Mabel and Lucy retired that night early, in order that they might leave the sisters time to talk quietly over the fire, which a chilly evening rendered not unwelcome.

Mrs. Villars placed her feet on the fender, and turning up her dress to prevent the fire injuring it, she made herself perfectly comfortable in preparation for a long chat. Mrs. Lesly had seated herself opposite in her arm-chair, with a glass of lemonade on a small table by her side, which she sipped from time to time, as she listened to long accounts of her sister's hopes and fears for her children's welfare, together with various anecdotes, tending to show the admiration they excited wherever they appeared. At length, these long and varied narrations came to an end—and Mrs. Villars, turning to her sister, enquired, in a tone which seemed to say, confidence claimed confidence, if there had not been some story about Mabel's marrying.

A very sensible feeling of pain passed for an instant over Mrs. Lesly's countenance before she replied—

"Yes, but that was a long time ago, and I cannot bear to think of it now."

"But," said Mrs. Villars, who always peculiarily interested herself in anything relative to marriage, "you never told me the particulars, and I should so like to know them."

"No," said Mrs. Lesly, "I remember I only just mentioned it for I was so much pained at the time, that I could not write on the subject."

"You never even told me the gentleman's name," said Mrs. Villars.

"No, Mabel made me promise to mention that to no one; I felt it was delicate and right in her to wish it, and I have never spoken of him openly since, indeed amongst ourselves he is as if forgotten."

"A man of property, was he not?" said Mrs. Villars, "and quite young I think you said?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Lesly, with a half sigh, "the marriage seemed in every way desirable, they were well suited in age, and I thought in character, and rejoiced to think that she would have a companion in life so well calculated to show her off to advantage. He was, besides, a man of considerable fortune, and my Mabel is, I think, particularly fitted for a station above that which she at present enjoys. Her taste in painting and sculpture, has been acknowledged by masters—and tho' so kind and useful and simple hearted now, I always thought she was fitted to dispense even patronage. Ah, well, these were the dreams of days gone by, and I do not know why I bring them up to-night, except to shew you that the sacrifice she made was no ordinary one. Ah, poor girl, the contrast is striking, now she is soon likely to want even a home."

"Was it not a long attachment?" said Mrs. Villars as her sister paused.

"Yes," returned, Mrs. Lesly, rousing herself, "they had been more or less attached from childhood. There was always a kind of wayward goodness in Mabel, that was very attractive. She had generally her own way, but that way seemed so unselfish that I had neither the power nor the wish to complain. He admired this spirit, mixed with so much sweetness; nothing she did seemed wrong, and even when she was indiscreet, which I dare say she might have been very often—he said, it was because she was more pure-minded than other people."

"Well, I do not see anything very sad in all this. I should have been highly flattered," said Mrs. Villars, "now my Selina is so like what you describe, she does the most indiscreet and pretty things imaginable sometimes."

Mrs. Lesly continued silent for a few minutes, then again rousing herself she continued—

"He used to call Mabel his little wife, long before her papa died, and I used to think over it all, as you remember we used to talk of things a long time since."

"I see," thought Mrs. Villars, "a case of jilt, very distressing, but an old story to those who know the world as well as I do." She felt a slight sensation of comfort at arriving at this idea, when she remembered her own unmarried daughters.

"Well," continued, Mrs. Lesly, "whenever he came to the neighbourhood, which he often did, they were almost always together. Sometimes they would walk in the fields at the back of our house, Mabel leaning on his arm, whilst he carried Amy. But unfortunately when his father died he went to Paris, and staid there about a twelve-month. When he returned he was altered, how or why I could not tell, but it seemed as if the simplicity of his character was gone, though I tried hard to think him only more manly. Mabel was a beautiful girl when he returned, and it was soon easy to perceive that however changed he might be in other respects, his affection for her remained unaltered." Mrs. Lesly stopped to sip her lemonade, and then with some little effort continued—"His return," she said, "to which we looked forward so much, did not make us happier. He would persuade her to go out sometimes, but she always came back soon, and often looked as though she had been crying, though she never said any thing—I then noticed and watched him more carefully, and at length I found that he had not entered the church since his return from France, a practice he never before neglected. I then paid more attention to his conversation, and often brought up serious questions on purpose. Here I discovered the sad truth; he talked very seriously of virtue and moral responsibility, but if I spoke of religion in connexion with it, he changed the subject or looked at Mabel, and was silent.

