after she had written to her. She recollected that her father was Mrs. Evans's only brother, and that it was with her mother that there was the quarrel, if any; that she had seemed grieved at parting from her father, and had cried a good deal; but this letter, so cold and pharisaical, was a disappointment to her. Allan, who had brought it, had looked earnestly at her while she read. He feared some evil, and held his breath.
"Read it, Allan," said she, when she had come to the end of it, "and give your mother Mrs. Evans's message." All that she had lost came up before her. The old wound of the death of the best loved one was ripped up afresh, after months, by this cold letter of condolence; the half-hopes she had formed that she might be taken back to English civilization, to the society of those who were allied to her in blood, and probably also of congenial tastes and manners, were rudely snapped; there was really no life for her but this; she must bend her nature to it, and be very grateful, as Mrs. Evans said.
"Amy," said Allan, indignantly, "if she is such a woman, how thankful you should be that you are here! Don't distress yourself about such empty rubbish, such contemptible hypocritical twaddle as this. Will you let me read it to my mother? She will not appreciate the message
