Amy had been often taken by her father—full of surprise, full of grief, full of wishes that he could do anything for her; but he was poor, often in difficulties, and generally imprudent. If the bereavement had happened in England, Amy might have been asked to share his scrambling life, and divide his crust with him, but the distance was an insuperable bar, and he could only express regretful pleasure that others were so much more able than himself help her. She had not written to Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Loder of the Palladium had told him of the sad catastrophe, and though the artist hated writing, he could not help expressing his feelings and his sympathy with his dear friend Staunton's orphan. To the Derricks Amy had made no communication; there was a short postscript to her aunt's letter, which Amy had kept back, saying that perhaps it was as well she had not applied to them, as she had no claim on the old gentleman whatever, and it was likely that her brother and sister did not know of her existence.
Mr. Hammond, therefore, was doomed to disappointment; here had been no offer from England to give Amy a home. She was sill to remain within five miles of them, a thorn in his wife's side, and a mortification to himself. Mrs. Hammond was sorry, and she said so, but yet