"I was now quite puzzled, it seemed hard to find fault with one so good in every other respect, but in religion, which he spoke of as a curious and useful superstition, acting as a guide to vulgar minds. 'Mabel,' said I, one day, 'what does all this mean? What has come over him to make him think as he does?'

"You must know, Caroline, that indolent as my weak health has made me, and careless of imparting things, I used so much to value, I had not neglected my child in the most important of all points of knowledge; sickness had made me prize that, in proportion as every thing else lost interest; but I did fear for her when, with only my weak lessons she had, perhaps, to answer the arguments of a man of peculiar talent, and great though mistaken penetration, aided by the love, I was well aware, she felt for him."

"But you studied these points well I know," said Mrs. Villars, "and I dare say fully explained them."

"You are right," replied Mrs. Lesly, "at least I tried to do so, I always have endeavoured to make the heart and head act together. You will see that I succeeded, beyond my hopes. It seemed that he had been in the constant habit, of confiding every thing to her, and had always found an admiring listener to his thoughts on most subjects. On his return from France, he was too candid to conceal from her, the change his opinions had undergone. It appeared, from his own account, that while abroad, his society had been mostly composed of those generally distinguished by the name of free thinkers. Perhaps, feeling that he could argue well, and with a too presumptuous trust in himself, he courted every opportunity of disputing with them on the nature of their opinions. With daring intellect, he trusted every thing to his understanding, and nothing to his faith. He found superior intellect, and the consequences were too natural—I do not think he had any settled views afterwards, and I very much fear became little less than an infidel. All this I gleaned by repeated questions from my poor, broken-hearted child.

"'Now,' said I, 'my Mabel, this is too serious a point for husband and wife to differ upon, this I once hoped you would be to each other, but he is no longer worthy of you. Now you must prove what and how you believe.' I spoke sternly, for I feared for her, she kissed me fervently but she could not speak. 'Do you understand me, Mabel,' I said.

"She only replied, 'I do,' but that was sufficient, my heart ached for her, but I was at peace. It was not long after this conversation, that the last scene occurred; I remember I had been sitting in my room all the morning, finishing some work that Mabel had begun for me. At length, I grew tired of being alone, and, taking up my work, I went down stairs. I heard a voice speaking loudly in the sitting-room, and I guessed whose it was. I felt frightened—for since my William's death, everything affects me—so I stopped; but I heard my child sobbing, and I opened the door directly. She was seated at the table, leaning down, and covering her face with her hands. She always feared to vex me by letting me see her grieve; but I saw she was too agitated even to think of me at that moment. He was standing opposite, glaring on her like a maniac.

"'Madam,' said he, turning to me as I looked for an explanation, 'it is well, perhaps, that you are here, to witness your daughter's coquetry, or her madness.'

"'Sir,' replied I, 'pray remember to whom you speak; there may be a slight difference in our rank, or wealth rather, but none that I recognise where my child is concerned.'

"'Do not attempt to reason with me,' he replied, 'I am mad. Your daughter, in whose love I, at least, had faith, is fanatic enough to refuse to marry me, because we differ on some absurd points of superstitious doctrine.'

"'I cannot agree with you,' I said, trying to speak calmly, 'in calling them absurd, and that is where we differ. What happiness can Mabel expect with one who ridicules the motives which are, at once, the guide and blessing of her existence?—or what reliance can she have on a man who does not even recognise the principles on which she alone relies for strength. I think Mabel is quite right to remain as she is, sacrificing, as she does, every worldly interest to a noble principle.'

"The poor girl started up, and walking to him, laid her pretty hand upon his arm, and looking at him beseechingly, she said—'Do not let us part in anger—I can bear anything but that—let me remain your friend for ever, even as you are; but do not think me wrong for refusing to be your wife.'

"I never shall forget that moment; he shook her from him, as if she had been a serpent. She reeled back for an instant, and then sank at my feet.

"He looked down upon her, as she lay upon the floor, hiding her face in my gown, as if he would have withered her with his contempt. Oh, how could he think I could have trusted her to one like him?

"'Feeble as was my hold on religion before,' he burst out—"'It is broken now, if this be the effects of it,' and he looked down upon my poor stricken girl.

"I was silent.

"'What right,' thought I, 'have I to retaliate upon him reproach for reproach?' but I thought my heart would break.

