ought
he had shaken off; he was so irritable and fretful, that poor Mrs.
Edmonstone looked worn out; but it seems to have been only the beginning
of the illness; it was very different after he was laid up.'

'Has he had you to see him?'

'Yes, he asked for it, which he never did before, and Amabel reads to
him every morning. There is certainly much more that is satisfactory
about those young Edmonstones than there once seemed reason to expect.'

'And now tell me about Sir Guy. What is the matter? Why does he not come
home this winter!'

'I cannot tell you the rights of it, Mary. Mr. Edmonstone is very much
offended about something he is reported to have said, and suspects
him of having been in mischief at St. Mildred's; but I am not at all
persuaded that it is not one of Mr. Edmonstone's affronts.'

'Where is he?'

'At Redclyffe. I have a letter from him which I am going to answer
to-night. I shall tell the Edmonstones about it, for I cannot believe
that, if he had been guilty of anything very wrong, his mind would be
occupied in this manner;' and he gave Mary the letter.

'Oh, no!' exclaimed Mary, as she read. 'I am sure he cannot be in any
mischief. What an admirable person he is! I am very sorry this cloud has
arisen! I was thinking last summer how happy they all were together.'

'Either this or Charles's illness has cast a gloom over the whole house.
The girls are both grown much graver.'

'Amy graver?' said Mary, quickly.

'I think so. At least she did not seem to cheer up as I should have
expected when her brother grew better. She looks as if she had been
nursing him too closely, and yet I see her walking a good deal.'

'Poor little Amy!' said Mary, and she asked no more questions, but was
anxious to make her own observations.

She did not see the Edmonstones till the next evening, as the day was
wet, and she only received a little note telling her that one carriage
would be sent to fetch her and Mr. Ross. The whole of the family, except
Charles, were in the drawing-room, but Mary looked chiefly at Amy. She
was in white, with holly in her hair, and did not look sorrowful;
but she was paler and thinner than last summer, and though she spoke,
smiled, and laughed when she ought, it was without the gay, childish
freedom of former times. She was a small, pale, quiet girl now, not a
merry, caressing kitten. Mary recollected what she had been in the wood
last summer, and was sure it was more than Charles's