Charlotte's own room, the
old nursery, and there she was unfastening the drenched finery.

'O Amy, don't do all this. Let me ring.'

'No, the servants are either not come home or are too busy. Charles
won't want me, he has Guy. Can I find your white frock?'

'Oh, but Amy--let me see!' Charlotte made prisoner the left hand, and
looked up with an arch smile at the face where she had called up a
blush. 'Lady Morville must not begin by being lady's-maid.'

'Let me--let me, Charlotte, dear, I sha'n't be able to do anything for
you this long time.' Amy's voice trembled, and Charlotte held her fast
to kiss her again.

'We must make haste,' said Amy, recovering herself. 'There are the
carriages.'

While the frock was being fastened, Charlotte looked into the
Prayer-book Amy had laid down. There was the name, Amabel Frances
Morville, and the date.

'Has he just written it?' said Charlotte.

'Yes; when we came home.'

'O Amy! dear, dear Amy; I don't know whether I am glad or sorry!'

'I believe I am both,' said Amy.

At that moment Mrs. Edmonstone and Laura hastened in. Then was the time
for broken words, tears and smiles, as Amy leant against her mother, who
locked her in a close embrace, and gazed on her in a sort of trance, at
once of maternal pride and of pain, at giving up her cherished nestling.
Poor Laura! how bitter were her tears, and how forced her smiles,--far
unlike the rest!

No one would care to hear the details of the breakfast, and the
splendours of the cake; how Charlotte recovered her spirits while
distributing the favours: and Lady Eveleen set up a flirtation with
Markham, and forced him into wearing one, though he protested, with many
a grunt, that she was making a queer fool of him; how often Charles was
obliged to hear it had been a pretty wedding; and how well Lord Kilcoran
made his speech proposing the health of Sir Guy and Lady Morville. All
the time, Laura was active and useful,--feeling as if she was acting a
play, sustaining the character of Miss Edmonstone, the bridesmaid at
her sister's happy marriage; while the true Laura, Philip's Laura, was
lonely, dejected, wretched; half fearing for her sister, half jealous
of her happiness, forced into pageantry with an aching heart,--with only
one wish, that it was over, and that she might be again alone with her
burden.

She was glad when her mother rose, and the ladies moved into the
drawing-room,--glad to escape from Eveleen's quick eye, an