It was with increasing uneasiness, that Mabel perceived the effects of their common grief on the weakened constitution of her mother. Mrs. Lesly, at first, insisted on being constantly with her sick child, but day by day her cheek became more pale, and her low hollow cough more frequent, until she could scarcely reach Amy's room without fatigue, and, instead of being able to nurse her, required, herself, a further exertion of Mabel's ever watchful care. Grateful indeed did the latter feel for the strong health, and stronger nerves, which enabled her to maintain the watching and waiting required of her—while the consciousness of being loved taught her that each personal service rose in value because she rendered it. Lucy still remained with them; she had insisted on her services being received; and, though the idle girl was rather giving trouble than making herself useful, Mabel did not refuse her offer to continue with her, hoping that the wish to serve might be the seed of better feelings and stronger self-denial.

But Lucy had not perhaps fully understood her motives, when she ascribed her wish to stay to the desire to be of service.

Clair seemed entirely to have forgotten her, or only to make use of her to deliver messages, or to convey grapes and other luxuries to the little invalid; but it seemed entirely to have escaped his memory, that any thing, even so interesting as a common flirtation, had ever taken place between them; and indeed he seemed in every way altered, as if he were trying to convince her that he was scarcely the same person. However, she did not altogether give up the hope of regaining the affections she had before so fully counted upon. Yet, having thrown aside the light and fashionable gallantry which he had delighted to display, he was now utterly impervious to all the common attacks of even the most accomplished flirt; and, however clever she might be in raillery, badinage, and spirited nonsense, Lucy had learned little of that language which springs from heart to heart, in trouble and suffering—or of those serious and elevating thoughts which alone bring with them consolation to the deep thinking.

She was, then, entirely at a loss when she found her former companion, rather annoyed than otherwise, by conversation which would formerly have amused him for half a-day; but this change only increased her affection, while it effectually removed him from her power; she listened, waited, and watched for him, but, though she tried every capricious art to bring him again to her side, she found that nothing prevailed, and, at the close of the day, she had not even the lightest word to treasure up, as an evidence of the love she had already spoken of as certain, to her friends in Bath.

One evening, as events were progressing in a manner so unsatisfactory to Lucy, Mr. Ware and his nephew might have been seen pacing up and down the lane leading to Mrs. Lesly's house, which was rendered romantically pretty, by the trees which overhung it, from the garden which was considerably raised above it.

Clair had been for some time engaged in silently beating down the leaves and branches, which grew most prominently in the hedge above their walk, with a light cane he carried in his hand, when Mr. Ware, turning kindly, yet with a slight tone of embarrassment, said to him—

"My dear boy, I would not wish to presume a moment either upon my age or my relationship to you, but would rather gain an interest by favor, and as a friend; may I then ask a question, which my anxiety for you alone dictates."

His nephew looked slightly surprised at this address, but replied in a depressed tone.

"You may say any thing you like uncle, without fearing that I shall mistake the kindness which leads you to speak at all. You have been too kind to me, ever since I have been with you, not to make me feel that affection must ever second the duty and respect you deserve from me."

"Thank you," replied his uncle, "I feel that the late unhappy accident has much changed you; and what you now say convinces me that the change is one which, however it may sadden you, cannot be regretted."

