"Mamma," said Amy, as she returned from Emmerton one bright afternoon in
the beginning of September, "Aunt Harrington hopes that when I go to the
Hall on Thursday, you will go with me; for Lord Rochford is coming over
with Miss Cunningham, and she thinks you would like to see them. The
carriage will be sent for you whenever you wish it."
"Has not Miss Cunningham been at the Hall before?" asked Mrs Herbert.
"No," replied Amy; "she was to have gone there just after my aunt came,
but one of her uncles was taken ill and died, and then she went away
somewhere on a visit. I want to see her very much, for I am sure my aunt
is very anxious that Dora should be with her a great deal."
"How did you guess that?" asked Mrs Herbert.
"Oh, by the way in which she talked of her, and said she hoped Dora
would make herself agreeable, and that there were very few young people
of the same age here, and that the acquaintance was very desirable. But,
mamma," continued Amy, looking up archly in her mother's face, "I think
Dora is determined not to like her."
"And why should you think so?"
"Because I am sure Dora never does like any one she is told to like. She
always has a fancy for things which no one else can endure, and she will
pet that ugly tabby cat which you saw in the schoolroom the other day,
and that great fierce dog which growls whenever any one goes near it,
though I think she is a little afraid of it."
"And does her love for human beings go by contraries too?"
"I don't know quite, because I have never seen her with strangers," said
Amy; "but I am sure it is her way in other things, for even in her dress
I can see it. She generally chooses to wear whatever Margaret or I think
ugly. But, mamma, have you ever seen Miss Cunningham, and do you think I
shall like her?"
"I saw her frequently when she was a very little child," replied Mrs
Herbert; "for before your uncle went to Wayland, Lady Rochford was very
intimate with your aunt; but after that she became ill, and I had no
carriage, and the distance between us is so great, that we have very
seldom met, though I have been asked occasionally to stay there; and
once, when your dear papa was here, I went."
"Then you will like to go with me on Thursday, mamma," said Amy; "you
know it will make me so happy, and you never go now, as you used to do
in the summer. You always say it is such a fatigue; but I did so enjoy
the nice long days, when you were with me."
"I must wait till Thursday comes before I decide," answered her mother.
"The postman shall take a note for me to Emmerton early, to say whether
we shall want the carriage."
Amy watched her mamma more anxiously than usual the next day, and
was not quite satisfied with her pale and languid looks; and when she
appeared at breakfast the following morning, evidently suffering from
the effects of a sleepless night, it was clear that she was more fit
to stay at home than to spend the day at Emmerton; and, much to Amy's
disappointment, the donkey was ordered at eleven o'clock, and she was
obliged to set off for her ride by herself.
There were preparations in the schoolroom for a day of idleness. Rose
was playing with her doll, Margaret engaged with some fancy work for
herself, and Dora deep in the contents of an amusing book, while Miss
Morton, relieved from her usual duties, had gone to her own room to
enjoy quietness and solitude.
"I don't think I like coming here on a holiday," observed Amy, when she
entered the room; "it does not seem natural."
"I like it, though," said Rose, as she tied a pink ribbon round her
doll's waist, in a firm, hard knot, and then held it up to be admired.
"I never have my doll's new frock except on holidays; and Emily is
coming presently to have a good game of play."
"You won't play here," exclaimed Margaret, sharply; "we can have no
litter made."
"I don't want to make a litter," said Rose; "and I had much rather go
and play in Emily's room; she is never cross."
"Oh Rose!" said a gentle voice behind her; and Rose was immediately
sensible that she had been wrong; and turning round to Emily, who
had just come into the room, she jumped upon a chair to kiss her, and
whispered, "I won't be naughty; but no one is kind except you."
"You must not speak so," replied Emily; "and your sister is quite right
in saying it will not do to make a litter here; but there is plenty
of space in my bedroom, and we will go there and play when I have just
spoken to your cousin."
"And won't Amy come too?" said Rose.
