Sadly and wearily the hours lingered on till the day that had been fixed for the funeral of the innocent child, who had ever been the loveliest and most cherished of the family at Emmerton. It was a time of bitter trial to all; even the servants sighed deeply as they missed the young voice which had once sounded so gaily through the house, and felt that the low rooms and the long winding passages were more gloomy, and the old pictures and curiously-fashioned furniture more strange and distasteful to them, when they were no longer brightened by the sunny smile with which little Rose had never failed to greet them. There was an unnatural oppression upon every heart, and few felt it more than Amy: she had never before been a witness of real sorrow, and it was like entering upon a new and painful state of existence; for every one appeared altered—Frank especially, who had returned from Mr Dornford's the day after the death of his little sister, was completely altered; his spirits were entirely subdued; and his only satisfaction seemed to be in wandering over the house, and collecting everything that had belonged to Rose, but without any other object than that of looking at and sighing over them. Amy longed to comfort him; but she did not know what to say, for she was herself sharing in his grief, and there was a gloom over her feelings which few other events could have produced.

At her own request, she had been taken by her mother to look at her little cousin as she lay in her coffin; and although some who had felt more of this world's sorrow might have gazed upon her with calmness, and envied a rest so peaceful, Amy could see only that a change, far beyond her comprehension, had passed over her, which made even the heavenly beauty of her features appear awful. There was the same fair, open forehead, the same long, silken eye-lashes, almost the same sweet smile upon the lips, which she had often admired when Rose was sleeping; but there was also the fixed, immovable expression which only death can give; and when she kissed the pale, marble cheek, and shrank away, alarmed at the icy coldness of its touch, it seemed impossible to believe that a form so still should ever have been gifted with life, and still more impossible to realise that she must herself one day be like it.

Mrs Herbert said nothing at first, knowing that words could scarcely add to the lesson which such a sight must bring; and Amy felt as if the sound of her own voice would have been as irreverent in that chamber as in the midst of the services of the church. Long and earnestly she gazed upon the fair, motionless image of little Rose; and then, when she had once more kissed her for the last time, Mrs Herbert gently said, "Amy, shall we pray that our lives may be as innocent, and our deaths as peaceful?" and, kneeling down, she repeated the prayer appointed by the Church to be used at the burial of the dead, to console and warn the living. The impression of those moments was never effaced from Amy's mind; and when in after years she looked back with gratitude upon the early release of Rose, the remembrance of her calm face often came before her, as an earnest of the perfect peace which she trusted might one day be granted to herself: even then, when the first feeling of awe had subsided, it was a relief that she had seen her; for the thought of death was no longer as dreadful as it had been, and she was able to talk freely to her mother, and tell her of many difficulties and fears which had often crossed her mind before, but which there had never seemed a fitting opportunity to mention. Her only real comfort, indeed, during these melancholy days, was in being with her father and mother; for there was something in Miss Morton's manner which distressed and pained her. She was as kind and affectionate as ever, but she did not appear as anxious to have Amy with her as might have been expected. Sometimes, even after having expressed a wish that she should remain with her, she would suddenly stop in the midst of her conversation, and continue silent for several minutes, and perhaps make some excuse in order to send her away; and although this was always done in the most considerate manner, yet Amy did not fail to notice it; and her heart became more heavy as she thought that possibly, after all, Emily did not really care for her very much, and that now little Rose was gone, she would never love any one again.

Mrs Herbert understood the reason of this change of manner, but it could not be explained to Amy. She saw that Emily, under the belief of being soon compelled to leave Emmerton, was afraid of making Amy too necessary to her happiness. She was desirous of learning to live without any great objects of affection, fearing that she might rest on them rather than on God; but though such a wish might be natural after the loss of so many whom she had loved, Mrs Herbert knew that it would not be likely to continue, when her mind returned to its natural state. She would then see that it is God's will that we should have parents, and children, and friends to love; and that if we have been grateful for such treasures, and given the first place in our hearts to Him while we possessed them, He will often, when one is taken from us, in mercy grant us another to supply its place; and she would be able to acknowledge how great a blessing it was that she had learned to love Amy before she had been called to part from Rose.

As yet, however, Emily could feel nothing of this. She was indeed resigned, and could spend hours in looking upon her darling Rose, and thinking of her great happiness, and praying that God would make her fit to dwell with her again; but the thought that she had loved her too well was still predominant; and when her heart turned to Amy, and she was conscious how much happiness might still be enjoyed on earth, she feared to dwell upon the idea, and tried to believe that it would be possible to live without having more than a common regard and interest for all who had been kind to her.

The endeavour, however, did not succeed. Amy's winning manner, and thoughtful attention, and warm affection, were irresistible; every hour brought some proof of her love, and every hour Emily became more and more aware how great would be the pain of leaving Emmerton. Yet, believing that it must be endured, she resolved upon delaying the trial only till she had taken the last, long farewell of little Rose, and then to lose no time in making arrangements for her departure. But for Mrs Herbert's presence, she would have hesitated at leaving Mrs Harrington whilst so ill; but the exertion which was now so much required, had rather roused Mrs Herbert, and given her increased strength and energy, than overpowered her; and Emily felt that her own health must suffer, if she were to continue much longer with so great a pressure upon her mind.

The only friend with whom she could reside till another situation was obtained was her former governess; for the aunt who had been the means of placing her with Mrs Harrington was living abroad: and when once her determination was fixed, she lost no time in writing to claim the fulfilment of the promise of receiving her, and to beg that her friend would exert herself to find some family where she might be admitted as a governess, for the position she held at Emmerton it would be impossible to occupy again. The letter was written and sent, yet Emily could not summon courage to mention it to Mrs Herbert. The shadow of comfort seemed still left whilst her determination remained secret in her own mind—at least no one spoke of her departure openly, although it was certain that Mrs Herbert must really know that it was intended, from the manner in which it had frequently been implied in their conversations. Dora came to her frequently, and Margaret sent a request that she might speak to her soon; but Emily dreaded and avoided an interview which must recall so much that was painful; and once when they met in Mrs Harrington's room, though her manner showed how entirely she had forgiven her, yet both felt relieved upon Margaret's being called away immediately afterwards, so as to afford no opportunity for mentioning the subject. It was the evening on which she was to look upon Rose for the last time, and all her resolution was required to enable her to bear the trial; but strength was granted to her then as it had been before; and when it was over, she found a comfort which nothing earthly could have afforded, in praying that God would enable her to give herself up wholly to His service, and take her to Himself when her heart had been made meet for His presence.