"I hope not," replied Clair, in the same tone of depression; "can you understand what I mean, when I say that I feel, that, though I had no intention the other evening beyond causing a momentary pain, which, in a beautiful girl I thought charming, I yet feel that I have been so thoughtless of the comfort of others, during my past life, that I have deserved to be the agent of such a misfortune, in retribution, as it were, for all that has before gone unpunished. Little Amy's sweet voice rings in my ear wherever I go—such as it was when I first saw her, when she looked up from the wild wreath she was twining, to give some kind word to the laborers as they passed her, the morning after my coming here. Her simple questions return to my memory, and her purity and innocence have made a deeper impression on my mind, by the sad reverse which has followed my acquaintance with her family—I cannot help thinking what an interesting young woman she might have been, through the careful training of such a sister, who has planted in her mind, young as she is, her own childlike tenets of religion. When I reverse the picture, I see her growing up a weak unhappy cripple, perhaps, sinking under accumulated disease, the victim of an early grave. Can you wonder that I am changed, uncle, and that I now find the follies and amusements, in which I have too often sought forgetfulness of the weakness of my own heart, now utterly repulsive to me? When I see Mabel Lesly forgiving without reserve, and enduring without complaint, sorrow which would have found me in a very different temper, can you doubt, dear uncle, that, contemplating such rare and beautiful virtues, I have been led to seek the cause, and to find out on what basis they are founded; and, while raising my thoughts to the source and spring of every true virtue, and pouring its healing waters on my soul, must I not shudder to discover there, nothing but pollution, and feel depressed and sad, with the sense of what I am, and what I have been.

"Yet do not think this dejection is attended with anything like despair; no one, who had conversed with your sweet friend, would long retain such a feeling. A few words, indeed, from her, while they convinced me of the aimless existence I have been rather enduring, than living, gave me an inspiring principle which spoke of better things. You may think I am suddenly turned into an imaginary, but you can scarcely tell how deep an impression this late accident has left upon me."

"Not so," replied Mr. Ware, "the heart that awoke to chivalry in other days, is not dead because chivalry has assumed another form—and, indeed, we too often try to be lukewarm in our feelings. But, to be candid, my dear Arthur, I do think, as you say, that too much of your time has been trifled away in the pursuits of garrison glory, and watering-place amusements. I have been, for some weeks, patiently waiting for some season or time, when I could enforce the necessity of sowing a richer harvest for the decline of life, than you have hitherto been doing. Could I have chosen some other less touching call to wakefulness, I would have done so; but these things are not in our own disposing—it only belongs to us, to use well the circumstances and opportunities which are given us; and I was even now going to say what you have anticipated. Grateful, indeed, am I to think, that, even so trying a time, can yield its sweetness, for I hope you speak of your feelings without any exaggeration."

Mr. Ware paused, but, as Clair did not seem disposed to reply, he continued—

"There is one subject in which I feel particularly concerned—may I—I ask it as a favor—may I speak candidly upon it?"

"You may speak with candour on any subject, sir, without fearing that I shall be weak enough to take anything but in good part."

"Thank you for this confidence. May I then ask if you are quite sincere in your attentions to Miss Villars? and, if so, why your behaviour has so decidedly changed with regard to her? Forgive me for asking so delicate a question, which nothing but the interest I take in your happiness could excuse."

"Oh, do not be so alarmed on my account," said Clair, half smiling, "it is only my tenth garrison flirtation, and you cannot think me seriously entangled."

"Then," said Mr. Ware, with a tone of severity, which he very seldom used, "what do you mean by becoming her constant companion—paying her every attention, short of actually making love. Shame on your new-found repentance—if this be the fruit of it."

"Do not be too hasty in forming your judgment," replied Clair. "I have only done what most other young men would, under the same circumstances—though, I own, my changed opinions have led me to withdraw the attentions you condemn."

"I own that I would much rather have had your thoughts fix upon a girl more like her cousin; but, when I believed you sincerely attached—since you persisted in your attentions spite of my hints—I thought it could not be helped; and, perceiving she returned your attachment, I ceased to object, feeling that love corrects many faults. Little knowing that all this time, you were acting a part which should have made me blush for shame."

"Uncle, you are passing a stern judgment—sterner far than I deserve; give me your patience for a few minutes, and I will convince you that I am not so much to blame. Lucy Villars is one of that class of girls called flirts, and, for a flirt, she possesses all the necessary qualifications. She is chatty, thoughtless, and good-humoured—and, better than all, has no heart. She is, however, something more than a flirt—she is a husband hunter, and set her would-be affections on me, before she knew a single feature of my face, much less a quality of my mind—so that I do not flatter myself with possessing anything in her eyes beyond an average fortune and family. Had I been a man of no discrimination, I might have fallen a victim to a very bold game; but, as I happen to have seen a little of the world, I have spent a few weeks more pleasantly than ordinarily. And now may I ask you, uncle, would you, even with your high sentiments of right, expect me to marry a girl whom I could never trust—who would jilt me for a richer man to-morrow, and if not so, granting even that she loved me, would form but an insipid companion at the best."

