The heavy sound of the funeral bell may, in crowded cities, lose half its influence by falling upon ears which use has attuned to its sound; but in a small and remote village death comes at long intervals, and reads a more solemn lesson, lest he may be altogether forgotten. How strange and oppressive is the sound of the minute bell—the pause—the silence—and then the low booming sound which strikes to the heart of the most careless, as if it would urge us while the king of terrors is before us, and weighing oppressively on our hearts—to wake from the lethargy of sin, and the fascinating dreams of worldly pleasure and ambition. The air feels heavy, though on the brightest summer day, and, though we may not waken to the things which death calls to our remembrance, we cannot sleep as firmly as before.

Such, perhaps, might have been the thoughts of the worthy Rector, as he remembered many unruly members of his church, and wished that the awful sound might waken them, to look with him beyond the dark tomb and funeral pall, when that solemn tolling spoke to them of the fair young child, who had departed from amongst them. As the simple procession neared the church, those employed in clearing away the ruins, leant upon their spades, and for awhile forgot their labour. Amy had been Mabel's favorite messenger of mercy to the sick and afflicted, and every little gift had come with more grace from the hands of the beautiful child; to many a fevered couch had she carried the ripe fruit, which she had begged from the old gardener; and many watched now with tearful eye as she passed to her long home. Mabel followed her with feelings of anguish, she in vain endeavoured to tranquillize, for her natural passions were as strong as the controul she so steadily placed over them. Captain Clair had obtained permission to attend, and those who did not fully understand the poor child's history wondered at the emotion he betrayed. It was a cheerless, dark day, when they laid her to rest in her narrow bed, amongst the graves, where, led by a gentle sister's hand, she had from infancy learned to think of

and to know

The remembrance of those by-gone scenes—of the sunny days of Amy's childhood, and the earnest face with which she would listen when she talked, came fresh to Mabel's mind; but, when she remembered that they had not been passed so thoughtlessly as they might have been, she tried to chase away selfish thoughts, and to turn with calm submission from the past, which she had loved so well—to a hard and relentless future. Yet, when the last rites had been performed, when she had gone from the grave and again entered Aston Manor, a loneliness fell upon her heart with cold oppressiveness. It was, perhaps, some relief to her that she was surrounded by no familiar objects which could have recalled memory after memory of past days. The marble staircase, and the beautiful pictures which hung round the gallery, could form no memorial of their neat but old-fashioned cottage, where her father's retirement, and Amy's whole life, had been spent. The soft carpets and silk hangings could only recall, by contrast, those which neatness and economy alone had rendered respectable. With one glance at her black dress, which her mother was to see for the first time, she opened the door of the room which Mrs. Hawkins had chosen for them, and stole noiselessly in Mrs. Lesly slept, and her faithful maid sat by her, weeping silently. It was a relief to poor Mabel not to be obliged to speak, and she withdrew to a window-seat, where she might think without interruption. Her mother slept in a bed of crimson silk, which fell in graceful folds to the ground. The whole furniture of the room was costly; pictures, of sacred subjects, by the first masters, hung round the walls, and every comfort which luxury could suggest, or wealth purchase, betokened the riches and taste of the possessor of the mansion. She turned her eyes to the window, where a view presented itself fully in keeping with the interior of the building. The wide spreading oaks had been so arranged as to open on a vista, which admitted the copse covered hills, beyond; while, immediately below the windows, lay the gardens, which, like the house, gained what they lost in size, in rich and careful cultivation, and where now, evergreens, of all varieties, from all countries, gave a still life to the scene. The wind had again risen, and dark clouds chased each other over the lowering sky, such, as in our melancholy or fanciful moods, seem the hieroglyphics by which we may read our destiny. By how many fanciful links are we united to the invisible world. But it was beyond the cloudy screen, that hung so darkly over the earth, that Mabel's clear eye endeavoured to penetrate. With her hands clasped before her, she remained gazing upon the pure sky, which at intervals might be discovered as one cloud rolled by, though immediately followed by another, as if the image it brought to her mind cheered and upheld her. With childlike trust, she endeavoured to resign that which had endeared a life, which one sorrow had done much to darken; but the duty was a hard one. It was not easy to lose the occupation, the thought of the present, and the preparations and visions of the future; at once, to be forced, in stillness to think, when, before, active exertion had found an object, and every motive an end.

