Mabel, Vol. II (of 3)

Oh, give me comfort, if you can!

Oh, tell me where to fly!

Oh, tell me if there can be hope,

For one so lost as I!

Southey.

* * *

The grey dawn was slowly and faintly breaking, with the calm, dull light of a winter's morning. The stormy wind had sunk to rest, the fire, no longer fanned by its heavy gusts, had nearly abated, and what more was required to extinguish it, was afforded by the arrival of the fire engine, which had been forwarded with the usual promptitude, though from the distance it had to travel, it arrived too late to be of any effectual service.

Mrs. Lesly's house had been the last to take fire, and was not so completely destroyed, as the smaller cottages in the more thickly populated parts of the village. Mr. Ware was rejoiced to see that the church remained uninjured-his own house, too, had escaped, and no fears were entertained for the Manor. Yet, in many parts, the fire still smouldered, though its fury was spent, and gave a light to the landscape, which rivalled that of the wintry dawn.

There was a small and pleasant nook by the road side, where on summer evenings, children would assemble to play. Here a group had collected, composed of men and women, surrounding the prostrate form of the unhappy bailiff. Mr. Ware was supporting his head, with that pity for the wretched and suffering which his sacred character made as necessary as his natural feelings rendered it pleasant. Satisfied, as he believed, of the safety of Mrs. Lesly and her children, he had not been tempted from the side of the man, whose remorse called for all that attention which he only could give, and who, if he moved, piteously entreated him not to leave him. Well indeed might he beg him to remain, for in the various groups which surrounded him, he could not discover a single friend. Subject to his tyranny during his day of power, each among them might have stood forward to convict him of some harsh unkindness, if not of actual cruelty and oppression. Amongst others was Martin, his shaggy eyebrows bent in triumph on the man who, unable to display his usual bearing of conscious authority, lay weak and powerless before him.

The stranger was seen advancing slowly across the green, with his hat slouched over his face, and his arms crossed upon his chest. All slightly moved to make room for him, and allowed him to stand without being too closely pressed-but, whether from a sense of his personal bravery in their service, or from an unconscious respect to his commanding manner-few stopped to enquire. On his pale countenance were marks of agitation-he looked indeed almost faint-and Mr. Ware, fearing he might have sustained some injury in his many daring exploits, offered him some of the brandy, which he had been giving to the most weary. He eagerly accepted the offer, and then, seeing that the group had become silent since he joined it, he turned to Mr. Ware.

"As a minister of holy peace, sir," he said, "let me suggest to you, that some means be taken to find out by whom this foul deed has been committed, for the intention may well meet with as much condemnation as if it had succeeded."

"A foul deed most assuredly," said Mr. Ware, rising from his stooping posture-"a foul deed most truly has been attempted this night, and it ought indeed to humble us," he added, as a tear glistened in his eye, "to think that there is one among us, brethren, capable of doing so terrible a thing as to endeavour to put a man to death, even though he were his worst enemy, much less to conceive so horrible a means, even while ruin was on our own hearth sides, and the hand of Providence raised to punish. Oh, I am grieved beyond words to tell, not so much that ye are poor, but that poverty has brought sin among you, as I know it has done. Have you not had warning enough to-night?"

A groan escaped from the stranger, and all turned round, but his eyes were fixed on the ground.

"Now, my children," continued Mr. Ware, "let us cast off from ourselves this great sin, and tell all we know of it; and if he who has done it be amongst us, let him stand forward and suffer his punishment, as the only expiation he can offer."

"Not so," said the bailiff, raising himself with difficulty, and supporting himself on his arm, while he glanced timidly upon those who were about him; but carefully avoiding the stranger, whose dark eyes, from beneath his slouched hat, were bent upon him.

"And why," asked the latter, eagerly, "would you arrest the hand of justice?"