"You are wrong," said Mr. Ware, who had been listening with great impatience, "and you know that you are wrong, or you would not use so much sophistry to convince me you are right. Let me ask you, if she be the girl you describe her to be, was she a fit companion even for your idlest moments? If she be the designer you would prove her to be, was it right to place yourself in daily temptation, by communion with one whose sentiments must be corrupt, if they rise from such a polluted spring? Were you right in choosing for the object of your admiration, one whom you despised in your heart? Sorry am I that you had not courage to withhold your countenance from one whom you did not approve, but could rather act so deceitful, so mean a part. But, think again, your judgment may have deceived you, and, if she be not what you say, may she not have given you a heart, which (if it be so) you have obtained in so unworthy a manner."

"Could I think so," replied Clair, "I should be more vexed than you will give me credit for; but I am too well acquainted with the world, to believe anything like real affection can be hidden under such open and daring encouragement as I have received from her; and, really, my dear sir, you must not be grieved on her account, or my own. I feel too much the frivolity of my past character, to try such amusements again; but, at the same time, no chivalrous principle tells me that I should do right to bring into my confidence, or to unite myself in, the holiest of self-formed ties that can exist on earth, with a girl whose character is so feathery. Far different would my choice be when thinking seriously of marriage. The woman I should choose for a wife would be one who would inspire me with higher thoughts and lead me to better things. One, who pure as sensible, would make my home a paradise, and while, by her zeal, she led me to heaven, would, by her womanly attentions to my wishes, make a happy road to it. Such a woman would as much excel a flirt as a small piece of gold would one double its size in tinsel."

"Arthur, your eloquence and sophistry are carrying you away altogether. Had you acted thoughtlessly only it would have been easier to excuse; but, now, I see, that with proper ideas and the most worthy sentiments, you have yet been capable of acting a part as unlike to them as your own comparison of gold to tinsel. Your excuses are common ones, and I fear will not privilege you to minister to the follies of others by indulging your own. How much kinder would it be to withhold undeserved admiration, and to shew that yours is only to be earned by what really deserves it. Would you not in this way, perhaps, find an opportunity of reading a lesson without words, to many, who are still young enough to improve by it. By refraining altogether from such deceitful flirtations, you might tend to discourage those mothers who educate their daughters for display, and force them to try for an advantageous settlement."

"And how many do you think would follow my example?" enquired the young man with a smile.

"It is a consideration of no weight when making up your mind to do right—though it sweetens a good conscience and embitters an evil one—to remember that no one is so mean as to give no impulse to virtue or vice by his example. One great mistake is, that men unfortunately forget that they are christians, when in the fashionable world, as if our duties were altogether banished by an evening dress, or the light of conscience entirely eclipsed by the brilliant and fantastic tapers of a ball-room. It is for this reason that so many turn anchorites: forgetful that the world may be enjoyed with a christian's dress, and a christian's thoughts, they only remember, that when they visited the gay scenes they have resigned, they did so with a conscience peculiar to the occasion, and entirely different from the one they were familiar with in retirement."

"You speak severely," said Clair.

"I speak with the courage which arises from my knowing, that, though you are thoughtless enough to err, you possess sufficient candour to bear reproof without reproach to him who offers it, and, however scrupulous I may in general be about offering advice, or venturing to find fault, I cannot allow such sentiments as you have just expressed to be uttered in my presence without testifying my sense of that error, if heard in any company and from any person, much less from one so dear to me as yourself, and I have spoken boldly, hoping to lead you to refine your sense of honor, till it reaches a standard which a christian soldier may not justly be ashamed to acknowledge."

