"The moon had risen, and she sometimes shone Through thick white clouds, that flew tumultuous on, Passing beneath her with an eagle's speed, That her soft light imprison'd and then freed: The fitful glimmering through the hedgerow green Gave a strange beauty to the changing scene; And roaring winds and rushing waters lent Their mingled voice that to the spirit went. To these she listen'd; but new sounds were heard, And sight more startling to her soul appear'd; * * * * * And near at hand, but nothing yet was seen." CRABBE. Amy felt oppressed in spirit as the last sound of Charles' voice reached her ear, nor dared she question her heart wherefore she had listened for it, why she had strained every nerve to catch its sound. Was she allowing a warmer feeling to enter her heart than she had hitherto entertained? Was she beginning to care more for him than she ought? No; she would not allow it. She merely felt grateful for his kindness, that was all, for he _was_ kind to her, there was no doubt of that, and her heart could not but be touched by it, so lonely and so uncared for as she felt; so utterly alone in that large house. Had he not on that very day ridden several miles for her pleasure? and had he not offered, nay promised, to fetch her letter every day? and she had been obliged to give him but cold thanks for his kindness, and still colder looks, when her heart was all the while longing to tell him how more than grateful she felt. Even but a few moments ago, she knew she had been cold to him; but it could not be helped. It could not be otherwise, it must ever be so between them. And yet as she recalled his last words, and the fervent "God bless you," she thought that had she not been a governess, he might have loved her. Now, it could never be. She grew restless; the quiet stillness around her became oppressive, most of those who were left having retired into the drawing-room; so when the children had said good night she took them up to bed herself, and as each little one knelt down, she joined earnestly in the simple prayer that "God would bless dear Papa and Mamma, and all their relations and friends." Mary did not put them to bed, one of the other servants did the office for her. Amy enquired where she was, and whether she was ill? "No, Miss, not ill," replied the girl, "only worrying herself." "About what? I trust she is in no trouble." "Well, you see her father's gone out against the poachers to-night." "True," replied Amy. "Poor girl! I quite forgot her interest in the matter." "She's most worrying and fretting herself to death about it, and all to no good, as we all tell her, but she won't listen to none of us." "Words are poor comfort in such cases." "Yes, Miss; and what's worse, I believe they've threatened to do for him, her father--I mean." "That may be mere idle report; there is no authority for the rumour."