"Sir," said the bailiff, solemnly, "let the punishment rest upon him that deserves it. I am he. If it be wrong to think to take away my life-if it be sin to compass the death of any man-it is also sin to tempt a man to do it. Many have been the galling words I have spoken, and the wicked, taunting things I have done. But, oh, my fellow men, forgive me now, as you hope to be forgiven. This terrible night has brought my sins to remembrance, and, if I live I am a changed man-but if I die-"

Here a tremor seized his whole frame.

"Then you will not tell us?" said the stranger, enquiringly.

"No, sir," said Rogers, meeting his eye for the first time. "You have saved my life-but even for that I cannot do as you say; and before the light of the sky above us, I swear that his name shall never pass my lips."

"I did not know there was as much good as that in him," muttered Martin.

"I cannot help approving such sentiments," said the stranger; "for they shew a forgiving spirit, under hard circumstances, and it may be the beginning of better things which is strongly called for-since it is unlikely, that your master would overlook your neglect of the trust he so implicitly confided in you. (Rogers groaned.) Nothing can defend you, but a hearty and sincere repentance; but I do say," said the soldier, as his eye kindled, "that it is a good beginning; and, sir, I, for one, am willing to withdraw any further investigation of this mysterious affair, since he who has suffered most, will not come forward with his evidence."

"The crime lies heavily on my heart," replied Mr. Ware; "but I am little inclined to enter on such a business, though I know it is only right that the criminal should be punished. If, however, he would come forward and plead guilty to this outrage, it would remove the suspicion which now rests on us all."

"No, no, sir," cried the bailiff; "let him keep his own counsel, for by confessing, he makes you all partners in his crime, if you do not punish him. Let it be between him and me, and let him take my life, if I ever deserve again to lose it at his hands."

"It may be possible," said the stranger; "that your master will accept your repentance, the first fruits of which we all witness. Is there any amongst us," said he, looking round, "who is so unforgiving, as to think Colonel Hargrave wrong, should he give this poor man, an opportunity of redeeming his moral character in the situation in which he has lost it. I, for one, should it be necessary, would say that he was right."

A murmur of approval ran round the group, though many, at the same time doubted if they would be consulted on the subject.

A light of renewed strength, and hope, shot over the bailiff's dejected face; but when he tried to speak, the revulsion of feeling was too much for him, and he burst into tears.

"Take him home," said the stranger, and as several men hastened to execute his order, he turned away, and walked slowly down the village. As he did so, he was attracted by the observations of several women who were standing talking together.

"Poor young thing," said one; "so soon cut off. Well, the rich oftentimes go before the poor. 'Tis a sad night, indeed," said another; "I thought she would not bear it."

This was said with that tone of real sympathy in illness or death, which the poor feel so readily and sincerely.

"What has happened?" he enquired, stopping and addressing the last speaker.

"Well may you ask," replied she; "for it is a sweet flower that has been cut down to-night. I was just coming down from the Manor house, where I went to see the children, and as I came back through the avenue, what should I see, but a light in old Molly's cottage. Now I knew she had been up at the Manor time enough for her fire to have gone out; and, says I, to myself, I'll just step in and see-so, up to the house I went, and what should I see sitting on the door steps, but an old man a crying like any thing. 'What's the matter?' says I; he didn't look up, but he said, sobbing like:

"'It's all over.'

"'What's over?' says I.

"'She's gone to rest,' says he.

"'Who d'ye mean?' says I.

"'Miss Amy,' says he, and then-but, bless my heart!"

The stranger had sprung from them, and hurried forwards.

"I believe he's a spirit," said the terrified speaker.

"Nau, Nau," said an old woman, "he's flesh and blood, for I touched 'en."

They had not much time, however, for further remark, for they were summoned by their husbands to leave gossipping, and come and assist them in doing all they could towards their comfort. Already Mrs. Hawkins, housekeeper at the manor, had been busy in allotting to them the rooms over the stables, formerly occupied by the grooms and stable boys, and which were still neat and clean, and well aired, in the constant expectation of the Colonel's return, for the faithful servant was resolved, that, whenever her freakish master appeared, he should find her prepared for him. The accommodation thus afforded, was, however small, compared to the number of families, and, after dividing the whole of the servants' offices between them, she was obliged to quarter many in the better parts of the house; she was, therefore, not a little relieved, when she found that most of the farm houses in the neighbourhood had followed the good example set them, and freely opened their doors to the houseless.

