Lucy Villars was a pretty girl, with fairy-like figure, small features, laughing mouth, bright blue sparkling eyes, and a profusion of light ringlets. Her step was buoyant, and her voice full of animation. It might have been vanity that made the sparkle of those eyes so brilliant, and her smiles so frequent, but as her merry laugh echoed back the joyousness of her own heart, few were disposed to condemn the feeling, whatever it might be, that rendered her so seemingly happy with herself, and all around her.

What mental abilities she might possess, however, were completely overshadowed by the mistakes of early education; at times they would peep forth when her feelings were really stirred by any strong impulse of good or evil; but so uncommon were these indications of mind, that no one could regard them as any true sign even of an originally strong intellect; and her ordinary flippancy was, perhaps, more certainly chosen as an index to the spirit within.

She had been but an apt pupil in a bad school. When scarcely more than a tottering child, she had taken her place at the dancing academy, learning in her lisping language to compare waltzes and polkas, and criticise dress, and to display her tiny figure for the admiration of spectators; feeling her little heart bound when perhaps she attracted notice from being the smallest and gayest of her companions. Then, in the juvenile party, where the lesson of the morning could be so well displayed, where she early learnt to hear her nonsense listened to with pleasure, and, where, even the old and sensible regarded her little affectations with a smile, she found another opportunity for display in the world for which she was educated.

These were too tempting after the dry formula of French verbs and geography lessons, not to engross the greater part of her thoughts; and, as she grew older, the evening ball, with its glare of light, its flirtations and too visible admiration, and the morning promenade, concert, or town gossip, served to keep up the excited, thoughtless feeling to which she had been so early trained. Oh, England, do you educate all your daughters in this manner! Your matrons, reverenced by all nations, answer no!

It could scarcely be wondered at, that Lucy Villars had thus learnt to place too high a value on personal beauty. We would not for an instant deny its merit. We reverence all that is beautiful in art or nature, we glow with admiration of a fine picture, and the sight of a rich landscape elevates the feelings of him who gazes upon it; we picture angels beautiful, and we look forward to a heaven where all is perfect beauty. It cannot then be valueless when exhibited in the human face or figure. It has indeed been much over and underrated. May we not look upon it as a talent bestowed for some high purpose, as a means of influence which must be some day accounted for.

No such thoughts ever occupied Lucy's mind for a moment; she had learnt her own estimate of its value from the frivolous admiration of a gay city; she had heard it praised in others as if of the greatest importance; and she had chosen her acquaintance amongst those who studied every means of enhancing its charms.

She now entered on her country visit with the same feelings; and, bent on displaying herself to the best advantage at the rectory, she spent the greater part of the next morning, during the hours usually occupied by Mabel in attending to Amy's lessons, in selecting from her wardrobe a dress best suited for the occasion. Mabel was again and again consulted, and Amy began to show great impatience at her sister's divided attention, usually all her own, during her study hours.

But Mabel, much to her disappointment, not unwilling to teach her self-denial, persisted in attending to Lucy's questions, and in the evening the latter found herself attired to her perfect satisfaction, and looking remarkably well.

"You seem to think dress of little importance," she said, lounging into her cousin's room, and stopping to take another peep in the glass, without seeing that Mabel had not finished dressing, and was a little late.

"No indeed," replied Mabel, fastening a bouquet of geraniums in her simple white dress, without the aid of the usurped mirror, "I think it of so much consequence, that no woman should be indifferent to it, when at her toilet, or with her milliner. They say a lady's taste is to be read in her dress, and I should not like to give soiled lace or badly blended colors, as an index to mine."

"Do you find any fault with my dress to-night?" enquired Lucy.

Mabel only suggested that a simple brooch might be preferred to the bright bow which ornamented her bosom, but she had ample time to repent the observation, for Lucy insisted on going over her whole box of jewelry to find a substitute, and was scarcely ready by the time when Mabel, having provided books, work, tea, and every thing she could think of for Mrs. Lesly and Amy, waited for her in the garden.

They found Mr. Ware looking for them at his garden gate. Mabel hurried forward to meet him, and then turned to introduce her cousin.

"Most welcome, my dear young ladies," said he, extending a hand to each, "my sister has no mean opinion of her own hospitality to venture on inviting you to join our party."

Lucy blushed with conscious beauty, while Mabel said, with a smile—

"You throw all the blame on Miss Ware. I fear then, you would not have asked us to come yourself."

"Nay, nay, I cannot exactly say what I would have done; but here is Arthur, no doubt he can play at words better than I can."

