Mrs. Lesly had been, as a girl, both beautiful and accomplished, gifted with good natural talents, though possessing little perseverance and much indolence of character. Upon her marriage every faculty of her mind became absorbed in devotion to her husband, and an almost indolent dependence on his will. Since his death she had continued so very depressed that, at the time when both Mabel and Amy might have much needed a mother's care, she felt every exertion too great for her weakened nerves and failing health.

She had, by her marriage, entered a family a little above her own, and now suffered the too general consequence, in the neglect of her husband's relations. She felt all things deeply, and this, if possible, aggravated her loss. The Lesly and Hargrave families were closely connected, but the absence of the Colonel, whose family mansion lay so near them, prevented her receiving that attention which the neighbourhood of a rich relation might have procured her. The secluded life to which she now clung so earnestly, only increased the extreme sensitiveness of her feelings. Her mind therefore, suffered to prey upon itself, became a curse instead of a blessing, as it might have been, had it been employed in any useful purpose; and the delicacy and refinement of her nature, now only quickened her perception of the slightest coldness, or unkindness in those around her; spreading about her a kind of atmosphere of refined suffering, which duller eyes would never have discovered.

Yet the indulgence which she claimed from others always rendered her an object of affection, and her devotion to the memory of her husband veiled many failings, and excused her indolence sometimes even in the eyes of the most ascetic. Joined to this weakness of character, however, she possessed many fine qualities. She was generous in the extreme, and liberal to a total forgetfulness of self, and would forgive, where no injury was intended, with a magnanimity, which, applied to a real offence, would have been noble. She was also very patient under the oppression of continual ill health, and though too indolent to exert herself, she was capable of suffering without complaint.

Mabel inherited her mother's intellect and delicacy of feeling, but seconded by a strong will and great common sense. She possessed also beauty equal, if not superior, to hers, though in her face it always seemed secondary to the feelings which were spoken by it. But there was one peculiar charm in her character, which secured the love of those around her as powerfully as an Eastern talisman. It was a reliance on the good will of others, drawn perhaps from the reflection of her own heart—a kind of security in the feeling that there is always good to those who rightly seek it; a trust in the virtue of others which often proves a touchstone to wake its hidden springs, whilst all feel ashamed of disappointing a hope, founded more on the truest feelings of charity, than on weakness or pusillanimity.

Unlike her mother, she scarcely ever suffered from illness, and gratefully used the blessing of strong nerves and untiring strength in aiding the weakness or bearing with the irritability of others.

Happy the child who possessed such a guide and playfellow, to listen to all the questions and trifles so wearisome to the sick or weak.

Mabel's patience was often called in requisition during the few days which passed before the arrival of the aunt and niece from Cheltenham. At least half a dozen questions would be asked almost in the same form, to which she had to give answers.

At length however, the long expected hour arrived, and Amy had seated herself on the lawn to catch the first sight of that corner of the road which was the furthest point visible, and Mabel was frequently sent to the gate to watch for the carriage, by Mrs. Lesly, who was enduring all the discomfort and nervousness of being quite ready to receive them a long while before it was at all probable they would arrive.

Captain Clair, too, who had, as Mr. Ware's nephew, established a kind of intimacy at the cottage, was leaning over the gate, refusing to come in, lest he should disturb the family meeting, yet seeming well inclined to chat away the time with either of the sisters.

"I am sure you are spoiling your sister, Miss Lesly," said he, after hearing the patient answer to the sixth repetition of 'do you think they are coming;' and Amy had ran in to her mamma to report.

"That is a very grave accusation, but I do not think you quite believe it," said Mabel; "indulge, but not spoil."

"Well, indeed," said he, "it would be difficult to find fault with such persevering self-denial, so we will say, indulgence."

"It requires little self-denial," said Mabel; "to be kind to a very young, and very dear sister. No, self-denial will not do, I will not take the praise of a martyr for doing what I love best. Are you certain," she added, "you do not feel the sun too much, where you are standing, had you not better come in and speak to mamma?"

