Could the selfish but remember how much less they would feel their own sorrows by sharing those of others, they would learn an easy way to alleviate the unhappiness they are continually guarding against, by so occupying themselves in thoughts of pity and kindness as to leave little room in their own minds for fear or regret.

The kindhearted very soon begin to feel an interest in those who are thrown much with them, and, though Lucy presented many faults to her notice, Mabel learnt to watch her with great interest. It soon became evident to her that she was perfectly in earnest in her attempts to engage the affections of Captain Clair, and, though at first she had been disgusted and pained at the idea—more ready to pity than condemn—she felt for Lucy when she perceived, by her variable spirits, that her heart was engaged in the flirtation she had so thoughtlessly commenced. The conduct of Clair puzzled her, she wished to believe that his attentions were serious, and yet she could not help thinking they meant nothing beyond the fashionable love he might often have professed for the most pleasing young lady of any society in which he happened to find himself. Still, she hoped she was mistaken; and thought, over again and again the little anecdotes which Lucy daily brought to her confidence, assuming them as unmistakeable signs of an affection which would soon declare itself.

Mabel knew that a look, a single word, even an emphasis on an ordinary word are sometimes the evidences of affection. Yet, all that Lucy told her, seemed to fall short, certainly of her ideas of love, formed, as they had been, from her own unhappy history. Yet she hesitated to speak her opinion freely; for, after all, it might be only a very unkind suspicion of one who had not given any very good cause for believing him to be a trifler. He had, besides, been so kind to herself, that she could not help feeling prepossessed in his favor.

Meanwhile, Clair appeared as attentive as ever, but his attentions were never varied by ill humour or depression. Still Lucy rested confident in the power of her own attractions—and, persisting in believing he was only diffident—she became more and more lavish of encouragement, without, however, finding her admirer become either warmer or bolder.

What was to be done? Her letters to Bath had been full of the admiration she had inspired in the young officer, and of expectations that, in a few more posts, she would have to announce his decided proposals. The letters she received in return were full of delighted badinage from her sisters, and good advice from her mother. How then could she bear to return home with the tacit confession that her vanity had deceived her; and thus subject herself to her sisters' cutting jests, and the bitterness of her often disappointed mother. The poor girl had been spoilt by education and companionship, and she was, according to her own idea, forced to play desperately in order to justify what she had written home. She did not stop to consider that all delicacy, modesty, and all that is precious in a woman, would be risked in such a game, when she read such words as these in her mother's letters, "you might well pride yourself," she wrote, "on being the first of my daughters whom I shall have the pleasure of seeing married. Indeed I have always flattered myself, that my Lucy would be the first to secure herself an establishment."

The seeds of vanity, thus sown by a mother's hand, grew quickly in the daughter's heart. To be the first to be married was an idea that filled her with pleasure; she did not stop to analyze, or she might have discovered that the hope of mortifying her sisters by her marriage, was inconsistent with the love she believed she felt for them.

But now, what could she do! how could she bring her backward lover to a proposal! She eagerly seized any opportunity of meeting him, and never neglected pursuing any conversation which seemed likely to lead to love. Still she was as far from her object as ever, and at length she felt the feverish eagerness of a gambler to bring the game to a successful close.

Mabel, who saw she suffered, sincerely, pitied her, though unable to divine her thoughts. Disappointed affection the poor girl might have successfully struggled against; but she could not banish the idea of the sneers and jests, which, in contrast to her present popularity, would meet her at home. Home, which in its sacred circle ought to have afforded a refuge from every evil passion, as from every outward danger. She knew it would not be so, and willingly would she almost have thrown herself at the Captain's feet, and begged him to protect her from it, rather than oblige her to return to such a sanctuary.

Oh, fashionable and speculating mothers, why do you crush in your children some of the sweetest and loveliest of their feelings. Why are you so utterly foolish, as, first to make them unworthy of a husband's trust and confidence, and then wonder that they do not obtain them. A man seeks, in his wife, for a companion to his best feelings, fit your daughters to fill such situations, and, should they then fail to obtain them, they will still hold an honored place in society.

Lucy felt that her success, in a matrimonial point of view, was all that her mother regarded, that she seemed to view her daughters with the eyes of the public, and valued them in proportion to the admiration they excited, and she now strained every nerve to gratify both her and herself.

