Let us now transport ourselves to a large and luxurious apartment in one of England’s stateliest mansions. It was dusk, but there was no light in the room save the flickering and uncertain glare of a cheerful wood-fire, in front of which was seated a man in the prime of life, yet with deep lines of care engraven on his high brow, and traces of some bitter sorrow round his thin, compressed lips; but those lips were parted now with a smile of deep and fond affection, and his eyes were fixed earnestly upon a sweet, loving face upturned to his; it was the face of an exquisitely beautiful girl, who sat on a low stool beside him—she had apparently been reading, for a large volume lay in her lap, but now they were silent for a long time—his hand rested on her silken hair, and he seemed absorbed in thought; at last she whispered, “Dear father.” A tear started to those eyes so unused to weep—

“And do you, indeed, love me, my sweet, forgiving Mabel. Can you so easily forget, in a few months of kindness, the cruelty, sternness and injustice of years? But, in truth, my child, I have been bitterly punished; in all those long, long years I have never known happiness. In the dark night a pale, sad, weeping form would come and stand beside my bed, and stretch out its thin, shadowy arms so imploringly. I fled from society—I shut myself up in my own apartments; I called to mind my past life, and I shuddered at the review; I could not bear the presence even of my gay and haughty wife, and for months I never spoke one word to her. I was wicked—proud—angry with the world. At last I partly overcame my hatred and bitterness. I hoped on in spite of every thing that I should yet see my Mabel and ask her forgiveness. When Lady Arlington died I shut myself up once more, and I humbly hope meditation and sorrow had made me a better man, even before I had your sweet example and precious words to be my daily support.

“Oh, my child, my only comfort, you can never know half the blessedness, the peace your presence brings me; truly I can say, ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’”

There was no reply save Mabel’s silent tears and the fond pressure of her hand.

It was the announcement of Lady Arlington’s death; which Mabel had seen in the English papers, accompanied by rumors of her father’s entire seclusion, that first induced her to return to her forsaken home. Then, too, she thought it would be better for her to avoid Walter and Evelyn, which she could not do, while any where within their reach, without awakening some suspicion in the latter’s mind. A thousand times since her return had she thanked God who had guided her through so many trials to the very place where she was most needed; yes, in her devoted heart there was no murmuring, though all that life could give she had renounced in resigning Walter’s love; even for that she thanked God, since it had been the means of leading her to be the comfort and the solace of her father’s lonely home; and Mabel saw, with a joy too deep for utterance, that her example, her words, and her constant influence were bringing her father back to the pure faith she had so nobly illustrated in her life. This was reward enough—quietly and peacefully their life glided along. Her father’s wealth was in Mabel’s hands an instrument of good to hundreds—she established schools, visited the poor and the sick, and was idolised by all the tenantry. She had told her father her whole history, and they often now talked together about Walter and Mr. Dacre. Lord Arlington confessed, with burning shame and sorrow, his having written that letter to prevent Mr. Dacre’s coming to London, and to destroy all friendship between them; and then he would look at Mabel so humbly, and ask her if she could forgive him, could love him after all the misery he had caused her.

“Do not think of those things now, dearest father; you know I love you, and you make me so happy now, that I can almost forget the past.”

Two years have passed since Mabel’s return. It is a bright June day, and in a little cottage, covered almost by the clustering vines that peeped in at every window, a young, fair creature, with a heart as guileless as a child’s, was lying on a bed of death.

In that sweet, infantine expression, in those soft, blue eyes and the cherub mouth, we recognize at once Evelyn Wentworth; but ah! how changed; those eyes were now sunken and dimmed; the cheeks, once so roseate, were deadly pale, and the blue veins could be distinctly traced through the transparent skin. Beside her sat Walter Lee, still young and handsome, though the struggle of life had cast a shade over his brow, and taken something from the calm, serene expression naturally his.

A little girl lay in a cradle by the bedside, whose golden curls fell over shoulders white and round as a classic model; her face, though glowing with health, was strangely like her mother’s; the fairy’s name was Mabel.

“My own beloved,” murmured those pale lips, and Walter bent to catch the lightest sound. “You have been faithful and true to me, and since first we met, never have you caused me a pang. I bless you for all the wealth of love with which you have filled my heart; I bless you for the smiles of fond affection with which you ever greeted me, and oh! for countless words and tones that my soul has cherished in its deepest shrines; but ah! my William, I know full well I have never been to you, I never could be to you, all that your soul required; I am too weak and childish and ignorant, to be your comfort and strength and help; do not chide me for these words, dearest, there is no bitterness in the thought; you are too noble, exalted and talented for such a companion, and I can only thank and bless you for making my short life so happy, and pray that God would reward you with a bliss greater than your longing heart has ever known.

“And now, my precious husband, hear my last request; our child, our little darling will need a mother’s care; and there is only one in all the world, to whom, without anxiety or fear, I can resign her; it is Mabel Dacre. Go to her at once, after my death, and tell her with my last breath I begged her to be a mother to my child; you will love her, William, she is far more worthy of you than I am; she is the only being I have ever seen who could, I think, fully appreciate the depths of your noble nature; she will love our little daughter if only for her mother’s sake; and oh! William, she will teach her better than I can her duty to God.

“Promise me you will do as I ask of you, my precious husband, and I shall have no fears in my last hours that my child will pine as I did for a mother’s love.”

With tearful earnestness the self-reproached man gave the required promise, and bending over her kissed the pale face, over which a smile of such angelic peace and love was hovering.

In a few more days the sods were laid over that loving heart, and Walter Lee was once more desolate; but in the darkness glimmered a ray of hope, that Mabel might still be free; could it be that her warm affections had been hoarded up for him, that she whom to see was to love, had in all this time found no one to displace his image in her soul; was there on earth such happiness. He knew that Mabel was with her father, for she had written to Evelyn after her arrival; so, two years after his wife’s death, with his little daughter, whose childish beauty attracted all beholders, Walter sailed for England, his early home.

Let us glance over the events of a few months, and take a peep into that large, old-fashioned room, where we left Lord Arlington and his daughter. It is evening now, and seated before the same glowing fire two figures are revealed by the flickering light; their hands are clasped, and a look of unutterable happiness dwells in their quiet faces; the eyes of one are gazing with a tenderness, a depth of love almost holy, upon the sweet countenance of the other.

At a little distance, in a large arm-chair, sits Lord Arlington, his face beaming with happiness as he looks upon them; while nestling in his lap, her little white arms around him, lies a lovely child, his own adopted daughter—his second Mabel.

THE LUCKY PENNY.

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BY MRS. S. C. HALL.

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(Continued from page 315.)