About a quarter of a mile from the rectory, and close to the Church, was the pretty little residence which had attracted Clair's attention in his morning walk. It was an old fashioned little house, with gable front, and latticed windows, with ivy climbing over the walls, and jasmine and honeysuckle creeping in rich luxuriance over the old porch. In front, the grass-plot sloped down, with a wide gravel walk running round it, to the gate, which shut it in from the high road. At the back lay a spacious vegetable garden, irregularly laid out, and interrupted here and there by a rose-bush, or bed of beautiful carnations, as it suited the old gardener's taste—for he had lived in the family so many years, that no one dared dispute his will in the garden—it was conducted on his most approved style of good gardening; and old John would have defended that style against all the world. To have discharged him from her service would have been one of the last things his mistress would have thought of; therefore, the only alternative was to let him have his own way in every thing. One part of his system was to put every thing in the place best suited to its growth, without much regard to order, and the garden often presented a strange medley in consequence; the hottest corners were shared by early lettuces, and rich double stocks, and radish beds, and so on, throughout the garden; but there was something not unpleasing in the mixture, though it looked a little singular, and the general neatness was not to be found fault with—and the turf walks cutting the garden in many directions, were always smoothly cut and rolled.

The spot where old John was most certain to be found, was just in the middle of the garden, where he had enclosed a small piece of ground by a high and closely clipped yew hedge, to keep out the wind. In this small enclosure, were two or three hot-beds, with cucumbers, melons, or some very early radishes, or cress under glass frames. He had always something to do round these beds, the matting covers were to be put on or taken off, and the glasses opened a little more, and more, as the day advanced, and then, of course, to be closed again, by degrees, towards evening. If any one touched them but himself, he looked as if his whole crop must inevitably be spoilt; but the secret might have been, that, he had always some little surprise to bring out of them, such as a cucumber ten days earlier than could have been expected; or some mustard and cress, before any one else thought of planting any, which, of course, was not to be seen till quite ready for the table.

There was an appearance about the inside of the house, as well as of the garden, as if a great deal of money had been spent upon it formerly, for there were many solid and ornamental comforts in both, which might have been dispensed with if required.

The drawing-room, though small, was substantially and elegantly furnished, though old fashioned; every thing in the room too bore the evidence of refined habits, but nothing told of any present expenditure. Such as it had been ten years before, it very much remained now. The dining-room and usual sitting-room, had much of the same appearance though it did not give quite the same reflective, feeling—ladies' work, and a child's playthings, gave life and animation to it.

Colonel Lesly had lived here for many years since his retirement from the army, having lost a leg during the Peninsular war, where he had served as a brave officer, and only retired from the service when unable to be of further use to it. On his return to England, he, with his wife and child, settled in his native county—and fixed on this cottage for his residence. His wife was most sincerely attached to him, and her society with that of their daughter Mabel, made him scarcely regret, being obliged so soon to retire from a profession so well adapted to his tastes. He had been fond of reading, when a boy, and had not neglected the opportunities presented by his wandering abroad, to cultivate his taste for general information. One of his chief pleasures soon became that of teaching his little Mabel all he knew, and her intelligent questions often led him to take an interest in subjects he might otherwise have neglected.

Since their settling at Aston, Colonel and Mrs. Lesly had had several children, who had all died in infancy, still leaving Mabel as the only object of parental love; fondly did her father guard the young girl's mind, growing in intelligence, and beauty, whilst her speaking features lighted up with smiles whenever he came near. Proudly did he watch her as each year gave her something more soft, more touching, more womanly; and earnestly did he hope that life would be spared him to guide aright a mind of such firmness and power, joined to feelings so warm and eager, that it seemed to him a question which would have the ascendancy, heart or mind. But that wish was not to be granted, and Mabel's first real sorrow, was her father's death. He had gone on a short visit to London, upon some urgent business, and had there taken the typhus fever, which made its appearance soon after his return home, and, acting on an enfeebled constitution, carried him to his grave, after a short illness. A few days after his death, Mabel's youngest sister was born. It was, indeed, to a house of sorrow and mourning, that the little child came, for her mother's constitution never recovered the shock she had sustained in the loss of one, not only most dear, but on whom she had become almost wholly dependent.

