Mrs. C. J. Newby

Love not, love not, the thing you love may change.

What general interest is excited by the arrival of the post. Who ever settled himself in a new place, for the shortest time, without making himself acquainted with its details, the time when it arrives and leaves? And who ever entirely loses this interest, spite of its often more than daily occurrence? There is no sameness in it, because there is no certainty.

Letters only came to Aston twice in a week, and then they were brought by a man—who could hardly be dignified by the title of postman—at some uncertain time in the middle of the day.

On these days the road by which he came was an object of interest to Mabel and her sister, and they often walked in that direction to secure any letters there might be for them, without waiting for their tardy delivery. They were often joined by Mr. Ware on the same errand, and that afternoon they overtook him as he was leisurely mounting the first hill on the road.

"Well, young ladies," said he, greeting them with a smile, "we are all going to meet the postman as usual I suppose?"

"Yes, sir," replied Mabel, "the post always seems to have sufficient interest to make even you choose this road on Tuesdays and Fridays."

"Well, I confess," he replied, "I always have great pleasure in seeing the man turn the corner, besides, as he is so uncertain, one is tempted to take a longer walk, expecting to see him every moment."

"Yes," said Mabel, "we almost always meet him, and yet there is seldom more than the possibility of a letter after all."

"My hopes are not quite so indefinite," said Mr. Ware, "I am always certain of a paper, which is often worth more to me than a letter. I used to think when a person took great interest in the post it was a sign that they were not quite happy at home or in themselves."

"And do you not think so still?" said Mabel.

"Not so much, certainly," he replied, "I think it often arises from the feeling that we are not quite independent of the outer world till the letters of the day have been read. Good and bad news must frequently come by letter, and, therefore, as long as we have any friends separated from us, we must feel a little anxious to know if there be any news at all."

"Do you not think," said Mabel, "that this is sometimes carried too far, and may degenerate into almost a sickly feeling?"

"Yes, certainly; I would not have any one indifferent on common subjects, but too great attention to things of this kind must be wrong."

"I have often thought so," said Mabel, thoughtfully, "when I have felt quite anxious on seeing the man coming, and then when I open my letters, full of the most ordinary business, I feel quite ashamed of myself."

"And what were you really hoping for, dear child?" said Mr. Ware.

The color rose fast over her truthful countenance, but at this moment the postman himself was seen, and saved her the pain of answering.

Mr. Ware soon secured his papers, and one or two letters, and being anxious to convey one home to his nephew, he took leave of them where the road separated.

"Now then," said Mabel, when they had parted from him, "let us see which will get home first, for mamma will be glad to get this letter from aunt Villars."

Amy reached home first, but Mabel quickly followed her to the drawing-room.

"Here, mamma, is a letter from aunt Villars," said Mabel, echoed by Amy.

"From Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, "I do not think it can be from Caroline, for there is no Bath post-mark, it comes from Cheltenham."

"Do open it mamma, and see if they are at Cheltenham," said Mabel.

"Fetch me my glasses then," returned her mother, "stay—here they are, but you must not hurry me, or my head will begin to ache again, it has been very bad all the morning."

"Oh, yes, mamma, there is plenty of time; come, Amy dear, and take your bonnet off."

Mabel had taken up her work before she again ventured to ask any questions. At length she said—

"Is aunt Villars at Cheltenham, mamma?"

"Yes, my dear, but only for a week or ten days."

"Will she come and see us now she is so near?" she enquired.

"I will read what she says about that, my dear," said Mrs. Lesly, taking up the letter, (some part of the aunt's communications being always mysteriously reserved).

Here it is:—

"I cannot leave Gloucestershire without coming to see you, dear Annie, and your sweet children, and therefore, if you say nothing to the contrary, I will drive over some how on Monday, and remain till Tuesday. If not asking too much of my dear sister, I shall leave Lucy with you; she is not quite well, and a run in the country will do her good, after the heat of Bath. My little girl finds pleasure in anything, and I promise you she shall be very good if you will let her come to you."

