When Caroline quitted Mabel she hurried to her mother, with all the petulance of a wayward child, and, with her, vented on Mabel the spleen which she had not had the courage fully to express. Great was her surprise when she found, that, instead of joining in her opinion, Mrs. Villars only endeavoured to extenuate and defend Mabel's conduct, though with that weakness which Caroline always had the hope of overcoming; but, for once she was mistaken, and, more than ever chagrined, the bitterness with which she regarded her cousin, only increased. This Mabel had soon an opportunity of learning, and her situation in the house became more and more uncomfortable, influenced as it was, by those secret prejudices and envious feelings, which there is no possibility of openly opposing.

Lucy, too, though still an object of solicitude to her, seemed shy of her company, and, indeed, held herself much aloof from every one but Beauclerc, whose attentions were now very generally remarked.

Still there was one room in the house where her presence was welcomed as a real blessing, and this consciousness atoned to her for much that was elsewhere almost unbearable.

At first, with the shyness which often attends the student, Mr. Villars frequently locked his door, but gradually the habit ceased altogether.

One afternoon, he was sitting alone, his manner was restless, and his eye absent in its expression.

The atmosphere without was unusually humid; small rain, which, in the distance, looked almost like fog, hid the prospect, and made the room dark, giving nothing of the inspiriting feeling produced by a hearty shower. Within, the room seemed heavy and sombre. But within Mr. Villars' own thoughts there was something darker still, something cold and numbing—something that said the world was a dark and gloomy world—something that said he lived alone and uncared-for in it. He rose and walked up and down the room—that dark feeling haunted him still. He turned to the window—on its ledge lay his pen-knife—he looked at it uneasily—then walked away—then returned—and again regarded it as if it had the power to injure him. He returned to the table, on it lay a bundle of closely written papers—he turned from them, and again found himself at the window.

That knife again.

His thoughts grew darker—that something again stole over him, till the sweat stood in drops upon his brow, and his eyes glared feverishly.

Hark! He listens. The sound of a light footfall is in the passage—a quick hand is on the lock, the door is opened, and Mabel is by his side, looking uneasily and affectionately at him, with that expression of light and beauty so peculiar to her.

"You are ill—I am sure you are," she said; "let me call my aunt."

"No, no," he replied, hurriedly, "I am better—if you will stay with me. You must not go—you will not let them drive you from me."

Mabel looked puzzled—but eagerly promised anything he desired.

"Ah," said she, rallying her spirits, "I see it now. You have those papers out again. Why are you always unhappy when you take them out?"

"Because they remind me of disappointment," he replied, bitterly.

"I have a great curiosity about them," said Mabel, "and have some fancy that it is the manuscript of a book you have written."

"You do not deny it—then do read it to me."

"It would not give you any amusement."

"Now, uncle, how can you tell that? I am sure it will not make you so miserable, if you do."

"Well, my little sage—but I must first tell you the circumstances under which I wrote it, and the reasons I have for being disappointed."

"Stay one moment then," said she, drawing his arm-chair to the fire, which she stirred, till it sent a good flame up the chimney, then seating herself opposite, she begged him to go on. Beginning to feel happier, he scarce knew why he sat down, and, after a moment's hesitation, he said—

"I was always very fond of writing, when a young man—I dare say, thought myself something of a genius—but though I wished to devote myself entirely to study, this was so much opposed by my more prudent father, that I gave up my own inclinations, and entered into a lucrative mercantile establishment in London. Not long after this, I married, and then it appeared to me, to be my duty to devote myself entirely to business, in order that I might acquire wealth for my wife, and increasing family—but I gave myself too rigidly to the task—I gave myself no ease—always fearing that I longed for it, only from the desire for selfish indulgence. The consequence has been that my family has been educated in a manner of which I strongly disapprove—and, alas! I feel the evil is so great as to require something stronger even than a father's displeasure to remedy it."

Mr. Villars sighed, and then continued—

"In the short intervals of business, I noted down, from time to time, scenes which were drawn either from real life, or my own fancy—together with numerous remarks on the manners of my own times, which I thought might be amusing—pining always to indulge what I falsely believed to be a talent.

"How often desired blessings bring a curse. A few years since my speculations were successful beyond my expectations, and I found myself enabled to retire from business with a good conscience. This place was the scene of my happy boyhood, and of my school days, and here I resolved to settle, since it offered pleasures suited to us all.

