Rarely does the sun shine upon a lovelier spot than the small, secluded town of Riverdale. Shut in between high hills, that served to screen it also from the bleak north winds, it seemed to embrace within its narrow limits every element of beauty; and though from its retired situation it afforded no business facilities, and therefore contained little wealth and no style, yet to those who sought the beautiful in Nature, or for whom solitude had charms, it was a little paradise.

And so thought Mabel Dacre, as she sat with her hands clasped over a book that lay half-open in her lap, and her eyes gazing earnestly and with rapt attention on the distant landscape. It was sunset, and far off in the clear horizon floated the golden clouds curtaining the day-god’s couch. A crimson light, softened by that exquisite misty veil in which Nature is so fond of adorning herself, rested like a glory upon the tops of the hills, and threw into deep shadow the quiet valley at their feet; while upon the river which wound slowly along, reluctant as it would seem to leave a place so lovely, a few bright gleams yet lingered. “How beautiful,” murmured Mabel to herself, as her delighted gaze took in at once the scene that we have vainly attempted to describe; “how can any one think the world so dark and dreary?”

“I will tell you, my Mabel,” said a low voice at her side, as blushing, yet smiling, Mabel turned and met the fond gaze of Walter Lee, who had advanced unperceived, so absorbed had she previously been. Now, however, she willingly lent an ear to her lover’s voice. “I will tell you; it is because so few are in unison with the loveliness, the repose, the purity of Nature, that they find in her no beauty; the vain toils of ambition, the grasping pursuit of wealth, the wearying chase for pleasure, unfit men for loving that which is simple, pure and universal. You, dearest, are a true child of Nature, and you feel almost a child’s love for a mother, toward the beauty around you.

“My sweet one,” he continued, as with delighted eyes he gazed upon the lovely face uplifted to him in all the unconsciousness and confiding love of childhood, “my beautiful Mabel, will you laugh at my fancies if I say that I find in Nature the original of even all your charms: from the violet you stole the deep-blue of those dear eyes, and from whence learned your hair its graceful waving, save from the tendrils of the vine; so confess now, fair pilferer, ere I bring forward other charges.” And with these words he took the book from her hands; it was a volume of Spenser’s Faery Queen. Mabel laughingly reproached him for stealing so quietly upon her.

“But where have you been, Walter, this long, long day; I was so lonely, I had no one to read to me, so I soon tired of my needle-work, and in very weariness I wandered off to see the sun set.”

“Have you, indeed, missed me, Mabel, darling; bless you for those words; to me, too, it was a weary day, in the close, dark city, but duty called me there, and I have brought letters to the rector from London.”

“Letters to my father! and from London,” exclaimed the surprised girl; “who can he have in the great city to write to him; I have often heard him say he knew no one in London. But hark! I hear the sunset-bell, and my father will be waiting for me for our evening service.” And so saying, with one last look at the distant landscape, Mabel put her arm fondly in Walter’s, and with step as light and graceful as the mountain deer’s, turned toward the little, low-roofed cottage of the Rector of Riverdale. “Will you not come in, Walter,” said Mabel, in soft, persuasive accents.

“Not to-night,” he replied; “I have been away all day, and there are numerous duties for me to fulfill ere to-morrow’s round commences. Good-night, sweet love,” he fondly murmured, as Mabel entered the house.

She advanced hurriedly to the rector’s study, where she found him seated in his accustomed arm-chair by the window, but she was struck at once with the look of anxiety and sorrow so unusual to his placid and venerable face; an open letter lay in his lap, but his eyes were closed, and his lips moved as if in prayer.

“Father, dearest father, what has happened; why do you look so sad,” exclaimed Mabel, as she knelt at his side.

“Is it you, my child,” said the old man, softly stroking her silken hair—then a sigh so deep escaped him that Mabel was still more terrified. “Be calm, my love, my little lamb,” he murmured gently, and with accents choked and broken, “listen calmly, and I will tell you all. You know, Mabel dear, that I am not your own father, but you know not, nor did I, until to-day, that your own father is living; that he is a nobleman of high rank, and having been under our new sovereign, King James, restored to his estates, he now claims his daughter, and desires me to accompany you at once to London, or at least to York, where he will meet you.”

Mabel’s cheek grew paler and paler, as she took in the full meaning of these to her painful words; her strength forsook her, and she sunk upon the floor at his feet—

“My father, my own true, loving father, I cannot leave you, and Walter, oh! where can I hide from this cold, stern man, who has left me so long without a word, and now expects me to break, in a moment, the ties that constant intercourse for fifteen years have formed; no, I will not obey this proud dictate. Say I shall not go, dear, dear father,” said the weeping girl, throwing herself on his neck.

