives by indulging in what are called trifling faults—a little vanity, or a little selfishness, or a hastiness of temper. If they could only be made to see the infinite importance of subduing these feelings early, they would grow up with confirmed habits of goodness, which, by the blessing of God, would never leave them, however they might be tempted in after-life."

"We will hope that it may be so with Amy," said Mrs Herbert. "Certainly she has begun betimes; and I think she will lead her cousins to follow her example."

"Dora interests me very much," observed Colonel Herbert; "but Margaret I have scarcely spoken to. Have you seen her lately?"

"No; but she promises to let me go to her the first thing to-morrow. She dreads seeing her mother; and I rather think she will be glad to have me to intercede for her."

"She need not be afraid; while Mrs Harrington remains in her present state, she will not be likely to notice anything."

"To-morrow," said Mrs Herbert, "I shall endeavour to persuade my sister to go and look once more upon that darling child. It will be a great trial, but I think it may rouse her; and her countenance is now so exquisitely peaceful and beautiful, that I should hope it might go far towards reconciling her to her loss."

"The worst trial is yet to come, I fear," said Colonel Herbert. "There is something still to rest upon whilst the outward form is left us, even when the spirit is fled."

"I do not think that I quite agree with you. When everything is gone that belonged to this world, we are able to feel more truly that the spirit may still be with us. Perhaps the separation between ourselves and little Rose may be far slighter than we accustom ourselves to imagine."

"It may be so," said Colonel Herbert, thoughtfully, "though the Bible does not give us any certainty upon the subject."

"It does not forbid us to think so; and at times it has been an inexpressible comfort to me to feel that those whom I have loved might still be near, though I could not see them; and I have always felt it more after they were taken from my sight, and I could no longer look upon them with the intense longing that they might return to be what they once were."

"Whether true or not, the idea is an innocent one," said Colonel Herbert; "I wish sincerely that it could be a comfort to your poor sister."

"I think it not impossible," said Mrs Herbert, "that by and by Charlotte will consent to see Mr Walton. You know he has been acquainted with her from her childhood; and I am sure she has a very great respect for him; and, as a clergyman, he could say so many things which no one else would."

"I rather doubt it," replied her husband. "She is so little accustomed to be unreserved, according to your account, that I can hardly imagine she would allow any one to speak plainly, much less to comfort her."

"A month ago the case would have been very different," said Mrs Herbert; "but this grief, I trust and believe, will have a very great effect. Even Edward's death was not felt as much; at least it did not appear so when she first arrived. I am not, however, going to talk to you any longer, for I promised Amy, before she went to bed, that I would go to Miss Morton, the last thing, to see that she was comfortable."

"Amy seemed worn out when she wished me good-night," said Colonel
Herbert; "her pale looks made me quite anxious."

"She has had a very trying day; and then, real sorrow is so new to her, and she has been endeavouring so much to comfort every one, and suffering so much at times herself (for she was very fond of little Rose), that it is not strange she should look pale."

"I must go and see if she is asleep," said Colonel Herbert, as he stole softly into the adjoining room.

Mrs Herbert followed, though almost inclined to find fault with him for running the risk of awakening her.

But Amy's repose was too deep to be disturbed even by her father's kiss. There was a tear on her cheek, which showed what her last thought had been; but sleep had restored the peacefulness of an innocent mind; and Colonel Herbert, as he looked at her with delight, prayed that it might never forsake her.

Mrs Herbert's conversation with Margaret, the following day, was more satisfactory than she had anticipated. At first, indeed, Margaret refused to listen to any consolation. She declared that she had been the sole cause of the accident; that her mother must consider her so; and that it would be impossible ever again to know a happy moment. But when her aunt, although fully allowing her negligence and selfishness, pointed out how many other circumstances had combined to bring about the event; without which her fault, however great, would probably have produced no important consequences to any one but herself, Margaret became calmer; and Mrs Herbert's fear then was, lest she should consider herself perfectly free from blame. "I do not mean, my dear," she said, "that you have no reason to reproach yourself, for selfishness and neglect must always be serious offences in the eye of God; but what I wish you to feel is, that if you have acted in the same manner on other occasions, you have been equally guilty in His sight, though no one may have known it but yourself."

"Every one is selfish," said Margaret; "I never thought it was very wicked before."

"Every one is selfish, naturally," replied Mrs Herbert; "but we are sent into the world to conquer our nature; and many persons are enabled to do it almost entirely. You will not call Miss Morton selfish?"

