There was a strange mixture of feeling in Amy's mind, on the following morning, when she thought of all that had lately occurred. It was impossible to forget Rose, but it was equally impossible to avoid thinking of Emily; and she immediately began to anticipate the pleasure of living with her, and exerting herself for her happiness. The new arrangement was satisfactory to every one, though when named to Mrs Harrington, she merely said, "Yes, certainly, it would do very well;" and then appeared to take no further interest in it. Even Dora and Margaret felt it a comfort that Emily would be near them; for now that they were about to lose her, they first began to be sensible of her value. Little unthought-of kindnesses and daily self-denials were remembered with regret that they had been so lightly appreciated: and Dora looked at her music-books, and Margaret at her portfolio, and sighed as they thought that they should have no one for the future to take an interest in them as Emily had done.

"I shall envy you more than ever, Amy," said Dora, as they walked together in the garden a few days afterwards. "I always thought you were happier than we were; and lately, I am sure of it."

"You will get better by and by," said Amy. "I know how you must feel,—the place is so altered."

"Yes," observed Margaret; "and it will never be what it was again. It does not look the same."

"I think even the blue sky has grown dim," said Dora; "yet I like to look at it, because I can think that little Rose is there. But the sky will never be dim to you, Amy."

"Why not?" asked Amy. "I know I must have a great many sorrows, just as other people have."

"But," replied Dora, "I am sure it is something in one's own mind which causes it. The earth often looks gloomy when there is really nothing the matter; but I do not think the sky would, if we never did wrong: and that is the reason why I do not think it ever will to you."

"Indeed, Dora," exclaimed Amy; "you don't know anything about me; and you will find out some day how bad I am."

"I dont wish to find it out," said Dora. "It pleases me to believe there are some people in the world who always do right."

"Then you shall believe it of mamma, and Mrs Walton, and Miss Morton," said Amy.

"I don't like to think of Emily," replied Dora. "When will she let us go and talk to her."

"I hope she will soon," said Margaret. "It quite weighs upon my mind."

"I told her yesterday that you wished it," answered Amy; "and then she said you thought a great deal more about things than herself, and she did not like you to be distressed; and that she had thought you would have understood her feelings by her manner at breakfast and dinner."

"That will not quite please my aunt," said Margaret. "I promised her I would speak to Emily myself; and I do wish very much to do what she likes."

"There is Miss Morton just coming down the steps," said Amy; "perhaps if
I were to go away, you would like to say something now."

Margaret rather hesitated, feeling half ashamed when the opportunity was given her; but Dora urged that there might be no delay: and Amy went into another walk.

"I fancied," said Emily, as she came up to them, "that Amy was with you.
Mr Walton is in the house, and wishes to see her."

"I will go and call her," said Dora; "she is only gone into one of the back walks."

Emily begged she would not trouble herself; but Dora felt quite pleased with the opportunity of showing her a little attention; and Margaret and Emily were left alone. Margaret was extremely embarrassed; and Emily perceiving that something was the matter, made a few passing observations on the beauty of the weather.

Margaret's answers were short, for her mind was pre-occupied; and it was not till she saw Dora returning that she summoned courage to say, "You would not let me speak to you before; but I must tell you now, I am so very sorry,—and I have wished so much that you should know it."

"Indeed, I have known it," replied Emily; "and I hoped you would have understood from my manner how little I have thought about it. We have both been suffering too much not to feel for each other; and I have had you in my mind very often, and wished that I could have comforted you."

"But it was not only that," continued Margaret; "I wanted to say, and so did Dora too, that we know we have often been very unkind, and done a great many wrong things; and we should be much happier if you would say that you forgive us."

"Will you?" said Dora, who had been walking a few paces by their side.

"I do not like to say it," replied Emily; "it seems now as if I had no right to do it. All the pleasure I have known for the last two years has been found in your family; and what I feel now is thankfulness that it has been so much greater than I deserve."

"But we did not make you happy," said Dora. "You would have been miserable if it had not been——'

"For Rose," continued Emily, firmly. "I do not know, indeed, how I should have felt without her; but with her I had, at times, all that I dared desire; and now God has given me blessings for which I can never be sufficiently grateful."

"Yes," said Dora; "Amy is a blessing to every one."

"And you are blessings too," replied Emily, in a tone of deep interest and kindness. "You do not know the satisfaction you are affording me now; and you may be unspeakable blessings to your parents."

"We shall not know what to do when you are gone," said Margaret; "and my aunt and Amy also."

"Your mamma will recover herself by and by, I have no doubt; and then we shall be so near, it will be scarcely like a separation."

"There was one thing," said Dora, "which I thought I would ask you: but
I am afraid you will not tell me if you had rather not."

"I will tell you really, though," replied Emily. "I always try to say exactly what I mean."

"Then do you think, sometimes, if we go to the cottage, you would be able to hear us play, and look at our drawings? We shall be so very much at a loss without you."

