Jessie gave all the time she could. She was glad to have something to think about, for Miss Manners was from home, so there were no readings before the Sundays; and her sharp eyes could not help seeing that there was something underhand going on between Amy and Florence--where she did not know whether to interfere or not. She had seen Amy and Florence come hastily round the corner of the lane, which had a stile into a large shady path field at the back of Mrs. Smithers's cottage, and Mr. Wingfield hovering about. It did not look well--and indeed what she would have thought nothing of in such a girl as Florence was a very different thing in Amy. Then stories that she disliked were afloat about the man. He was said to be teaching the young men at the Manners Arms new gambling games, and to be putting them up to bet on race-horses; and once she heard a very unpleasant laugh about very good, closely-kept girls being as ready to carry on as other folk. Once when she asked Amy after little Edwin Smithers, the answer was rather cross. "Oh! just as usual. He is the most tiresome fractious child I ever saw!" "Children are often like that when they are going to be worse," said Jessie. "Well," returned Amy, "I've always heard that children are most fretty and fussy when they are getting better." "Then I hope he is better." "O dear yes, of course he is, or he would not be here now," said Amy, impatiently, and getting very red. "How does he get on with his reading?" "There never was such a one for questions as you, Jessie!" cried Amy, getting quite cross. And as Jessie knew curiosity to be her failing, and was really trying to break herself of it, she was silenced. No doubt Amy was angered because her conscience was very far from being easy, though she never failed to pop into the Smithers's cottage every day, sometimes to bring the little dainties her aunts provided, sometimes to say a few words and begin a lesson with Edwin; but her heart was not in it, the boy would seldom attend, and often turned away his face and said "No," or began to cry; whereupon Amy told him he was very naughty, and marched off, excusing herself by the fact that the girl Polly was generally in the house, and seemed to be attending to him much better than she used to do. No wonder Amy was in a hurry, for Florence was waiting for her outside; and by and by not only Florence. It began one windy day when Amy's sunshade flew out of her hand. She ran after it, as it went dancing along on its spokes over the village green, jumping up just as she neared it, and whisking off just as if it had been alive, or like one of those gay butterflies and birds in allegories that lure the little pilgrims out of the narrow path. Alas! it was only too much like such a deluder.