"No," said Margaret, "I don't think she is; but she has been so unhappy always, that I can never fancy she has had the same inclinations as other people—I mean that she does not care for things in the same way; and so it is not much trouble to her to give them up."

"Yes," observed Mrs Herbert, "she has had a great deal of suffering in her short life; and I doubt whether any trial has been greater than the present."

"I was afraid she would be very miserable," said Margaret. "Dora has told me how ill she looks; and I am sorry for her."

There was a slight hesitation in Margaret's manner, as if she wished to escape from the subject; but Mrs Herbert was not inclined to permit it to drop. "I am sure you feel for her now, my dear," she said; "but you could hardly have done so when you would have allowed her to be sent away under a false impression, and at a time when, of all others, it must have been most distressing."

The colour rushed to Margaret's cheek, but she answered quickly, "I did not know what would happen then; and, besides, she did not go."

"But for what reason?" inquired Mrs Herbert; "not because you spoke for her willingly. If you had known how much she suffered for a whole hour, whilst obliged to make preparations, and fully believing that she must go, I think you would be sorry for your conduct. She thought then, what we know now would have been the case, that she never would see little Rose again."

"Was she really so miserable?" said Margaret. "Indeed I did not intend to make her so; and I should never have concealed anything if it had not been for Lucy Cunningham."

"Miss Cunningham will, I hope, one day see how great her fault was; but, my dear Margaret, her actions cannot alter yours. God will not admit it as an excuse, that others have led us into evil; for we must each be judged for ourselves."

"Does Emily Morton think much about it now?" said Margaret.

"No," replied her aunt; "she is so far from feeling anything like unkindness, that I am certain she would make any sacrifice to do you good and make you happy. But, my dear child, why will you always turn your mind to what other people think and feel? It can make no difference to you."

"I don't know," replied Margaret; "but it always seems that things are worse when they are thought much of."

"But why?" continued Mrs Herbert. "It does not alter our conduct in the eye of God. We may think of it now, and it may appear to us of consequence; but you know, my love, that there must come a time when it will be of no use to us to have borne a good character in the world, or even to have been loved and admired by our friends, unless we have been also really good in our own hearts."

Margaret turned rather pale, but made no reply; and Mrs Herbert went on. "We do not know how soon the moment may arrive," she said; "and God sends us such warnings as we have had now to remind us of it. It is a great mercy that we may look upon that dear child, and feel perfectly happy in the belief that she is now safe, and in the keeping of her Saviour; but it might have been very different if the summons had been sent to any of us who are older."

"But," said Margaret, "I fancied it was only grown-up people who could be so very wicked. I am only thirteen, and I have never been confirmed."

"But you have been baptized," replied Mrs Herbert. "Before you could even know the difference between good and evil, God gave you His Holy Spirit to guide you in the right way; and then He placed you in a happy home, with kind parents, and you were taught to read, and taken to church, and kept out of the reach of the temptations of the world. Why should it be less wicked to do wrong when we are young, and have so many blessings and so much instruction, than when we are old and exposed to every kind of evil?"

"My faults are only little ones," said Margaret.

"Your faults are the greatest you can commit, my love; because you have been so educated that you would be ashamed to be guilty of greater ones; and we may be quite sure, that whoever wilfully indulges in a trifling fault when not tempted to do anything worse, would equally indulge a greater one if the inducement were to be put before him. If, situated as you are, you will not struggle against vanity, or selfishness, or deceit, or ill-temper, you would not struggle against theft or falsehood if you were the child of a poor man."

"But I cannot really be so wicked," said Margaret.

"Yes, indeed you can," replied her aunt. "When God requires of us the account of our lives, we shall have to confess our advantages as well as our offences; and if we commit what people in general call little sins, when our advantages have been great, we must be as wicked as persons who commit greater sins with fewer advantages."

"I do not think," said Margaret, "that I have been taught as much as
Amy."

"That is not the question, my dear. The real thing to ask ourselves is, whether we have made the best use of the instruction we have had; not whether we have had less than others. And one blessing—the first and greatest of all—is given to each of us alike at our baptism; for we are told, in the service which is then used, that God is pleased at that time to regenerate us with His Holy Spirit; and if we chose to follow His guidance, we should constantly be kept in the right way."

"I have heard Amy talk in that manner," said Margaret; "but indeed, aunt
Herbert, I never understood what she meant."

"Will you tell me, my dear, whether you have ever wished to do right?"

"Oh yes, very often; only it is so much trouble always to think about it."

"And have you not often admired people whom you saw conquering their evil dispositions, and now and then tried to imitate them, and really felt pleasure in doing it?"