Amy looked half inclined; but Margaret vehemently asserted that such a
thing had never been heard of before; and Dora raised her head from her
book, begging more earnestly than was her wont that Amy would stay
with them; and so Miss Morton and Rose departed with the doll and her
treasures, and Amy remained to while away the time as she best could
till Miss Cunningham arrived. Not that this was a difficult task, for
there were many books at hand which were quite new to her; and she was
so unwearied a reader, that, although her cousins did not take the least
trouble to entertain her, the time seemed very short till the sound
of carriage wheels and the loud ringing of the door-bell announced the
arrival of a visitor. Margaret hastily gathered up her fragments of silk
and beads, and thrust them into the first open drawer she could find (a
proceeding which Amy did not fail to remark, as she knew that the task
of finding Margaret's missing treasures always devolved upon her);
but Dora did not appear to observe what was passing till her sister
stealthily opened the door and peeped into the passage, and then she
called out to her to shut it, and wondered she was not ashamed of being
so unladylike. Margaret was not at all inclined to obey, and a dispute
would probably have been the consequence but for the entrance of the
footman, who came with Mrs Harrington's orders that the young ladies
should go immediately to the drawing-room. Margaret ran to the glass
to arrange her curls; and Dora, lingering over her book, reluctantly
prepared to do as she was told, always a difficult task with her, and
particularly so at that moment.
"I suppose my aunt wishes me to go, too?" said Amy.
"My mistress only mentioned Miss Harrington and Miss Margaret," replied
the man, very respectfully but decidedly; for he well knew that Mrs
Harrington always required her commands to be taken literally.
Amy shrunk back, vexed with herself for having offered to go, and more
vexed with her aunt for having omitted to send for her. It would have
made her feel shy to be obliged to encounter strangers; but it was not
pleasant to be left behind.
"Never mind, dear," said Dora, kindly, seeing her blank face of
disappointment; "we shall be back again presently, and then you shall
see Miss Cunningham; but I tell you she is just like the rest of the
world."
"I don't know why I should care," replied Amy, recovering herself; "it
will be much more agreeable to stay here and read, for I am not used to
strangers as you are, Dora."
And yet, though it was more agreeable, Amy was not contented; and when
Margaret, having arranged her longest ringlet to her satisfaction, and
set her dress to rights, and drawn up her head so as to show off her
long neck to advantage, pronounced herself quite ready, and left Amy
to the quiet enjoyment of her book, she could not manage to fix her
attention upon it. For the first time since her uncle's arrival at
Emmerton she felt neglected; it had often happened before that Dora or
Margaret had been sent for on some little business with their mamma, but
then it did not signify; and the few visitors who called seldom inquired
for them; or, if they saw them accidentally, there was always as much
notice taken of Amy as of her cousins, so that she had not fancied
there could be any distinction between them; and even now she hardly
acknowledged to herself the cause of her uncomfortable feelings, but
sat with the open book before her, trying to find out why her aunt had
wished her to be left behind; and then looking at the loveliness of the
grounds and the signs of wealth and luxury in the room, and contrasting
them with the plainly-furnished drawing-room and the little garden
at the cottage, "I should be very happy if mamma had such beautiful
things," was the thought that arose in her mind, but there was something
within that checked it. They only who have tried earnestly to do right
can tell how quickly conscience whispers when we are wrong; and Amy,
young as she was, had too often heard her mother's warnings against envy
and covetousness, not to be aware that she was at that moment tempted by
them; and half-repeating to herself, "how wrong it is in me!" she turned
to her book with the resolution of not thinking anything more about the
matter. She had read but a few pages when the sound of voices in
the passage interrupted her. Dora's constrained tone, and Margaret's
affected laugh, told directly there was a stranger with them, and
immediately afterwards they entered with Miss Cunningham, and the first
glance showed Amy that Dora's description had been very correct. She
was neither tall nor short, neither stout nor thin; she had grayish blue
eyes, without any particular expression in them; sandy-coloured hair,
a fair, freckled complexion, and rather pretty mouth, and certainly
was very unlike what Amy had fancied in all but her dress, which was
peculiarly handsome.
"This is our schoolroom," said Dora, when Miss Cunningham, upon being
told who Amy was, had shaken hands with her, and scanned her from head
to foot.
"Is it?" was the reply. "It is a nice little place; I think it must be
just the size of my governess's sitting-room."
"It does very well," said Dora; "but it is nothing like the room we had
to ourselves at Wayland, which was twice as large."
"My governess's room," continued Miss Cunningham, "used to be my
nursery; and then, when I grew too old for it, of course papa gave up
another to me; in fact, I have two I may call my own now--a little room
where I keep all my books, and a large one where I do my lessons."
"There was a whole set of rooms which was to have been ours," said Dora,
"if we had remained at Wayland; and here, I suppose, something of the
kind will be arranged for us soon, but everything is so unsettled yet
that papa has not had time to think about it."
