Amy had loved humbly and meekly, but still with a burning passion; she had looked up to Lionel Hammerton as one afar off, and she could have suffered for him in any fashion, and been his slave; he might have commanded her in almost all things. And when he raised her up and whispered in her ear the love he bore her, she had gone home and cried tears of joy and gratitude; but being raised, as it were, to his side, she could not bear indifference, and all her latent pride had come to her aid when the most generous constructions she could put upon Lionel’s conduct only led her to feel that she had been designedly slighted. Her woman’s instinct had begun to interpret his attentions into mere flirtation sometime before he had so suddenly left the country. After that day when he had whispered his admiration so earnestly, and sealed his words with a kiss, he had never called at the Hall or the farm. She had learnt that he had been at home several times prior to his departure, and that he had been at Avonworth, too; but he had made no sign to her. This was not love, she knew. The lover, whose mistress has hung upon his tender words, and told him by a thousand endearing glances how fervently his love is returned, loses no opportunity of enjoying the sweets of courtship. Lionel Hammerton had been near Barton, and Amy had sighed for his presence--had longed to look upon him--had counted the hours and days since she saw him last; yet he came not. And then he left the country, deeming her unworthy of a parting word. Had he sent her some letter which had miscarried? No. Had he left any message for her with his friend, Arthur Phillips? No. On the contrary, he had spoken of her, not as Arthur would like to have had his sister spoken of, before he left on that long journey, which was, no doubt, intended to make a gulf between them that should separate them for ever. Lionel had flirted with her, and left her with indifference, perhaps with contempt, and the native pride of her mother asserted itself, and revenge had filled up the place which love had occupied. “Ah, I know you will come, my darling,” said Amy. “I want to talk with you about my marriage.” “I will come, Amy, with pleasure,” Phœbe replied. She must have been more than woman if she could have resisted that latter appeal. “Will you come now?” said Amy, taking Phœbe’s arm. “Yes,” said Phœbe. “We will first call at the farm, and let mother know,” said Phœbe. “I know she will be pleased for me to go with you, and I can go and see them every day.” “Oh, yes, child; but how very dutiful you are, to be sure: more so than I was, I fear,” said Amy, just a little impatiently.