"'Why did she not try to win me to her truth,' he exclaimed, 'if she thinks it of so much consequence?'

"'Has she not done so for the last four months?' I said.

"'Yes; but as a wife,' he replied, 'she would have had treble power.'

"'She is forbidden to be your wife,' I said, 'by the very religion she professes—and would her acting in opposition to its laws have convinced you of its truth?'

"'There was no love in the case,' said he, not heeding me, 'and now she wishes to be my friend,' he continued, with a sneer, 'as if there were any medium with me between love and hate, except utter forgetfulness.' "'Madam,' he exclaimed, as if suddenly remembering himself, 'forgive me what I have been saying; had she let me, I would have been to you more than a son—as it is—fare well.'

"Without another word to Mabel, he left us, and I have never seen him since.

"I dare say a great deal passed more than I have told you; but I am very forgetful now—though I well remember how miserable I was that day, and for a very long time afterwards, for poor Mabel was very ill, and never left her bed for weeks. I sent to our good Mr. Ware, and told him everything, and asked him to come and comfort Mabel; and so he did, most effectually. Night after night did I sit by her, terrified by her fits of delirium and the dreadful exhaustion which followed them. I took cold then, and my nurse wanted me to go to bed, and leave her to watch by her; but what was life and rest to me, without my child?

"Amy sat upon her pillow nearly all day, and would whisper, 'don't cry, dear Mabel.' There was not much comfort in her baby words; but I think Mabel liked to hear her.

"Mr. Ware was unwearied in his attentions to her; and, at length, she began to rally. Then I became ill, with anxiety, perhaps, or the cold I took from the night-watching, and it was quite touching to see how hard she tried to get well, that she might nurse me in turn. Oh, what a comfort it was when she began to smile again. You see how well she is now—she is never ill, and how cheerful and happy she seems. I try to think it all for the best, though it is difficult sometimes."

"Well, you have, indeed, had a great deal to vex you," said Mrs. Villars, much touched.

"I have, however, much happiness to look back upon," said Mrs. Lesly, sighing gently, "in my William's kindness for so many years; but my health is failing sadly—and I have one care certainly, when I think of leaving my children without a friend in the world to take care of them—particularly as with my life, my pension, which is the only source of our income, will cease."

"Yes," said Mrs. Villars, "it was almost a pity she did not marry the young man—what a provision it would have been for both."

"I think you would have acted as I did," said Mrs. Lesly, "would you not?"

"Why you know," she replied, "I never thought of those things as seriously as you do, and my love for my orphan children would have been a great temptation. Indeed, that love for my family guides me in almost everything, and after all, why his staying away from church would not have prevented her going."

"No, no, Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, too indolent to contest this narrow view of the subject. "I have been foolish in many things, over and over again, but in this I feel that I acted wisely."

"Not with much worldly wisdom, dear Annie," said her sister, smiling.

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Lesly, "those who believe in an overruling Providence, act most wisely, even for this world, when they obey its laws."

Caroline sighed; her sister's single-minded language recalled days long gone by; when their views had been more in accordance, and for the moment, she would have given much to have retained the simple faith of their childhood; for her life was made up of shallow, and quickly forgotten repentances.

After a pause, she said:—

"Annie, I hope you will live many years; but if it should be otherwise, do not have one care for your children, for while I live they shall find a home, wherever I may be."

"My dear, dear sister," said Mrs. Lesly, while tears of gratitude and affection dimmed her eyes; "that is so like your old kindhearted way of speaking. Could I believe that you would, indeed, be a friend to my children, I should be spared many a wakeful night, and this freedom from anxiety might prolong my life. But, Caroline, you have a large family, and can ill spare your means."

"It may be so," replied the other; "but you set me an example of doing right without regard to consequences; why should I not follow it? And you recall the days of our happy childhood, when these feelings, and such as these, were common to us both—let them be common again, dear Annie."

Mrs. Lesly, kissed her sister with grateful affection, and again, and again, thanked her for her generous promises. Alas! judging of her by herself, she little knew how evanescent were her resolutions, nor guessed that the sentiments she sometimes professed, as little belonged to her own heart, as the delusive images of the Fata Morgana to the waters they enliven. They soon afterwards parted for the night, Mrs. Lesly more cheerful, and her sister more serious than before their evening conversation.