Captain Clair gracefully raised his hat as he came in sight, and then shaking hands with Mabel, requested, in a low voice to be introduced to her lovely cousin. The "lovely," was pronounced distinctly enough to reach Lucy's ears, and the blush with which she received Mabel's introduction shewed him that the compliment had been accepted.

As the party lounged round the garden, Mabel reminded Mr. Ware of his promise to show her some improvements he had been making amongst the evergreens in the shrubbery; and Lucy Villars gladly seized the opportunity of commencing a flirting conversation with Captain Clair, who, being well drilled in the accomplishment of small talk, by long practice, easily fell into a tÊte-À-tÊte.

Mabel's hand was placed affectionately in the old man's arm, as they walked on together, finding some kindred thought from every topic they chose. He had been kind to her when a firm friend had been most needed, and she now sought to shew, in every way, that he had not bestowed that kindness on one incapable of appreciating it.

The ready sympathy she felt in all in which he took any interest, was, perhaps, the best return she could have thought of. We value most that for which we pay the highest, and friendship is purchased by no common coin.

It was a great pleasure to Mr. Ware, to have her society and ready sympathy. Few friends lay within reach of Aston, and her elegant mind supplied what would otherwise have been wanting in his simple home, and gave him an opportunity of conversing on his favorite topics.

"We shall not be seeing so much of you I fear," he said, as they walked back towards the house, "but I must not be selfish."

"Indeed I hope that will not be the case," she replied, "do come and walk with us whenever you have time. No one can shew the the beauties of our county better than you can, and I never enjoy a party so much as when you are with us."

"If you are in earnest I feel inclined to gratify you, if not, to punish you, by accepting your invitation."

"Do not let us even pretend to be insincere," said Mabel, eagerly, "hypocrisy is so hateful. Take me at my word, and trust me till I break it."

"Well, then, so I will; I scarcely know which I like most, to trust or be trusted, both are so pleasant; so, if you are going to do any thing delightful out of doors, like a walk or a nutting expedition, ask us to join you, and we will do the same, so we shall the better be able to amuse our guests. People often require too good a reason for meeting—we will have none."

"I will most willingly promise," returned Mabel, "only remember, that on some days mamma feels so low that I never leave her—then you must excuse me, for every thing at home depends on her."

"You are quite right to let it be so," said Mr. Ware, "and I will never say a word against such an arrangement. Only tell her we mean to take her by storm some night and come to tea. You shall give it us on the green, and then she can look on without minding our noise."

"Mamma will be very glad to see you, I am sure," said Mabel, "if you will only propose it. The effort would do her good."

"Very well then, I will tell her when I see her next," said Mr. Ware, with a smile.

They had now reached the open window of the sitting-room, where Mabel was welcomed by Miss Ware.

"The evening is really quite sultry," said she, "yet the air at this time of day so often gives me cold, that I had not courage to venture out, though I so much wished to join you."

"Had I known that, my dear Miss Ware, I should not have been tempted to remain out so long."

"No, no, dear child, I am not so selfish, for I know when once you begin to talk to Edwin there is no leaving off; but I hope you have not forgotten your pretty cousin to-night. You promised to bring her with you."

"Oh, yes, she is with us," said Mabel, turning round, but no Lucy was to be seen.

"Oh, Arthur is taking care of her, I believe," said Mr. Ware, "and they will be here soon, I dare say."

It was some little time, however, before they did appear, and then they were seen advancing down the gravel walk, both laughing, and Lucy with a very high colour.

"Why," said Mr. Ware, "you stole a march upon us, Arthur, where have you been keeping this young lady in the damp?"

"Are we at the chair of confession?" asked the young officer, still laughing.

"Yes, yes, every one confesses everything here; but sit down to tea first, and take off your bonnet, Miss Villars."

"Well then," said Clair, when they were comfortably seated at the tea-table, "I perceive I must apologise for a very grave offence in keeping Miss Lucy Villars so long absent; the whole crime, I fear, lies with me, I indeed, the scape-goat for every offender, must, I fear, take the blame on myself."

"Come, come, Arthur," said his uncle, "be laconic."

"My dear uncle, you should allow a prisoner to state his own case fairly—if he has not studied Burke on the 'Sublime and Beautiful,' the 'Patriot King,' and other models of pure English composition, you must let a poor fellow express himself as he can, so that he speaks the truth. So to proceed; we were talking of country pursuits, and Miss Lucy could not understand how I could contrive to while away my time, after being accustomed to town, Portsmouth, Southampton, Cheltenham, Scarborough, Bombay, Calcutta and such places; how, in fact, I contrived to vegetate here."