"Oh, how nice, mamma," cried Amy.

"Very nice that your aunt is coming, I allow," said Mrs. Lesly, "but I do not know what to say to Lucy, all little girls are not so good as my Amy."

"It would be unkind to refuse her," said Mabel.

"And if she is not well, poor child," added her mother. "I quite forget how old Lucy is, she cannot be so very little after all."

"But," said Amy, "aunt calls her, her little girl, and says she will be very good; if she were grown up like Mabel, of course she would not be naughty."

"I do not know that," said Mrs. Lesly, with a smile, "grown up people are often as naughty as little ones; so either way she was right to promise. Well, we must have the spare room opened, it must be quite damp, I fear, after being shut up so long."

"Oh, no, mamma," said Mabel, "I open the windows every morning, myself, so that I am sure the room is well aired."

"There must be a fire there, however, I suppose," replied her mother, trying to exert herself to think.

"Yes, Betsy shall light a fire there to-day, and I will see that the room is comfortable."

"But stay," said Mrs. Lesly, who was always troubled by anything like arrangements, "who is to sleep in Lucy's room when Caroline is gone. I am afraid we cannot manage it."

"We will see how old she is when she comes," suggested Mabel, "and if she is afraid to sleep by herself Betsy must sleep with her; but from what I remember she cannot be very young."

"Well then, my dear," said her mother, "and so you will promise to contrive to make everything comfortable; now nothing makes me so ill as arranging, and your poor papa never left me anything of that kind to think of. I remember once going down to Weymouth, when you were a baby. I could not tell what I should do there, being obliged to sleep at an hotel, for the first night, for we could not find a lodging, the town was so very full. So when we came there, we could get nothing but a small, uncomfortable room; and some how or other, we could not find any of the baby's things without pulling our boxes all about so, and I was so tired and teased, that I sat down, and—and—

"'Annie,' said he, 'now don't cry—I can bear anything better than your tears—leave everything to me—it will be much the easiest plan.'

"And so I did—and he put my nurse to work so busily, that my baby was asleep before I could think about it; and the next morning he was up early, managed to secure us a lodging, and made us all comfortable. Ah, I am afraid he spoilt me, I do not know how to do anything now, I fear."

"Well, dear mamma," said Mabel, twining her arm round her neck, and kissing her affectionately, "I would not have you miss my dear papa less than you do; but you must not tease yourself about anything. Did I not promise to try and supply his place? I do not mean to let you have any trouble at all. Here is your desk and a new pen—the ink is a little too light, but it writes freely—and now, while you answer my aunt's letter, you will be glad to get rid of us."

"I do not want to drive you away, love," replied her mother; "but you know I can never write if there is the least noise—so, perhaps, you had better go, and take Amy with you. I have not written for such an age, it makes me quite nervous."

"Oh, yes, I know, mamma dear; come, Amy, we will go and look to the spare room. I will seal your letter, mamma, when it is finished."

Mabel was soon busy in thinking over the accommodations necessary for visitors, with Betsy's aid, amidst Amy's incessant questions.

"Do you think, Mabel," she began, "that Lucy is very little?"

"I do not much think she is little at all," replied Mabel.

"But aunt Villars called her, my little girl," persisted Amy.

"Yes, but many mammas talk of grown up children in the same way."

"Do you think," said Amy, after watching her sister for a few minutes in silence, "I had better put some of my books on the shelf for her to read, if she happens to like them?"

"If you have any that will look pretty, you may put them there certainly."

"Do you think she will like the swing at Mr. Ware's?"

"If she is like you, perhaps she may; but whether she be little or not, we must both try and make her pass her time pleasantly, you know," said Mabel, as she glanced round the room with approval.