A few weeks since Clair might have smiled at the simplicity and unworldliness of his uncle's remarks, but there was something within him then that told him they were stamped with the irresistible force of truth.

He walked on in silence, pushing aside with his feet, the few withered leaves which were straggling in his path. It was one of those dark, mysterious days, when the wind blows sullenly amongst the trees, speaking strange words, in its own wild tones, of the year that is past; and the withered leaves as they spin round in the eddying wind, seem to call attention to themselves, and to ask what men have been doing since they budded forth in the gay spring, full of hope and promise to the sons of earth. They had played their part well and merrily, they had gladdened the heart and delighted the eye, they had made fair and beautiful the spots where their short day of life had been spent, and now, as they fell with their fantastic motion to the ground, their rustling music seemed to speak in forcible language to the heart of him, who had idled away part of the glowing summer of his life with few thoughts but of selfish amusement.

With some such thoughts as these the two continued their short walk, which had been confined to the dry bit of road under the trees, which in damp or dirty weather was often chosen as a sort of promenade.

Mr. Ware was not sorry to see his nephew's unusual silence, for he was naturally too ready to act without thinking, and often, by the readiness of his professions in favor of any new idea of improvement, cheated his conscience of its performance, and he now watched him, with the grave interest which a good man feels, when he looks on the struggles of conscience, and does not know on which side the victory will lie.

"Even you, sir," exclaimed Clair, rather suddenly, "would not wish me to marry Lucy Villars! fool as I have been, you do not think I deserve so great a punishment, as the possession of such a wife."

"I wish you," replied Mr. Ware, "to do neither more nor less then your own sense of honor and good feeling may dictate, under the difficult circumstances in which you have placed yourself."

"I cannot—I never can do that!" exclaimed Clair, vehemently.

"Neither will I ever ask you to approach so sacred a rite with lightness, much less with repugnance; but, at the same time, you ought to understand, that your attentions have been sufficiently pointed, to make people suppose that you only wanted a convenient opportunity of declaring yourself."

"Impossible! Who ever heard of a man's making serious love in such a manner. You at least do not believe it."

"Now, certainly I do not, for your words bear a different interpretation, and, if I mistake not, the opinion you now entertain of her, arises from comparison with another character of a higher standard."

Clair colored, but he answered quickly.

"If you have so far read my thoughts, do you find it possible to blame me. Could I be insensible to the attractions of a girl of such uncommon excellence?"

"Alas, I do blame you," replied Mr. Ware, sadly, "for you have been acting a doubly deceitful part, but I cannot withhold my pity, for you must meet the difficulties with which you have entangled yourself."

"I must think uncle, I must think," said Clair, stopping, "you put my mind into complete confusion—I believed I was going to act for the best; now, I do not know what to be at, though my chief consolation is that Lucy Villars never cared a straw for me. I know you lay bare the wounds of conscience only to heal them, and though you have spoken severely I know you feel for me. What am I to do under these circumstances? I feel I have been wrong, and would willingly make any atonement, but remember, how many struggles there are in the world to make us wretched, without our adding a desolate hearth, and a miserable home to make everything else doubly hard. I must go and think alone."

"And remember," said Mr. Ware, "that Miss Lucy may deserve some allowance for her feelings. I am not quite certain that she is so much a trifler as you would make yourself believe."

"Why you will drive me out of my senses, uncle, I cannot increase my difficulties by thinking that to be possible. I know women too well—but, for the present, good bye," he said, laying his hand on the stile which divided the path to the Aston woods from the road, "but do not, at least till we meet again, think even so hardly of me as I deserve," he added, in a tone of gentle persuasion, which often screened him from blame, or, if not altogether so, had obtained the love of those with whose esteem he often trifled.

Then, with a light bound, he cleared the stile, and, walking quickly onwards, he was soon lost in the windings of the path he had chosen for the scene of his meditations.