It was with pleasure—melancholy, indeed, but still most sincere—that Mabel was welcomed at the rectory. Mr. Ware and his sister emulated each other, in endeavours to cheer her, before her introduction to a gayer scene, which they knew awaited her in Bath. Their party had been increased by the arrival of Mr. Clifford, the young architect, mentioned by Colonel Hargrave, who had easily been induced to accept a room in the pleasant rectory; so that, together with Rogers, the bailiff, whose sick room required every attention, Mr. Ware was busy enough. Mr. Clifford brought with him different plans for the improvement of the estate, and the re-building of the village, on a different scale; and the greater part of the evening was generally occupied in talking these over, or drawing fresh ones. In this occupation Mr. Ware would gladly have interested Mabel; but she was scarcely equal to the exertion, and he well knew he could expect nothing, reasonably, beyond the unmurmuring resignation, which characterised her grief, and the transient, tearful interest she sometimes displayed in what they were doing. The comfort and happiness of her favorite village never could be unheeded by her; but it required some relaxation of her over taxed nervous system before she could again become the self-forgetful, cheerful companion she had been. This indulgence was freely granted her—and her affectionate heart soon warmed to the watchful love which surrounded her, as the drooping flowers turn to the warm beams of the returning sun.

"How often have I had reason to be grateful to you, dear sir?" she said, one morning, as she passed her hand through Mr. Ware's arm, to accompany him in his walk round the garden. It was one of those days, which, in England, so often surprise us in the midst of winter, with their balmy air and spring-like feeling. "And now more than ever," she continued, "for supporting me at this sad season. You can little know how very, very grateful I am for this thoughtful kindness."

"My dear child," returned Mr. Ware, soothingly, "it must be very easy to accept the kindness which you have never forgotten to afford to others."

"Always kind," said Mabel, with a sigh, "how shall I bear to part from you?"

"Or I from you, dear Mabel; often have you secured me from the regrets, which, in a life of such seclusion as we have past here, might have invaded my quiet. You have afforded me that society which I could not otherwise have secured, and willingly would I have kept you still; but I feel that Aston would, at least for the present, be full of too many regrets for you to make me urge it. Besides, our natural relations have a claim upon us, and, with yours, you will probably find a safe and happy home. My Mabel will not forget that these have a claim upon her, and that she may be called to new duties amongst them."

"And new trials," said Mabel, sadly, "I shall meet him."

"Yes, for a while—only a little while; I need not say anything on that subject, your heart will best dictate your conduct—only be firm, and remember always, if annoyances prevail elsewhere, here is your home."

"Not so—I trust he will soon be here—he ought to be here—and, oh, how gladly would I see that. Do you not think his strange appearance on that awful night—the delicacy he has since shewn—Mr. Clifford's coming—do you not think all this looks well?"

Mr. Ware looked earnestly and painfully at her; she seemed immediately to understand that look, for turning from him, she wrung her hands together bitterly.

"Oh, why," she exclaimed, "can I never indulge my best hopes, without the appearance of selfishness—must they always be so inseparable; but you, at least, understand me," she added, turning her beautiful face full upon him with a look of supplication.

"Yes, indeed, I do," he replied, "only I began to fear—I do understand you, my noble-hearted girl—trust me, I do."

But Mabel only turned aside her head to weep, and though he tried to renew the subject, she skilfully evaded it, and when that pained him, she turned and soothed him with the eager caress of childlike affection.

At this moment, Clair was seen walking pensively up and down the walk, at some little distance, and, as Mr. Ware was called away, Mabel suffered him to go in alone, and advanced timidly towards his nephew; she gained upon him before he was fully aware of her presence, and joining him, she walked by his side, for a few minutes, in silence. He was moodily musing, and she seemed, for a time, watchful how best to interrupt him. She had never yet alluded to his letter, and spite of the afflicting scenes which had so lately engaged her attention, he felt slightly annoyed as well as disappointed—so little, however, did he acknowledge such a feeling, even to himself, that he was a little startled when she said, softly and timidly—

"You are offended with me."

"Offended, Miss Lesly?"

"Yes, and justly so—but if you could but know how many times I have tried to speak to you without having the courage to do so, you would forgive me."

Clair's eye kindled with sudden pleasure, but she saw the look, and hastened to temper it.

"You told me that you knew something of my early history."

"Yes, Miss Lesly," he said, puzzled at her manner, and one moment appearing ready to sink back into his dejection, the next, to seize her hand—and give way to something more than joy.

"You must know, then," she continued, fixing her eyes on the ground; "that the heart which has been once given away, is no longer capable of appreciating you."

"Unless," said Clair, eagerly.

"Ah, but with me, there is no unless," said Mabel; "do not ask me to unveil the painful recesses of a mind inured, but not insensible to sorrow; and do not, oh, do not, like me, prepare for yourself that loneliness of heart which I must carry with me always. I dare not trifle with a feeling whose intensity I know too well; but, yet, I hope, so earnestly do I hope, that you have mistaken yourself, and, that pity for my sorrows, and the unhappy share you had in them, have led you to think of me as you have done, and that these feelings may be easily overcome. I feel privileged to speak to you," she said, raising her eyes timidly, "because we are both unhappy."

"Ah, Miss Lesly, you little know me; I would give all my affection, even, for the pleasure of your society—even if you would but tolerate me for a while—my devotion might—."

"Oh, no," said Mabel, earnestly, and unhesitatingly; "do not speak like that again. I would not enter on such holy duties with such feelings only; and, even if I did, cruelly should I be taking advantage of your confidence. I came only to ask you to think of me no more—to forgive me, if possible, and—."

"And," returned Clair; "can you forgive me for my former trifling."