Lucy laughed merrily, and displayed in doing so a very pretty set of white teeth. But Mr. Ware saw with regret that a new spirit had entered their small circle of society, whose influence might do much to counteract his own on the versatile disposition of his nephew, even without being conscious of it.

"Well, aunt," Captain Clair continued gaily, "you look serious, as if I meant any bad compliment to the sweetest village in England; though, my dear aunt, vegetation is vegetation after all, whether displayed on the Cotswold hills or in the back woods of America."

Mabel looked at him for an instant, and her deep blue eyes seemed to deprecate a remark which her ever kind heart told her was giving pain. Clair bowed, and then said almost in a whisper: "Thank you, I was wrong," and continued his narrative, after a moment's pause.

"Well, as I before said, Miss Lucy wished to know how I amused myself in the country, and, amongst other things, I mentioned my workshop, situated, as you may remember, over the stable, and accessible only by a ladder. However, this lady honored me by expressing a wish to see it, and you know how difficult it is to refuse to gratify a lady's taste for a hobby of our own, therefore, we proceeded to the stable, where, after some time being spent in the ascent of the ladder, in looking at my tools, and all my attempts at carpentering rickety garden chairs, and tables that never will be persuaded to stand even, and after my giving her a promise to turn her a jewel box, (which I hope she did not believe) we experienced the same difficulty in coming down, that we did in going up, but at length we are here, and at your service."

"What a long story about nothing," said his aunt.

"Then, if you think so, you do neither me nor my narrative justice; I have given it for the amusement of the public, and feel myself ill-used to find it not appreciated. Miss Lucy you play chess, you said. Honor me by playing? We are ill-treated by the rest of the company, so may well retire from notice."

Mabel was surprised to see the sudden intimacy which had sprung up in less than an hour, and expected that Lucy would evade the familiarity with which she was so soon treated, by some evidence of woman's tact; but she very soon saw her seated by the little chess-table, in the corner, apart from the rest, and listening to the low conversation addressed to her, as if her host, and hostess, and friend, had not been in the room.

She could not help feeling a little angry at her cousin's total neglect of the friends whom she had ever been accustomed to treat with affection and respect, but studiously endeavoured to engage their attention, and to prevent their thinking of it. Still, it is never so difficult to talk as when we most try to do so, and, almost for the first time, with them, she felt it tedious to support the conversation.

At length, after giving Lucy two or three games, which her inferior play would never have won, Captain Clair shut up the board, and the two turned round for amusement to the rest of the company.

"Do you know, Mabel," said Lucy, "that Captain Clair came home from Malta with Colonel Hargrave."

"Yes, Mr. Ware told me so."

"Do then join with me in begging a description of him."

"Surely," she replied, "Captain Clair does not need two requests."

"Do then," said Lucy, turning to him, "give us a nice long description of him."

"I really do not know where to begin," said he, "particularly as you say you will see him so soon."

"Oh, yes," said Lucy, with quiet pride, "he is coming to see us in Bath. But now do describe him," she reiterated, with her prettiest look of entreaty.

"Well then, though it is hard to have to describe a character that throws one's own into shade."

"No, my dear boy," said Mr. Ware, his eyes glistening at this modest avowal; "true praise of another's worth only enhances your own."

"Not in every one's opinion, I fear, uncle; virtue seems to stand so much by comparison, at least, I have often found it so; but that shall not prevent my giving as faithful a picture as I can remember of Hargrave. I am rather fond of studying character."

"How you wander," said Lucy; "do begin—."

"No, miss Lucy, I was not wandering so much as you think, my observation on character might after a bit have led to Hargrave—but, like a true knight, once more I obey. What shall I begin with? A man's agreeable qualities are generally judged by his acres; allow me," said he, waving his hand towards the window, and pointing to the landscape of hill and vale, and rich woods, and winding river, over which the moon was shining, to shew you his most agreeable phase in the eyes of fair ladies.

Lucy visibly colored, and Clair looked at her scrutinisingly, till she laughingly told him to go on.

"Well, if that description does not satisfy, I must be more minute, and bring up qualities, which, in these refined days, are not so much thought of, unfortunately. First, then, his personal appearance. He is very tall, and broad shouldered, and athletic; yet, at the same time, though he is as strong as a giant, you might almost call him graceful. He seems to have acquired the difficult art of standing perfectly still; no shifting from one foot to another, a habit, Miss Lucy, I am prone to indulge in. Now then for his face, dark eyes, dark hair, dark complexion, white teeth, and a good nose, and I suppose my description is complete."