"I trust," said Emily, "that my being away will make but very little difference to you in those things; you know I shall not be so far off but that I can come to you, or assist you whenever it will give you the smallest pleasure."

Dora expressed her thanks, and felt how little she deserved such kindness; and Margaret hoped that she would not leave them yet. "Everything will seem a great deal worse then," she said.

"Mrs Herbert intends staying with your mamma while she continues so ill, I believe," replied Emily; "but when she is better, I heard Colonel Herbert say, he should like to go directly to the cottage."

"Do you know what Dr Bailey thinks about mamma?" asked Margaret.

"He says that she requires change, but she is not equal to the exertion of moving."

"I wish we might go somewhere before Frank returns to school," observed
Dora. "He has had such melancholy holidays."

"Should you like to go to London?" said Emily.

Margaret started at the idea. "Oh no!—not to London; any place but that."

"I thought you wished it once," said Emily.

"Yes; but things are altered since then. I shall never wish to go there."

Emily looked surprised; but she did not inquire the reason of Margaret's sudden alteration of feeling, thinking it was most probably caused by the loss they had all sustained; and remarking that Mr Walton might perhaps wish to see them before he went away, she proposed that they should go into the house. The mention of London brought many sad reflections to Margaret's mind; and while slowly following her sister and Emily, she began to think of Miss Cunningham, and to wonder what her feelings had been upon learning all that had happened, and whether the idea that she had been the origin of it had occurred to distress her. "Do you think Lucy will go to London without us?" she said to Dora.

"She will never go at all, if she does not," replied Dora. "Papa will not consent to her being with us again as she used to be."

"She will be very sorry about it," said Margaret.

"Oh! it will not signify to her. She will find other persons to suit her just as well; and she will go to gay parties, and drive about in the parks, and forget us, and everything about us."

"Not everything," said Margaret. "I am sure she cannot forget everything. She must feel for us."

"Perhaps she may care for a day or two; but it is not her way to think on any subject long. Do you think it is?" added Dora, turning to Emily, and moving aside to allow her to pass before her into the house.

"I hope it may be, by and by," was the reply; "but I am afraid she has not been taught to think much as yet."

"There is one of the Rochford servants coming down the avenue now," said
Dora. "Perhaps he has brought a note or a message."

"I suppose he is only come as usual to inquire for mamma," said
Margaret. "Morris says Lord Rochford has sent nearly every day."

There was, however, a note for Margaret, which was given her just as she was about to go into the drawing-room, but there was no time to read it till Mr Walton was gone.

He did not stay long, for he had seen Mrs Harrington, and was anxious to return home to keep an engagement; but he was very much pressed to repeat his visit, especially by Mrs Herbert, who hoped that seeing him might be effectual in exciting Mrs Harrington's interest. "I think," she said, "that my sister will take more notice of you another time; I remarked to-day that she listened more than usual to what you were saying."

Mr Walton promised to return, if possible, the next day; and then, taking his leave, Margaret was at liberty to read Miss Cunningham's note. It was short, and Margaret thought cool, although there were many expressions of sympathy for the family. "Her brother," she said, "had begged her to write, but she had not much to say, though she was extremely sorry for them, and hoped that Mrs Harrington had not been very angry with Margaret. She expected soon to be able to drive over to Emmerton, and, in the meantime, should be very glad to hear of them all."

"I would not give much for Miss Cunningham's affection after such a note as that," said Dora.

"What did you expect from her?" asked Emily.

"I don't know, exactly; but any one might have written it; and after being with us so much, I think she might have said something more. I did not imagine she cared for me at all, but I thought she had some feeling for Margaret."

"Do you think it cool?" said Margaret, turning to Emily.

"Rather," she replied: "but you could scarcely have supposed she would have written in any other way."

"Why not?" asked Amy.

"Because it is seldom people feel much for sorrows that are not present to them. If Miss Cunningham had been with us for the last ten days she would probably have cared very much more."

"She is so selfish," observed Dora; "she never can sympathise with any one."

"Indeed," replied Emily, "I think she would if she were taught to do it."

"How can persons be taught to feel?" said Dora; "it must come naturally to them."

"Not quite. The feelings are certainly given to us originally, but they may be very much increased by action. If Miss Cunningham were once taught to do little trifling kindnesses for her friends she would soon feel for them. You know it is almost a proverb that benefactors are fond of those on whom they confer favours."

"I dare say you may be right," said Dora; "but I cannot imagine that Lucy Cunningham will ever be anything but a cold, hard-hearted, disagreeable girl. Margaret perhaps may find out her virtues some day or other, but I am afraid I never shall."

Margaret was silent:—she was vexed and disappointed, but did not like to own it; and she was so fully aware of her unkindness to Emily, that she expected Lucy to be the same, forgetting how differently they had been circumstanced. Miss Cunningham's preference had flattered her, while she believed it real; but she was now beginning to perceive that, where selfishness is the foundation of the character, no trust can be placed in any professions of affection.