It was then that Mabel felt the benefit of her father's lessons so firmly impressed on her mind, and resolved to act as she believed he would have led her to do, could he have been allowed the power of guiding her still. So severely did her mother feel the loss she had sustained, both in health and spirits, that she rather required support herself than felt able to afford it to those dependent on her; Mabel, therefore, soon felt the necessity of exerting herself, as all the family responsibilities seemed left entirely to her care.

As soon then as she could at all recover from the blow occasioned by her father's death, she applied herself to the management of their now reduced income, and busied herself in cutting off all the expenses which the Colonel's liberal habits had rendered almost necessary to his happiness, but which were now quite beyond their means.

In the course of her enquiries, she had no greater opponent than old John; he first insisted that he himself was quite indispensable to the arrangements of the family; and when he had gained that point, he was equally obstinate about the carriage and ponies. But Mabel had the advantage in that particular, at least; the old gardener was left in quiet possession—but the coach-house and stable were shut up—and after many a battle with their old friend, everything else that could be dispensed with, was cut off, till the expenditure was reduced to something within their income. John pined and fretted, but his young mistress had such a winning way, he could not keep his ill-humour long. He had declared, during one of his contests, that she never could be happy without the pretty pony which had carried her up and down the hills so often; but he was obliged to give up the point, when he saw the delight with which she carried her infant sister in her arms and danced her in the sunshine, with half a mother's hope and pride, as if she wanted nothing more to make her perfectly happy.

Sometimes, when the child grew older, she would take her to gather the yellow cress, or the cowslip, and watch her trembling steps with the most careful attention, or lead her to the church-yard, and there, seated on their father's tomb, give her her first lesson in eternal things. And then they would return together to cheer their mother's solitude, and try to divert her from her never ceasing regrets; and thus years passed by, and if sorrow laid again its heavy hand on Mabel's brow, resignation had followed to smooth away its lines, and leave it soft and gentle as before.

On that bright August morning, which we have before described, she was sitting with her little sister, now a beautiful but weak and unhealthy child, of seven or eight, at her lessons in the cheerful little sitting-room. Mabel—with her bright, quick eye, changing color, and speaking countenance over which a thought, perhaps a single shade of mournfulness had been cast, and the little girl by her side looked well together, and they were almost always in company. Amy was at her French lesson, which that morning seemed peculiarly hard to learn, and much as she always tried to please her sister, she could not help turning her wandering eyes rather often to the open window to watch the butterflies flit past in the merry sunshine.

"It is so difficult, Mabel dear," said she, at length, "I learnt it perfectly this morning, but I cannot remember the words now."

"Well, try once more," replied Mabel; "but you must not look out of the window."

"But my head aches so," said Amy, coaxingly, knowing that Mabel could hardly ever resist her plea of illness.

"Well, there is mamma's bell, and while I go to dress her, you can take a run round the garden—but do not be long, or I shall have to call you."

Mabel went up-stairs, and Amy ran off to the garden—her first object was the fruit trees, to see if any were on the ground—she found none—but many beautiful ripe peaches were on one tree, which was carefully trained against the wall, and one finer than the rest, perfectly ready, and peeping out from the leaves, looked peculiarly tempting. She stopped to look, then felt it gently, then tried to see if it were loose, till one unfortunate push, and the peach tumbled to the ground. Amy looked frightened, and gazed round to see if any one was in sight, but seeing no one, she picked it up, and began to eat it.

Suddenly the awful step of old John was heard coming from the cucumber-bed.

"How did you get that peach, miss?" he said, roughly.

The child turned red, but answered quickly,

"I picked it up."