"Not on any account, thank you," he replied, smiling; "I intend to vanish when the carriage comes up, and present only the very interesting appearance of a departing friend, in order to give a little life to such a landscape."

Mabel laughed.

"Here they are, then, now you may look picturesque."

"Not quite yet, wait a bit, I must be a little more prominent first, or they would never see me. Now is the very moment," raising his hat to Mabel, and with these concluding words, he walked slowly away.

Mabel was seized with momentary shyness, and retreated unobserved, to seek Mrs. Lesly, whose head began to ache, from waiting so long—but, as the party took a long time in alighting, and collecting from the vehicle a multiplicity of boxes, she felt ashamed of being afraid of strangers, and ran down again to meet them.

"Oh, my charming niece," exclaimed her aunt, with apparent cordiality, and kissing her warmly; "how do you do, my sweet girl, let me make you acquainted with my Lucy."

Lucy, who, to Amy's disappointed eye, did not look at all little, took Mabel's hand with earnestness, and putting one arm round her neck, kissed her with extreme warmth, exclaiming:—

"We shall be dear friends, I know."

"I hope so," said Mabel, startled alike at her relation's warmth, and her own composure, which appeared something like coldness.

Mrs. Lesly was met by her sister with the same enthusiasm which quite overcame her weak nerves, and she burst into tears; she could not tell why, she thought it might be joy, or that her head was overpowered by the sweet scent on their pocket-handkerchiefs, or the rapidity of her sister's conversation, and expressions of endearment. Mabel looked on in dismay, a scene had been produced which she was puzzled to remove.

"Dear mamma, do not cry," said she, then turning to Mrs. Villars who was overwhelming her with caresses, she added, hastily; "mamma is not quite well to-day, but she will be better presently, if she is quiet a little while. Will you come and take your bonnet off, aunt, for you must be tired after your drive."

"No, my dear, but I think I will venture to leave her a moment while I run down and see if our boxes are all right; an immense deal of luggage, but then, I am going home, you know. I brought my maid too, though I forgot to mention her in my note." Mrs. Lesly looked alarmed. "I really do not know if she has looked to every thing, but I will go and see, I always like to see things right myself," and with an important air, she hurried down stairs.

Mrs. Villars was of imposing appearance, though too bustling in her manners to be altogether dignified, with colour a little too brilliant, and hair a little too stiffly curled, to be quite natural. Yet, whatever was artificial, was very well added to a good figure, and fine face.

Poor Amy was quite awed into a bewildered silence. Mrs. Villars presently bustled back again, telling Mabel she was now quite ready to go to her room.

"This way, then," said Mabel, shewing them to the chamber she had so carefully prepared; "this is your room, and I hope you will find every thing comfortable."

"Oh, I dare say," she said, looking round, as if approving a child's doll's-house; "everything so very neat and nice, and where is Lucy to sleep."

"This is the only spare room we have furnished and fit for sleeping in now; the rest are shut up," said Mabel, a little timidly, "and we thought you would not mind sleeping together for one night, as you say you cannot stay longer, aunt."

"Oh, yes, we will contrive—but what is to be done with our maid."

"I must manage for her presently," said Mabel; "Betsy has been told to make her comfortable for the present."

"What time do you dine, dear," said Mrs. Villars; "the air of these hills makes one hungry. I really could dine unfashionably early to-day."

"I fancied so, and therefore ordered dinner to be ready half an hour after your expected arrival," said Mabel; who tried to keep them in conversation till Mrs. Lesly should have time to recover herself; and this delay so far succeeded, that on their return to the drawing-room, they found her quite composed.

Dinner being soon after announced, Mrs. Villars gave her arm to her sister, in the tenderest manner possible, saying.

"Well, dear, I hoped to find you quite strong, I must not have any more of these naughty hysterics, or I shall think you are not glad to see me."

