There was something so pleasant in the feeling of the cheerful fire, that Mabel, who, for many days, had been up early and late, could not resist its influence; her thoughts began to wander from the book which she had again taken up; her heavy eyelids closed, and she fell asleep.

Again she was, where memory often carried her, in their happy cottage at Aston; she was again kneeling by her sister's side, holding her little hand in hers, and watching her tranquil sleep. Again the rumbling sound of many feet, and many voices, stole upon her ear, the air was thick with smoke—a smell of burning, and then, again, that fearful, hoarse, deafening cry of "fire."

She again awoke, startled at the sound, and, before she could analyse her remembrance, or distinguish the past from the present, she perceived that she was in flames. Her dress had fallen too near the fire, and had become ignited. Lucy was at the door, screaming fire, and calling wildly on the names of all in the house, for assistance. Caroline rushed to her, but retreated with a scream, just as Hargrave, who had been attracted by the sound of his name, came towards them. Quickly passing her, as she remained screaming with terror, he was by Mabel's side in an instant, and wrapping his powerful arms around her, he laid her on the floor as if she had been a child; then, folding the rug over her, he very soon succeeded in extinguishing the flames.

Caroline, reassured, now entered the room, and Lucy pattered back again, with her naked feet, into bed, and drew the curtains closely round her.

"Why, she has fainted!" cried Caroline; "and see how her chest is burnt," she added, tremblingly pulling aside the dress, which gave way to her touch, and displayed a scar upon her fair bosom. Hargrave turned aside his head, but she saw that he was pale, and that his hand trembled as he supported the senseless form of the beautiful girl. "Look," added Caroline, directing his attention again to her, "I shall remove this chain, for I am sure it will hurt her."

It was a small linked, gold chain, of African workmanship; and when Caroline drew it from her neck, she perceived that it was attached to a simple gold locket, large enough to contain a portrait. Holding it up, she said, laughingly:—

"Here is a secret; I must have just one little peep."

As she said this, she applied her finger to the spring, and was about to unclasp it, when Hargrave, suffering Mabel's head to rest upon the floor, started forward, and putting his arms round her, not only arrested her purpose, but took the locket from her hand, thrusting it, as he did so, into his bosom.

"It is sacred," he said, trying nervously to smile away Caroline's rising anger; and anxious to avoid a retort, he took Mabel in his arms, and carried her to the next room, where, laying her upon the sofa, he begged Caroline to watch her till he should return with a medical man.

The poor girl was not long left to the care of so angry a nurse, for the good-natured cook, upon whom she had made a very favourable impression, hurried up-stairs, and busily tried her numerous list of restoratives from fainting. She brought with her, too, a plate of raw potatoes, and a knife.

"And if," she said, "Miss Villars would but scrape a little of them, there was no knowing how it would cure the pain."

Caroline forced herself to comply, but knowing the stain which her fair fingers might sustain from such an employment, she drew on a pair of white gloves to protect them.

"Only look at her pretty neck now," lamented the cook, in tones at once of admiration and pity, which sounded ill in her young mistress's ears—rather as if she intended to detract in some way from her own acknowledged beauty—and she contemplated, with some uneasiness, the fair white bosom, and the beautifully rounded arm, which the cook was regarding with so much complacency.

Mabel soon, however, opened her eyes again, and looked wonderingly about her; when she saw how Caroline was employed, she smiled, almost with a look of gladness, as she eagerly thanked her for the trouble she was taking for her.

Mr. Mildman, the medical attendant of the family, soon made his appearance, and, after a slight examination, dispelled every fear of any serious consequences, commended the skill of the cook, and said he should not interfere with her remedy, except, indeed, by a little soothing medicine, or, perhaps, a little ointment to allay the irritation of the burn, gently commiserated with Mabel on the terror she had suffered, made a few jocose compliments to Caroline on her usefulness, and hurried away again.

"I thought," said Caroline, returning to the sitting-room, "that Mabel professed to have too strong a mind to faint for such a trifle—Mr. Mildman says it is a mere nothing."

"If," said Hargrave, severely, "you had as many bitter recollections connected with that terrible word 'fire' as she has, poor orphan, you would believe that the strongest nerves would fail, sometimes."

Mrs. Villars looked entreatingly at her, and managed, by dint of many signs, to suppress the angry reply which was rising to her lips. This she the more easily did, as Hargrave seemed bent on making her forget the rudeness of which he had been guilty; he laughed and talked and sang, and did whatever they asked him, with so good a grace, that, in a few minutes, he succeeded in restoring her good humour, even to her own surprise, and led by his example, and rejoicing in its magic effect, the whole party were soon in the gayest spirits—though none gayer than Hargrave himself.

