"If you please miss," said Betsy, entering Amy's room, where Mabel was sitting, "will you go to Miss Lucy's room for she is crying and sobbing like any thing, and she has got the door locked and will not open it—something must be the matter."

"I will go to her directly, and will soon be back, love," said Mabel, kissing her sister, who never saw her leave without regret.

She then went to Lucy's room, and tapping gently, demanded admittance.

After a short pause the door was opened by Lucy, whose eyes were swollen with weeping, and her cheeks wet with the tears which were flowing quickly. She had been lying on the bed, and, content with letting Mabel in, she threw herself again upon it hastily, rubbing her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, though the tears burst forth afresh on every attempt to clear them away.

Mabel's woman's heart quickly thought of Clair, and, seating herself by her side, she waited patiently till she became a little composed, and then begged her to say if she could do any thing for her.

"Nobody can do anything for me," said Lucy, and the effort to speak called forth a fresh burst of sobs and tears.

"What has happened, do tell me?" said Mabel, "has any one been unkind to you, dear Lucy."

"The wretch," sobbed Lucy, "the mean-spirited wretch."

"I hope you do not speak of Clair," said Mabel, "what can he have been doing?"

"Oh, go away," cried Lucy, "go away, I am so unhappy, so wretched, I wish I had never seen him—never come here. Oh! leave me, go away, where shall I hide my face."

"I cannot leave you thus—do tell me what he has been doing?"

"They will laugh at me at home. What will Miss Lovelace say—oh dear!"

"Come, do tell me," said Mabel, anxiously, "I may be able to give you comfort."

"Oh, I cannot tell you."

"Why not?"

"Ah, Mabel, if I were as good as you I should not cry."

A faint blush passed over her countenance, and she was silent, till, presently, after many tears and sobs she told Mabel the cause of her distress.

She had been walking in the nut avenue by the side of the lane, and had thus overheard the greater part of the conversation between Mr. Ware and his nephew, narrated in the last chapter. The sound of her own name had attracted her attention, and, having once yielded to the temptation of listening, she found, as she imagined, sufficient excuse for wishing to hear all—and enough had, in this manner, reached her ears to send her home full of mortified feeling.

Mabel listened, with unfeigned surprise, to the story of this adventure—and to those sentences, which, applying directly to herself, Lucy had most accurately remembered—but, when she heard from her of the admiration which she had so unconsciously inspired, she looked entirely amazed, and at a loss. This Lucy dwelt upon with a candour which surprised her.

"The wretch," said the latter, when she had concluded her story—"the worst of it is, that I cannot hate him as he deserves."

"Do not say so," replied Mabel, "if you are able to forgive him so easily, you will have much less to suffer; there is nothing so painful as the indulgence of sinful or angry passions."

"Mabel," said Lucy, gravely, "you will marry him, of course, and I will try to wish you both happy."

"Dear Lucy," replied Mabel, taking her hand kindly, "I am very, very sorry for you, but rely on my friendship if you can, and I, who have suffered as much as you are suffering now, may be some support to you. Do not, for one moment, imagine, that, should Captain Clair ever place it in my power to marry him, I should for an instant think of it. I have told you already, that unhappy circumstances have rendered all thoughts of love repulsive to me, and, even if it were not so, I could not give my affections to one whom I have so long regarded as your lover."

"Do you really mean that?" cried Lucy, with the desperation of a drowning man catching at a straw.

"I do indeed. Do you think I would trifle with you, when you are in distress. You must not let his unhappy preference prevent your trusting me as much as before, and you must let me guide you till you are strong enough to guide yourself."

Lucy flung her arms round her neck, saying heartily—

"You shall do anything you like with me, my own sweet friend; but, oh, there is something wanting in my heart which you have not the power to heal; but let me talk to you for a few minutes—if you understand me, you can better advise me."

