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.