The stranger might shortly afterwards be seen coming from the lodge, and hastening towards Mr. Ware, who was superintending the removal of Rogers to the rectory, where he hoped that during the hours of returning health, he might acquire an influence, which might turn his present feelings to good account.

"Sir," said he, as he joined him, "may I beg you to go to poor Miss Lesly."

"What has happened to her?" said Mr. Ware, anxiously.

"The child is dead," replied the stranger.

"Dead!" exclaimed Mr. Ware, in surprise, "I heard she was safe, poor child. How I wish I had seen her."

He did not speak again till they reached the lodge, and then leaving his companion without, he entered the chamber of death. There lay his little favorite on her couch, which had been arranged with studious care. By her side knelt Mabel, her head buried in her hands, her hair loose and disordered, and looking almost as lifeless as the child she mourned.

Miss Ware was in the room, and hurried to meet her brother with an affectionate kiss, for she had not seen him for some hours.

"I am glad you are come, Edmund," said she, "for I can do nothing for the poor girl-she will not even speak to me."

"Do not even try to comfort her," said her brother, taking her hand, kindly; "we who are grateful for each other's safety can well enter into her feelings. Send away these good friends, and keep only one with you, and then stay with her a little while; but do not rouse her yet-I will come again and see her."

His sister, always prompt in following his advice, choosing one steady woman to be with her, dismissed the rest (who had crowded in with the hope of being of service) with thanks for their attention.

Mr. Ware then joined the stranger, and walked on towards the rectory; he said:-

"I can do nothing for her yet-but my sister is with her. It is too soon to offer comfort-for it seems like mockery in the first moments of anguish. You seem to take an interest in our favorite."

"It is impossible to be insensible to such heartrending scenes," he returned, laconically, as if to check further remark.

"We are much indebted, sir, for your exertions last night," said Mr. Ware, at length.

"Pray mention nothing of that," he said, evasively.

"But how can I help it-is it in the nature of man to receive favors with a thankless heart?"

"It is."

"Yes, but not, I trust, so soon after they have been conferred. I own that benefits are often, much too often forgotten-but you wrong us, if you believe we could so return a favor bestowed by a stranger. You shall receive my thanks, at least; and do not think my simple-hearted friends less accustomed to feel because they often express their feelings with difficulty. No, let me assure you, that as long as the tale of this night shall be told by the cottage hearth, so long will your name be spoken of with praise."

"Sir," he replied, "I have been soured by the world, or I should not have expressed a doubt, which, believe me, I am very far from feeling. I know, as you say, that my poor services will be handed down as part of this night's sad tale; and of yourself, sir," he slightly raised his hat, "I have seen enough to convince me, that you deserve my respect, even had I not seen it reflected from those whose hearts are difficult to win; and let me assure you, that I am more gratified than you would easily believe, for the good opinion you so kindly express, though I feel myself utterly unworthy of it. It were hard for me to doubt the existence of gratitude, when the smallest benefits, and even the kindly words of-

'Auld lang syne'

are treasured up in my mind. No; past benefits are like stars which we leave behind in our onward path, but which may light it still. But," added he, relaxing into his desponding tone, "how very few have we to remember-how scantily are those kindnesses shewn which keep the heart warm towards its fellow creatures."

"Pardon me," replied Mr. Ware, "carry back your thoughts perhaps to a mother's tender care, and her love which can find an excuse for every fault-the more thoughtful pride of a father, and the thousand little kindnesses and confidences by which sisters and brothers bind themselves to each other by links which the world finds it difficult to break.