Meanwhile, Mabel, having escaped from the hands of the cook, who wished to imprison her to the sofa, returned to Lucy's room—and, fearing that she might be prevented from remaining with her, suppressed every sensation of the acute pain she was suffering, lest, perhaps, she might lose the only opportunity of winning the wounded heart of the wilful and fickle girl.

Had the high mental abilities she possessed, usurped the power over her heart, which her fond father had once feared, she might have looked on her companion's sorrows with contempt, as she saw her, by turns, forgetting, without contending with affliction, at others, bending before it in despair. But the path of sorrow had not been trodden by her in vain. Under its chastising influence, she had learnt the softer feelings most fitting a woman's nature, and could see, with childish simplicity, the value of a single spark of Heavenly flame above all the mental light, which, without it, might illuminate a world. She had placed, with careful hands, the veil of charity over eyes which could have detected faults under the shrewdest disguise; and, while she could not hide from herself the fact that Lucy was selfish, weak, and vain, she hoped, and, perhaps, not unjustly, that a better nature might slumber beneath, waiting but the kindly culture of a friendly hand to call it into life and being.

As she now sat, trying to read, her companion watched her with covert attention, and, as thoughts of high and holy purpose spread their influence over her countenance, she regarded her with wonder, not unmingled with awe and pleasure.

Then she perceived, with some curiosity, that Mabel raised her hand to her neck, while an expression of pain died upon her lips; then, as if recollecting herself, the hand wandered in search of something, and, not finding it, she rose, and looked about the room, and then in the next, but returned again, disappointed.

"What are you looking for?" enquired Lucy, at length, seeing how troubled her face became.

She started at perceiving she was noticed, and replied, with ill affected carelessness—

"I had a chain round my neck which I can't find."

"Oh," said Lucy, "that is quite safe—for Henry has it for you."

"How did he get it?" said Mabel, her face and neck suffused with deep crimson.

"Caroline wanted to look at it—but, just as she was going to raise the spring of the locket to see what was in it, he put his arms round her, and took it from her—not very polite certainly—but your locket is safe—for I do not suppose he will look at it, as he took it from Caroline."

Mabel covered her face with her hands, and Lucy saw, with surprise, that tears were trickling through her fingers—but presently she brushed them aside, exclaiming—

"How silly to be put out by such a trifle—promise me, dear Lucy, not to say how vexed I was at nothing."

"No, Mabel—it would indeed be unkind to notice the few unreasonable moods in which you ever indulge."

Neither said more at that time—and Lucy, as had been her habit lately, was silent for some hours.

The evening had closed in, Mabel had excused herself from appearing at the dinner-table; and, as it was now too dark to see to read or work, she laid aside her book, and seated herself to remain awhile unoccupied. Then Lucy raised herself a little, and leaning her head upon one hand, looked attentively at her, while she said, in a low tone—

"I have been thinking, these long, long days, of all the wrong I have ever done you. Nay, do not interrupt me—let me condemn myself as I deserve. When I first went to Aston, I well remember how kindly you tried to make me happy, even while I was turning you into ridicule, in order that I might prevent Captain Clair admiring you. With the wish to shew my superior nerve, and spirit for fun, I persisted in being one great cause of poor Amy's accident, while I called you prudish and old maidish. When I was in despair, you turned from your own grief to comfort mine; and yet so selfish was I still, that when I refused to leave you to nurse alone, it was only because I loved Captain Clair. When I found he loved you, I left you without remorse—and, oh! when she was dying—the poor child I had helped to murder—I was acting a part at a fancy ball, without one thought but of the admiration I excited. You came here. I felt, at first, that I could have done anything to please you; but I soon forgot you again—for I was once more infatuated, and could see nothing, think of nothing, but Beauclerc. I left you alone, to contend with my sisters, who were prejudiced against you—and when you interfered, for my good, I met you with peevishness and ill-humour. And how have I been punished—that very ball was the beginning of my unhappiness. When I went to the fancy ball, I deserved to meet Beauclerc, and to be deceived in him as I have been. And now, mother and sisters all desert me—none can bear to witness the workings of such a frivolous mind as mine—none stand by me—none care for me—but you, you whom I have most injured—no one but you thinks my spirit worth preserving from its sin and worldliness. Oh, Mabel, you have entirely conquered me—but I dare not promise anything—I am so very, very weak."

"It is for such a moment as this," replied Mabel, "that I have waited and watched. Lucy, you are dear to me, because I have thought and prayed for you so long. I know how difficult it is to do right, when you have long done wrong; but I know, that if you try, there is no difficulty you will not overcome."

"And if I do not try," said Lucy, tears gathering in her eyes, "what is to become of me; I leave nothing but trifling and despair behind me. Only point out some way by which I can shew I repent, for I know I must be doing something, or I shall fall back into idle habits again—only point out something for me to begin with, and I will get up to-morrow—for I am not ill—only unhappy."

