It was a calm and sunny morning on which little Rose was carried to her grave, and with it came a feeling of hope and peace to some of the family at Emmerton, for it was the promise of the spring amid the dreariness of winter; and those who had accustomed themselves to read the truths of religion in the silent language of nature could not but view it as the type of that morning of the Resurrection—the spring-time of eternity—when they might trust to receive again the treasure from which they were now called to part for a season.

Many of the cottagers were assembled to watch the melancholy train as it wound through the village; for Rose had been a favourite with all, and there had been heavy hearts and sorrowing faces when it was first known that she would never visit them again; and by a few amongst them, also, the brightness of the morning was welcomed with satisfaction; for although, to careless minds, the gay sunshine appeared but a mockery on a day of so much sadness, they who were more chastened by affliction felt that it suited well with the beauty and innocence of a child who had been taken to happiness before she had tasted of sorrow. Several, to show their respect for Mr Harrington, followed the procession to the church; and amongst them old Stephen, notwithstanding his age and infirmities, placed himself the foremost. He had borne the intelligence of the accident, and its consequences, with tolerable composure, after the first shock was past; for he was an old man, he said, and 'twould be but a very few years, perhaps not one, before he trusted he should see her sweet little face again. It might be hard for those who were young to see others taken away, but 'twas very different for the old. He had had a warning lately; and perhaps the next time the bell tolled it might be for him.

Yet, notwithstanding his outward calmness, Stephen felt deeply in his heart; he was anxious and restless, longing to be able to move, that he might go to Emmerton and get permission to look once more upon his little pet; and at last when dissuaded from attempting it, he declared that nothing should prevent him from attending at her funeral, if it were only as a mark of his duty to the family.

The exertion was greater than in prudence he should have made; but Stephen had seldom been ruled even by those whom he called his masters; and he kept to his determination, and slowly and with difficulty walked to the church. It was nearly filled; and Mr Walton, as he looked upon the sorrowing faces which surrounded him, felt that his task was a difficult one; but his thoughts turned from Rose lying in her coffin to Rose as she really was—an angel in heaven, and the weight passed from his heart, and he was enabled firmly and unfalteringly to go through the service. Mr Harrington's face was of a deadly paleness, though he remained perfectly calm till the moment when the body of his darling child was lowered to its resting-place in the tomb of her ancestors; but then his fortitude forsook him; and when the earth fell with a dull, heavy sound upon the coffin, he covered his face with his hands, and leaned against the wall for support, vainly endeavouring to conceal his grief.

There were few present who did not participate in it; and when he left the church many glances of sympathy were cast on him by persons with whose names even he was unacquainted; but Stephen could not be contented with looks; forgetting the years that had elapsed since he had held him in his arms, and taught him to guide his pony, and conscious only of the affection which he felt for the family, he stopped him as he passed the churchyard gate, and seizing both his hands exclaimed—"'tis a sad day for us all, sir, and there's none but will feel for you; only we would not have her back again, for she was too good for this world."

"Thank you, thank you, Stephen," said Mr Harrington, returning the pressure warmly; "we will talk another day, but not now."

"No, not now," replied Stephen; "only I couldn't help letting your honour see that I thought of you. I must go home now;" adding, to himself, "the Colonel, I suppose, will hardly remember me."

"The Colonel will remember you, though, Stephen," said Colonel Herbert, taking his hand. "It would be a hard thing to come back to England, and forget one's oldest and best friends. But I shall see you soon, I hope, in your own cottage, when we are all better and happier."

"I don't like my cottage as I did," replied Stephen, "I shall often think it was the cause of it all,—not but what it's wrong, though; for God's will was the cause, and His will must be done."

"Yes," said Colonel Herbert; "and we shall all learn, I hope, to be resigned."

"In time, sir,—there's nothing like time and good thoughts. And you will come and see me then, sir, and bring young madam with you, and Miss Amy. How her little face brightened when she talked to me of your coming home! We, none of us thought then what was going to happen just afterwards."

"I must not stay now, Stephen," said Colonel Herbert; "Mr Harrington is already standing by the carriage. But we will talk about Amy another time."

"And the young lady, sir,—Miss Morton,—I should like just to know about her; they say she takes on sadly."

"She is better," replied Colonel Herbert. "Of course it was a dreadful shock to her."