"Remember our school days and school-fellows, friends at college, and why not friends in after life. Oh, the heart must be bereaved indeed that has nothing to excite its gratitude-and, excuse me, the heart is kept warm towards the world more by its power of blessing others, than of being blessed itself-and that is in the power of all, even if it be but the gift of a kindly word and a sympathizing look. I am surprised that one so skilled in giving assistance to others should speak as you do; but it seems, if I may venture to say so, as if the world had dealt hardly with you."

"And you," said the stranger, "speak as one who has been so fortunate as both to have given and received blessings."

"You speak truly, at least so far, that I have been much blessed through a life which I may call a long one-let me hope that you may be equally so."

"What I may be," he replied, moodily, "none can say-but what the past has been, I know too well. Yet why I intrude my confidence upon you, I can scarcely tell, except that your kindness encourages it. Yet, when I am far from here, I shall remember your courtesy with pleasure, and would plead that I may not be altogether forgotten."

"You need not ask me that," said Mr. Ware; "but you are not going to-day, and must come and dine with me."

"I must deny myself that pleasure," he returned; "for I have sent my horse to the little inn at Fowly, and ordered my dinner-and besides, you will have another guest."

"Then I must wish you good day for the present," said Mr. Ware, as they parted, he to see after the comforts of the sick bailiff, while the stranger crossed the fields to the Aston woods, and buried himself in its wild paths for the rest of the day.

* * *

Life is before ye-from the fated road

Ye cannot turn; then take ye up your load,

Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way,

Ye must go o'er it, meet ye what ye may;

Gird up your souls within ye to the deed,

Angels and fellow spirits bid ye speed,

What tho' the brightness dim, the pleasure fade,

The glory wane-oh! not of these is made

The awful life that to your trust is given.

F. Butler.

* * *

Towards evening Mr. Ware repaired to the lodge. When he entered the small room he found his sister sitting near the window, while Mabel was still upon her knees by the bed-side.

"I cannot rouse her in the least," said Miss Ware, anxiously, as she met his eye, "this is a wretched place for her to stay in, and it will only do her harm."

Mr. Ware approached her, and repeating her name gently, waited for an answer, but receiving none, he laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, with attempted firmness-

"My child, your mother asks for you."

A heaving of the chest and a deep drawn sigh shewed that he was heard.

"Shall she ask in vain," he continued, "will you refuse to go to her, dear Mabel-will you not go and weep with her?"

Mabel raised her head, but her first effort caused her eyes to fall upon the bed, and she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

The brother and sister, both deeply moved, looked at each other in silence.

Again Mabel raised her head, and seemingly relieved, stretched her hand towards Mr. Ware, who took it, and kindly pressed it in both his own.

"Bear with me a little while," she murmured, with quivering lips, "and I will go with you-yes, I am ready now," she said, slowly rising, then stopping to look round upon the desolate chamber, she exclaimed-

"But how can I leave her here?"

"Leave her to my care," said Miss Ware, "and she shall be properly removed to the Manor."

Mabel seized her hand, but then, as if afraid of trusting herself, she tore herself away, and hurried out. Once in the open air she accepted Mr. Ware's proffered arm, and allowed him to guide her where he pleased. She neither spoke nor looked around her, nor did he seek to excite her to any further effort, he was contented in the idea that he was taking her where she would not long remain inert; so he only drew the cloak, he had thrown round her, closer over her head, to shield her from the cold air, and led her quietly to the Manor.

It no longer wore the air of solemn silence, which was its wont; the sound of many confused voices woke the echoes in the court-yard, and men and women lounged freely about the usually strictly kept premises.

The hall door was opened as they approached, by Mrs. Hawkins, who had seen them from one of the windows-the good woman looked considerably hurried from superintending the different parts of the well-filled mansion, and in doing her utmost to preserve the carpets, hangings, and statues from the touch of the children, and the over curious.

