Mr. Ware and his nephew did not neglect to take advantage of Mabel's proposal, that they would mutually help to pass the few weeks that remained of the warm weather, more pleasantly than usual. Each bright day of autumn we value the more highly, as we fear it may be the last; and the little party of friends took every opportunity of visiting the prettiest sights of the neighbourhood, either on foot, or in Mr. Ware's carriage. Much as she enjoyed these excursions, Mabel, at length, found that she was frequently obliged to excuse herself. The slightest additional pallor on her mother's countenance, had always been sufficient to make her give up the merriest party, or the most engrossing study; and she now tried in vain to hide from herself the growing weakness, and the fading and changing color she often wore—though, with her accustomed buoyancy of disposition, she believed that, the few autumn months once passed, her mother would again be strong.

Mrs Lesly, sometimes tried to bring the subject of her precarious state of health before her, yet could scarcely find courage to damp her hopes. Since her sister's visit, she had felt an uneasiness which she found it difficult to suppress, and, instead of being relieved on her children's account, by the promise that they should share the comforts of a home with her sister's own family, she experienced a sensation of vague terror, which she found it impossible to define. Even the loss of six hundred pounds, supposing them lost, could not be equivalent to the pain she suffered.

The magnitude of our misfortunes depends, not so much on themselves, for the pain they give us, as upon the state in which they find us. In good spirits, and vigorous health, we may, perhaps, smile at trials which would make another's cup of sorrows run over.

Poor Mrs. Lesly, weakened in health, and with feeble nerves, began to entertain suspicions that she had acted imprudently. A fear, of she knew not what, entered her mind, and she began to feel a restless impatience to find the written promise given by her sister, which remained as the only security for the money with which she had so weakly parted. This anxiety seemed, for a time, to conquer her constitutional indolence, and much of her time was spent in looking over old drawers, desks, and boxes, and the search always ended with the secretary, where she turned over every paper in a vain investigation. Every excuse she could make for being alone, she eagerly seized upon to renew it; for, while she had, at first, felt it difficult to explain to Mabel, that she had risked the greater part of her small fortune, not from any strong motive, but, simply because her sister had been extravagant enough to embarrass herself by the purchase of luxuries, and she had been too weak to refuse the loan which the superior claim of her children had rendered rather unjust than generous, she now found this difficulty increased by a constant fear that she should guess the truth. It was, therefore, necessary to carry on the search unobserved, and the wish to do so, fixed upon her like a spell, and harassed her continually. She would, then, on the morning of any proposed expedition, endeavour to appear as gay and well as possible, that she might induce Mabel to join the party; but, on their return, hours of harassing disappointment generally shewed themselves in her sickly appearance at night; and Mabel was grieved to find that, instead of welcoming her return as usual, after even the shortest absence, she seemed rather surprised to find she had come back so soon; regarding her presence almost with feverish impatience. In vain, Mabel entreated to be allowed to know the cause of this change. Mrs. Lesly only answered her questions by excuses; or, if much pressed, by tears, causing poor Mabel the utmost uneasiness. The restless agitation she continually felt, rapidly wore upon both health and spirits, and their failure only increased the nervous desire to find what now seemed of tenfold importance to her disordered fancy.

It is melancholy to trace the effects of bodily illness, when it finds, as it were, an echo in the mind of the sufferer.

It was in vain that Mrs. Lesly reasoned with herself, trying to believe that she could perfectly rely on her sister's promise. She could not but remember her wanton extravagance, and the little guard she had ever learned to place on herself, even in the indulgence of the slightest whim; and her affection for her could not blind her to the fact that she had chosen for her children a guardian too weak to protect herself from the slightest temptation. Again and again, the same thoughts pressed upon her, and the same course of reasoning occurred, giving her less satisfaction on every recurrence to it.

Then followed the burning desire to recover the lost papers; with renewed impatience she would return to the secretary—till wearied and worn out she would sink into her chair disappointed and spiritless.

