Amber was kneeling by the side of the bed; she had been there so long that she was not aware that it was broad day.  Her face, laid upon her hands, was completely hidden by her luxuriant hair, which had escaped from the confinement of the comb, when the door of the chamber of death was softly opened.  Amber, who either did not hear the noise or thought it was the daughter of Robertson, who lived as servant in the cottage, raised not her head.  The steps continued to approach, then the sound ceased, and Amber felt the arms of some one encircling her waist to raise her from her kneeling posture.  She lifted up her head, and dividing the hair from her forehead, that she might see who it was, perceived that it was young Aveleyn who was hanging over her.

“My poor little girl!” said he in a tone of commiseration.

“Oh!  William Aveleyn,” cried Amber, bursting into a paroxysm of tears, as she was folded in his arms.

The sorrow of youth is sympathetic, and William Aveleyn, although seventeen years old, and fast advancing to manhood, did not disdain to mingle his tears with those of his former playmate.  It was some time before he could persuade Amber, who clung to him in her grief, to any degree of serenity.

“Amber dear, you must come to us at the Hall; this is no place for you now.”

“And why not, William?  Why should I leave so soon?  I’m not afraid of being here, or lying by his side alone:  I’ve seen other people die.  I saw Mrs Beazely die—­I saw poor ‘Faithful’ die; and now, they all are dead,” said Amber, bursting into tears, and burying her face in William Aveleyn’s bosom.  “I knew that he was to die,” said she, raising her head, after a time—­“he told me so; but, to think that I shall never hear him speak again—­that very soon I shall never see him more—­I must cry, William.”

“But your father is happy, Amber.”

“He is happy, I know; but he was not my father, William.  I have no father—­no friend on earth I know of.  He told me all before he died; ‘Faithful’ brought me from the sea.”

This intelligence roused the curiosity of William Aveleyn, who interrogated Amber, and obtained from her the whole of the particulars communicated by Edward Forster; and, as she answered to his many questions, she grew more composed.

The narrative had scarcely been finished, when Lord Aveleyn, who had been summoned by Robertson, drove to the door accompanied by Lady Aveleyn, who thought that her presence and persuasions would more readily induce Amber to leave the cottage.  Convinced by her of the propriety of the proposal, Amber was put into the carriage without resistance, and conveyed to the Hall, where everything that kindness and sympathy could suggest was resorted to, to assuage her grief.  There we must leave her, and repair to the metropolis.

“Scratton,” said Mr John Forster to his clerk, who had answered the bell, “recollect I cannot see anyone today.”