"Ah, yes! they were always together," said Stephen. "Nobody dreamed of their being parted so soon. But they will meet,—we shall all meet again."

"May God grant it!" said Colonel Herbert, as he shook the old steward warmly by the hand, and then, hastily walking away, he joined Mr Harrington.

On his return home, Colonel Herbert went immediately to his wife to inquire for Mrs Harrington and Emily. The former he found had been but slightly aroused from her apathy, even when purposely told what was passing; but Emily was better than Mrs Herbert had supposed possible. The worst suffering had been over on the preceding evening; and she was now able to converse tranquilly, and even again to allude to her future prospects. This, however, arose from a restless anxiety that her plans should be finally fixed. She longed to speak to Mr Harrington, and decide at once upon leaving Emmerton, feeling that her mind would never really be calm till this had been done; and she inquired eagerly of Mrs Herbert, when she thought it would be possible for him to allow her a few moments' conversation. "I know it cannot be to-day," she said; "it would be cruel to ask it; but I cannot rest satisfied till I have seen him."

"I am not sure that it might not be to-day, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert. "If you have anything on your mind, he would be most anxious to relieve you."

"It is on my mind, heavily," said Emily; "but I would not for the world he should be troubled with my affairs when he has so much to oppress him."

"If it is anything in which he can be of use, perhaps it may interest and please him," answered Mrs Herbert.

"It is nothing of that kind," said Emily, resolving with great difficulty to mention her intentions openly. "I wish to tell him that I must leave Emmerton. I daresay he would name the subject to me if I did not speak first."

"Will you let us talk to him, my dear? It might save you pain; and we might be able, together, to form some plan for your future happiness. You will trust us, I think, to arrange for you."

"Oh!" exclaimed Emily, "if I do not trust you, whom have I on earth to rest upon? Will you really speak about it as soon as you can? Indeed, I must leave this place soon."

"You may depend upon my not delaying one moment longer than is necessary," said Mrs Herbert. "Perhaps this afternoon he may be able to listen."

"And may I have Amy with me till then?" asked Emily; and then, checking herself, she added, "but perhaps it will be better not; she will be happier with you."

"No, indeed, my dear, she will not. You cannot give her a greater pleasure—especially if she can feel that it is any comfort to you."

"It is only too great a comfort," said Emily; "but to-day, may be nearly the last time."

"And therefore she shall come to you directly. She is walking in the garden at present; for she has been very unhappy, and could not fix her attention to anything in the house."

"I think I should like to walk too," said Emily. "I must be with the family, and go out again now. And when I am with her I can bear everything better; and I must tell her myself that I am going."

"Not to-day," replied Mrs Herbert. "Wait till we have spoken to my brother; and then, perhaps, we may be able to give her a little consolation, for she will feel dreadfully."

Emily knew that it would have been a relief to have mentioned the subject at once; but she assented instantly to Mrs Herbert's wishes, unwilling to give a moment's unnecessary pain to any one, especially to Amy. The restriction prevented her from finding as much satisfaction in her walk as she might otherwise have done; but to Amy it brought feelings more approaching to pleasure than any she had experienced for the last week; for it seemed like the restoration of the days when Emily was always delighted with her society. "I thought, perhaps, you would come out," she said, "at least in the afternoon; for I am sure you will never feel better while you sit alone in the house."

"It is like a spring day," said Emily. "Who could imagine we were now in the beginning of January."

"It does not seem like a spring day, though," said Amy, sadly. "I never thought before that sunshine could be so melancholy."

"It will be cheerful to you again, soon. When you go back to the cottage with your papa and mamma, you will feel just as you used to do."

"No," said Amy; "nothing will seem as it used to be while you are unhappy."

"I am not going to be miserable," answered Emily, endeavouring to smile. "I know there is not really any cause for it. My darling Rose is far happier than we can imagine; and whilst there are so many duties to be attended to, I hope I shall never sit down idly to repine at the will of God."

"Rose must be happy," exclaimed Amy. "I thought just now I should like to be her."

"We should all like it," said Emily, "if we could only see her as she now is. Yet I believe it is really a great blessing that we do not know more clearly what heaven is like; for if we did we should sometimes be scarcely able to endure our life here, even when it is the most blessed."

