Mrs. Lesly's ill health had made her rather retire from society, than take any pains to seek it, during her widowhood, and she had gradually drawn her circle of friends so closely round her, that it now scarcely extended beyond her immediate neighbourhood. Mabel, whose affectionate attendance was necessary to her mother's happiness, never thought of leaving her, by accepting any invitation to stay from home; and years had almost insensibly passed away in the cultivation of elegant tastes, and in constant, but local benevolence, without their being tempted to ask any distant relative or friend to visit them.

Mabel was, therefore, at first, a little puzzled to think how she might render their quiet home agreeable to the gay girl who had so unexpectedly entered it. Lucy, however, seemed determined to be pleased, if only allowed to be moving, and she ran away with great cheerfulness, to prepare for the walk which Mabel proposed soon after the departure of Mrs. Villars.

"Do you often call at the rectory?" she asked, as they strolled up the hill leading through the village.

"We will call as we return from our walk," replied Mabel, "if you fancy going there with me."

"Oh, yes," said Lucy, "I should like it so much, for you said Mr. Ware was such a nice man; his sister, I suppose, is quite an old maid."

"She is such a pleasant old lady, that you cannot help liking her," said Mabel; "but I ought not to say that, I suppose, as some people always dislike those they are told they shall like, and I should be very sorry if you were not pleased with them both."

"Oh, I shall be sure to like them if they are favorites of yours. But do look how lovely;" she exclaimed, as a sudden turn in the winding walk they had chosen, gave them a fine view of the distant country, with Aston manor in the fore-ground. "What a beautiful house. Is that the house we saw from the garden? Is that Harry Hargrave's?"

"Yes," was the laconic reply.

"Why do you look so grave?"

"I did not mean to look so," said Mabel; stopping by an old hawthorn tree, which was lying upon the ground, though the branches were still covered with foliage. "Let us sit down here, for the sun is quite oppressive. This," continued she, "is a favorite seat of mine; the tree fell a long time ago, and has been left as it is, ever since. You will get a better view of the house here, than you will find any where else."

Lucy readily seated herself by Mabel's side, upon the old tree which had fallen in a pleasant spot. A high hedge shaded it from the sun on one side, and clusters of wild roses hung down it, and scented the air. A gentle breeze stole up from the valley, and a small stream rippled by in melodious monotony, falling in a tiny cascade over the bank into the river below. The songs of many birds came from all sides of the well wooded country—and here and there a gay butterfly crossed over the fields.

They continued for some little time in silence, which Lucy was the first to break, by enquiring if Aston Manor were as pleasant inside as it seemed to promise to be.

"Yes, even more pleasant," replied Mabel; "it is a very compact house, the rooms are of a very good size—and the whole place splendidly furnished, and generally admired in our county; the hall is surrounded by a gallery, hung with paintings of great value. The gardens are very beautiful, and every thing else in keeping. Indeed, I think it is quite a bijou of a place."

"Is there any room that would do nicely for a dance?" enquired Lucy.

"They used to have many pleasant dances there, in good Mrs. Hargrave's lifetime, which mamma remembers well."

"Oh, that will be so nice," said Lucy.

"What will?" said Mabel, in surprise.

"Why, when our castle in the air marriage takes place," said Lucy; "because Caroline is so very fond of dancing, and could lead off a ball with such spirit; and I shall contrive to be nearly always staying with them."

"Why do you suppose every thing so certain," said Mabel, startled, alike at the indelicacy of the scheme, and Lucy's cool thoughtlessness in speaking of it.

"Do not say it will not be," said Lucy, "or I shall punish you some how or other. Now, would you not be glad to have us down here, Colonel Hargrave and all; think what nice parties there would be; and who knows what nice beau might come down and take you away with him."

Mabel's cheek blushed scarlet, and her lips curled in preparation for some angry retort—suddenly she checked herself as she remembered the conversation of the preceding night. Have I then failed so soon, thought she to herself.

"Ah, mamma, you know my vain wicked heart better than I do—for the first observation that seems to point me out as single, and needing a lover, makes me angry."