Mabel was silent, and Lucy, leaning back upon her pillow, and looking fixedly at her, said, after a moment's pause—

"I have been brought up in a very different home from yours—and when you think of me, you must give me all the excuses my circumstances claim. I feel I might have been happier in a different life, yet, as it is, I have been happy enough. When I first came here, I thought I never could live in so dull a place, though I appeared delighted with it, because I feared to offend you; but now I dread nothing so much as leaving, and going back to Bath. Mamma talks a great deal of being very fond of us—but she despairs of getting so many girls married, and would give her right hand to get rid of us in a respectable manner. Very little is talked of when we are alone, but the chances of this or that young man's coming forward. I confess, with shame, that no one has talked on this subject, with more zeal than I have done—and I boldly determined to do my very best to get married. You will call this all very unwomanly, and so I acknowledge now, but anything seemed preferable to being an old maid. So far, you see, Arthur Clair was right; when I first saw him—marriage being at all times uppermost in my thoughts—I wished to make a conquest of him, if possible. You see how far I succeeded—even you were deceived, and thought him sincere, while, it appears, he was only trifling with me, as I deserved. I wrote home glowing accounts to Bath—and by this time, it is whispered half over the town, in all the coteries where mamma visits—and I shall now have to go back to disappoint them, and be laughed at myself; but this would be nothing, if I could go back, as light-hearted as I came here. Arthur Clair is wrong in supposing I have no heart—but I do not love him less for despising the character he supposes me to be. It was very cruel of him to act as he did—but yet I must have appeared to him a sad trifler, and worse than that, for, while I really loved you more than I do any other girl I know, I was, when with him, perpetually turning you into ridicule to prevent his admiring you. You, too, must hate and despise me; but I am tired of deceit, and will have nothing more to do with it."

Mabel's quick judgment foresaw that her cousin's repentance was probably as light, as her confession of deceit was easy—but she knew, at the same time, that she had no right to take this for granted, and that her only duty was to catch at even the lightest spark of virtue, and use her utmost power to kindle it into a bright and lasting flame. Sorrow was around her in every shape, destitution and dependence were before her, yet, no grief of her own, could prevent her turning a willing ear to the complaints, which, her truly womanly nature told her, arose from that suffering which is perhaps the hardest a woman can feel.

With extreme gentleness she offered comfort, mingled with the censure, she could not in sincerity withhold, and Lucy listened with surprise to advice unmingled with any taunt or reproach.

"Do you not think," she said, "that I had better tell him I heard what he said, and that I know that I do not deserve that he should think well of me."

"By no means," replied Mabel; "I would strongly advise you to give up all thoughts of him at once, for you are convinced that he does not care for you, and you acknowledge that you have, in a great measure, brought this unhappy affair upon yourself. You must forgive him fully, for, from what you tell me, he certainly does not seem so much to blame as I supposed; and, if you took any unworthy means to obtain his good opinion, you certainly fully deserve to have lost it. I do not admire a prude, but I do think that no woman has a right to make the first advances, and, if she does so, she certainly must be prepared to take the consequences. But let me earnestly beg you, to spend this season of affliction in schooling your own heart against this and future temptations, and hasten to vindicate your character to yourself, and to him. Shew him, that if you have been wrong, you are changed. It will be very difficult, I own, to teach him thoroughly to respect you; nay, do not curl your lip at the mention of respect; there may be a time when you will learn, how valuable, how necessary, respect is to a woman's peace; and the calm dignity with which you can bear this disappointment may purchase it, even from the doubting Clair. A calm and composed behaviour you must aim at—do not assume total indifference, for that will soon be perceived—but submit, if possible, without complaint, and without resentment—you will find this the easiest way of bearing trials."

Mabel secretly hoped, that, by following her advice, Lucy might not only reform her character, but also display it to advantage in the eyes of the man she loved—nor did she think it improbable, that, disappointed in his suit to herself, he might find in Lucy's altered behavior, a charm sufficiently strong to lure him to a real, instead of a feigned affection, and thus preserve her from the snares which surrounded her in her own home.

With these thoughts she returned to the sick chamber, leaving Lucy to think over what she had said.

During the last few weeks, she had allowed herself but little repose. Her time was spent alternately with her sister and mother, who in their separate rooms, each needed the refreshment of her presence. Her step was quick—her ready hand untiring—and her watchful eye always observant—yet, though no complaint had passed her lips since the sad night of Amy's accident, few could fail to observe how heavily she felt the sorrow by which she was subdued.

The nights passed wearily, marked only by the hollow cough, which told her of her mother's failing health, and the loud wintry wind which whistled in the crevices of the house, or swept by it in loud blasts from the hills.

All who have felt sorrow, or who have been called to watch by the bed of the sick, must remember how much more sad these times appear in winter, than in any other time of the year.

We need our best spirits to laugh away the frost, and snow, and foggy days, and all the associations called up by the withering earth and closing year.