"My little room," observed Miss Cunningham, "looks out upon the finest
view in the whole estate. I can see a distance of twenty miles from the
window."
"The tower on Thorwood Hill was thirty miles off, I think. Margaret,"
said Dora, turning to her sister.
"Yes," she replied; "but then it could only be seen as a little speck on
a clear day."
Miss Cunningham went to the window. "You have no view here," she said.
"No," answered Dora; "it is much pleasanter having it shut in in this
way, because it makes it so private."
"But when a house stands high, it is very easy to be private, and yet to
have beautiful views between the trees."
"I suppose," said Dora, "that when this house was built, several hundred
years ago, people did not think so much about scenery, though, indeed,
there is a very nice view from the front. I have heard papa say that it
is only modern places which stand high. Rochford Park, I think, is about
fifty years old."
"Only the new part; there is one wing which is much older."
"But the new part was built when your family first went there, was it
not?"
"Yes; it was built by my grandfather, when he returned from being
ambassador to Turkey."
"I think the newest part of Emmerton has been built at least a hundred
and fifty years," said Dora; "and the old part--I really cannot say
exactly what the age of it is; but the first baron who is buried in the
chapel died somewhere about 1470, and his was the elder branch of our
family."
"But there is no title in your family now," observed Miss Cunningham.
"Indeed there is," replied Dora; "Lord Doringford is a cousin of ours."
"Oh! a hundredth cousin, I suppose. Any one may be that; for you know we
are all descended from Adam."
"Yes; and of course, that is the reason why people think so much more of
a family being an old one, than of a mere title."
Miss Cunningham turned sharply round to Amy.
"Do you live here?" she asked; and at being addressed so
unceremoniously, Amy's colour rose, but she tried to answer gently,
though she felt a little unwilling to acknowledge that her home was
neither a park nor a hall.
"I live about two miles off," she said, "at Emmerton Cottage; but I am
here a great deal."
"Oh!" was all the reply; and Amy took up a book, and wished the new
visitor had remained at Rochford Park.
"Is not that a very pretty drawing?" said Margaret, finding Dora
unwilling to speak again, and feeling very awkward. It was a drawing of
Miss Morton's, which she was going to copy.
"Very," replied Miss Cunningham, shortly. "My style is flowers; I
learned when I was in Paris, and----"
"But that does not make this drawing pretty or ugly, does it?"
interrupted Dora, with a curl of the lip which portended a storm.
Miss Cunningham stared at her, and then went on with her sentence: "And
my master told papa that my copies were almost equal to the original."
"I should like to see them very much," said Margaret, wishing as usual
to conciliate her last acquaintance. "Will you bring them over to show
us some day?"
Dora held up a lovely rose, almost the last of the season. "Look," she
said; "who would not rather have that than the most beautiful drawing
that ever could be made of it?"
No notice was taken of the question; for by this time Miss Cunningham
felt that she was no match for Dora in anything but pretension; and
her only resource was indifference. She therefore went on talking
to Margaret, who proved herself a willing listener. Drawings, music,
lessons, dress, all were mentioned in turn; and Margaret patiently bore
the perpetual repetition of "I think this," and "I do that," as she
looked at Miss Cunningham's sandy hair and freckled complexion, and felt
that in one thing, at least, there could be no comparison between them.
Amy for some time stood by, one moment casting a wistful look at her
book, and wishing that it were not rude to read, or that she might carry
it off to Miss Morton's room, and the next feeling a strong inclination
to laugh, as she listened to what was passing. She had never heard
anything of the kind before; for Dora did not boast except when she
wished to rival some one, and Amy was far too humble to enter into
competition with her in anything.
At length, even the delightful subject of self seemed to be exhausted.
The visitor paused; and Margaret looking at the time-piece, and
remarking that it wanted nearly an hour to dinner, proposed that they
should go into the garden.
"Is there anything to be seen there?" asked Miss Cunningham.
"Nothing that _you_ will admire," replied Dora, sarcastically.
But the emphasis on the _you_ was quite lost. From her childhood, Miss
Cunningham could never be made to understand what was not expressed in
plain words.
"I suppose," she said, rather condescendingly, "you think we have such a
beautiful place at the Park, that I shall not care about this."
"Oh no!" answered Dora, "such an idea never entered my head; for it
struck me when I was there the other day, that it was so like all the
other gentlemen's seats I have ever seen, that you would be quite glad
to look at something different. There is hardly such another place as
Emmerton, I believe, in England."
