he pressed his hand, then as he ran down to lend a helping hand in
carrying Charles, she, the tears in her eyes, crossed the passage to see
how it was with her little Amy, and to set her at rest for the night.
Amy's candle was out, and she was in bed, lying full in the light of the
Easter moon, which poured in glorious whiteness through her window. She
started up as the door opened. 'Oh, mamma! how kind of you to come!'

'I can only stay a moment, my dear; your papa is coming up; but I must
just tell you that I have been having such a nice talk with dear Guy.
He has behaved beautifully, and papa is quite satisfied. Now, darling,
I hope you will not lie awake all night, or you won't be fit to talk to
him to-morrow.'

Amy sat up in bed, and put her arms round her mother's neck. 'Then he is
happy again,' she whispered. 'I should like to hear all.'

'He shall tell you himself to-morrow, my dear. Now, good night! you have
been a very good child. Now, go to sleep, my dear one.'

Amy lay down obediently. 'Thank you for coming to tell me, dear mamma,'
she said. 'I am very glad; good night.'

She shut her eyes, and there was something in the sweet, obedient,
placid look of her face, as the white moonlight shone upon it, that made
her mother pause and gaze again with the feeling, only tenderer, left
by a beautiful poem. Amy looked up to see why she delayed; she gave her
another kiss, and left her in the moonlight.

Little Amy's instinct was to believe the best and do as she was bidden,
and there was a quietness and confidence in the tone of her mind which
gave a sort of serenity of its own even to suspense. A thankful, happy
sensation that all was well, mamma said so, and Guy was there, had taken
possession of her, and she did not agitate herself to know how or why,
for mamma, had told her to put herself to sleep; so she thought of all
the most thanksgiving verses of her store of poetry, and before the
moon had passed away from her window, Amabel Edmonstone was wrapped in a
sleep dreamless and tranquil as an infant's.

CHAPTER 26

Hence, bashful cunning,
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence.
I am your wife if you will marry me.
--TEMPEST

Amabel awoke to such a sense of relief and repose that she scarcely
liked to ask herself the cause, lest it might ruffle her complete peace.
Those words 'all right,' seemed to be enough to assure her that the
cloud was gone.