Yet all these, with present trouble, past regret, and future fears, marked this sad time to Mabel. Her greatest satisfaction now, was the paying the most lavish attention to the two invalids.

Though their means were at all times limited, she spared no expense, where it could be likely to be of any service to the sufferers; she prevailed upon her mother to allow her to draw, as she pleased upon, the few hundreds still remaining of her savings, and this enabled her to procure, for both, the best medical advice which England afforded, though at a cost which the warmest of her friends could scarcely advocate.

All her efforts, however, were unavailing, her mother's strength rapidly failed, and the utmost care could scarcely keep her sister from sinking under the pain she suffered.

Day after day, the opinion of the medical man fluctuated, until he scarcely gave any hope—for he well knew that Amy's constitution, from infancy, little fitted her to struggle with disease of any kind. Still Mabel clung fondly to the possibility of her recovery, with a pertinacity which made her enter eagerly into any new course of treatment, which she hoped might prove more successful.

It was with difficulty that she found time to think of Lucy—yet a willing heart can do much. She endeavoured to keep as much with her as possible to support her, in her new formed resolutions—and she was gratified to find, that Lucy had been able to meet Clair several times, with the composure she had recommended.

Poor Lucy's dignified calmness, however, very much resembled pouting, and, instead of inspiring Clair with any great respect, a little amused him; for he looked upon this change in her manner as a new mode of attack, against which he resolved to be armour proof. Her stability of character being not very great—she could scarcely preserve her manner, when she saw it produced no immediate effect as she had anticipated. It was vain to hope that he would notice her composed forgiveness; and her well-meant resolution faded away before the disappointment of failure.

She was one afternoon engaged busily in blaming him, and excusing herself, when he entered the morning-room, where she was seated at work, and, saying he had been to meet the postman, presented her with a letter from Bath. It contained the news, that Mrs. Clifford, one of the richest ladies in the town, intended giving a fancy ball at the Rooms which was to eclipse everything that had been seen for many seasons, and Mrs. Clifford was very anxious she should return for it. Besides, Colonel Hargrave had accepted the invitation to visit them, and was expected in Bath the following week. The letter was of great length, but contained little more than those two pieces of news greatly enlarged upon.

It seemed as if all Lucy's grief and gravity had disappeared, like the mist before the sunshine; for, starting up, she gave three bounds towards the ceiling, clapping her hands in utter thoughtlessness.

"Miss Villars," cried Clair, indignantly, "can you forget where you are? How can you give vent to such expressions of joy, in a house you have helped me to make desolate?"

"I wish," exclaimed Lucy, turning round pettishly, "that you would not preach to me all day the same disagreeable truths, with a face as long as that of a methodist parson—and such a face too, 'tis indeed a pity it covers such a wicked dissembling heart; but there is no trusting appearances in these days."

"What do you mean, Miss Villars?" he enquired, coloring violently.

"Ask your own conscience, and then, if it has not forgotten how to speak the truth, you will find which is the greatest sinner, you or I," said she, trying to speak playfully, to hide the real passion which burnt in her eyes, and tingled in her cheeks.

"Surely," said Clair, a little haughtily, "you do not allude to the silly flirtation, which I have quite sufficiently repented, as my manners may have already expressed."

"You double dealing wretch," exclaimed Lucy, in a perfect rage at the superiority he assumed, "you oily-tongued hypocrite, how dare you talk to me in this way? Why, I heard you talking to Mr. Ware, when you little thought I was walking in the nut-avenue. You despised me, did you, in your vaunted goodness—and, because you are fickle enough to turn from one girl to another, you try to justify your behaviour, by abusing me to one too good to listen to such stuff about either of us. What do you say to me now?" she said, her eyes dancing with delighted passion at seeing him utterly confounded. "Now carry your sanctimonious looks elsewhere, for they will not take with me, I can tell you. I could have forgiven your flirting, because they say—'a fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind;' but, bad as I am, I never abused a man that had been silly enough to admire me—nor did I ever set myself up as anything better than I am. I am glad you feel what I say, and now go to the noble-hearted Mabel, and say, 'Here I am—I have been flirting, before your very eyes, with a girl I despised; but she served to make a few weeks pass more pleasantly than they might otherwise have done. I have been sporting with her feelings instead of making honest court to you.' And then, flushed with the success, purchased by such hypocrisy, tell her, that you have come to lay your laurels and a deceitful heart at her feet, and that you think them just offerings to her purity, and an ample return for the cruelty you were led to commit, by my persuasion. It will be safest to lay all the blame on me, to her, as well as to Mr. Ware. It told with him, and it may with her—go and try."