"I wish I could know, though," replied Amy; "it would make me so happy to think of going there."

"But, then, you must remember," said Emily, "that if we had once seen the beauty of heaven we should have no pleasure comparatively upon earth. There are a great many things we enjoy now, which are very innocent and good, and help us to bear up against sorrow; but they would be of no use to us if we could contrast them with the glories of heaven. This bright sunshine, for instance, and the lawn, and the evergreens, and the water, and all that beautiful country beyond, would seem nothing if we could know how much more beautiful the world is to which we hope to be taken when we die."

"I see that," replied Amy, "because I remember, after I had been at Rochford Park, the cottage seemed quite changed, and not half as pretty as it was before—yet it was not really altered; but I do not think I should have cared so much if I had thought that I should ever live there."

"You will not care again," said Emily, "if you will learn to look upon all beautiful things as the types or images of the treasures of heaven; for no one will desire very much to possess an imperfect picture of any object when he is soon to enjoy the reality. I can understand your feeling, though, entirely; and Rochford Park, I have heard, is very lovely."

"But the people who live there are not lovely," said Amy; "only Mr Cunningham, I like. As for Miss Cunningham, I am afraid I shall dislike her more than ever now."

"You must try not," replied Emily. "She might have been very different with better education; and we might have been like her if our temptations had been as great."

"Not you," said Amy; "I am sure it is impossible."

"Nothing of the kind is impossible, dearest," replied Emily. "We might all have been like the worst persons that ever lived if we had not received such great advantages; and, even now, God will not consider us better than others if we do not profit by them. There are many of us who bear a very good character in the world, and yet must appear hateful in the sight of God."

"I think that is papa just come out of the house," exclaimed Amy.

Emily stopped and trembled. "I do not think I can speak to him now," she said, faintly. "Will you come with me into another walk?"

"The one leading to the lake is the most private," said Amy; "only there is not so much sunshine there."

Emily did not reply, but moved quickly away; and a few minutes afterwards Mr Harrington and his sister joined Colonel Herbert on the terrace. They walked for some time almost in silence; and Amy, as she watched them could not help wishing; that her mamma might see Miss Morton, and come to her, for it would be a pleasure to both of them; and it did not seem that she was doing any good in being with her uncle. After a time, however, something was said which apparently interested Mr Harrington; for he listened attentively while Colonel Herbert spoke, and then answered him with greater animation than he had before shown. Amy had a full opportunity for observing all this, as Emily had become suddenly silent. She also was looking at the party on the terrace, and was evidently thinking only of them. The conversation lasted for a considerable time, and Amy, fearing that Miss Morton would be fatigued, begged her to go in; but she answered, rather hurriedly, that she would much rather not; and Amy was not inclined to press the matter, for the unusually mild air and the brightness of the weather had seldom been so refreshing to her.

Sometimes, as she watched her father, she thought the conversation must have some reference to Emily, for he looked frequently towards her; and Mrs Herbert's smile, as they once unexpectedly met at the angle of the terrace, made her hope that the subject might be an agreeable one. She did not, however, dwell much upon the idea, having never understood that it was likely for any change to take place in Emily's situation; but just as she was about again to propose that they should go in, Colonel Herbert left Mr Harrington, and coming towards them, told Amy that she had better walk with her mamma, as he wished to speak to Miss Morton a few minutes alone. "I will not detain you long," he added, turning to Emily; "for I am sure you must be tired. Perhaps you would rather rest yourself first?"

"Oh no!" exclaimed Emily; "I am not in the least tired; and I would much rather hear everything now."

"You will, perhaps, scarcely imagine the subject I wish to mention," said Colonel Herbert, as he walked by her side; "but you have said that you would give us the privilege of old friends, and allow us to name your wishes to Mr Harrington; and though I am so little known to you, I hope, when you have heard my reasons, you will not think me intrusive in wishing to speak of them to yourself, personally. If your memory could carry you back as far as mine, I think you would understand why I can never consider you a stranger."

"Indeed, I can remember," said Emily, and her voice faltered. "They were my happiest days, and every person connected with them must always be remembered by me, particularly one who was so well acquainted with my family, and so kind to them."

"Then we will not be strangers," said Colonel Herbert, "but old friends who have a mutual interest in each other's welfare. If you will promise to think of me in that light, I shall have less hesitation in asking a favour of you."

