Lord Nithsdale's visits to London, or to Edinburgh, were rare; and no change occurred to mark the lapse of years, unless we may note that which took place in the bearing of Amy Evans. She was still, as before, high in her lady's favour, who regarded her more in the light of a confidential, though humble friend, than merely as a waiting-woman. Indeed, Amy in her childhood had been admitted as play-fellow and associate to the daughter of an old cavalier who resided in the neighbourhood of Poole Castle, and from her youthful intercourse with Mrs. Mellicent Hilton, she had acquired a tone of feeling somewhat superior to those in her station of life. Lady Nithsdale could not but remark that the laughing eyes which once sparkled with merriment were now dull and spiritless, and that the ruddy cheek had lost its bloom. When she sought the chamber where her maidens were employed at their needle, she no longer heard the clear voice of Amy, who used to enliven the light labours of her companions with the ditties she had learned in her childhood. Her gay laugh no longer pealed cheerily on the ear. Lady Nithsdale attributed the change which had gradually stolen over the demeanour of her dear Amy Evans to her separation from her lover. "You are sad, dear Amy," she one day remarked to her; "but I think I have news that will call up the bloom on those pale cheeks, and I shall hear your old Welsh songs carolled with fresh glee. The farm of Hetherstone is vacant now, and my lord proposes that David should become his tenant;--and then I suppose I must make Jeannie Scott my 'tirewoman!" "Alas! my gracious mistress, not unless your ladyship is weary of the services of poor Amy Evans. I trust that I can still diligently ply my needle, and that I can arrange your ladyship's head-gear with as neat a hand as Jean Scott at the least." "Nay, you have been a diligent and careful servant to me, Amy, and I shall love to see you as careful and diligent a wife; and when I visit you in your home, I shall once more see your merry eyes sparkle as they used to do." "No, madam, those days are gone by for me. You shall ever find me a true and faithful servant, but I shall never be a wife." "And what will David do without a housewife to see to his dairy, to bake his bread and his bannocks, and to trim his hearth, and keep all neat and seemly around him?" "He needs not me for a housewife, madam: he has found one, more to his taste, these six months back. He was married, madam, last Lammas-tide;" and, though her hands trembled, she still proceeded in the composition of the spiced comfits which her lady had come to overlook. "Oh! my poor Amy! And is this true? Can men really be so false?"