"Yes," replied Margaret, "sometimes."

"All these better feelings," continued Mrs Herbert, "were not your own by nature; they were the work of that better spirit of which I have been speaking: and if you had prayed to God to keep them in your heart, and had endeavoured to act from them, you would have found them becoming stronger and stronger every day; and then, instead of being inclined to vanity and selfishness, you would be humble, and gentle, and self-denying: and though you might often do wrong—because no one in this world can ever entirely get rid of his evil nature—yet you would be very sorry for it; and God, for the sake of your blessed Saviour, would forgive you, when you prayed to Him, and He would make you every day holier and happier; He would cause all the troubles of the world to appear light to you; and when you had lived here as long as He knew that it was necessary for your good, He would take you to heaven."

"And will it never be so now?" exclaimed Margaret, touched at last by her aunt's words.

"Yes," said Mrs Herbert, "if you will begin at once: but, indeed, my love, there must be no delay. If you are really sorry for having offended God, there can be no doubt of His forgiveness; but it must always be asked in our Saviour's name. It is only for His sake that we have anything granted us; and the blessings bestowed at our baptism would never have been ours if He had not died to purchase them."

"I think, aunt Herbert," said Margaret, with earnestness, "that I should never have done wrong things if I had always had you to talk to me."

"Indeed, my love, you would. It is not any human power that can keep us from sin. But you are very young; and if you were to begin at once, praying to God to assist you, and really trying to please Him in everything, you might, in time, become as good as those saints and holy people of whom we read in the Bible."

"No, never!" exclaimed Margaret; "it would be quite impossible."

"They were but human beings," replied Mrs Herbert; "and some of them had not even the same advantages that we have. It requires nothing but real sincerity and trust in God."

"I should like to be as good as they were," said Margaret, "if——" and here she paused.

"If you could be so without any trouble. But, my dear Margaret, consider what your condition will be at the end of your life, if you continue in this state of mind. How will you feel when you look back upon, perhaps, a long life, and know that it has been entirely wasted, that you have never really tried to serve God, and that you will probably never go to heaven, because you would not take the trouble?"

"It cannot be necessary to be so very good," said Margaret.

"It is quite necessary to try to be," answered Mrs Herbert. "God will never accept anything but our whole hearts. You must remember our Saviour's words, 'Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.' Certainly this must mean that we are to be what you call very good."

"But," said Margaret, "I thought no one could be good enough to deserve to go to heaven."

"No, indeed, they cannot. But supposing, Margaret, that a great prince were to come to Emmerton and offer to adopt you as his child, and were to promise that, if you would do everything he wished, he would, in time, take you to his kingdom, and give you riches and honours beyond all that you could possibly imagine, do you not see that, although you never could have merited such kindness, though it would be a perfectly free gift on his part, yet that, if you refused to obey, you would justly deserve to lose it?"

Margaret assented; but she did not seem entirely to understand what was intended, and Mrs Herbert continued: "This is exactly the case with ourselves, my dear. God gives us all the promise of heaven, for the sake of our Saviour, when we are baptized; but He also requires that we should obey Him; and therefore, if we neglect to do so, the consequences must be our own eternal misery."

"I don't mean," said Margaret, "that I would not try to be good at all; but that I don't think it can be necessary to be like the saints and people who shut themselves up, and never saw any one."

Mrs Herbert half smiled as she replied, "Certainly God does not require that we should all live exactly the same lives as the persons you mention—He does not command us all to leave our homes and go to deserts; but it is possible to have the same tempers and dispositions as the saints, though we may live in our own families."

"How can we set about being so good?" asked Margaret.

"First of all," replied her aunt, "we must pray to God to give us the will; and when we have that, half our difficulty will be over. It is seldom really hard to us to do what we earnestly desire; even things which seemed quite impossible have been accomplished by a real earnestness of purpose. There is a story told of a man whose father from extravagance had brought his family to great poverty, and who, when he became of age, instead of being possessed of large estates, was absolutely penniless. He was standing one day upon the top of a very high hill, looking over a vast extent of country that had belonged to his ancestors, and which, but for his father's folly, would have been his, when the idea entered his mind that it would be possible by his own exertions to recover all that had been lost. From that moment he resolved that he would never rest till he had achieved his wishes. He worked by night and by day, he gave himself no rest and no amusement; and at length he succeeded, and the estate was his. And though the end of the story is a very sad one, and shows us the sin and folly of setting our hearts on earthly objects,—for we are told that the poor man became from habit a miser as soon as he gained his end,—yet we may learn from it how much is in the power of persons who are really and sincerely in earnest."