She here stopped for want of breath, but, as Clair made no reply, she quickly resumed.

"You have not a word to answer me, have you now? How very pretty you look, standing abashed before the girl you despised. If I were a man you might run your sword through me, for want of a better argument in your favor, but, as it is, I am afraid there is nothing to be done," she continued, (as her companion threw himself into an arm chair and seemed determined to let her say her worst, without the slightest attempt at interruption,) then walking to the window she began singing part of the Spanish girl's song to her Irish lover.

"'They say that the spirit most gallant in war
Is always the truest in love.'"

"For Mrs. Lesly's sake do not make so much noise," said Clair.

"Unfortunately," replied Lucy, "I am not so unfeeling, for Mrs. Lesly's room is at the other end of the house. You said, if I remember rightly, that my character was too feathery to suit you—nevertheless, I think for a feather my strokes are rather hard. Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

"Yes, when you have blamed me as much as you may think I deserve, I will venture to reply."

"Oh, say on, I have done."

"Then, if you have leisure to hear me, I will now say, that, before this conversation, I thought I might have been wrong; but I am now fully convinced by the indignation you so openly express, that I have been mistaken in you. I confess that I have injured you in the most ungenerous manner—for which I dare not offer any excuse, since every one would be too light to have any weight. I will then only ask you to be generous enough to forgive me?"

Lucy, whose feelings were ever subject to the most sudden variations, burst into tears and ran out of the room, but, as Clair continued regarding the door through which she had made her sudden exit, it opened as quickly as it had closed, and she again entered; holding out her hand, as she walked up to him.

"I am glad you are not gone," said she, panting for breath, "because I can tell you I forgive you on condition that you forgive and forget all I said in my passion just now."

"It was richly deserved," said Clair, grasping her hand warmly.

"But that does not make it the more easy to bear, you know. If it is quite unjust we let it pass as 'the idle wind which we regard not,' but, if it be just, we take it more to heart, and, seriously, I am very sorry for what I said just now."

"And I," said Clair, "am very sorry for a great many foolish things I have said and done in the last few weeks."

"Well then," cried Lucy, "we are both sorry, so let us be friends, and talk no more about love and all that kind of nonsense. I shall go home in a day or two, and then," said she, with a half sigh, "all I ask is, that you will not think me quite so thoughtless and foolish as you did; or, if you do," she added, smiling quickly, "remember you were as weak and thoughtless as myself."

"I will not fail to do so," he answered, returning her smile, "if the remembrance of your present generosity, does not make me forget everything which caused it to be called into exercise."

"I have had quite enough of your flattery," said Lucy, holding up her finger, "do not give me another dose, or I shall be obliged to repeat the antidote, and give you another scolding. Come now, I am thinking of the fancy ball, and, as I am determined to be in time for it—for I am of no use to Mabel by staying here—I shall choose my character at once. Here," handing him a book of Byron's beauties, "choose me the one you think would suit me best."

"Let me venture to suggest," replied Clair, as he took the book and turned over the leaves thoughtfully, "that leaving such a house as this, it would scarcely be right for you, to appear at a fancy ball at all."

"Oh, you methodist! give me the book."

"You will not then be persuaded," he said, laying his hand gently on the sketches of the frail beauties she had asked him to choose among. "Think, that for the sake of a few hours of doubtful enjoyment you lay yourself open to severe self-reproach, and may wound the feelings of your friends here. It may sound odd that I should venture to speak so seriously, but—"

"Yes, it does seem very odd, certainly, and I thought I had given you a surfeit of preaching just now."

"Yet before you decide, I would ask you to consider whether you are not wronging yourself, by acting so thoughtlessly."

"Now let me ask you in return," she replied, pettishly, "if I am at Bath what harm my going would do or what good I could get by staying away?"

"Very little, perhaps, actually, but no one could think any unkindness intended by your remaining at home. I can hardly expect you, however, to listen to me, but, should your own better judgment lead you to come to the same determination I shall be rejoiced."

Lucy sat down, half sullenly turning over the book of beauties, and seeming to be examining their dresses with the greatest attention, as if she were trying to discover how they might be imitated by tinsel and gauze.