"Of me!" exclaimed Emily, with surprise; "you cannot doubt my willingness to grant anything you may require; but it seems impossible that I should be able to do anything for you."

"I understand," replied Colonel Herbert, "that it is your wish now to leave Emmerton, and Mr Harrington agrees in thinking that it may perhaps be better; but he is very unwilling that you should go at once amongst strangers, with whom you can have no sympathy; and the idea of it has made him extremely uncomfortable, for he feels, with Mrs Herbert and myself, that from our early acquaintance we are in a great degree your guardians and protectors, and bound to consult your happiness."

"You are very, very kind," said Emily; "but I doubt if you will be able to think of anything better for me in the end."

"Will you try the plan we wish to propose?" said Colonel Herbert. "If it should not conduce to your happiness, we should be the first to wish that it might be altered."

"I will do anything that is thought right," replied Emily.

"Then," said Colonel Herbert, "will you consent to return with us to the cottage, and take Amy for your pupil?"

Emily was silent, and for an instant Colonel Herbert feared that some objection might exist in her mind for which he was not prepared; but when he looked at her countenance, he saw that she was endeavouring to answer him calmly. Twice she tried to speak, but her words were choked; and at last, giving way entirely, she burst into tears. Colonel Herbert felt that his presence must be painful to her, and merely saying that he would wait for an answer till she had had more time for consideration, he left her, and she was immediately afterwards joined by Mrs Herbert.

"I am afraid you have been startled, my dear," she said; "Colonel Herbert insisted upon speaking to you himself; but men never know how to manage these things well."

"Oh! indeed," said Emily, "he has only been too kind; but it cannot really be true; you cannot mean that I shall not be obliged to go away from you?"

"It must depend entirely upon your own choice," replied Mrs Herbert. "If you can be happy with us, and will consent to take charge of Amy, you will ease me of a burden which is too much for my health, and give us all most heartfelt pleasure."

"But Mr Harrington," said Emily, feeling as if there must be some objection to a plan which promised so many blessings at a moment when she was almost overwhelmed with sorrow.

"My brother feels with us entirely; it will be a real relief to him to know that you are happy, or at least in the way of becoming so; for we can only hope to make you tranquil and comfortable at first. And now I shall not let you stay here any longer, but you must go to your room, and I will send Amy to you. We thought that, perhaps, you would like to name the subject to her yourself."

Emily spent the few moments that elapsed before Amy's knock was heard at her door in endeavouring to realise the mercy thus granted her, and to feel grateful to God, who had bestowed it. Though almost confused by the suddenness of the idea, yet her first thought had been of Him; and if in the time of sorrow she had prayed earnestly to be devoted to His service in thought, and word, and deed, still more earnestly did she now pray that no earthly blessings might ever lead her heart from Him.

Amy's countenance was sad when she entered. She had been talking to Dora, whose spirits were so much depressed that it was difficult to console her. Amy had seen comparatively little of her during the preceding week, for she had been in constant attendance upon her mother, or endeavouring to cheer Margaret; but the latter did not now require so much sympathy; she was quiet and sorrowful, but the first excitement of feeling was over; and her aunt's conversation had in a great measure satisfied her mind as to her own share in the accident. Dora had, therefore, more time to give to her own reflections; and they were very painful. Everything around her was melancholy; and even her mother's abstraction and indifference were scarcely so distressing to witness as her father's silent suffering, and Frank's mournful face; while the thought of Emily Morton was almost worse than either; for Dora felt that she might have been a comfort to her now, if she had only been less unkind before. It gave her a pang to know that Amy was admitted to Emily's room at all times, though she had only been acquainted with her for a few months, while her own visits were merely occasional; it would have been far more natural and right that Emily should look to her as a companion; and as she thought this, Dora's memory recalled all her past neglect and selfishness, and the bitterness of self-reproach added tenfold to her other sorrows. Amy heard it all, but could say little in reply. She knew that Dora had often acted very wrongly, and that now she was justly suffering for it; but she also felt quite certain that Emily Morton did not for a moment think of it.