"No, not yet, by any means," said Lucy, "tell us a little more."

"Ah, I forgot his sneer, which is perfect, I never saw one so cutting before; but then his smile atones for it, though as rare as the sunshine in November. The sneer is that of a proud, contemptuous, arrogant man—the smile, that of an infant. Then, his eye—there is no describing his eye—you, may remember it, uncle; it seems as if continual fire were sleeping in it, like the fire of uncurbed intellect; an eye capable of reading the countenance of another, yet, almost slothful in the attempt to do so."

"What a horrid man!" exclaimed Lucy.

"You will not think so when you see him, or if you do, you will be singular," said Clair. "Then I was going to tell you, that he is changeable as the moon. Perhaps, when you are alone with him, he will startle and entrance you, by his eloquent observations on men, and things; and you will invite your friends to meet him, expecting them to be equally fascinated; but, perhaps, during the whole evening, he will scarcely make even a common-place observation. He is, indeed, a curious, fascinating, wilful being; clever, and accomplished, beyond a doubt, and his character is unimpeachable; yet he always seems to want something to make him entirely happy."

"Poor fellow," sighed Mr. Ware.

"Perhaps he is in love," suggested Lucy.

"Hardly unsuccessfully, I should think; indeed, were I he, I should never despair—but I own," said he, laughing; "I have sometimes caught him looking at the moon."

"Well," said Mabel, rising; "I am sure we have to thank you for your description of our lord of the manor, though you have made him rather a terrible personage. Come, Lucy, I fear we must go."

"If you must, you will allow me to see you home," said Clair.

"I always take Mabel home," said his uncle; "but, if you will come with us, as there are two ladies to be taken care of, we shall walk home together."

Clair gladly assented to this arrangement; but, to Lucy's surprise, offered Mabel his arm, leaving her to walk with his uncle; a plan she so decidedly disliked, that she insisted on keeping her pocket-handkerchief to her mouth the whole way home, though the night was remarkably clear, and her stifled and negligent answers gave little encouragement to her companion's attempts at conversation.

When they reached home, they found only Betsy, waiting up for them, and Mabel begged Lucy to go as quietly as possible to her room, for fear of waking Amy—but she insisted on following her, without stopping to remark the expression of unusual paleness and fatigue, which was visible in her countenance, and compelled her to listen to the story of her evening's adventures.

"You know," said she, blushing, "when I was up in that high poky place, at the top of the long ladder, Captain Clair said he would not let me go down till I gave him some reward; of course I knew he wanted a kiss, but I was not going to give it him, and so I stood still, till I was so tired, that I compromised the matter by giving him my hand to kiss; so then he let me go, saying, he supposed he must be contented."

"Oh! Lucy," cried Mabel, "how could you be so imprudent as to go up there alone—how impertinent of him—why did you let him take such a liberty."

"Come, nonsense, now sweetest, do not be a prude, it does not become you to look like an old maid. What is the harm of having a kiss on one's hand, one's cheek would be different, and, of course, I would not allow him to do that."

"But, Lucy, dear, is it not imprudent to place yourself in a position which would allow him to ask such a thing—will it not make you appear a flirt—does it not lower you to allow him to be so free, after seeing him only for a few hours. Do consider."

"Why, one would think I was a grandmother. I hate being cross at every little thing. I am sure it is more wicked to quarrel, after all."

"Yes, but if you would only understand me," said Mabel, "you would know, I would not have you quarrel, either. But if you will let me, we will talk of it again to-morrow, for now poor Amy is waking. You know," said she, gently putting her arm round her pretty cousin, and kissing her forehead softly; "you know you promised to let me talk to you in this way, and you half promised to listen."

"Well, sweet cousin, I think you may be speaking the truth, after all. It was very naughty of me, perhaps," she added, with a smile, "to go up in the loft, and so I will try and be better in future. Oh dear! dear! Amy is awake; well, I am very sorry. Go to sleep, child, Mabel is tired," and off she ran to her own room, leaving her cousin to soothe the restless child as she could.

Perhaps it was as well that Mabel was thus prevented from following the train of depressing thought into which she seemed to have fallen on her return from the rectory, for, as she sunk to rest, with Amy's head upon her arm, she remembered, that if sorrow had ever laid its heavy hand upon her life, the treasure of a sister's love had yet been given her—a sister rendered more dear by sickness and weakness. And in these thoughts the unselfish girl soon forgot all other feelings.