The Captain stood looking at her earnestly. Mr. Ware's advice recurred to his mind, and, though he had found it difficult to follow it, he had tried his best.

Lucy, with her face glowing with excitement, her eyes moist with recent tears, looked exceedingly pretty, and he could not help longing for the power to plant a different spirit within her, at length he exclaimed, with sudden energy—

"Lucy Villars, will you not listen to me. Do not trifle, after the fearful judgment that has fallen upon this house, through our means. Is it possible you can forget what a withering blow it has been. Surely, surely you will not go to a fancy ball, while Mabel is watching over her suffering mother and sister. You do not mean it, you surely cannot; only think for one moment," said he, laying his hand upon hers, and staying the quick motion with which she turned over the leaves of the book. It is doubtful how Clair might have felt (for he had certainly deceived himself when he imagined she had never made any serious impression upon him) had his advice, his first effort at serious advice, been well received, for there was an earnestness in his manner, which he had never before displayed. But Lucy rose hastily, and brushing his hand aside with an indignant motion, prepared to leave the room; turning at the door, she said coldly—

"There might have been a time when Captain Clair could have asked a favor, without risk of being charged with interference or impertinence, but I can now see no excuse which would lead me to make his wishes the rule of my actions—I would advise you in future to obtain influence, before you seek to use it."

So saying, and bowing coldly, she left the room.

Her return home, and her plan of travelling, were soon settled by her hearing of a friend who was at this time returning to Bath from Cheltenham, and whose escort was offered her.

Perhaps the pleasure of piquing Clair, added a little zest to the preparations which were carried on with a cheerfulness that surprised him. Deeply touched himself by recent events, and quite unable to recover his spirits, he regarded her with a wonder not a little mingled with contempt.

Mabel herself, as keenly susceptible to pain as she was open to pleasure, could scarcely understand the variable nature of her cousin's disposition, which, at times attracted her by its naivetÉ and candour, at others, alarmed her by its indifference and frivolity. Though really a little hurt at the coolness with which she prepared to leave her, directly it suited her own convenience, after her many professions, she suffered her to take her course without remark; particularly when she found, from the account she received of her conversation with Clair, that she could not preserve towards him, the composure necessary to ensure her own dignity.

All was, therefore, soon arranged, and Lucy, as the parting drew near, became so affectionately distressed, that Mabel quickly forgave her previous indifference, and parted from her with a regret, she had scarcely supposed she could have felt a few weeks before.

As she stood for several moments in the garden, watching the vehicle which bore her from the village, her thoughts naturally recurred to the hour when, with far different feelings, she had stood in the same place to wait her coming. The scene was the same, and yet how changed. There was not a leaf upon the many bold trees which skirted the landscape. Here and there round the garden a single monthly rose bloomed in place of the many gay, autumnal flowers, which had then been so brilliant. Heavy clouds hung overhead, and silently and gloomily feathery pieces of snow fell through the cold air.

"It is the sunshine of the heart that is gone," thought Mabel, unconsciously clasping her hands, and glancing at the scene around her; while she remembered how comparatively free from care she had been that day, and how gladly had the little Amy waited to catch the first sight of the expected carriage, how eagerly she had watched the first peep of the high road. Where was she now, poor child? when would her light feet carry her so merrily to that gate again.

"I know it must be right," thought Mabel, as if unwilling to dwell longer on feelings and afflictions which unnerved her; but sick at heart, and with tears swimming in her eyes, she turned towards the house. She stopped on hearing Clair's voice, who approached to meet her, having waited till the parting was over, hoping to remove any feeling of loneliness she might experience on Lucy's departure. His steps were sedate, and his countenance serious and reflective, as it had of late become.

"Ah," said he, as he joined her. "Happy would it have been for you had neither of us crossed your path, to throw the shadow upon it we have done."

"We will not blame poor Lucy now she is gone," said Mabel, "and do not blame yourself again. I did not think I should miss her as much as I do; but there is such a pleasure in meeting a friend of about my own age."

"If there are three dark sides to a subject, and one bright one, you are sure to turn to the bright," said Clair.

"Should we not do so?" said Mabel, smiling faintly—"particularly when we must feel that even the one bright side is undeserved."

"I should very much have liked to have known your poor father," said Clair, rather abruptly.