Dora, however, was not satisfied with this assurance; she could not be, till she had spoken to Emily herself. "I cannot bear," she said, "only to be allowed to go into her room now and then; it seems as if she were quite cut off from us—and Margaret says the same; for indeed, Amy, you cannot think how sorry Margaret is now for what she did. She has been speaking about it to me this morning, and she wishes so much to say something. I believe aunt Herbert made her promise to do it, when she had that long conversation with her the other day. When do you think Emily will be able to see us both? I mean not just for a few minutes, but really to talk to her."

"I daresay she will to-morrow," said Amy; "for I believe she intends going down-stairs as usual, now; and then you will see how true it is that she does not think about anything, but really loves you very much."

"She is almost an angel, I believe," said Dora, earnestly.

"Yes, indeed she is," exclaimed Amy; "I am afraid to think much about her being so good, because then I get a fancy that she will be taken away; and I could not bear her to go."

"But I don't think she will stay here," said Dora.

"What do you mean?" inquired Amy, hastily.

"It will be so different now to what it used to be. She will not have much to do with Margaret and me; and I am nearly sure she will go."

"But not yet—you cannot mean yet?" said Amy. "I daresay it may be when you are quite grown up; but that is so far off."

"I think she will leave us at once," said Dora. "I have often heard mamma say that she had but one very great reason for keeping her; and you know that is all gone."

"Yes," said Amy, thoughtfully; "but she can teach you still."

"Mamma's notions are changed, lately, I think," replied Dora; "she does not like having a person who is a governess and no governess."

"But has she said anything to you?" inquired Amy.

"No; for poor mamma does not think of anything now. I don't know when she will again."

"Then Miss Morton cannot possibly go away yet?"

"Perhaps not; but at any rate she will before very long. I wonder you never yet thought about it, Amy."

"It seems quite impossible," said Amy. "I cannot think of Emmerton and you without her."

"She will never be happy here," replied Dora; "so perhaps it will be better; only I should be glad for her to remain here some time. I think I should try and make her comfortable."

"I must ask mamma," said Amy. "It makes me so unhappy to think about it.
I shall never rest till it is quite certain."

"I don't think any one knows for certain," replied Dora; "but you will soon learn from what Emily says herself."

"I cannot ask her," said Amy; "but I am sure mamma must know; and she must be come in by this time. I wonder whether what papa wished to say to Miss Morton had anything to do with it?"

"Oh no! he would not be the person to talk to her. But you need not distress yourself so much. Amy; it will not be just yet."

"I must know," said Amy. And she ran off to her mother's room; but she was stopped by Susan Reynolds, who told her that Miss Morton desired to speak to her. Amy's fears immediately conjectured the intelligence she was to receive, and her face plainly betrayed her anxiety. "Is it anything very particular?" she said, as she entered. "Is anything the matter?"

"Why should you think so?" replied Emily gently. "It is not very strange that I should like to have you with me."

"But Dora says,"—and here Amy paused, for she felt that to repeat the conversation would be to inquire into Miss Morton's plans.

"What does she say?" asked Emily. "You are not afraid of telling me anything, are you?"

"Not if it is right," replied Amy; "but I don't think I ought to say this."

"Then you shall not," said Emily. "I am sure you will judge properly; only, if it is anything that concerns me, you need hardly think that I should be vexed."

"Are you quite sure? I should be so very glad to know; but I thought it would seem impertinent."

"I will let you ask anything you like," replied Emily; "and if it is something I must not answer, I will tell you."

"You will not go away?" said Amy, timidly, and at the same time looking anxiously in Miss Morton's face.

"I am going from Emmerton," replied Emily; and poor Amy felt as if a shot had passed through her heart. "But I am not going far away, I hope," she added, as she watched the quiet tears that trickled down Amy's cheek. "It depends upon you how far."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Amy; "it cannot depend upon me. You know I would never have you go away from me; I would have you live with me always, and I would love you, and do everything for you, and I would attend to all your wishes; and then, perhaps, some day you might say that I had made you happy."

"And will you really love your governess?" said Emily. And she put her arm round Amy's waist, and drew her fondly towards her.

The truth flashed in a moment across Amy's mind. "Was that really what papa said?" she exclaimed.

"He asked me," replied Emily, "if I would go back with you to the cottage: and he said that you should be my pupil; and now you shall decide."

Amy could not answer; for words are even more powerless to express joy than grief. But Emily needed no assurances; and for the moment she yielded without fear to the consolation which an affection so deep was capable of affording her.