but here Mrs Herbert paused, for her voice failed her. Amy endeavoured to comfort her; but it was not in her power to stop the course of her mother's grief, and for a few minutes she gave way to it without restraint; and then rousing herself, she said, "I ought to be thankful that I have been spared a still greater trial; for, though I can feel bitterly for my poor brother, it would have been far worse if I had known Edward well; and one thing, Amy, which will give you pleasure in the midst of all this sorrow is, that your uncle tells me he intends coming to Emmerton immediately; and he begs me to go there, and give orders for everything being prepared for them."

"To Emmerton, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, with delight, forgetting what had given rise to this sudden plan. "Will they really come to Emmerton—my uncle, and aunt, and all my cousins? Oh! you will look happy again, then."

"I will try to do so, at least," said Mrs Herbert; "for it is only selfishness to destroy your happiness, my dear child, by anxiety, which you cannot understand. But, indeed, you must not expect any great enjoyment at first; for your uncle's letter speaks of himself and all the family as being in the greatest distress."

"Ah! but," said Amy, "when they come to Emmerton, they must be cheerful. To be sure," she added, looking suddenly grave, "it is very sad to think that Edward will not be with them; but then, mamma, I dare say he is gone to heaven, so why should they be so very sorry?"

"Should not you be very sorry to part from me, Amy, if I were to die? and yet I trust that when it shall please God that I should do so. He will take me to heaven."

"O mamma! don't talk so," said Amy, her eyes filling with tears; "you know I should be so miserable. I should die too."

"No, my love," replied Mrs Herbert, "I hope you would not die; for you may always be happy whether I am with you or not, when you have God to watch over you; but I wished to show you that you must not expect other people to be less sorrowful than you would be yourself in such a situation. Your cousins will, of course, be unhappy when they first come to Emmerton."

"But when will it be?" asked Amy.

"Not till the week after next," answered Mrs Herbert; "for the house must be made ready for them."

"Oh! such a long, long time!" sighed Amy. "There are five days to the end of this week; and then will they come on the Monday week after?"

"They have not fixed the day, my dear, so you will try and wait patiently, I know," said Mrs Herbert; "and now you must get your lessons and read by yourself this morning, for I wish to be alone in my own room."

This was not pleasant news to Amy, but she made no objection, and with her book in her hand seated herself at the window. It was a harder task to learn on that morning than she had ever before found it; for, notwithstanding all her endeavours, some thoughts of Emmerton would creep into her mind perpetually. First she fancied what rooms her cousins would choose; then whether they would like the same that she did; whether any of the old dark chambers would be used; and, above all, whether her uncle would have prayers in the chapel every morning, and fill it with his servants, so that she might really see it as she had been told it used to be.

The very loveliness of the day only served to increase her distraction of mind. The sunlight was glancing on the turf, the butterflies were settling continually on the flowers by the window, and the birds were singing gaily amongst the trees; and delightful as all this really was, it only made Amy feel the stronger wish to be at that moment running over the lawns at Emmerton, or standing by the side of the lake, watching the swans and the other water-fowl as they sailed proudly along on the bosom of the calm water.

"I shall never learn these tiresome lessons, mamma," she exclaimed, as Mrs Herbert entered the room, after an absence of about a quarter of an hour.

"And why not, my love? why should it be more difficult now than at any other time?"

"Because I am so longing to be at Emmerton, mamma, and I cannot fix my attention on them. Please let me leave off now, and I will learn a double quantity to-morrow."

"No, Amy; that is a great mistake. To-morrow will have enough to do in its own occupations, without burdening it with those of to-day. Besides, my dear, this is just the opportunity for learning to do in a little way what will be required of you perpetually during your whole life—to conquer your own inclinations; you will be infinitely the happier for it afterwards."

Amy looked as if she could not quite believe this, but she did not speak in reply.

"You will endeavour, I am sure, my dear child," continued Mrs Herbert, "if it is only to please me; you know my greatest wish is to teach you to do what is right, without thinking of what is pleasant; so make one more effort, and turn your face from the window, that you may have nothing to divide your thoughts, and then the lessons will soon be learned."

Mrs Herbert left the room; and Amy, obeying her directions, seated herself with her back to the window, making a firm resolution in her own mind that she would not look up from her book till her lessons were ready; and when her mother reappeared, they were repeated without a fault. Mrs Herbert's smile sufficiently repaid her for the exertion, and with renewed pleasure she continued her usual morning occupations.

"And now, mamma," she exclaimed, as she finished her reading, "I may think about Emmerton. Will you tell me if you are really going there this afternoon?"

"We will set off immediately after dinner," replied Mrs Herbert; "and as I cannot walk so far, I have sent to the parsonage to borrow Mr Walton's carriage."

"Shall you stay all the afternoon, mamma? and will you let me hear all you say to Mrs Bridget and Stephen?"

"I am afraid that will not interest you much, my dear," replied Mrs Herbert, smiling; "but you deserve to have your wishes granted, to reward you for your endeavours this morning. Was I not right in saying that you would be far happier if you attended to your lessons first, and thought of your amusements afterwards?"

"Ah! mamma," said Amy, "you know you are always right, and I am always wrong; but then it does not signify so much while you are with me to teach me."

Mrs Herbert sighed. "You must not look to me, my dear child: I cannot keep you right. It is God alone who can do that, and He only knows how long I may live to tell you what you ought to do. But do not look so grave now, I did not mean to make you unhappy. You must get your bonnet and take one turn with me in the shady walk, and by that time dinner will be ready."

CHAPTER II.

That afternoon was one of perfect enjoyment to Amy. The drive in the rector's carriage was an unusual treat, and the road through the forest had never before seemed so beautiful; the light danced amongst the trees, and sparkled on the gay primroses and harebells, and the deep blue violets, which peeped from amongst the thick underwood. The rich moss which covered the trunks of the old oak trees, was of a hue so bright as to be surpassed only by the vivid green of the young leaves, which had reached their full beauty, undimmed as yet by the scorching rays of the summer's sun; and when at length they reached the park gate of Emmerton, and drove under the long rows of oak and chestnuts, and by the side of the clear silver lake, Amy's delight was unbounded. Several months had passed since she had last been there, and the beauty of the place was now increased by the thought that she