"Ah, you blush, Mabel," pursued her heedless tormentor, too unaccustomed to feel for others, to be able to read her countenance, or tell why her words had given pain; "perhaps, you are engaged to some one, under the rose, all the while."

Mabel was silent for a moment; it required that moment to seize the reins with which she usually held her temper in check, and then she replied, gently, but gravely.

"I am not engaged to any one; you mistake my face entirely, but I colored because I was silly enough to feel angry at your thinking I was wishing to be married—but it was wrong of me, because you could not understand my feelings without being told. So I must tell you," she continued smiling, "that I am a determined old maid; though, perhaps, you may think such a resolution needless in a place where gentlemen seldom come to disturb our equanimity."

"What, wedded to your duties, are you? Or what other queer reason may have led you to such a determination," enquired Lucy, who could not help feeling that her new friend's speech meant more than it usually does in the mouth of a beautiful girl; and she was surprised to think she should wish to retire from the field of conquest, before actually driven from it by dulness or age. Her own vanity could not conceal from her, a certain indescribable something which rendered her cousin particularly attractive, and, though she certainly ranked her second to herself, that did not imply any very low degree of merit.

Mabel's composure, which was seldom lost, was now entirely restored, and she answered Lucy's wondering eyes with one of her peculiarly sweet and gentle smiles.

"You may well wonder," said she, "that I, who seem so little your senior, should already have made such a resolution. I too, who am fond of society, fond of companionship, and all that is domestic, and choose solitude only as wholesome medicine; but some destinies are fixed early, others late; and I, who once thought, and still think, marriage, with its social harmony and sweet feelings of dependence, most fitted for a woman's nature, have yet quite made up my mind to remain single."

"I shall not believe you till you give me some good reason," said Lucy.

"You are too kind," replied Mabel, as her voice slightly trembled, "to seek to probe a wound only from the curiosity of seeing how deep it is—when you have no power to heal. I speak of myself now," she added, hastily; "lest in our future conversations, you may pain me without knowing it, and perhaps I might think you unkind when you were only seeking to amuse me. Oh, Lucy," said she, turning round with sudden energy, "I have suffered terribly, and still suffer, when I lose my self-command for a moment—do not then talk of my loving or needing love—do not tease me with the intention of pleasing—do not talk—" Mabel suddenly stopped and burst into tears—for a very long time, she had never spoken intimately with a young girl in her own station of life, and the novelty had surprised her. A few large drops rolled quickly down her crimson cheeks, but were soon brushed away, and half smiling, she begged her cousin's forgiveness for speaking so hastily—in a few more seconds, she was again gentle and submissive as a child.

"Then must I never speak of love at all?" said Lucy, fearing that all the most interesting of her stories would find an unwilling listener.

"Oh, you mistake me," said Mabel; "do not think me so selfish—talk as much as you like of yourself, and forget me; and you will, perhaps, find me a better listener, perhaps a better adviser, because I have altogether retired from the lists of conquest; and, be assured, the necessity of placing a guard over myself, and the difficulty of doing it effectually, only tells me how much I ought to feel for others. If you will always let me speak the truth, without being offended with me, I will take interest in your feelings at any time, only remember that mine are like 'The Arab's sealed fountain,' whose waters will never see the light again."

"You are a very strange girl, my sweet, new friend," said Lucy; "but I love you better for having a history, although I see I must not read it quite yet; at all events, not till I know you better, and you learn how well I can keep a secret."

"No, not even then," replied Mabel, "I cannot speak of myself without speaking of more than myself; so content yourself with what I have told you, and do not think of me again, or I shall repent having said anything."

"Well, it shall be quite as you like, I will do anything you wish, only you must tell me, that you love me very, very much indeed."

"I will tell you no such thing," said Mabel, laughing; "remember, I only met you yesterday morning."

"Well then, come and call at the rectory, and that will shew me you love me."