"I can tell you, then," said Mabel, "of one social duty, of which you never think, and, without performing it, I can scarcely believe that a blessing can rest either on your worldly fortune, or your eternal hopes. Pardon me for speaking severely—but why has your father, upon whose hardly earned wealth you have rested so much of your pleasure, why is he left alone to feel that no one cares for him?"

"But, do you think he would care for my company? and, besides, you are always with him."

"He would indeed care, if you would but try to please him—and I shall give up my place, when you are ready to take it. Indeed, my duty lies elsewhere, and I must soon obey its call. I would not have any one ignorant of their real talents through false modesty," she continued, "because they are weapons lent us by Heaven, which we must either use, or abuse, or leave to rust in our hands. You know you have a winning way, when you like—it has been your snare in society—but it may make your peace at home."

"I will try," cried Lucy, smiling, "no one can give comfort as you can; but I will not talk, I have wasted too much on words already."

"But one thing more," said Mabel—"can you bear now to let me speak of Mr. Beauclerc?"

"I meant to have forgotten him," replied Lucy, shrinkingly; "but what of him?"

"He has written to me—and, if you will let me, I should like you to hear his letter."

"Very well then," she returned, but her countenance had fallen.

Mabel read—

Lucy blushed when she came to the commendation of "her artless candour and ingenuousness."

"Well," she said, "I forgive him, he can ask no more."

"Nor does he," replied Mabel, "but you can do more, and I strongly advise you to do so. It would not only be generous, but prudent, to aid in making a reconciliation between him and his wife; for, if he reflects, and the world comments on your conduct, it had better be on your generosity than on any thing else. I carefully bring forward these motives, because it is dangerous to pique oneself on doing a noble thing, when, being prudent, it serves our own purpose. Will you do this, dear Lucy?"

"I will try," said she, very slowly, as if with difficulty, "but Millie and I have quarrelled."

"She had cause for irritation, if she believed that you were flirting with her husband; and I am sure you can allow for any thing she may have said under that impression; for, without intending it, how greatly you must have pained her."

"Yes, Mabel, yes, I have pained every body and lost my own peace as well. Oh, what would I give to be conscience free—free from all the petty wickedness of which I have been guilty. Believe me, all the time that Beauclerc seemed flirting, he was only talking seriously, and he never would have been so much with me had I not attracted him by a thousand artifices—pleading my own ignorance and great admiration for his talent, which I really felt, but ought not to have spoken. But you will not reproach me, for I am bitterly punished, and even your contempt is disarmed. I will go to Millie, yes, I will do every thing so that I may win peace at last. Oh that to-morrow were come; but, that it may be blessed, I will pray to-night. Now, dearest Mabel, do go to bed, you look so pale and ill, and I have been talking and keeping you up, and how your poor neck must pain you—I shall ring for that good tempered cook to come and dress it for you."

"Good night love." And so the girls parted for the night.

To-morrow came, and Lucy rose, pale, but composed, and this satisfied Mabel more than any greater display of ardour.

"It is difficult," she said, turning from the mirror, which reflected back her altered features, "but it may bring me peace. Give me your arm, Mabel dear, and then we will go to the study—my face will look strange there, after that of the intellectual Mabel."

"Hush and take courage, we shall see which will be the favorite soon. Believe me, much as I value my uncle's favor, I shall be glad to resign it to you, if we cannot both be loved."

"Do not make me cry," returned Lucy, "I have shed tears enough—see how heavy my eyelids look."

Arm-in-arm they proceeded to the study, where Mr. Villars was seated at his work, no longer a disappointed student. He looked up, with a little surprise, on seeing Lucy, but, without a moment's hesitation, she advanced towards him, and, laying her hand on the table to steady herself, for she trembled with weakness, she said—

"Papa, the world has vexed me, will you let me come to you, for then I shall be safe."

She could scarcely have chosen a better introduction, for, had she offered her services and her company, both would probably have been now declined; but Mr. Villars was a kind-hearted man, and the speech touched him, and he replied, taking her hand—

"Come, my poor girl, whenever you like, for you are right in saying you will be safe with me, and I need a companion when Mabel is out of the way."

Then Mabel drew her to her own chosen seat by the fire, and gave her a footstool, telling her, that, if she liked, she might go on copying something she had begun, and when she was tired she could tack some papers together, with the needle and thread which she placed ready for her hand, on the little table where she had laid some writing materials.

As she busied herself in these little preparations, it was beautiful to see how her cheek flushed with rich color, and how bright her eye sparkled, and then, as she gently moved away and left them to themselves, how cheerfully she looked back upon them; as if, in that kindly glance, she left a blessing behind her, when she departed.