"But I am so pleased, dear Amy,” she said, in a very quiet voice, "that I possess one faculty of cheering you; especially, as this morning I fancy you more than usually sad." "Do I appear so ?" replied Amy, with a trembling lip. "Oh, Miss Lester! What can I ever do to repay your kind watchfulness of one so unworthy as I am ?” And the young girl, at that moment, was quite sincere. The evil was exorcised, and she felt, looking into the heart usually blighted by its presence, her deep ingratitude; but little dreamed of the compunction and perplexity which agitated the friend by her side. I “I have been fearing, dear child," replied Beatrice, "that I may have proved too exacting. did it for the best; but, perhaps, I was wrong in urging you to quit the retirement you love so well, to mingle in other scenes to which your weary spirit could utter no response. Dr. F— told me, however, that society would be a good remedy; otherwise, believe me, dear Amy, I would not have insisted on your so often appearing in it." This apology from her! Such kindness and humility were dreadful to the poor consciencestricken girl. It made her, for the moment, feel like some guilty thing afraid to face the light. Tears sprang to her eyes; and, almost shrinking away from the side of her benefactress, she saidbut her utterance was broken "Oh! you have done everything for me-for the best. I know it-I know it; you have clothed me, fed me, taught me—but taught me, most of all, to know how undeserving, weak, and what a wretched thing I am." "My dearest Amy !" cried Beatrice, and then she stopped, as if some words she fain would utter died upon her lips. At last she said, “You are not yet strong. When health and mental elasticity return, you will see how dreadfully you over-rate any inefficient deed of mine." And then she drew her more closely towards her, as if to shield her from some threatening evil. And Amy struggled not from the fond, sisterly embrace. Her tears fell on the bosom which beat in unison with others' joy or sorrow, and especially, as it seemed, in sympathy most acute with her. They were quite alone, and the helpless girl felt almost urged by this gentleness to confess-to pour out the secret of her intense misery, and to implore pardon for the base suspicion it had suggested. She clung to Beatrice as she never had done before, since her sickness. Indeed, had Miss Lester thought more of herself, she would have perceived how, since that illness, and her own unremitting attention night and day, some mysterious barrier was thrown up in her intercourse with her protégée. But, though not precisely observing the frequent lack of affection's deeds and language-because her nature was the reverse of exacting-she was, and had long been, painfully conscious of a want of success-a void -a something unfulfilled, in the hope which had been so abounding, so loving, but so fatally mistaken towards another. This moment was, therefore, pleasurable to Beatrice, though painful, as speaking of a grief yet unconquered. She hoped it might prove a new era in the life she had so desired to guard : that its confidence would help her to assist this otherwise friendless creature; and bright drops of sympathy fell from the eyes so full of pity on the fair, curling head which, thus unusually, found a shelter in the arms ever ready to receive. "Yes-I will tell her-I will show her what I am," was Amy's thought; but the struggle between right and wrong! Then light seemed about to conquer the darkness; the forlorn, excited girl thought of the dead, and their sympathy with goodness; and she shrunk from herself as she knew she had been lately. "Ah! the fear of distance from them decides me-I will strive to do this right VOL. I. N thing;" and her thoughts took some such shape as "Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side? "Ah! yes-yes!" was the agonizing mental colloquy. "At least, my conscience shall be clear ; whether my conviction be true or false that he loves her.... whether my life be hopeless, blighted – at least I will that the dead shall look me through and through;' I will not have in my heart towards the living that which I dread the dead to find there. But, oh! There must be wisdom with great Death!"," She never thought that what she desired to say might be an insult to Beatrice; her reverence for Eustace Neville absorbed all conventional distinctions of rank and wealth. His love was the greatest honour earth could bestow, in her estimation, even on one so beautiful and gifted as this lady. But before she could speak, before her bewildered thoughts could frame the words, or her painful purpose, though clear, could shape its course, the door opened, and Mrs. Seymour entered. Instinctively, Amy sprang from the embrace of Beatrice; the traces of tears were on both their faces; but Amy's cheek was flushed with great excitement; she looked startled-confused; as if her secret had been suddenly discovered. Then came a quick sense of relief; no-no; it had not escaped her. But none can describe the mingled feelings of Beatrice. Remorseful, though guiltless;-fearful of betraying her suspicion that Amy loved,—and perplexed whether that love was returned or not. Holding Amy's hand yet within her own, she said, turning to Mrs. Seymour: "I fear, Madre, that she is still more suffering than she says. How think you? Would a change of air and scene be beneficial to our friend ?" And she looked with a wistful tenderness from one to the other of her companions. "Not so much so," answered Mrs. Seymour, "as something I hold now in my hand-a letter from Australia for Miss Lyle." And, with a smile, she playfully held up a square far-travelled looking missive to their view. The hand which Beatrice held turned cold as death beneath her touch; it trembled violently. She suddenly looked round, and beheld her charge, standing as if transfixed, perfectly pale, but though silent for the instant, vivid with some strange gleam of intelligence in her generally meek blue eyes. "Give it to me," said Amy, in a voice even more |