"Miss Edith, it isn't natural for you to be sitting here for all the world like a grown woman; do get up, miss, and go and play with your cousins."
But as nurse never insisted upon it, so Edith sat on, and would have remained for ever if she could in the bright world her fancy had created. It was well for her Amy had come, or the girl's very nature would have been changed by the cold atmosphere around her, so different from the home she had lost, where all seemed one long sunshine. It was long ere Amy understood her; so diligent, so attentive to her lessons, so cautious of offending, so mindful of every word during school hours, and yet never anxious to join Fanny in her play; but on a chair drawn close to the window, and with a book in her lap, or her hands clasped listlessly over the pages, and her eyes drooping under their long lashes—so she sat. But a new era was opening in the child's history.
Some few weeks after Amy's arrival, as she sat working very busily (Edith, as usual, had taken her seat at the window), she felt that the child, far from reading, was intently watching her. At length, without looking up, she said—
"Edith, dear, if you have done reading will you come and tidy my workbasket for me? My wools are in sad confusion. I suspect Alice's fingers have been very busy amongst them."
She came and busied herself with her task until it was completed. Then, still and silent, she remained at her governess' side.
"Who is this shawl for, Miss Neville, when it is finished?" asked she.
"For my mother."
Edith drew closer still.
"Ah!" said she, "that is the reason why you look so happy; because, though you are away from her, still you are trying to please her; and you know she loves you, though no one else does."
"Yes, Edith; but I should never think no one loved me, and if I were you I am sure I should be happy."
"Ah, no! It is impossible."
"Not so; I should be ever saying to myself would my dear mamma have liked this, or wished me to do that. Then I should love to think she might be watching over me, and that thought alone would, I am sure, keep me from idleness and folly."
"What is idleness?"
"Waste of time. Sitting doing nothing."
"And you think me idle, then?"
"Often, dear Edith. Almost every day, when you sit at the window so long."
"But no one minds it. No one loves me."
"I mind it, or I should not have noticed it; and I will love you if you will let me."
For an instant the child stood irresolute, then, with her head buried in Amy's lap, she sobbed out, "Oh! I never thought of that. I never thought you would love me—no one does. I will not be idle any more," and she was not; someone loved her, both the living and the dead; and the little craving heart was satisfied.
And so the days flew by. The summer months passed on, only interrupted by a visit from Charles Linchmore. He was very unlike his brother; full of fun and spirits, as fair as he was dark, and not so tall. He seemed to look upon Amy at once as one of the belongings of the house, was quite at home with her, chatted, sang duets, or turned the pages of the music while she sang. Sometimes he joined her in her morning's walk with the children. Once he insisted on rowing her on the lake; but as it was always "Come along, Edith, now for the walk we talked of," or, "Now then, Fanny, I'm ready for the promised lesson in rowing;" what could Amy say? she could only hesitate, and then follow the rest. She felt Mrs. Linchmore look coldly on her, and one evening, on the plea of a severe headache, she remained up stairs; but so much consideration was expressed by Mrs. Linchmore, such anxiety lest she should be unable to go down the next evening, that Amy fancied she must have been mistaken; the thought, nevertheless, haunted her all night. The next morning she had hardly commenced studies when Charles Linchmore's whistle sounded in the passage.
He opened the door, and insisted on the children having a holiday, and while Amy stood half surprised, half irresolute, sent them for their hats and a scamper on the lawn, then returned, and laughed at her discomfiture. He had scarcely gone when Mrs. Linchmore came in; she glanced round as Amy rose.
"Pray sit down, Miss Neville, but—surely I heard my brother here."
There was something in the tone Amy did not like, so she replied, somewhat proudly,
"He was here. Madam."
"Was here? Why did he come?"
"He came for the children, and I suppose he had your sanction for so doing."
"He never asked it. And I must beg, Miss Neville, that you will in future make him distinctly understand that this is the school-room, where he cannot possibly have any business whatever."
With flushed cheeks, for a while Amy stood near the window, just where Mrs. Linchmore had left her; and then, "Oh! I will not put up with it!" she said, half aloud, "I will go and tell her so." But on turning round there stood Nurse Hopkins.
"It's a lovely place, miss, isn't it? such a many trees; you were looking at it from the window, wern't you, miss? And then all those fields do look so green and beautiful; and the lake, too; I declare it looks every bit like silver shining among the trees."
"It is indeed lovely; but, Nurse, I was not thinking of that when you came."
"No, miss? Still it does not do to sit mopy like, it makes one dull. Now I've lived here many a year, and yet, when I think of my old home, I do get stupid like."
"Where is your home Nurse?"
"I've no home but this Miss, now."
"No home? But you said you had a home once."
"Yes Miss, so I had, but it's passed away long ago—some one else has it now; such a pleasant cottage as it was, with its sanded floor and neat garden; my husband always spent every spare hour in planting and laying it out, and all to please me. I was so fond of flowers. Ah! me," sighed she, "many's the time they've sent from the Park here to beg a nosegay—at least, John, the gardener has—when company was coming."
"Your cottage was near here, then?"
"Yes Miss, just down the lane; why you can see the top of it from here, right between those two tall trees yonder."
"Yes. I can just catch a far off glimpse of it."
"You've passed it often too, Miss. It's the farm as belongs to Farmer Rackland."
"I know it well. But why did you give it up?"
"My husband, or old man, as I used joke like to call him, died," and Nurse's voice trembled, "he was young and hearty looking too when he was took away; what a happy woman I was Miss, before that! and so proud of him and my children."
"How many children have you?"
"I had three Miss; two girls and a boy. I seem to see them now playing about on the cottage floor; but others play there now just every bit as happy, and I've lost them all. I'm all alone," and Nurse wiped her eyes with the corner of her white apron.
"Not all alone Nurse," said Amy, compassionately.
"True Miss; not all alone; I was wrong. Well, I sometimes wish those days would come again, but there, we never knows what's best for us. I'm getting an old woman now and no one left to care for me. But I wasn't going to tell you all about myself and my troubles when I began; but somehow or other it came out, and I shall like you—if I may be so bold to say so—all the better for knowing all about me; but I want, begging your pardon, Miss, to give you a piece of advice, if so be as you won't be too proud to take it from me; you see I know as well as you can tell me, that you and the Madam have fallen out; and if it's about Miss Alice, which I suppose it is, why don't be too strong handed over her at first; she will never abide by it, but'll scream till her Mamma hears her, and then Madam can't stand it no how; but'll be sure to pet her more than ever to quiet her."
"But Nurse, I do not mean to be strong-handed with Miss Alice, that is, if you mean severe; but she is at times naughty and