"Not quite, for had you not trifled, I might have spared you some pain now. But you do forgive me," she said, extending her hand, and their eyes met for the first time.

"I do, I do; if I have anything to forgive," said Clair, turning his pale face aside, as he pressed her hand.

Mabel bowed gently over it, then withdrawing it from his grasp, glided from him, and re-entered the house.

There was one other duty to be performed before she left Aston, which tried her courage as much as any other; this was taking leave of her mother's two old and faithful servants—but she knew that such a parting, though so trying was one expected of her, and she would not deny them the pleasure of seeing her, perhaps, for the last time. When, however, the hour which she had appointed for their coming arrived, her heart sank within her, and her spirits entirely failed, when she met their familiar faces almost as sad as her own.

"It is like losing the very light of my eyes to see you go away, Miss Mabel," said old John.

"You have served us long and well—and that thought will be very cheering when I am gone," said Mabel, "but I want to know what you mean to do—I want to think you are comfortable when I am away. Will you go to service again?"

"I do not think I could serve another master or mistress," said old John, decidedly. "If so be you wanted a servant—"

"Then," said Mabel, "you would be mine, of course; but that cannot be; and I have been thinking, that if you had a garden of your own—a nursery garden, I mean, you would be independent."

"I was thinking of that myself, ma'am," said old John, with a pleased expression at finding his wants divined—"and if—but I don't like to say it—there, I can't," he said, walking to the window.

"John was going to say, ma'am," interrupted Betsy, seeing that Mabel looked puzzled, "that if it would not hurt your feelings, he should like to keep on the old garden still—if he could have a cottage built where our house stood—if, that is, you do not object."

Mabel checked her rising emotion, and said, cheerfully.

"How could I object to your keeping the dear old garden—how glad should I be to think that it was an old friend, not a stranger, who lived there."

"Would you now, ma'am," said John, his face brightening; "I could keep the old walks and the hot beds as they used to be—and 'twouldn't be quite such a breaking up of old times—for I have lived there so long, it seems like a home to me."

"I should be very glad," said Mabel, "to think you were happy there, and that something of what I loved so well remained still. I will speak to Mr. Clifford, perhaps he may do what we ask—for he seems willing to please everybody."

"Thank ye, ma'am," said John, rubbing his head with an air of consideration, as if he had something more to say.

"And you, Betsy, what will you do?"

"Why, that's the very thing," said John, as Betsy hesitated, in her turn; "'praps you don't know, ma'am, that Jonathan Williams has courted her for many years—but she didn't like to leave poor missis. Now, I was thinking, if you approve, that, as I am getting old, I shall want some one to help me, and as he's a clever man at a garden, I might as well take him into employ or partnership, and so we might live altogether—for," he added, with great emphasis; "I don't like to be put out by strangers—and Betsy knows my ways."

"That will be perfect," cried Mabel, with something of the gladness of her old tone of voice, rising as she spoke; "and you must write to me often, and tell me how this plan goes on;" she said, more hurriedly. "In the mean while, to secure its success, I shall place twenty pounds, a piece, for you, in Mr. Ware's hands; which you can draw upon, as you want money, for furnishing your new house—and I hope you have laid up something for yourselves, and so will be able to start with advantage. You must let me get you your wedding gown, Betsy."

So difficult is it for the uneducated to separate wealth from gentle manners, and ladylike qualities, that the two faithful domestics accepted her parting gift with gratitude and pleasure; but without the reluctance which they would have felt, had they guessed the real nature of her circumstances. They could not fancy that the mistress, whose noble qualities had ever received their genuine respect, was really almost moneyless, and dependent for the blessing of a home. Mabel was not sorry to keep up the illusion, and tore herself from them before they had time to enquire anything of her future plans.

When she placed the money in Mr. Ware's hands, he remonstrated with her on giving away a sum so large in proportion to with what she actually possessed; but she replied cheerfully—

"So much of our comfort is in the hands of our servants, that if they have served us well, we can scarcely reward them enough. The thought that I have shewn them something of my gratitude for the past, will be better to me than the money itself. The selfish reason that I have no one to care for but myself, should at least have its advantages."

Mr. Clifford was easily persuaded to grant Mabel's request, that, upon the site of her once happy home—one might be built for the old servants; and he readily took the opportunity of interesting her by making her choose and alter the plans for the new cottage, which they agreed should be in the same style as the other, though, of course, a real cottage.

Mabel might soon, perhaps, have recovered the harmony of her spirits, amongst those dear friends who were so studiously attentive in every imaginable kindness, but she was not suffered to enjoy their society very long—for her aunt was impatient to return to Bath, and wrote to tell her at what stage upon the road they were to meet.

She dared not delay—neither did she much wish to do so, when she perceived Clair's unhappiness rather increased by time; and she, therefore, felt it right to depart as soon as possible. But, in leaving Aston, she began more and more to realise the true nature of her recent loss; and when Mr. Ware drove her to the little town where she was to meet the coach, he tried in vain to rouse her from the despondency into which she had fallen.

"My child," he said, as he took leave of his weeping charge; "you will remember, though not yet, that your past life calls upon you for future exertion."

Mabel endeavoured to smile her thanks, and her promises, but the light appeared in her eyes only to vanish again, put out by tears—yet, as the coach rolled off, she leant forward, and kissed her hand with an air of cheerfulness. Mr. Ware turned musingly away. As he drove home by himself, the road seemed unusually long, and the large flakes of snow, as they lazily fell through the freezing air, seemed even more cold and comfortless than they usually do: he could not conceal from himself that a gap had been made in his little circle, which he had no opportunity of supplying; and that, with the loss of the Lesly family, he must part with much that had tended to render his life happy.