Mabel paused as she entered the hall, and looked anxiously round her. This was the only show part of the house, but it amply repaid the visit of the stranger. Around the walls statues of great beauty and immense value were placed in niches-above was a gallery in which paintings of the choicest kind were arranged with much taste. This reached by two marble staircases at each end. The hall was of the height of the house itself, and was thoroughly lighted by windows, and a sky light, so that the pictures were seen to the greatest advantage. Beneath it opened on passages leading to different sitting-rooms, while the picture-gallery above led to the bedrooms. All these being fitted up in a style which included every luxury which the most lavish wealth could purchase, yet so completely in keeping that the whole appeared a thoroughly comfortable English home, after all.

For a few moments Mabel remained looking round her in bewildered silence. Mr. Ware watched her attentively, but her open countenance did not, as usual, tell him the train of thought which oppressed her. He took her hand, saying kindly-

"Mrs. Hawkins is waiting to take you to your mother."

"I am ready," said Mabel, drawing a long breath, as she turned and followed her to the room which had been given to Mrs. Lesly, and where already every comfort, which the good housekeeper could devise, surrounded her.

Satisfied now that the mother and daughter were together, Mr. Ware left the mansion with many sad reflections.

The next day was Sunday, and strangely came that time of rest after the two last days of confusion and terror. The morning was cold, clear, and frosty, and as glad a sun as ever cheers a wintry landscape, shone down upon the smouldering ruins of the village. As the time for morning service approached, a merry peal from the bells of the village church welcomed sunshine to the earth, and peace and safety to the hearts of men.

As Mr. Ware slowly ascended the steep path leading to the church, he was followed by many groups of old and young, who, at his bidding, hastened to testify their thankfulness for the sparing of their lives. One young life had alone been cut down, and none passed Mrs. Lesly's cottage, without thinking sadly of Amy. When the whole of the little congregation had assembled, crowding the church, for all were there, the stranger entered with a sad and serious countenance. Avoiding the seat belonging to the Manor, which the clerk readily opened for him, he entered the next pew, and kneeling gently, seemed anxious to avoid the many eyes which were turned admiringly upon him, who, for their sakes, had braved every danger with reckless confidence. The sermon was rendered impressive by its touching simplicity, and found an echo in every heart subdued by the late calamity. None listened more attentively than did their stranger benefactor; and when the service was concluded, he seemed still impressed with what he had heard, as, avoiding all companionship he walked again to the woods, which, by their peculiar beauty, always attracted the attention of the tourist. But when the bell again called to service, he returned, and entered the church, late, as before; possibly to avoid the many groups which had been loitering round it; and, when they again left the church, he lingered till he could join Mr. Ware in the porch, walking quietly out with him through his private gate; thus, avoiding those who were anxious to offer him their thanks.

"You understand, sir," he said, "how to touch the feelings."

"It is of little consequence, I fear, to excite the feelings," replied Mr. Ware; "for so many are contented to go no further."

"I believe you; yet our feelings are often the gateways to our reason."

"Yes, indeed; and therefore the power of appealing to them is not to be slighted. I was myself deeply impressed, to-day, when I saw the many anxious faces looking up to me as I spoke. Oh, I do believe this might be the beginning of better things in my parish, if-."

"If what," enquired the stranger; "are you, too, going to throw all the blame on the poor landlord."

"Willingly, most willingly would I throw not the blame, but all the praise of their well-being upon him, if he would but return and give us the blessing of feeling him to be amongst us."

"Yet you cannot help being angry with him."

"Perhaps not, but mine is more the pettishness of jealous affection, and I cannot bear to see him keeping away from those whose hearts he might make all his own-and wasting health, and time, and happiness, in the wayward course he has chosen.

"But, sir," added Mr. Ware, checking himself. "You will come to my house, to-day."

"I thank you, time presses with me; and here you see my horse is waiting. A fine fellow, is he not; how gallantly he bore that long ride the other night, and he looks none the worse for it now. Here, my good fellow," he said, dismissing the man who led him, and taking the rein upon his arm. "Will you not walk a little further with me," he continued to Mr. Ware.