"Indeed—indeed, Caroline, you mistake my feelings."

"Well, then, smile away, and I shall read them right. What do you think of my Lucy?" she added, in a whisper; "I wish I could shew you all my girls—for admiring beauty, and accomplishments, as you always did—I do not know what you would say, if you saw them all together. Now, in my opinion, Mabel is perfect."

The last speech reached Mabel's ear, and, perhaps, was intended to do so—but quick as she was in the ready perception of virtue, she had never feebly blinded herself to the faults of others. These few words made her feel uncomfortable—for she was immediately aware that there was a want of sincerity in her aunt's manner, which, betraying some latent reason for dissimulation, always produces a feeling of dislike, or fear.

To Mrs. Villars Mabel soon became an object of fear—she could not tell why, but she had scarcely been a few minutes in her company without perceiving that superiority which the weak-minded find it difficult cheerfully to recognise. Superiority in what, she did not stop to analyse—but even while most lavish of her endearments, she was secretly almost uncomfortable in her presence.

Mrs. Villars had given herself a worldly education, which, though it had moulded even her virtues and foibles according to its own fashion, had never yet been able, entirely, to eradicate the sense of right which had been inculcated in earlier years; yet she only preserved it as a continual punishment for every act of dissimulation and wrong, without ever allowing it to regain entire ascendency over her; though it was a conscience to which she felt bound perpetually to excuse herself. So false, indeed, had she turned to herself, that Mabel's open, honest, truth-telling eyes seemed something like a reproach.

Love for her children—one of the greatest virtues of a woman's heart—had become one of her greatest failings. Her natural disposition rendered her love strong and untiring; but worldliness had warped its usefulness, rendering that love, in its foolish extreme, only a means of making herself miserable, without really serving them. She learned to spoil, but had no resolution to reprove; and they had grown up in accordance with such training.

As children they had been coaxed and bribed to appear sweet-tempered and obliging in company—the plan succeeded; but only left them more ill-tempered and unmanageable when the restraint was removed. This system was, however, too readily followed; and as they grew older, their foolish parent saw no other efficient plan for securing their position in society, than that of continuing the same course of indulgence. She now tried, by the most unbounded gratification of their wishes, to secure to herself that love which timely discipline might easily have preserved in tempers not naturally degenerate. But veiling this weakness, she prided herself on the greatness of her parental love, and threatened to weary every one else by the excess to which she carried it.

Glad of an opportunity of touching on her favorite topic, she said to her sister—

"You must come and see us all some day. Mr. Villars would be so glad to see you, and I should have an opportunity of shewing you my pet girls."

"I never stir out now," returned Mrs. Lesly, shaking her head mournfully, "scarcely even beyond my own door. But Lucy will, I dare say, give us a specimen of all your sayings and doings in time. I should much like to see the children; but fear there is but little inducement to ask any of them to a place where there is so very little going on. My Mabel is very fond of the country, or I should often have been vexed at our seeing so little company."

"Oh, you are quite mistaken, my dear," said Mrs. Villars, quickly. "Caroline and Selina are very fond of the country, and so are you, Lucy."

"Yes, I like it very well in the summer," said Lucy, languidly.

"Do you like the snow?" asked Amy, speaking for the first time.

"No, not much; but we had better not talk of snow in August—it is too near to be pleasant," said Lucy, a little impatiently.

"You forget the balls, my dear," said her mama, soothingly, and watchful of her children's tempers as a lover of his mistress.

"No, mama, I was speaking of snow in the country, and there, I suppose, there is not much dancing. Are you fond of balls, Mabel? but I forgot, I need not ask, for, of course, you are."

"I have never been to a public ball," replied Mabel, "but I have often enjoyed a dance at a friend's house."

"Have you really never been to a ball," exclaimed Lucy, opening her pretty blue eyes wide, with half real and half affected astonishment. "You would be enchanted with Bath. We have such delightful balls once a week. The Thursday balls they are called, and then every season—"

"Lucy, love, you will tire your aunt with your prattle," said her mama, "now confess, Annie, does she not make your head ache?"