The meaning of this was certainly quite evident, but Miss Cunningham was
not quick at a retort; she could only stare, as she usually did when she
had not words at command, and ask Margaret to show her the way into
the garden. Dora begged to be excused accompanying them, and Amy would
willingly have done the same, but for the fear of appearing rude; and
even in such trifles she had learned already to consult the feelings of
others.
The morning was so lovely, uniting almost the warmth of summer with the
freshness of autumn, that the mere sensation of being in the open air
was enjoyable; and it was fortunate for Amy that it was so, as neither
of her companions paid any attention to her. Margaret led the way
through the winding walks in the shrubbery, and along the terrace, and
by the side of the lake; pointing out the different objects which
were to be seen, expressing herself extremely delighted at having Miss
Cunningham with her, and hoping that they should meet very often, for
really there were no people living near Emmerton, and it was dreadfully
dull after Wayland; forgetting that only the day before, in one of her
fits of extreme affection, she had told Amy they did not regret Wayland
in the least, for that being with her made up for everything. Amy,
however, did not forget; and it made her doubt, as she had often been
inclined to do before, whether her cousin was not sometimes insincere.
It was quite possible that Margaret might find Emmerton dull, and there
was no harm in her saying so, but there was no occasion to make kind
speeches if she did not mean them; and almost involuntarily she turned
away, and walked a few paces behind by herself. Miss Cunningham looked
at everything that was pointed out, and once or twice said it was
pretty; but the chief charm of all consisted in its being like something
else which was more beautiful at Rochford Park. The trees were taller,
the lake was clearer, the walks were broader, and Amy, as she listened,
sometimes forgot her annoyance in amusement, though Margaret's words
continually reminded her of it again; and by the time they had gone over
the pleasure-grounds, she thought that her society would not have been
missed if she had remained in the house. Suddenly, however, as they
seated themselves on a bench by the side of the lake, Margaret seemed to
recollect that her cousin was present; and, with a half-suppressed
yawn, asked her if she could think of anything else they could do
before dinner. It was evident that she was tired of her company, and Amy
ransacked her brain to discover something else which might be seen.
"I think we have gone over everything except the chapel," she said.
"Oh yes! the chapel," exclaimed Margaret, "that will just do, I am sure
Miss Cunningham would like to see it."
"I don't know, indeed," was the reply. "Is it far? I am dreadfully
tired."
"It is a part of the house," said Amy, "and you know we must get home.
This is the shortest way to it, Margaret," she continued, pointing to
a dark overgrown walk; "you know it leads over the wooden bridge to
the private garden, without our being obliged to go to the front of the
house."
"The shortest way is the best," muttered Miss Cunningham; "I hate being
walked to death."
Amy thought it would have been more civil to have kept her remarks to
herself; but she supposed the observation was not intended to be heard,
and they went on, Miss Cunningham complaining the whole way either of
the narrowness of the path, or the inconvenience of the briars, or
the heat of the sun, and making both Margaret and Amy very much repent
having her with them.
The walk, however, did at last come to an end; and as they turned a
sharp angle of the building, and came suddenly upon the chapel, with its
gray buttresses half covered with ivy, standing out upon a smooth
square of velvet turf, and concealed from the pleasure-ground by a thick
shrubbery and one or two splendid chestnut trees, Amy forgot how unlike
her companions were to herself, and involuntarily exclaimed, "Is it not
beautiful!"
"How odd!" said Miss Cunningham; "why, it is a church."
"It is very gloomy," observed Margaret; "I don't often come here."
"Not gloomy," said Amy, "only grave."
"Well! grave or gloomy, it is all the same. I wish, Amy, you would learn
not to take up one's words so. And now we are come here, I don't think
we can get in. You should have remembered that this door is always
locked; do run into the house, and ask Bridget for the key, and we will
wait here."
Amy instantly did as she was desired, but had not gone ten yards
before she returned. "You know, Margaret," she said, "that I cannot see
Bridget, because I must not go amongst the servants. I never have been
since the first night you came, when my aunt was so angry with me."
"But," replied Margaret, "mamma is engaged with Lord Rochford now; you
will be sure not to meet her."
"It is not the meeting her, but the doing what she would not like,
that I am afraid of; but it will do, perhaps, if I ring the bell in the
schoolroom, and then I can ask for it."