"Ah, dearest Mamma," said Mabel, when having determined to remain at home, though the day was lovely, and favored a walk to the woods which had been agreed on, she entered the room, and found her seated, unoccupied, except by her own harassing thoughts. "You are unhappy, and will not tell me why. Is not this unkind?"

"Unkind," echoed Mrs. Lesly, vacantly, "yes, I have been very unkind to you both."

"No, no, dear Mamma, I do not mean that—not really unkind—only it vexes me to see you so sad."

"I am sad indeed, my dear," returned Mrs. Lesly, in the same absent tone, "but I cannot find them, though they are all here." She stopped and glanced at the secretary wistfully, as if its old-fashioned drawers could speak if they liked.

"What is lost?" said Mabel, "let me try and find it—I will look over all the papers if you will let me."

"No, no, what I have lost I ought to find, it is my own indolence which has done it."

"Yes, but do not think of that now, mamma, love, remember Doctor Parkinson said you were to be kept quite quiet, and now you are wandering about all day—only think how precious your health is to us, and how happy we all are when you are well."

"Mabel, you kill me by these words—I feel that I am dying, but do not kill me before the time appointed."

Mabel was silent, and stood looking at her mother with painful earnestness.

"Do not look at me so, sweet child. Well may you be surprised when I have ruined you both."

"Ruin! my own mother, what do you mean?"

"Ah, you may well wonder at me," replied Mrs. Lesly, much excited, "how could I be so silly as to injure my own children."

"Ah, now you are unkind," said Mabel, "why not tell me—is there a sorrow I have refused to bear—is it not my privilege to be sorrowful."

Tears rolled down her heated cheeks, and Mrs. Lesly continued to regard her in silence.

"Is it not unjust to me, your own child," continued Mabel, (for she had often before failed in obtaining her confidence,) "day after day you are wearying yourself with something you will not let me know, and injuring your health, which is more precious to us than any thing else—mamma—I did not know you could be so unkind."

"Dear child, do not talk in this way, my only thought is of my children, and oh!" said she, turning her head towards the secretary, "if I could but find them."

"What?"

"The papers."

"What papers? Do tell me, can any thing be worse than this concealment—you have always told me everything."

"Ah, if I had," said Mrs. Lesly, with a sigh.

"But do tell me now, I would rather hear any thing than see you suffer."

"Can you really bear it?" enquired her mother, seeming to shake off the oppressive calmness with which she had been speaking before, and looking attentively at her daughter, whose warm feelings were almost ready to burst control.

"I will bear any thing," answered Mabel, walking to her, and kneeling by her side, "any thing you can tell me."

"Then you shall hear me now, lest you have cause to curse your mother's memory, if you heard it when I was gone from you. Your poor father put by a thousand pounds, which I never told you of before. It would have been but a poor pittance—yet it would have saved you from want; but this is nearly all gone now, for my sister has been borrowing of me from time to time, promising to be a mother to my children—I have lent her six hundred of the thousand, and I have lost her promises to repay them back. Should any thing happen to either of us, what will you do?"

"Trust to me, mother, dear. He who has supported me through far worse trials will support me still."

"Reproach me now, Mabel," said Mrs. Lesly, sorrowfully, "but do not live to curse me in the bitterness of your heart."

"No, my loved mother," said her daughter, looking up in her face with unmistakeable cheerfulness, "think no more of this now. Amy shall not suffer while health is left me, and power to use the education my dear father gave me; and I am so happy to think nothing worse is to be feared, even should any thing so strange occur as that aunt Villars could not pay us. And do you think I could once forget that it was because you were kind, unselfish and generous, that you lent the money."

Mrs. Lesly lent down and folded her child in her arms, saying, in a low repentant voice—

"Not generous but weak, we should but injure ourselves, not those dependent on us in order to serve others."

Yet she felt as if a weight had passed from her heart, and though she was still apprehensive, she was no longer despairing.