"A little," replied her sister, "but do not let my weakness interfere with her enjoyment. She will have little else to listen to besides her own voice," Mrs. Lesly added, trying to smile away her sister's chagrin at finding it really possible that she could be tired at hearing Lucy talk.

There was a momentary pause, when Mrs. Lesly, anxious to conciliate by returning to the subject she perceived gave most interest, enquired—

"Is Lucy your eldest?"

"Oh, dear no! Caroline is the eldest, Selina second, and Lucy the youngest."

"But I think you have one more, have you not?" said Mrs. Lesly.

"How can you forget how many children your own sister has?" said Mrs. Villars.

"My memory is getting feeble, and you must excuse me," replied Mrs. Lesly anxiously, "my forgetfulness arises from no want of affection; but I have not seen you for a year or two now."

"I had forgotten," returned Mrs. Villars, "how time flies. I really must write oftener to you, and keep up your knowledge of us. Well, there is my Maria—but, poor child, I am in despair with her—so unfortunate."

"Not ill, I hope?" enquired Mrs. Lesly.

"No, no—that could be cured—a doctor might cure that; but this, nothing can cure. She is ugly—positively ugly—by the side of her sisters at least; and more than that, she is ungraceful. I have tried the best academy in the town, but nothing will do her any good—such a contrast to the rest, she never will settle I fear."

Mabel glanced at Amy, who was drinking in her aunt's words with the eager curiosity natural to a child, and fearing the effects of this worldly conversation upon her young sister, she persuaded Lucy to come with them into the garden.

Lucy put her arm in Mabel's, whilst Amy watched the movement jealously.

"Here is a lovely peep at the hills," said Mabel, leading their guest to one of the prettiest parts of the garden, where a stone seat was placed near a break in the trees, commanding a view of the country beyond.

Here they seated themselves, looking for a short while, in silence, on the landscape, which the setting sun rendered still more lovely. Had Mabel expected any fine remark to follow this momentary pause in the conversation, she would have been disappointed, for Lucy's next enquiry was whether there were many nice people in the neighbourhood.

"Yes," said Mabel. "Mr. and Miss Ware are very nice people."

"Who are they?" asked Lucy.

"Our rector and his sister."

"Is he unmarried?" enquired Lucy, with increasing interest.

"Yes," replied Mabel, smiling, "but not very young."

"But still marriageable, I suppose?"

"Barely," said Mabel, "at least, I do not think he would consider himself so now. Why, he must be nearly seventy."

"Then who was that fine young man that was walking down the road just now, with light whiskers, and a military air. I did not expect to see such a handsome, distinguÉ looking young man down in the country here."

"That is Mr. Ware's nephew," said Mabel.

"Oh! then he does live here—what is his name?"

"Captain Clair; he is only here for a short time, for his health," replied Mabel; "but how could you tell he had light whiskers?"

"Because he passed while we were at dinner, so that I had a good look at him," said Lucy, half blushing.

"Amy," said Mabel, "there is Captain Clair beckoning for you to run to him, and I dare say he will get you the blackberries he promised you."

Amy ran away to the garden-gate, where Captain Clair was waiting for her, and hand in hand they were soon down the blackberry lane that led to the fields.

"What a very fine young man," exclaimed Lucy, as she watched them out of sight; "do you see him often—I suppose he is a beau of yours?"

"No, oh, no," said Mabel; "a sort of friend he has made himself—but certainly not a beau."

"Ah, you say so."

"And I mean so," said Mabel.

"You mean then, that he is free for conquest," laughed Lucy, coquettishly.

"As far as I am concerned, he is as free as air," said Mabel; "but I would not have you attempt such a conquest, I should think he was too easily won to be kept long in subjection."

"Ah, I know what you mean," said Lucy; "a sort of man that falls in love with every tolerable girl he meets—the very thing for a country visit."

