She tossed back her hair, and almost for the moment regained her former proud bearing; for, strange and unnatural as it may seem, this desperate resolve of making Amy, if she could, more wretched than she had already, soothed and calmed for a time the hopeless nature of her thoughts, and was the one hope that supported her through the long, terrible hours of the night that followed. CHAPTER VI. AMY'S COURAGE FAILS HER. "New joys, new virtues with that happy birth Are born, and with the growing infant grow. Source of our purest happiness below Is that benignant law, which hath entwined Dearest delight with strongest duty, so That in the healthy heart and righteous mind Even they co-exist, inseparably combined. Oh! bliss for them when in that infant face They now the unfolding faculties descry, And fondly gazing, trace--or think they trace The first faint speculation in that eye, Which hitherto hath rolled in vacancy; Oh! bliss in that soft countenance to seek Some mark of recognition, and espy The quiet smile which in the innocent cheek Of kindness and of kind its consciousness doth speak!" SOUTHEY. Time passed rapidly onwards; heedless, in its flight, of bruised hearts or desolate homes, but ruthlessly brushing past, hurrying on far away with careless front and iron tread; perhaps ere he came round again those hearts would be healed and those homes joyous again. Such things happen every day, and well for us that it is so. The first year of Amy's married life passed quietly by; just as the second dawned her son was born, but ere the third came to its close, her mother faded with the dying year. Mrs. Neville had been so much better during the first year of their sojourn abroad, so almost well again, that, as her last illness drew on, Amy, who had seen her almost as weak at Ashleigh, could not believe that she would not recover, and wilfully shut her eyes to what to others was so apparent, that this was a weakness even unto death. And so it was. Mrs. Neville died, and for a time Amy was inconsolable; even her baby's caresses failed to cheer and rouse her heart. Her husband returned with her to England. Amy wept bitterly as she stood in that home, where so often she had so fondly hoped to have welcomed her mother. Many changes had occurred during Amy's absence. Anne Bennet had married and was now living steadily enough--so she said--with her husband at his old curacy, not many miles distant from Brampton. Charles Linchmore, after his sad meeting with Amy, had returned for one night to the Park, and after his stormy interview with Frances, had, much to the astonishment of his brother and every one else but Anne, exchanged and gone abroad. Frances was still unmarried, perhaps still plotting on and waiting for one whose heart could now only be filled with anger and hatred towards her. But what woman does not hope? Perhaps she hoped still.