"I think I could have felt like that man," said Margaret; "but I should never care so much about being good."

"You would if you could once see how beautiful goodness is," replied her aunt; "if an angel were to be always at your side, you would long to resemble him."

"Oh yes!" said Margaret; "but that is not possible; and every one I see is much the same as I am; only Amy and Miss Morton perhaps are different."

"But you can read your Bible," answered Mrs Herbert; "and you can see there how holy, and merciful, and gentle our Saviour was. His perfect purity is set before us to excite our longings to obtain it, as the estates of that poor man were set before him. It is the image of that holiness which we should have possessed if Adam had never sinned; and if we had but equal resolution, we may have equal success; not, indeed, entirely in this world, because we still must carry about with us an evil nature, but in a far greater degree than we are at all apt to imagine."

"Did you ever know any one who was so very good?" asked Margaret.

"Yes," replied Mrs Herbert; "and I have watched by their death-beds, and witnessed their peace and happiness in the midst of the most severe sufferings. I think, Margaret, if you had ever seen a real Christian die, you would long to be like them."

"Should I?" said Margaret, thoughtfully. "I never saw any one die yet; but poor Edward was always good; and they said he was quite happy."

"Yes," replied her aunt; "and if he were happy then, when lying on a sick-bed, how much more happy must he be now! I know you would wish to go to him."

"And Rose," exclaimed Margaret, bursting into tears. "Oh, aunt Herbert, do you think I shall ever see her again?"

"I am sure you will, my dear child, if you will only pray to God to make you good and holy, and fit for the home to which He has taken her. Will you begin at once, and never neglect your prayers, and try with all your heart to attend to them, and not allow your thoughts to wander? and will you recollect how very many wrong things you have done, and ask Him to forgive you for your Saviour's sake? And then will you endeavour, in every little trifling thing, to give up your own will, and think only of what is right?"

"I will try," answered Margaret.

"If you try," said Mrs Herbert, "not trusting to yourself at all, but praying to God constantly to help you, and give you His Holy Spirit, you may be quite sure of succeeding. Only you must remember that it is absolutely necessary to try very much, and not give up the attempt in despair because you find it difficult at first, and are constantly falling back to your old habits; and especially you must not think it sufficient to say your prayers only in the morning and evening; but you must pray to God at all times, and in all places, whenever you are in any danger of yielding to temptation. If you had prayed, I do not think you would have acted as you did towards Miss Morton; you would have seen the cruelty of wilfully adding to her anxiety; and you would have been frightened at the thought of being deceitful."

"I think, now, it was very wicked," said Margaret, sighing deeply; "but can I do anything to make up for it?"

"You cannot do anything to make amends to God," answered Mrs Herbert. "When we have once sinned, no future goodness can wipe out the stain; all that we can do is to trust that He will forgive us for our Saviour's sake; but we can, in a certain degree, make amends to our fellow-creatures; and the right thing for you now will be to acknowledge to Miss Morton, when she is able to see you, how very great your fault has been, and then to show, by every means in your power, that you are anxious to consult her happiness."

"And will she forgive me, do you think?" asked Margaret,

"Why should you doubt it?" replied her aunt. "You have never known her anything but affectionate, and kind, and forgetful of herself. I am sure she will forgive, because she will only hear your words, and see your outward actions; but, my dear Margaret, it will be infinitely more important that you should be forgiven by God, and He will look at the heart."

"Indeed, indeed, I am sorry," exclaimed Margaret, "I do not think I shall ever do such things again."

"I do most earnestly trust that you will not," said Mrs Herbert, "God only knows the effect which the faults of our childhood have upon our whole lives. You will not think, my love, because I have spoken seriously, that I have not been sorry for all you have suffered."

"I like to hear what you say, aunt Herbert," replied Margaret; "but some people I cannot endure, and I never listen to them."

"You must try and listen to everyone who wishes to do you good, my dear. And now that we have talked together once, I hope we shall do so often; and whenever you are in any difficulty in which I can help you, you must remember that I am one of your nearest relations, and therefore, of course, I shall love and take an interest in you."

"And will you ask mamma to forgive me?" said Margaret. "I am more afraid of her anger than of any other person's."

"She is not in a state to think of anything now," replied Mrs Herbert; "but I will certainly speak to her when I see she is able to listen; and I trust you will remember what I said about Miss Morton."

Margaret promised that she would think of it often, and begged to see her whenever she felt equal to it; and Mrs Herbert, after kissing her affectionately, left her with a hope that the effects of the conversation might be lasting.