"With the eagerness of a schoolboy I fitted up this study; it was the very perfection of my taste, it contains every book I take any pleasure in, and yet," he said, looking gloomily round him, "it has been to me the scene of greater misery than even you, seemingly deprived of almost every blessing, can calculate upon.

"Secure as I believed of the interest of my family, for year after year of, to me, heavy toil had, I believe, purchased it beyond a doubt. I thought I would prepare them a treat, and so set about collecting my scattered writings, and forming them into a whole, promising them a reading every Saturday of what I had done in the week.

"I never shall forget the first Saturday evening. You have, I dare say, often heard that an author's vanity is capable of blinding him to the opinions of others. I cannot understand the feeling myself, and I was not slow in perceiving that my book soon failed to interest—but I tire you."

"You pain, but interest me," replied Mabel.

"Well, it is hard to believe that one's composition is too bad to interest those whose affection ought to make them indulgent to the dullest of our pursuits; but so it was; they eagerly courted any other Saturday engagement, and when they did come, they yawned or whispered over their work, and seemed so completely wearied with my reading that one day I threw down the book, and refused to continue. I forget what followed, but I know I was never asked to resume my readings. From that time I have been more and more alone, and I am sorry to confess that, after years of well rewarded toil, I find life losing interest with me."

Mabel started at the last words; there was an ominous meaning in them, that terrified her—while she watched him now pacing the room again, with a disturbed air, muttering exclamations of despair. She hastened to interrupt him.

"How very much I should like to hear your manuscript. Would you have patience to read it to me?"

Mr. Villars turned and looked full upon her; but she repeated her request eagerly. She saw the coming of that mental cloud, which has obscured many a noble intellect, and her eyes sparkled as she saw him yielding to her request, and that the dawn of hope was again upon the face of the disappointed student.

"Evening is the time for a work of fiction," she observed, "but let us have the first chapter now. If it will not tire you to read."

"If you really wish it," he said, handling the papers with trembling fingers.

"Oh, yes, I do wish it, but let me first get my work, for that is to us what chipping is to the Americans, it only assists our attention. While you find the first part I will go and fetch it."

Her errand took her longer than she had anticipated, for in the morning room she found her aunt, with Hargrave, Caroline, and Selina discussing a print with some eagerness.

"I would give anything to have such a head-dress," exclaimed Caroline.

"Well, my dear," said her mother, "I should be glad for you to have it too, but I fear you must give it up. I am sure, Henry, you ought to be complimented, for Caroline has been trying this hour to please you."

"Well, it is a pity," said Hargrave; "she would look well in it, but I am sorry I spoke of it, if it has given her so much trouble."

Mabel stopped at the table, and taking up the print, exclaimed—

"I remember seeing something like this at Gibraltar. Perhaps I could make it—may I try," she said, glancing at the crape which Caroline had been cutting and wasting.

"If you think you can do it," returned Caroline, "do take it and try—but I want to wear it to-night, at the ball."

"Then give me everything," said she, her manner excited from the scene in the library; and gathering up the crape, ribbon, and wire into her apron, she took the print and hurried to the library. When she entered, Mr. Villars was seated by the fire, with some papers on his knees, but the look of gloom had again settled on his usually patient face. "Oh, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, anxiously, "but look how much work I had to bring—now I am quite ready."

Mr. Villars said nothing, but appeased by the affectionate warmth of her manner began reading.

She listened attentively, and gladly found herself interested, without an effort, as she heard with surprise sentences, in a style of boldness, and purity of devotion, which she had scarcely expected.

Mutually pleased, the hours slipped away, Mr. Villars charmed by the attention of his listener, while she busily continued her work.

The small greasy rain dimmed the window, and darkened the room, till the shades of evening closed upon them, but its influence had ceased. A cheerful smile shewed the pleasure of the author, and the renewed hope with which he began to feel inspired.

"I scarcely know if I like the name—'The Merchant's Recollections;' it is scarcely striking enough," said Mabel, when he stopped to rest.

"I do not think I could call it anything else, after knowing it so long by that name."

"Well then, I suppose you must keep its name, but do make an effort to have it published, or do so yourself. I am certain it would be popular. Pray let me have what is in your hand, and I will give you the novelty of listening to your own composition; but first, let me light your little candle."