But, as she still gazed upon the scene around her, a cloud stole over her brow, and she looked uneasily at the dark woods, which skirted the landscape. She took a long review of the past, which, as it were, forced itself, in this terrible hour, upon her mind; the struggle which she recalled, had nearly cost her her life, and would have rendered life valueless, had it not been for the victory of principle over wayward and exorbitant passion, which, turning her thoughts inward, upon a sinful heart, and forward, to a future, still richly blessed, taught her that, even deprived of the blessing she had so fondly prized, she had yet sufficient to call forth her warmest gratitude. When first she had brought herself unflinchingly to sacrifice her love to her religion, she might have deemed that sacrifice of her heart's best affections one which might atone for much evil, and that, the victim of a broken heart, she would find a martyr's grave. But there was within her a better though a humbler seed—the germ of a higher and holier principle. It had slept in prosperity, and the bitter tears of sorrow were needed to call it into life. Under its influence, she learnt a truer idea of herself, and her own duties. She found that life, though spent in weariness and pain, is a boon of boundless blessing, since it is a working day, on whose wages our whole happiness depends. Six years had passed since Mabel and her lover had parted. She seemed, indeed, to those around her to be the same being—but in herself how changed in those few years. All that before was impulse or wayward goodness, now rose from the one pure motive—the hope of blessing instead of being blessed. She had, therefore, learnt to govern her temper—to give up her own selfish inclinations—and to counteract any morbid remembrance of the past. The habit of self control, thus earnestly acquired, she now found of avail in the hour of need, in a way scarcely to be comprehended by the habitual victims of weakness, or the slaves of the feelings of the hour. She rose and left the window, and taking a seat by her mother's side, partially screened herself from her notice, lest the first sight of her mourning dress might too evidently recall the day's sad duties. Yet she could not refrain from watching her as she slept, with that anxious solicitude which Mr. Ware had foreseen would not long be absent from her mind; for how soon she too would be removed, he feared to think. But to Mabel's ever hopeful mind had come a doubt of her danger, which gave a zeal to every effort to forward her recovery. Mrs. Lesly's removal to Aston Manor—the seat of her husband's near kinsman—served to soothe one of the few selfish feelings she possessed. There was something peculiarly agreeable to a proud and refined mind like her own, in the luxury with which she was surrounded, and, though she might have had some reluctance in taking advantage of it, could her health have allowed her removal, she quickly gave up the point, with her constitutional indolence, and readily acquiesced in an arrangement, which, in its general effect, soothed and gratified her. The poor and neglected widow would spend her last days in the mansion, where she felt honor to be her due, though she could scarcely tell why. Yet she might be forgiven the few failings to which she was subject, and which always did more injury to herself than others, to whom her kindness was ever most lavish. Since her confidence with Mabel, as to the lost papers, her mind had seemed at ease, and her daughter had skilfully prevented her recurring to the subject, or again suffering that uneasiness which had preyed so seriously on her mind before. Perhaps, with the vague remembrance that Mabel had suggested something, though in reality but the quick prompting of an affectionate heart, she had flattered herself that all was well—and Mabel rejoiced that it was so. To say that the latter was indifferent when she allowed herself to think, would have been untrue; but now, with Amy, had gone, all restless doubts of the future. A steady mind, a firm and trusting heart, and an humble, but courageous, self-reliance, were sufficient, she felt, for her own provision, though she would have trembled to have entrusted one so dear, and so helpless, to such support as the brave man, sometimes, when called on, to protect those he loves, has been seen to lose nerve through dangers which, had he met them alone, would scarcely have excited a thought of fear.

At length, Mrs. Lesly slowly opened her eyes, and gazed round her for a few moments, as if to bring back the reality, and to separate it from her dreaming fancy. Mabel shrunk slightly back; but her mother, as if divining her motive, herself drew aside the curtain, and taking her hand, said, gently—

"My sweet child, why should I fear to look upon these sad signs of your grief? I have little cause to regret that she has gone a few days before me. No, dear, I, who have seen so much of this cold world, could scarcely wish to leave my darling to its stinted kindness—so young—so helpless—and so unfriended."

"Ah," thought Mabel, as tears rushed to her eyes, "to have begged for her her daily bread, would have been joy to losing her."

"I see," continued Mrs. Lesly, "that you can, with difficulty, perceive why I speak so now; but, my Mabel, will remember, with gratitude, should she ever suffer the unkindness of the world, that her sister shares it not, and her noble heart will rejoice that she alone will have to bear the trials, from which a dying mother cannot protect her."

"Ah, Mamma, that word alone is dreadful; you must not—cannot leave me."

"My child knows that there is a must, which cannot be resisted—and I have mistaken my Mabel if she does not bow before this, with as much courage and submission, as before every other trial. Remember your dear father's words in his last illness—'Mabel, life is but a short campaign after all, and you must fight to the end; who would be so cowardly as to lay down his sword for a wound'?"

"I will remember, dearest mamma," said Mabel, more firmly, for the words of her father always had influence with her; "and, oh, forgive my selfishness."

Tears were in her mother's eyes, though her voice had been firm; and Mabel, fearing to continue the conversation, returned to the window, and looked out again upon the night, which was fast closing around; but scarcely did she now heed the flitting clouds, and the coming darkness, or the wind as it rocked the old trees, or their branches, which, by their fantastic motion, appeared beckoning her attention; they seemed, an hour ago, to echo back the light laugh, whose gay music she would hear no more; but now the hour of fancy was over, and oppressed by the real presence of grief, she bowed her head, and chastened her heart to silence.