"Well, I suppose neither party would be in much danger if those are your real sentiments," said Mabel. "Captain Clair is too discerning to be entangled by a mock feeling, and you are wise enough to think of nothing more."

"Exactly so," replied Lucy; "but oh, whose pretty house is that amongst the trees?"

"Colonel Hargrave's," said Mabel.

"Colonel Hargrave!" cried Lucy, "cousin Henry, as we call him now. Do you know, Mabel, he is just come back to England, and mamma wrote to ask him to come and see us in Bath. I am so longing to meet him; and we have made up in our minds, already, a match between him and Caroline—that you know would do very well, for she is just thirty, and he must be a few years older, must he not?"

"Yes, I think so," said Mabel.

"And that would be a very nice difference, you know. I am quite longing for him to come. I have talked the match over with Selina so often, that I cannot help looking upon it as quite certain; and then we should have such a nice house to come and stay at; and you would be so delightfully near—would it not be pleasant?"

"You will find it cold without your bonnet," said Mabel, evasively, "shall we go in and fetch it."

"No, thank you," said Lucy; "but I see you are not fond of match-making."

"No, I confess I am not," said Mabel; "but I suppose you hear a great deal of it in Bath, where so many matches must be talked over."

"Oh! an immense deal—it is quite amusing to hear of so many projected marriages, and of their coming to nothing after all."

"But that is why I think match-making anything but amusing," said Mabel.

"But then all the Éclat of a conquest would be gone," suggested Lucy, "if there were no talking beforehand. I assure you, last year, there were I do not know how many half offers in our family. Selina and I used to walk round the Crescent and count them all up, and they helped us through the dull weather amazingly; something like the nibbling of a trout, which just serves to keep up the hope of ultimately catching one. Mamma talks a great deal about Caroline's beauty, and her charming spirits—but she does not know how to sleep for wishing her married. It would be horrible to have her an old maid—so I hope and trust the good Colonel, with, I dare say, Indian guineas, and an Indian face, will take pity on her, and bring her here."

"Give me a description of Caroline," said Mabel, suddenly. "Is she not very beautiful and accomplished?"

"How you startle me," said Lucy. "Why she is very tall—fine features, people say—she has black hair and black eyes, and dances splendidly—polks to admiration—so very good-natured—and witty before company—and rather the reverse behind the scenes—in short, would do much better for Mrs. Hargrave than for the eldest of four maiden sisters—and so, in all due affection, I should be very glad to see her married."

"Is she clever as well as beautiful?" said Mabel.

"She sings and plays beautifully. Yes, I believe she is clever—knows French well."

Mabel sighed.

"I do not know how it is," said Lucy, when after a short silence, they prepared to return to the house, "but I feel you to be quite a friend already. I must love you, whether you will let me or not."

"I shall be very glad to have you love me," said Mabel, gently; "but wait till you know me better."

"I can never wait and deliberate, when loving is the question," said Lucy; "it is like me; I am always quick in my likes and dislikes—and I feel now as if I could tell you every secret of my heart—I am only nineteen, so such want of consideration is pardonable—is it not, dear Mabel?"

"It is not quite safe, perhaps," replied Mabel; "but yet rather easy to forgive, in the present—instance—at least, when I feel myself to be concerned. But if you make me your friend, you must give me the power of an elder sister."

"Not like Caroline," said Lucy, with a look of pretended terror.

"I shall not let you find fault with Caroline," said Mabel, "that is my first effort of authority; but you have chosen to love me, and you must take my friendship on my own terms."

"Well, I think I will take it on any terms. I dare say it will be worth having," said Lucy; "but first, you must seal our friendship with a kiss, and tell me that you love me as much as I do you."

"My love is of slower growth," replied Mabel, smiling; "but I promise to deal with you as if I loved you. Will that do?"

"I suppose it must," said Lucy.

"You are right," said Mabel, kissing her pouting lips, "that must do till we know each other better."