There was one little plan to which she looked with great interest. Mr. Ware's proposal of their taking tea in Mrs. Lesly's garden, was to be carried into effect. They were all to dine early, and drink tea soon enough to prevent any danger of taking cold, and Mabel was to prepare them tea and fruit in the garden, while Miss Ware would take hers quietly in doors with Mrs. Lesly. Amy talked herself tired with planning it, for a week before, asking Mabel for an exact list of all the fruit she meant to get for their entertainment. Lucy looked forward to it more seriously; she fancied Clair entered so eagerly into the plan that she hoped he had some particular reason for wishing it, more than the mere pleasure of taking tea in the open air. Was it not very likely, that lounging down one of the shady walks which skirted the garden, he might find courage to tell all she so much wished to hear.

The expected evening at length arrived.

Mrs. Lesly was unusually well, for the renewed confidence between herself and her daughter had produced the most happy effects. Lucy was all sparkling animation, and Clair forgot to be rational in the effervescence of his good spirits. Lucy, whose fear of caterpillars was quite touching, had persuaded Mabel to place the tea-table on the open grass-plot—and there the sisters had delighted themselves in arranging the simple repast. Amy was so accustomed to bustle along by Mabel's side, that she had come to the belief that she could do nothing well without her; and she now hurried about, laughing merrily, as she conveyed to the table, plates of early fruit, which old John had always carefully matted through the summer. Mr. Ware was particularly fond of fruit, and it was a great pleasure to the sisters, to store up every little luxury for him.

The table looked very pretty with its fruit, and cream, and flowers, and the little party was a merry one, ready to take pleasure and amusement in anything. Mr. Ware told stories of other days, and Clair brought anecdotes of the fashionable world of his day, while the girls were well-pleased listeners.

When tea had been fully discussed, they strolled round the garden, watching for the sunset, which was to be the signal for taking shelter in the house. Lucy, the captain, and Amy, went off laughing together, while Mabel, choosing the driest path in the garden, paced up and down by the side of Mr. Ware.

"It is very kind of you," he said, "to prefer my company to those who are gayer and younger; but I am sorry to perceive that you are not quite in your usual spirits—I hope you have no reason to be depressed."

"None at all," replied Mabel, "and yet I am foolish enough to feel low-spirited. But have you never felt a vague apprehension that something dreadful was going to happen—I cannot overcome it to-night."

"I have often felt the same from no reason, as you say, and have as often found my fears groundless. Do you not remember those beautiful words—'He feareth no evil tidings?'"

"Oh yes—I must not think of it again."

Mr. Ware thought this might be no bad opportunity of speaking of Mrs. Lesly's delicate health, and leading her to prepare herself for a trial which he foresaw was not far distant; but at the very moment that he was thinking how to introduce the subject, the sound of merry laughter came from the other side of the garden, and Mabel exclaimed—

"Oh, I fear they are at the swing, and John says it's unsafe. I must go and stop them."

And so saying, she ran quickly across the garden, till she reached the spot where the swing was suspended from the branch of two tall fir trees.

Amy was in the swing, which Captain Clair was pushing, while Lucy was clapping her hands as each time the child rose higher in the air.

"Oh, do stop," said Mabel, running up to them quite out of breath, and scarcely able to say any more.

"No, no," said Lucy, "we want to see if Amy can touch that bough. What a beautiful swinger she is—she nearly did it then, I declare—try again, Amy."

"John says it is unsafe," cried Mabel, trying to be heard, "do, do stop—for mercy's sake, Captain Clair, do stop her."

Both were, however, deaf to her entreaty. Lucy rejoiced in what she thought superior nerve, and called to her not to be an old maid, frightened at everything; while Clair thought her very feminine and pretty, but apprehended no real danger.

Mabel continued to exclaim, till unable to get a hearing, she burst into tears of vexation and alarm, fearing to touch the rope, lest she might cause the accident she feared.

At the same moment, while she watched Amy ascend quickly through the air, till her feet scattered a few leaves from the bough she had been trying to touch, there came a heaving sound, then a loud crash—the swing gave way, and Amy fell violently to the ground. With a scream of piercing anguish, she sprang to her side, where she lay close by a knotted root of the tree, which she had struck in falling.

Lucy stood blushing and terrified, uttering some confused excuses for not listening to one who justice whispered was never fanciful.

Captain Clair looked bewildered and thoroughly ashamed, for often the only excuse for daring is its success.

Mr. Ware fortunately soon reached the spot, and though extremely vexed at such a termination to the day's enjoyment, merely roused his nephew, by telling him to carry the poor child into the house, and then to fetch a doctor, that they might be certain she had sustained no serious injury.