"Yes; only run off and be quick, for we have not much time to spare."
And in a moment Amy disappeared; and with the best speed she could make,
found her way to the schoolroom, and seizing the bell-rope, without
remembering how easily it rang, gave it such a pull that the sound was
heard through the whole house. The last tone had but just died away when
another was heard, to Amy's ear much more awful. It was her aunt's harsh
voice in the passage, exclaiming against such a noise being made, and
declaring that Dora or Margaret, whichever it was, should be severely
reprimanded. Poor Amy actually trembled, and stood with the bell-rope in
her hand, unable to move, when Mrs Harrington entered.
"What, Amy! Amy Herbert! A most extraordinary liberty, I must say! I
must beg you to recollect that you are not at home. Pray, did any one
give you permission to ring?"
Amy could hardly say "yes," because it was her own proposition; but she
stammered out "that Margaret wanted the key of the chapel, and she did
not like to go amongst the servants, for fear of displeasing her aunt."
"Then Margaret should have come herself to ask for what she wants; I
will have no one but my own family ringing the bell and giving orders
in my house. And such a noise!" continued Mrs Harrington, her anger
increasing as she remembered how her nerves had been affected by the
loud peal.
Amy could only look humble and distressed; and, forgetting the key and
everything but her desire to escape from her aunt, she moved as quickly
towards the door as she dared. But she had scarcely reached it when a
second fright awaited her--a grasp, which seemed almost like that of
a giant, stopped her, and the quick, good-humoured voice of a stranger
exclaimed, "Why, what's the matter? Who have we got here--a third
daughter, Mrs Harrington?"
Amy ventured to look in the face of the speaker, and felt reassured by
the kind, open countenance that met her view. She guessed in an instant
it must be Lord Rochford.
"Not a daughter," replied Mrs Harrington, in a constrained voice; "Mr
Harrington's niece, Amy Herbert."
"Ah! well," said Lord Rochford, "it is very nearly a daughter, though.
Then this must be the child of my friend Harrington's second sister,
Ellen. I could almost have guessed it from the likeness; those black
eyes are the very image of her mother's. And what has become of the
colonel? any news of him lately?"
Mrs Harrington shook her head.
"Sad, sad, very sad," muttered Lord Rochford to himself; "and the
mother, too, so ill, I hear." Then, seeing a tear glistening in Amy's
eye, he paused, patted her kindly on the shoulder, and told her he was
sure she was a great pet at home, and he should be glad to see her at
Rochford Park; "and Lucy will like to see you, too," he continued. "She
never meets any one but grown-up people from year's end to year's end.
By the by, Mrs Harrington, I dare say Mrs Herbert would be very willing
to enter into the plan you and I were talking of just now. I wish some
day you would mention it."
"You forget," replied Mrs Harrington, trying to look gracious, "that I
said it was quite out of the question at present."
"Oh no! not at all. But, begging your pardon, I never knew a lady yet
who was not willing to change her mind when she had a fair excuse given
her."
"You may not have met with any one before," said Mrs Harrington, in
her haughtiest manner, "but I must assure you, you have met with one
now.--What do you want?" she added, for the first time perceiving the
footman, who had answered the bell. "Amy, you rang; Jolliffe waits for
your orders."
Amy's neck and cheeks in an instant became crimson; but she managed to
say, though in a voice scarcely audible, that she wanted the key of the
chapel.
"Tell Bridget to send it instantly," said Mrs Harrington; and she did
not notice Amy again till the key was brought, when, putting it into her
hands without a word, she motioned her to the door. And Amy, enchanted
at having at last escaped, returned to her cousin even more quickly than
she had left her. "Oh Margaret!" was her exclamation, as she ran up,
holding the key in her hand, "here it is; but I have got into a dreadful
scrape by ringing the bell, and I don't know what I shall do; my aunt
will never forgive me."
"Nonsense," replied Margaret, in a really kind manner; "it is only just
for the moment; mamma will soon forget it. You have nothing to do but to
keep out of her way for some time."
"I am sure she won't," replied Amy; "she looked so angry, and called me
Amy Herbert."
"But your name is Herbert, is it not?" said Miss Cunningham, with a
stare.
"Don't you know what Amy means?" asked Margaret, laughing; "people never
tack on surnames to Christian names till they are so angry they don't
know what else to do. But don't make yourself unhappy, Amy; I know mamma
better than you do; she soon forgets--just let me know what she said."