With thrilling voice, and the purest accent, she read, and Mr. Villars felt that he had never appreciated his own composition before. As he listened, old recollections revived—an elasticity seemed given to his thoughts. So carefully had the influence been obtained, which was now so so cleverly exercised, that the sensitive author, with his keen perception and acute sense of the finest tone of feeling, was impressed with respect for his younger companion, who united sympathy in these to a healthy strength of mind.

Now as he looked, and listened to her, who had so timely rendered succour to intellect sinking, from discouragement, into despair, he gladly welcomed the new current of ideas which were crowding upon his attention. The thought of giving to the world the work which had so long occupied him, the chance of popularity, even the bitterness of failure, would be far preferable to the state of apathy into which he had been gradually falling. There was something stirring and exciting in the idea; there was life and employment in it, and he embraced it with rapidity.

The dressing bell put an end to their reading, and Mabel then called upon him to admire her workmanship, displayed in the pretty ornament she had prepared, in imitation of that worn by the Spanish girl, in the print, whose face was not unlike Caroline's.

"Are you going to the ball, to-night?" she enquired.

"I seldom go to those places."

"But I think you would enjoy it to-night, for they are all going, and I am sure would be glad of your company."

"Well, I may perhaps; I might enjoy it."

"I think you will, and then you will enter better into this to-morrow, for you have a great deal to do, and I am bent on seeing it completed."

"My good girl," said Mr. Villars, taking her hand with considerable emotion; "you little know the obligations you have conferred upon me to-day. I would give you all I possess for the power of conferring happiness as skilfully as you can. Heaven bless you for it."

"Providence often chooses the weakest instruments," said Mabel, "to fulfil its missions; and I endeavour to keep myself ready for service, lest I may lose the chance of being employed;" then blushing at her own speech, she withdrew her hand, and hurried from the room.

When they met at dinner, she begged Caroline to allow her to dress her hair for the evening, to suit the head-dress she had been preparing. The offer was readily accepted, and they retired together to the dressing-room already mentioned. The comfort, and almost finical luxury with which it was furnished, occurred to Caroline, as no very agreeable contrast to that which she had prepared for the houseless orphan, so lately deprived of all the comforts of home—but her attention was soon occupied by her toilette, in which she took so great an interest. Perhaps she would have been glad if their maid could have performed the same services for her, with as much taste as Mabel; but as she could not, she forced herself to accept her kindness with the best grace she could command. The beautiful head-dress, contrasted well with her raven hair; and when Mabel held the mirror before her, she scarcely believed her eyes as she gazed upon her reflected self.

"Come, I do believe you are a good girl," exclaimed Maria; "one of the right sort, after all. I wish you would concoct something for me—singularity is what I affect—but, I fear me, nothing will do," she added, going off singing.

The gay party were soon assembled in the drawing-room. Hargrave looked pleased when he saw the head-dress, and made many observations on its beauty, which delighted Mrs. Villars, and made Caroline's cheek flush with pleasure.

"Who knows," whispered Mrs. Villars, playfully pinching Mabel's arm, "but that your pretty cap may hasten the denouement; look how pleased he is."

Mabel felt sick, but no one saw the sudden pallor of her cheek, for the carriages which were ordered to take them to the rooms were announced.

Caroline, drawing her ermine tippet closer round her shoulders, took Hargrave's un-offered arm, saving:—

"You must be my first partner to-night, remember," and then walked down stairs with him, talking playfully, and gaily. Mabel thought she had never seen her look more beautiful. When they had all gone, she sunk upon a chair, suffering from the revulsion of over exerted feelings. She laid her hand upon her heart to still its beating; that heart, which spite of all its chastenings, beat true to nature still. Had she only decked Caroline to win a heart which was dearer to her than life—dearest when she had rejected it, in the name of heaven.

Oh, if Caroline were but one likely to lead back his truant heart to the duties he had more than neglected. Yet she felt little hope when she remembered her lifeless and listless Sundays—her wandering eyes in church, and the witty remarks which told how her thoughts had there been occupied.

But she also felt that she had done right, and with this consciousness, she could afford to abide by the consequences of her actions. Her delicacy, also, soon reminded her of the necessity of putting a strict guard over her imagination, lest even the pity and sorrow she felt for him, might shew themselves, and be misunderstood. Grieve over him she must, but she resolved that even he should not know it. It was a difficult part for one so candid to play, but her delicacy stood upon the defensive, and warned her to be firm.