"Well, I would not have lost that peach," said he, "for half-a-dozen others. Miss Mabel told me to save half-a-dozen for Mr. Ware, and this was the best of the lot—I shan't have such another beauty this year. Oh, miss."

"But you said I might have all I picked up," answered Amy, clinging to her subterfuge.

"Yes; but I thought this was too firm to fall, watching it as I did too," said he, as he looked in consternation from the tree to the half eaten peach in Amy's hand.

The child was not long in taking advantage of his silence, and ran into the house just in time to take up the French lesson before Mabel returned.

There was a look of indignation not easily mistaken by Amy on her sister's face, when she entered the room.

"Oh, Amy," she said, in tones of anger and surprise.

Amy looked up, but said nothing—she was frightened, for she knew that she had been doing wrong.

"I did not think," said Mabel, while an expression of contempt curled her beautiful lip, "I did not think you could be so mean as to screen yourself from blame by a falsehood."

Amy was going to speak, but her sister interrupted her.

"I know every word you would say; but it is all, all wrong. I heard every word, and I dare say, guessed every thought. You did not really mean to pick the peach, but you could not resist the temptation to loosen its hold. When it fell, you were surprised and sorry; but you could not resist the temptation to eat, because you were alone, and thought that no one saw you; then, when John came, you turned coward, because you were wrong, and told him you had picked it up—and this was true, though it was also true that you were the means of knocking it down first—so you had neither the courage to speak the truth, nor tell a falsehood."

Mabel spoke quickly and impetuously, and as the whole truth glared on the child's mind, the hot tears fell quickly on her burning cheek.

"You do not love me, Mabel," she said.

"Because I will not let you be mean, deceitful, and wicked. What would papa have said had he seen his child act so?"

"Oh, forgive me, dear Mabel, and do not talk like that," said Amy.

There was a tear in Mabel's eye that softened the severity of her tone, and sitting down by her, she said, more quietly—

"Amy, love, in that little action, I saw enough to make me indignant, and more to make me sorry; for if you do not get rid of that deceit, which has led you wrong now, it will go on, leading you into worse errors, and how can I take care of you if I am not certain you are speaking the truth. Falsehood is the beginning of all sin; and you will learn to deceive me; and when I think my darling is all I wish her, I shall discover something hidden and sinful, that will tell me I am wrong. Oh, I am so vexed."

"Forgive me—oh, do say you forgive me?" cried the punished child.

"Have I the power to forgive what is sinful?" said Mabel, kissing her affectionately.

Amy understood, and running to the chamber where they both slept, she fell upon her knees, and clasped her little hands in prayer.

A child's repentance is not very long, and Amy soon returned, her countenance meek and subdued, and looked timidly at her sister.

"Now then, Amy," said Mabel, "prepare yourself for a difficult duty—come and tell John all you have done."

Amy hesitated and trembled.

"He will be so cross," said she, entreatingly.

"Very likely; but you are not a coward now—you are not afraid to do right. It is difficult, I know, for John will not understand what you feel, and may remember it for a long time; but still you will come."

Amy gave her trembling hand to her sister, and, with a very blank countenance, accompanied her in search of John.

They had to go all over the garden; but found him, at length, standing disconsolate by the peach-tree.

"John," said Amy.

"Yes, miss," replied the old man, gloomily, and half angrily.

"John," she continued, "I touched the peach, and that was why it fell down."

He looked too amazed to answer.

"I am very, very sorry—will you forgive me for telling a falsehood?" murmured Amy, beseechingly.

John looked still very surprised and angry.

"Miss Amy," he began, "I could not have thought you—"

"But forgive her this time," interposed Mabel, "she is very sorry, and it has been a hard struggle to come and tell you how very wrong she has been."

"Bless you, miss," answered the old gardener, quickly, "you are your own father's child, and I know how much you must have suffered when you found any kindred of your'n a telling lies. But I forgive you, Miss Amy, and never you do wrong like that again. Bless you, Miss Mabel, for you be leading the dear young lady in the right path, as well as walking in it yourself."