The chintz curtains had been re-hung—the snow-white coverlet had been placed upon the bed—and the dressing-table arranged with the most careful attention to comfort and convenience. Everything, in the careful arrangement which Mabel had bestowed upon the room, seemed to speak a welcome; and through the open window the fresh breezes of the Cotswold hills passed freely.

"Does it not look comfortable?" said Mabel, appealing to her talkative companion.

"Yes, Mabel, dear, everything looks nice that you manage; but," added she, returning to the former subject, "if she is a great girl, what can I do to amuse her?"

"Oh, many things," returned Mabel; "even you can do, I think, if you try; you must not talk to her very much, and ask her too many questions."

"Do I tease you, Mabel, dear, when I ask you questions?"

"Not often; but then you know I love you," said her sister, "and therefore do not get teased."

"But why do you think she will not love me?"

"I think it very likely she will love you," said Mabel, looking down upon her affectionately, "if you are good; but not till she knows you, not very much, at least. You know, we must buy people's love."

"Do you mean by making them presents?" said Amy, looking a little shocked at the idea.

"Not what you mean by presents certainly," said Mabel, smiling.

"What then?"

"Well then, first, you must give them your love, before you consider what they think of you."

"Is that a certain way of buying love?"

"It will be nearly certain," said Mabel, "to get you good will, at least, from every one, whose esteem is really valuable, for when we love, we try to do everything that is kind; we are not easily offended by little things that might annoy us, if we did not love; and then the wish to avoid giving offence, will lead us to govern our feelings, so that we may not be sullen, or out of temper, which would make us disoblige them by saying anything to wound their feelings."

"Would it do anything else?" said Amy, who always liked to hear her sister talk.

"Yes, I think it would lead us to speak the truth, for fear of encouraging them in any bad thing; for if we must not do wrong, we must not let it be done by others, if we can help it, particularly by those we love."

"But then," said Amy, "if a person is bad, do not you think it would be better to wait and see? We ought not to like a bad person, you said, one day."

"Not exactly that; I told you not to be intimate with Mary Watson, because she did many things I did not like, and knew a good many little girls, who could not teach her any good; but still, I think, if, for some reason, we were obliged to have Mary Watson here, you might love her just as much as I told you to love Lucy, for if you spoke the truth, she could not think you liked any of her naughty ways."

"Then why may I not know her now—could I not speak the truth?"

"Perhaps you might," said Mabel; "but I think, sometimes, that not to avoid temptation, is taking one step to evil; so I thought it best to avoid Mary Watson, as I could scarcely hope you would do her very much good, and she might do you harm."

"You always think of me, Mabel," said Amy; "when do you find time to think of yourself?"

"When I go to bed," she replied, "and then I ask myself if I have been as kind to my little orphan sister as I ought to be?"

"But, Mabel, dear, when you sit alone, sometimes, and look so very sad, and I come in, and see tears on your face, is that about me?"

"No; but it is not often so."

"Not often; but I am so vexed when it is. Why is it, Mabel dear?"

"Because," she said, her eyes filling with tears as she spoke, "somebody loved me once, who does not love me now."

"No, I am sure that is not true—every one loves you; mamma, Mr. Ware, Miss Ware, Betsy, John, every one." "I am sure that can't be true, and it is naughty to fancy unkind things; Mabel, dear, dear, Mabel," said the child, jumping on a stool and throwing her arms lightly round her neck, "and you are never naughty."

"Oh, yes I am, many many times a-day," said Mabel, hiding her face on Amy's shoulder, "my good, good, child, what should I do without you."

"Oh, nothing without me, you could not get on at all without me."

"Not very well, I think, certainly," said Mabel, smiling through her tears at Amy's satisfaction, "but we have been a long time away, and mamma must have finished her letter—come and let us seal it before the man calls again, for if it is not ready, what will become of our visitors."

"But, Amy," said she, sinking her voice almost to a whisper, "never tell mamma or any one that I ever cry, or why I cry."

"Oh, never, you know I can keep a secret."

"You promise," said Mabel.

"Yes, I promise faithfully."