"Certainly, though I confess myself thoroughly disappointed that you will not stay with me."

"Another time, dear sir, I will not fail to avail myself of the pleasure of your acquaintance; but I really have engagements I do not like to break. Do you think there is any hope of the poor bailiff?"

"I trust so."

"I know you will do every thing you can for him, mentally and bodily. If he would become a changed man, the comfort of your people might be better secured, than by the appointment of a fresh bailiff."

"Very possibly," replied Mr. Ware.

The deep shadows of the winter's evening were now rapidly closing round them, and the light streaks on the horizon growing fainter and fainter-yet, still they lingered as if their short acquaintance rendered them reluctant to part so soon.

"The night warns me that I must go," said the stranger, at length, as he mounted his horse, casting as he did so, a glance at the surrounding country; "though I would willingly stay-but the shadows always come between me and happiness."

"Not so," said Mr. Ware, earnestly.

"Is it not so," said the stranger, slightly bending towards him, and as he did so, raising his hat, together with the mass of red hair which disguised his countenance, now beaming upon him in its characteristic and noble beauty-to which the deep black of his hair added all that was wanting. Before, however, Mr. Ware had time to utter a word, a light stroke of the whip sent the horse forward, and as he dashed onwards, he cried; "Say nothing till we meet again." In a few seconds he had turned the corner, and as Mr. Ware stood entirely bewildered with the revelation which had burst so suddenly upon him-he heard nothing but the echo of his horse's hoofs-as its utmost speed carried him further away-till the last sound died upon the night air.

* * *

Oh, there are griefs for nature too intense,

Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul;

Nor hath the fragile, and o'er labour'd sense,

Strength e'en to feel at once their dread controul.

But when 'tis past, that still and speechless hour

Of the sealed bosom, and the tearless eye,

Then the roused mind awakes with tenfold power,

To grasp the feelings of its agony.

Hemans.

* * *

The heavy sound of the funeral bell may, in crowded cities, lose half its influence by falling upon ears which use has attuned to its sound; but in a small and remote village death comes at long intervals, and reads a more solemn lesson, lest he may be altogether forgotten. How strange and oppressive is the sound of the minute bell-the pause-the silence-and then the low booming sound which strikes to the heart of the most careless, as if it would urge us while the king of terrors is before us, and weighing oppressively on our hearts-to wake from the lethargy of sin, and the fascinating dreams of worldly pleasure and ambition. The air feels heavy, though on the brightest summer day, and, though we may not waken to the things which death calls to our remembrance, we cannot sleep as firmly as before.

Such, perhaps, might have been the thoughts of the worthy Rector, as he remembered many unruly members of his church, and wished that the awful sound might waken them, to look with him beyond the dark tomb and funeral pall, when that solemn tolling spoke to them of the fair young child, who had departed from amongst them. As the simple procession neared the church, those employed in clearing away the ruins, leant upon their spades, and for awhile forgot their labour. Amy had been Mabel's favorite messenger of mercy to the sick and afflicted, and every little gift had come with more grace from the hands of the beautiful child; to many a fevered couch had she carried the ripe fruit, which she had begged from the old gardener; and many watched now with tearful eye as she passed to her long home. Mabel followed her with feelings of anguish, she in vain endeavoured to tranquillize, for her natural passions were as strong as the controul she so steadily placed over them. Captain Clair had obtained permission to attend, and those who did not fully understand the poor child's history wondered at the emotion he betrayed. It was a cheerless, dark day, when they laid her to rest in her narrow bed, amongst the graves, where, led by a gentle sister's hand, she had from infancy learned to think of

"A heaven of joy and love,"

and to know

"That holy children when they die,

Go to that land above."