"But I could do such a little thing, whether I loved you or not," said Mabel; "so I will take you for charity's sake, for I see, like the cat who was turned into a lady, and yet ran after mice—you cannot go without your accustomed food."

"I thought you said you liked society," said Lucy.

"And so I do—so let us walk on, for this green lane will lead us round to the rectory."

One of the rectory pets was an immense Newfoundland dog, who began to bark loudly as they approached the house.

"Oh!" said Lucy, with a half scream, "I cannot go on—I am sure he is untied—nasty thing."

"No, he never barks when he is loose—come on, dear, I am sure he will not hurt you."

Lucy clung to her arm in real or affected terror till they reached the house door.

Much to her disappointment, they found no one but Miss Ware at home, and she sat up during the visit, as silent, and apparently as timid, as a child, amusing herself by poking her parasol through the cage of the pet parrot, who appeared highly offended at her familiarity.

Mabel was a great favorite at the rectory, and Miss Ware, certain of finding her interested in her news, had many little things to tell her; she had had a letter from one old friend, and had worked a birth-day present for another, with many other little incidents to notice, which Lucy amused herself by silently turning into ridicule, though they were so kindly told that few would have found it difficult to enter into the little cares and joys which, after all, were never selfish.

"My brother and nephew are gone to look over the church," said she, "which I conclude Miss Villars has not yet seen. Edwin is always wishing to improve the old tower, and to scrape away the mortar and white-wash from the walls inside the church, for he says they are painted with beautiful figures—but he will never have money enough for that I am afraid—yet he puts by all he can spare—for he does not like running into debt, and I agree with him, it is doing evil that good may come. So he saves every year—but I fear he will not get enough in his lifetime, to carry out this pet scheme."

"I wish we were all rich enough to raise a subscription," said Mabel, "I should so much like to see him fully employed in finding out all the beauties of our dear old church."

"Yes," said Miss Ware, "I like to hear him talk on the subject, because he enters upon it in the true genuine spirit—he feels it to be almost an insult to religion to allow its altars to be kept in the slovenly state they too often are; grudged almost the necessary repairs by those who are lavish where their own minutest comforts are concerned. The Roman Catholics might cry shame at us."

"Why do you not ask Colonel Hargrave, ma'am?" enquired Lucy, turning round from the parrot.

"My brother has mentioned the subject several times," said Miss Ware, "without being able to interest him. Young men too seldom enter, with warmth, on these subjects, and he has now left us so long."

"Oh, I will tell him he must," said Lucy, "with his fortune it is really quite shabby of him."

"Do you know him then?" enquired Miss Ware.

"Yes—no—not exactly—but he is a relation of ours. He is coming to stay with us in Bath, and I will take an early opportunity of mentioning the church to him."

"Oh, I remember," said Miss Ware, "he is, I know, related to you through Colonel Lesly, but I am afraid you will scarcely succeed, where my brother has failed—if strength of argument be needed, few can put a thing in a stronger light than Edwin can."

"Oh," said Lucy, laughing, "I never condescend to argue with a man—I will tell him he must—suggest that not to do so is shabby, mean—with a few more epithets to match, and then leave his own good taste to draw the conclusion."

"Well," said Miss Ware, recovering from her slight pique, at thinking any one could succeed where Edwin failed, "if you never use your ridicule for a worse purpose, you will do well."

The subject here took another turn, and Lucy again applied herself to tease the parrot with the same listlessness as before—thinking the conversation very dull, yet too idle to throw in her share. She was aroused from her apathy, by hearing Miss Ware ask Mabel if she would bring her young friend to tea on the morrow, if Mrs. Lesly could content herself with Amy's company; for to ask her, she knew to be useless. Lucy feared Mabel was going to decline, and she cast such an imploring look at her as to decide the question, and make her promise that, if Mrs. Lesly continued as well as she had been, and would consent to part with them, they would come with pleasure. Lucy thought this, a very satisfactory conclusion, to so dull a visit, and once again all smiles, shook Miss Ware warmly by the hand, as Mabel rose to leave, and returned home in high spirits.