She did not at first recollect, in the Mrs. Evans who was announced, the merry Amy of her childhood; neither would Amy have recognised, in the tall, slender, modish lady before her, the buxom, rosy girl who had climbed the mountain paths, and pulled the wild flowers with her. She hesitated for a moment, while she assured herself that, although the complexion was less brilliant, and the full form had fined into a marvellous taper waist, still the laughing blue eye was the same, the expression of the free hearty smile the same, although the dimples were not so visible in the less rounded cheek. Mrs. Morgan, with an air of courtly breeding, bent herself gracefully towards the stranger, waiting till she opened her business; when Amy, half abashed at the changes which had taken place in the exterior of her former friend, half re-assured by the kindly countenance which spoke that the heart remained unchanged, after making a low and respectful courtesy, began with some hesitation, "that she could scarcely hope Mrs. Morgan would still bear in mind the childish playmate of Mrs. Mellicent Hilton,--Amy, the daughter of old Rachael Evans, of Poole Castle." "What, Amy, the Queen of the May! is it you, my old friend?" exclaimed Mrs. Morgan, holding out her hand with the frankness she brought from the Montgomeryshire valley, unimpaired by the intercourse she had since had with the world. "Oh! I have often wished to see you again, and often thought what happy hours we have passed together, when we have laughed even to tears without knowing wherefore, and sung for very want of thought and care. But, my good Amy, your looks speak that, since those days, you have been made acquainted with thought and care. Your countenance is sorrowful. Is your mother, the good Rachael, well? And David?--How comes it you are still Amy Evans? Have you been cruel after all?"