The remembrance of those by-gone scenes-of the sunny days of Amy's childhood, and the earnest face with which she would listen when she talked, came fresh to Mabel's mind; but, when she remembered that they had not been passed so thoughtlessly as they might have been, she tried to chase away selfish thoughts, and to turn with calm submission from the past, which she had loved so well-to a hard and relentless future. Yet, when the last rites had been performed, when she had gone from the grave and again entered Aston Manor, a loneliness fell upon her heart with cold oppressiveness. It was, perhaps, some relief to her that she was surrounded by no familiar objects which could have recalled memory after memory of past days. The marble staircase, and the beautiful pictures which hung round the gallery, could form no memorial of their neat but old-fashioned cottage, where her father's retirement, and Amy's whole life, had been spent. The soft carpets and silk hangings could only recall, by contrast, those which neatness and economy alone had rendered respectable. With one glance at her black dress, which her mother was to see for the first time, she opened the door of the room which Mrs. Hawkins had chosen for them, and stole noiselessly in Mrs. Lesly slept, and her faithful maid sat by her, weeping silently. It was a relief to poor Mabel not to be obliged to speak, and she withdrew to a window-seat, where she might think without interruption. Her mother slept in a bed of crimson silk, which fell in graceful folds to the ground. The whole furniture of the room was costly; pictures, of sacred subjects, by the first masters, hung round the walls, and every comfort which luxury could suggest, or wealth purchase, betokened the riches and taste of the possessor of the mansion. She turned her eyes to the window, where a view presented itself fully in keeping with the interior of the building. The wide spreading oaks had been so arranged as to open on a vista, which admitted the copse covered hills, beyond; while, immediately below the windows, lay the gardens, which, like the house, gained what they lost in size, in rich and careful cultivation, and where now, evergreens, of all varieties, from all countries, gave a still life to the scene. The wind had again risen, and dark clouds chased each other over the lowering sky, such, as in our melancholy or fanciful moods, seem the hieroglyphics by which we may read our destiny. By how many fanciful links are we united to the invisible world. But it was beyond the cloudy screen, that hung so darkly over the earth, that Mabel's clear eye endeavoured to penetrate. With her hands clasped before her, she remained gazing upon the pure sky, which at intervals might be discovered as one cloud rolled by, though immediately followed by another, as if the image it brought to her mind cheered and upheld her. With childlike trust, she endeavoured to resign that which had endeared a life, which one sorrow had done much to darken; but the duty was a hard one. It was not easy to lose the occupation, the thought of the present, and the preparations and visions of the future; at once, to be forced, in stillness to think, when, before, active exertion had found an object, and every motive an end.

