discovered a view so extensive as to reach even to the glittering waves of the ocean.

At the back and to the left of the mansion, the grounds were of great extent, and still beyond them lay the park, carrying the eye into deep hollows and sunny glades, till its furthest trees were lost amongst the rich foliage of the adjacent forest.

Such was the exterior of Emmerton Hall, and the interior suited well with it in beauty. The oldest part of the building consisted, indeed, of long, low chambers, wainscoted with dark oak, and giving an idea of solemnity, if not of gloom; but the wings, which were of a later date, contained spacious saloons, and large lofty drawing-rooms hung with paintings, and rich in splendid though old-fashioned, furniture, that would have done honour to the palace of the proudest noble in the land. It was not amongst these, however, that Amy Herbert found her chief enjoyment,—she cared little for the more modern additions; but her great pleasure was to wander through the long passages, and explore the dark rooms which had for years been disused, while the silent mansion echoed with the gay sounds of her young voice, as she discovered some hitherto unknown closet, or started back half amused, and half frightened, at the grim visage of some valiant knight or ancient lady which stared at her from the walls.

There was a chapel, too, attached to the house; and great was Amy's delight to look down from the private gallery that had been specially reserved for the ladies of the family, upon the massive oaken seats ranged on each side of the narrow aisle, and while the rays of the sun, streaming through the painted glass of the east window, lighted up every corner of the building with a rich, unearthly hue, to people them in her own imagination with the servants and retainers, who, she had been told, once occupied them daily.

For the first few years of her life, Amy's visits to Emmerton Hall had been those of unmixed happiness; but as she grew older, and learned to feel more and more that no joy was complete unless her mother could share it with her, she began to perceive that, however willingly Mrs Herbert might grant her petition to visit the old house, and however patiently she might wait whilst she satisfied all her childish curiosity, yet, at their return home, there was always a look of sorrow on her countenance, and sometimes even a tear glistening in her eye; and the cause of this she was soon able to understand, for Emmerton had been to Mrs Herbert all that the little cottage was to Amy. It had been the scene of her earliest pleasures—the home of her childhood—the spot where she had dwelt with parents, brothers, sisters, and friends, who were now, some dead, some scattered in distant countries, and all so far from her as to make her feel lonely and sad in the halls where once she had known little but enjoyment. But it was not till Amy had nearly reached her twelfth year that she became aware of the increasing extent of the painful feelings excited in her mother's mind by these visits to the Hall. During the first year of her marriage, Mrs Herbert had lived at the cottage, but her family were still settled at Emmerton, and the separation was merely nominal. After that time, the death of her father and mother broke, in a great degree, the ties which had bound her to her early home; for her brother, on whom the property devolved, had married a lady, whose proud disposition suited but ill with Mrs Herbert's meek spirit; and when, on the death of a relation, Mr Harrington became the owner of a still finer estate in another county, Emmerton was almost deserted. It was true he returned to it occasionally, but his visits were less and less frequent; and, although the steward and housekeeper were ordered to keep it in complete repair, it was only as a place for show, and because his pride would not permit him to sell or let an old family residence.

All this was a great trial for Mrs Herbert, though, whilst Colonel Herbert was with her, it was comparatively but little felt; but the duties of his profession at last called him to a foreign land, and it was then that she first knew the real loneliness of her situation, the only alleviation being the society of her friends at the parsonage, and the delight of receiving constant and cheerful letters from abroad. At the period, however, just mentioned, when Amy was about twelve years of age, the time appointed for Colonel Herbert's absence had expired; but no news had been received from him for a considerable time. Post after post arrived without letters from him. Friends came back from the country to which he had been sent, but none brought intelligence of him. Mrs Herbert's heart sank within her, the most sad forebodings took possession of her mind, and even the company of Amy often served only to increase her melancholy, as it reminded her more forcibly of the probable failure of those visions of future happiness, in which she had indulged when dwelling upon the prospect of her husband's return to his native land, to spend the remainder of his days with her and with his child.

Continued anxiety at length seriously affected Mrs Herbert's health; and even Amy, young as she was, became sensible of it, and learned to look eagerly for the daily post, in hopes that it might bring some letter which would make her mother smile again as she had been used to do, while she seldom expressed a wish to go to Emmerton, since it only added to Mrs Herbert's depression, by reminding her of the absence of her relations as well as of that of her husband. Still Amy did not fully enter into the causes of her mother's uneasiness; and when she stationed herself at the white garden-gate every morning to watch for the old postman, it was with a feeling of expectation very different from the nervous eagerness with which Mrs Herbert longed for his arrival.

"Here he is, mamma!" she exclaimed, joyously, as she ran to the drawing- room window one lovely summer morning, after having waited unusually long at the gate. "Here he is! just turning the corner of the lane. Do let me go and meet him; I shall bring the letters much quicker than he will, and there must be one from papa to-day."

Mrs Herbert half smiled as she kissed her child's forehead, and parted her dark ringlets. "You may go, love," she said; and Amy waited to hear no more. In a minute she was at the end of the lane, entreating the old postman to give her the letters; but he was both deaf and obstinate, and resolved that no one should have the honour of delivering them but himself; and Amy, after repeatedly urging her request in vain, returned disappointed to her mother. The delay had but increased Mrs Herbert's painful anxiety; and when the man appeared with the letter—for there was but one—she felt as if she had scarcely the power to take it from him.

"It is from papa, I am sure," said Amy; but Mrs Herbert shook her head, and her face became very pale as she saw the deep black edge. With a trembling hand she tore open the letter; and Amy, seeing that something unusual was the matter, looked earnestly in her face while she read. For a moment her mother's countenance wore the appearance of intense anguish, but it was soon succeeded by an expression of comparative relief; and when she had concluded, although she was grave and melancholy, it was evident that the news had not been what she so much dreaded.

"Is it from papa?" asked Amy; "and is he quite well, and coming home soon?"

"It is from your uncle Harrington, my dear," said Mrs Herbert: "he gives me no information about your papa, and he writes in great distress."

"Why, why, mamma!" exclaimed Amy, eagerly; "does it make you unhappy too?"

"Yes," said Mrs Herbert; "I must always be sad when I know that your uncle is in affliction. You have lost your cousin Edward, Amy; he has died quite suddenly, and,"