His nephew, too happy to have some duty assigned, raised Amy in his arms, for she was perfectly insensible, and, as Mabel supported her drooping head, carried her into the house. Mabel's conduct during that short walk cut him to the heart; she seemed entirely to have forgotten that his obstinacy had injured her sister; and in her anxiety for her safety, she did not suffer a complaining word to escape her. Those who possess little control over their own feelings, often reverence those who have great self-command—and to Clair, who a few minutes before, had been laughing with almost childish excitement, and was now utterly depressed, Mabel seemed like a superior being in the calm dignity of her silent distress.

At length, Amy was safely placed upon her bed, and leaving Mabel and their servant-maid to try every means to restore her to consciousness, he hastened in search of a surgeon. He met Lucy in the lane, who told him that she had anticipated his errand, but that the doctor had gone to see a patient many miles away.

"Then I shall go for a horse, and follow him," said he, "anything will be better than this suspense."

"And what shall I do?" cried Lucy, wringing her hands; but Clair had no comfort to offer, and hurried on to the village to find a horse.

Lucy returned to the house, frightened, and ashamed. She did not like to remain alone, yet there was no one in the sitting-room; and not daring to seek any one, she retired to her own chamber, which looked so still and lonely, that she put the door half open, and seated herself in a chair close by, to listen for any news from Amy's room. She could not help recalling to herself the wild laugh of the poor child only half an hour before, and she could not bear to think of how still she was lying there.

At length she heard Betsy, the privileged maid, say:—

"It is all Miss Lucy's fault, I know, for the house has not been the same since she came into it."

"Hush, Betsy," was the murmured reply, in her cousin's well known voice; "those thoughts will only make it harder to bear."

Betsy was not so easily stopped, but Mabel seemed to reply no more.

Every word went to Lucy's heart. The frequent question of despairing feeling. "What shall I do?" received no answer, and she sat on in her desolate seat, or varied her watch by stealing on tiptoe to the end of the passage. Thus the weary time slipt away, and she had listened to the church clock, as it struck the hours till midnight—she then heard the sound of horses' feet, and anxious for any change, she ran down stairs—but she found that Clair and the surgeon had already been admitted by Mr. Ware, who was watching for them, and, feeling herself of no use, she again crept to her room to listen, trembling for the doctor's opinion. The examination lasted a long time, and she became nearly worn out with waiting, and trying every minute to divine something from the hurried voices, or hurried steps of the attendants in the sick room. But she could learn nothing, till she heard the doctor leave the room, and lead Mabel to that next her own, and then she heard her say in a tremulous voice.

"What do you think of her, Mr. Williams?"

"The accident has been a severe one," he returned.

"Can she recover?" was asked, in a tone which Lucy trembled to hear, and she leant forward to catch the answer.

"A complete cure is beyond hope, my dear Miss Lesly; I entreat you to bear up against this blow," were the words she caught; "my heart bleeds for you, but I see the back is broken, and you know—" a groan of anguish, which she would have fled miles to have escaped hearing, was the only answer sentence thus given.

Then followed confused words, as if he were trying to comfort, broken by suppressed sobs.

An agony of terror, alike for Amy and her sister, then seized her—she trembled in every limb; and when she attempted to cry out, her tongue seemed to refuse to utter a sound. She sank upon the floor, too overpowered to move, and yet without the relief of fainting. Her thoughts became more and more distinct—of Amy, growing, perhaps, in beauty and womanhood, stretched on the bed of helpless sickness, unable to find advantages in either. What a blight had she cast upon a home she had found so happy. And Mabel, too, the beautiful unselfish Mabel, no longer the playfellow of innocent childhood, but the hopeless nurse of youthful decrepitude.

Too carelessly instructed as she had been, in the forms, and almost wholly deficient in the spirit, of the religion she professed, she knew of no balm that could heal a wound of such bitterness—she saw no light that could have guided her to comfort. Highly as she prized youth and its enjoyments, its hopes, and its ties, much as she sparkled in company, and revelled in the admiration she excited, so much did she feel the reverse to be dark and hard to bear. She pictured Amy passing, in one five minutes, from her joyous youthfulness, with its light laugh, and bounding glee, to the trials of sickness which she might never more escape; probably, too, the highly intellectual child becoming only the feeble-minded woman, weakened by disease and suffering, and cut off from all those endearing ties so prized by a woman's heart. As these thoughts passed slowly, and impressively before her—she covered her face with her hands, and wept long and bitterly.