“Hush! hush! my daughter; remember who controls our destinies; think who it is that orders all the events of life. He has said, ‘Children, obey your parents,’ ‘Honor thy father and thy mother,’ and shall I, one of his ministers, counsel you to disobey him? No, my precious child, dear as you are to my heart; though the light of this world will have gone out for me when I no longer see my Mabel’s face, or hear her soft, sweet tones, yet I would have you go at once, my child; and go determined; so far as you can under God, to please your father—render to him the obedience that is due from a child to a parent. In one thing, however, you will be tried, your father is a Roman Catholic; in your religious faith be firm and steadfast; let no persuasions induce you to give up the simple faith of our Protestant church; be strong, be prudent, and be gentle in all your intercourse with him, and perhaps the daughter may yet lead her father back to the pure faith of his ancestors, though,” murmured he to himself, “a king’s favor is a tempting bait.”

“But Walter,” tremblingly uttered the weeping girl, who had hardly understood the rector’s words, so filled was her heart with that dear image. “Walter! must I leave him—I was so soon to be all his; can I not write and tell my father so, and then perhaps—he might—I am sure if he only knew Walter”—she blushed and hesitated, and then stopped, waiting in tearful suspense to hear what would be said by him whose word for fifteen years had been her law.

“Mabel, my darling child, it may not be; you must not even dream of such a step. Think you the noble Earl of Arlington would suffer his daughter to wed a poor curate? No, my precious child, you must give up Walter—forget him—think only of your duty to your father, or rather, your duty to your God.”

He said no more, for Mabel, upon whose loving heart these words fell like the sentence of death, sunk fainting upon the floor. No words escaped from those pale lips, and not even a sigh relieved the bursting heart.

“Poor stricken lamb!” said the kind old man, as he gently raised the lifeless form, “had I but known thy future destiny this suffering at least thou shouldst have been spared—little did I dream when, fifteen years ago, thou wert brought, a little child beautiful as the angels, to my lonely home, that thou wast one day to tread the halls of royalty.” He laid her gently on the couch, and hastily summoning what help he could command, watched fondly and anxiously the return of consciousness.

And now let us review briefly the circumstances that have so strangely formed the lot of our young heroine.

About eighteen years previous to the time at which our story commences, Robert, Earl of Arlington, had married a young and beautiful girl, whom, though of rather humble origin, he loved as passionately as a nature selfish as his could love; she was frail and delicate, and died soon after the birth of her first child, a daughter, to whom the sorrowing husband gave her name—Mabel. His disappointment at not having a son embittered his feelings for the poor, motherless babe, and two years after having, in consequence of his being concerned in a rebellion against the reigning monarch, been compelled to leave his country and to endure the confiscation of his estates; he determined to place his child in the keeping of some one whom he could trust, and who would educate her carefully; thinking that should he ever regain his rank, she could easily acquire all the necessary accomplishments. He at once recalled the Rector of Riverdale, of whose learning and virtue he had often heard his young wife speak in terms of eloquent praise, as the very person to whom with the most perfect confidence he could entrust his child. Descended from high and even noble ancestors, and educated at Oxford, the rector was eminently fitted for the development and guidance of his daughter’s mind; while for her physical education, the charming and healthy situation of Riverdale afforded every facility. Hastily making his preparations, therefore, and under cover of an assumed name, he sent his child to the old man, with a letter stating only that, being obliged to fly from England, he wished her to be brought up in ignorance of his name or station; and he made at the same time ample provision for her wants as far as money could supply them.

Years passed, and no tidings came of the unknown father; and gradually the conviction forced itself upon the rector’s mind that he must be dead; an opinion which fifteen years of utter silence had tended to confirm, and the kind old man had learned to love the gentle Mabel as his own child; all others considered her as his niece, for as such he was to represent her, and she was accordingly called Mabel Dacre. But after the death of Charles, through the influence of some friends, the long banished man was recalled, and on his return having publicly renounced his allegiance to the Established Church and embraced Romanism, his estates and titles were restored to him, and he was high in favor with the new monarch James II., whose strong partiality for papists was well known. He had obtained occasionally some information respecting his child, and had even made a secret visit to the town, since his return, to satisfy his proud heart as to his daughter’s fitness to share in his recovered greatness—but even his haughty spirit was charmed with the exquisite beauty and grace of Mabel, as she, so unconscious that her father even lived, paused before him. He immediately made arrangements to receive her, and then dispatched the letter which had thrown the little household at Riverdale into such sorrow and dismay.

——