But, as she still gazed upon the scene around her, a cloud stole over her brow, and she looked uneasily at the dark woods, which skirted the landscape. She took a long review of the past, which, as it were, forced itself, in this terrible hour, upon her mind; the struggle which she recalled, had nearly cost her her life, and would have rendered life valueless, had it not been for the victory of principle over wayward and exorbitant passion, which, turning her thoughts inward, upon a sinful heart, and forward, to a future, still richly blessed, taught her that, even deprived of the blessing she had so fondly prized, she had yet sufficient to call forth her warmest gratitude. When first she had brought herself unflinchingly to sacrifice her love to her religion, she might have deemed that sacrifice of her heart's best affections one which might atone for much evil, and that, the victim of a broken heart, she would find a martyr's grave. But there was within her a better though a humbler seed-the germ of a higher and holier principle. It had slept in prosperity, and the bitter tears of sorrow were needed to call it into life. Under its influence, she learnt a truer idea of herself, and her own duties. She found that life, though spent in weariness and pain, is a boon of boundless blessing, since it is a working day, on whose wages our whole happiness depends. Six years had passed since Mabel and her lover had parted. She seemed, indeed, to those around her to be the same being-but in herself how changed in those few years. All that before was impulse or wayward goodness, now rose from the one pure motive-the hope of blessing instead of being blessed. She had, therefore, learnt to govern her temper-to give up her own selfish inclinations-and to counteract any morbid remembrance of the past. The habit of self control, thus earnestly acquired, she now found of avail in the hour of need, in a way scarcely to be comprehended by the habitual victims of weakness, or the slaves of the feelings of the hour. She rose and left the window, and taking a seat by her mother's side, partially screened herself from her notice, lest the first sight of her mourning dress might too evidently recall the day's sad duties. Yet she could not refrain from watching her as she slept, with that anxious solicitude which Mr. Ware had foreseen would not long be absent from her mind; for how soon she too would be removed, he feared to think. But to Mabel's ever hopeful mind had come a doubt of her danger, which gave a zeal to every effort to forward her recovery. Mrs. Lesly's removal to Aston Manor-the seat of her husband's near kinsman-served to soothe one of the few selfish feelings she possessed. There was something peculiarly agreeable to a proud and refined mind like her own, in the luxury with which she was surrounded, and, though she might have had some reluctance in taking advantage of it, could her health have allowed her removal, she quickly gave up the point, with her constitutional indolence, and readily acquiesced in an arrangement, which, in its general effect, soothed and gratified her. The poor and neglected widow would spend her last days in the mansion, where she felt honor to be her due, though she could scarcely tell why. Yet she might be forgiven the few failings to which she was subject, and which always did more injury to herself than others, to whom her kindness was ever most lavish. Since her confidence with Mabel, as to the lost papers, her mind had seemed at ease, and her daughter had skilfully prevented her recurring to the subject, or again suffering that uneasiness which had preyed so seriously on her mind before. Perhaps, with the vague remembrance that Mabel had suggested something, though in reality but the quick prompting of an affectionate heart, she had flattered herself that all was well-and Mabel rejoiced that it was so. To say that the latter was indifferent when she allowed herself to think, would have been untrue; but now, with Amy, had gone, all restless doubts of the future. A steady mind, a firm and trusting heart, and an humble, but courageous, self-reliance, were sufficient, she felt, for her own provision, though she would have trembled to have entrusted one so dear, and so helpless, to such support as the brave man, sometimes, when called on, to protect those he loves, has been seen to lose nerve through dangers which, had he met them alone, would scarcely have excited a thought of fear.

At length, Mrs. Lesly slowly opened her eyes, and gazed round her for a few moments, as if to bring back the reality, and to separate it from her dreaming fancy. Mabel shrunk slightly back; but her mother, as if divining her motive, herself drew aside the curtain, and taking her hand, said, gently-

"My sweet child, why should I fear to look upon these sad signs of your grief? I have little cause to regret that she has gone a few days before me. No, dear, I, who have seen so much of this cold world, could scarcely wish to leave my darling to its stinted kindness-so young-so helpless-and so unfriended."

"Ah," thought Mabel, as tears rushed to her eyes, "to have begged for her her daily bread, would have been joy to losing her."

"I see," continued Mrs. Lesly, "that you can, with difficulty, perceive why I speak so now; but, my Mabel, will remember, with gratitude, should she ever suffer the unkindness of the world, that her sister shares it not, and her noble heart will rejoice that she alone will have to bear the trials, from which a dying mother cannot protect her."

"Ah, Mamma, that word alone is dreadful; you must not-cannot leave me."

"My child knows that there is a must, which cannot be resisted-and I have mistaken my Mabel if she does not bow before this, with as much courage and submission, as before every other trial. Remember your dear father's words in his last illness-'Mabel, life is but a short campaign after all, and you must fight to the end; who would be so cowardly as to lay down his sword for a wound'?"

"I will remember, dearest mamma," said Mabel, more firmly, for the words of her father always had influence with her; "and, oh, forgive my selfishness."

Tears were in her mother's eyes, though her voice had been firm; and Mabel, fearing to continue the conversation, returned to the window, and looked out again upon the night, which was fast closing around; but scarcely did she now heed the flitting clouds, and the coming darkness, or the wind as it rocked the old trees, or their branches, which, by their fantastic motion, appeared beckoning her attention; they seemed, an hour ago, to echo back the light laugh, whose gay music she would hear no more; but now the hour of fancy was over, and oppressed by the real presence of grief, she bowed her head, and chastened her heart to silence.

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