The story was soon told, and Amy's mind considerably eased by her
cousin's assurance that she had got into a hundred such scrapes in her
life; though there still remained such a recollection of her alarm, that
even the quiet beauty of the chapel could not entirely soothe her.
Miss Cunningham looked round with curiosity, but with a total want of
interest; and Margaret laughed, and said it was a gloomy old place,
and then called to her companions to observe the strange little figures
which were carved on an ancient monument near the altar, declaring they
were the most absurd things she had ever seen. But she could only induce
Miss Cunningham to join in the merriment; Amy just smiled, and said, in
rather a subdued voice, that they were odd, and she had often wondered
at them before.
"What is the matter, Amy?" asked Margaret. "Why don't you speak out; and
why are you so grave!"
"I don't quite know," answered Amy, trying to raise her voice; "but I
never can laugh or speak loud in a church."
"And why not?" said Miss Cunningham, who had been patting one of the
figures with her parasol, and calling it a "little wretch."
"Because," replied Amy, "it is a place where people come to say their
prayers and read their Bibles."
"Well! and so they say their prayers and read their Bibles in their
bedrooms," observed Margaret; "and yet you would not mind laughing
there."
Amy thought for a moment, and then said, "You know bedrooms are never
consecrated."
"Consecrated!" repeated Miss Cunningham, her eyes opening to their
fullest extent; "What has that to do with it?"
"I don't know that I can quite tell," replied Amy; "but I believe it
means making places like Sundays."
"I wish you would talk sense," said Miss Cunningham, sharply; "I can't
understand a word you say."
"I know what I mean myself, though I cannot explain it. On Sunday people
never work, or ride about, or read the same books as they do on other
days--at least mamma never lets me do it; and she makes me say my
Catechism, and other things like it--hymns, I mean, and collects."
"That may be your fashion on a Sunday, but it is not mine," said Miss
Cunningham. "I used to say my Catechism once a month before I was
confirmed, to get it perfect; but since then I have never thought about
it."
"Have you been confirmed?" asked Margaret and Amy, in one breath.
"Yes, to be sure. I am quite old enough; I was fifteen last month."
"Then you must feel quite grown up now," said Amy.
"Grown up! why should I? I shall not do that till I come out in London."
"Shall you not?" said Amy, gravely. "I think I should feel quite grown
up if I were confirmed."
"I never heard any one yet call a girl only just fifteen grown up,"
observed Margaret.
"It is not what I should be called, but what I should feel," replied
Amy. "People, when they are confirmed, are allowed to do things that
they must not before." And as she said this, she walked away, as if
afraid of being obliged to explain herself more, and went to the lower
end of the chapel to look at her favourite monument of the first baron
of Emmerton.
"I never knew any one with such odd notions as Amy," said Margaret, when
her cousin was gone. "I never can make out how old she is. Sometimes she
seems so much younger than we are, and then again she gets into a grave
mood, and talks just as if she were twenty."
"But it is very easy to ask her her age, is it not?" asked the
matter-of-fact Miss Cunningham.
"Do you always think persons just the age they call themselves?" said
Margaret, laughing.
"Yes, of course, I do, every one, that is except one of my aunts,
who always tells me she is seven-and-twenty, when mamma knows she is
five-and-thirty."
"What I mean," said Margaret, "is, that all persons appear different at
different times."
"They don't to me," answered Miss Cunningham, shortly. "If I am told a
girl is fourteen, I believe her to be fourteen; and if I am told she is
twelve, I believe she is twelve. Your cousin is twelve, is she not?"
Margaret saw it was useless to discuss the subject any more; and,
calling to Amy that they should be late for dinner if they stayed
any longer, hastened out of the chapel. Amy lingered behind, with the
uncomfortable feeling of having something disagreeable associated with a
place which once had brought before her nothing but what was delightful.
Margaret and Miss Cunningham had seemed perfectly indifferent to what
she thought so solemn; and although quite aware that their carelessness
did not at all take away from the real sacredness of the chapel, yet it
was something new and startling to find that it was possible for persons
to enter a place peculiarly dedicated to the service of God without any
greater awe than they would have felt in their own homes.
If Amy had lived longer and seen more of the world, she would have
known that, unhappily, such thoughtlessness is so common as not to be
remarkable; but she had passed her life with those who thought very
differently; and the first appearance of irreverence was as painful as
it was unexpected.