"You would, indeed," said Mabel, "but what made you think of him?"

"Because I have heard that the lessons he gave you were so admirable; and practically illustrated—they are beautiful!"

"Nay, if you wish to flatter me, speak of him—not myself; truly, he was a gentleman, a scholar, and a soldier," said Mabel, as her eyes brightened, "and I cannot tell how much I owe to him. Now, if I am tempted to do anything wrong, his spirit seems to stand between me and the temptation. See what an advantage it is to be good," said she smiling, as if fearful of speaking too much of herself, "what an influence you possess."

"You do, indeed, possess an influence," said Clair, emphatically, as he turned his eyes to hers, with an expression of mingled admiration and respect.

"I must go in," replied Mabel, hurriedly, "talking of my dear father has cheated me into staying longer than I meant to have done. I must go to my dear child—good bye," said she, extending her hand frankly. "Go, and do anything but be sad about me."

Without waiting for a reply, she ran into the house, and Clair leant upon the gate and watched her departing figure, like one entranced, till, fearful of attracting observation, he briskly roused himself, as if from some pleasant dream, and pursued his walk through the village.

Meanwhile, Lucy continued her journey. At first the natural pain of parting from Aston led her to a train of sorrowful reflection. Perhaps she too remembered how different the home she had left had been when she entered it; but she had also to remember many mortifying things besides. Her easy conquest, as she imagined, had ended in total failure. If she had unintentionally brought evil on Mabel, she had also brought good, in the admiration of the fascinating Clair. Her recollections soon became too painful to be encouraged, and she took the ready source of comfort open to those who do not care to probe the conscience, and tried not to think at all. It was easiest and most agreeable, but she had to arm herself for the reception she would probably meet at home. How could she say she had entirely failed; and what reason could she give for believing that Clair was in earnest; she had not the heart to blame him. "If Mabel had not been there," she thought, "he never would have changed, but I will not think any harm of her, I suppose she could not help it."

"Once in Bath, this country dream will be over, and I shall have the pleasure of preparing for the fancy ball—and then, the arrival of Colonel Hargrave, and possibly—if he is not attracted by Caroline's majestic style of beauty, who knows but he may find other objects of admiration—" and she glanced down upon her pretty little foot, with an air of condescending affection, as it rested on the shawl which lay beneath it. Then came the remembrance that Mabel had lent her that shawl, and had herself wrapped it round her with that attention to the comfort of others, which was so peculiar to her, and she lent back and wept bitterly for some miles.

At Cheltenham, however, she was joined by her promised fellow traveller, also returning to Bath for the season. Mrs. Richardson, for this was her name, was a good-tempered, stout little lady, who possessed a great fondness for young people, particularly for those who, either pretty, witty, or engaging, were sure to be popular in society. She formed a very useful chaperone, in case of necessity, never being unwilling to join any party of pleasure, from the most crowded rout, to the dullest and quietest card party.

Lucy had not been slow in finding out this useful virtue, and, Mrs. Richardson being a great admirer of hers, they usually got on very well together. But now, the badinage she had to endure, on the many conquests she must have made, during her country visit, amongst rich squires, grated sadly on her ears; while her attempts to divert the conversation, only renewed her companion's desire to obtain an account of all she had been doing and seeing.

The tedious journey, however, drew at length to a conclusion, and she found herself once more in Bath. Again settled at home, she was not a little surprised, and not quite pleased to find that her Aston adventure had occupied far less of the family attention than she had imagined. Indeed, so thoroughly were they occupied in preparing for Colonel Hargrave's visit, that they scarcely listened to her accounts. The whole house, and household furniture, seemed stirring up to look their best welcome to the rich Indian wanderer. The best stair carpets were laid down, and the best drawing-room was uncovered and made habitable, and a thousand little expenses were excused, under the pretence of necessity, on such an occasion. The name of Hargrave was passed perpetually from one to another, and Caroline already fancied herself mistress of Aston Manor.

"Oh!" thought Lucy, "could I have thought they cared so little about me, I would have been more independent of their opinion."

She, however, soon endeavoured to dispel the listlessness which followed her return to old pursuits, by entering into the subject of general interest, with as much seeming zest as her sisters; but, sometimes, when she seemed the merriest of them all, her thoughts would revert to Aston, and her gay laugh would find a check. Gaiety may sear, but it never yet has healed a wounded heart.