Mrs. C. J. Newby

Merrily, merrily,
Welcome and sweet,
Ready hearts, waiting them,
Sabbath chimes greet.
Mournfully, mournfully,
Yet do they fall
On the dull, worldly ear.
Deaf to their call.

Culver Allen.

"Who is your fat friend?" enquired Caroline of Hargrave, when they met at dinner.

"The gentleman who called this morning," he replied, drawing himself up with much hauteur, "is my uncle."

Mrs. Villars cast a look upon her daughter, which seemed to say, half in entreaty, and half in reproof.

"Oh, your unfortunate tongue."

At the same time, Hargrave, perhaps, perceiving that Mabel's quick glance was upon him, suddenly changed his manner, and seemed, by the gentleness of his tone, anxious to apologise for the short feeling of anger Caroline's query had occasioned.

"I had not time to introduce him this morning," he said, "before the entrance of Mr. Stokes; but I was otherwise going to ask my aunt to give him the entrÉe of the house, as he is a perfect stranger here, and his only object is to see me."

"Oh, certainly," said Mrs. Villars, with one of her blandest smiles—"any friend of yours is welcome here, as a matter of course; I shall be delighted to know him."

"He is a singular being," returned Hargrave, smiling his thanks; "and those only who are familiar with his peculiarities, can see through them, the greatness and goodness of his heart. There is no man to whom I owe so much—and few whom I esteem so highly."

"Indeed," said Caroline, "one ought not to judge so hastily of strangers. I am sure, I beg your pardon, for speaking of him disrespectfully."

Hargrave's timely change of tone had thus prevented the display of temper which Mabel had foreseen and dreaded.

"Pray do not mention it," he rejoined, quickly; "I ought to have forestalled observation, by introducing him to you—and you said nothing, after all—I only thought you looked contemptuous—so I was too hasty, and it was my fault. You may, probably, never have heard of him, for he has not been in England for many years. He is my maternal uncle, the son of my grandmother, by her first husband—my own mother being a Lesly. I have heard that, when a very young man, he was of such enthusiastic temperament, that he entered the church mission, which took him abroad, for a long time, where, amongst heathen and savage life, he devoted himself to the work he had undertaken with great success, enduring, cheerfully, every kind of privation, being separated from the society of his equals, and without reserving to himself a single solace, but the one feeling that he was performing his duty. One cannot help admiring such a character," he added, hastily, as if excusing his energy, and concluding the last words in a tone of cold considerative philosophy.

"Well, and has he never been home since then?" enquired Caroline.

"Yes," replied Hargrave, "he returned about twenty years ago to take possession of a large property in Northumberland, which he inherited by the death of his elder brother—but after converting all that could be alienated into ready money, he let his house and land to a friend, upon whose charity to his poorer tenants, he could fully rely, and did so, at a rent sufficiently low to enable him to expend what otherwise might have come direct to him, in useful improvements. It was during his stay at Aston, with my father, that I first saw a little of him; but I cannot say I knew him till we met as strangers, a short time ago, in India, where I found him devoting his wealth to the advancement of Christianity."

When he reached the last word, he uttered it in so incoherent a tone, that it seemed as if he had some difficulty in pronouncing it; and, as soon as dinner was concluded, he retreated to his room, in one of those moods, when, by common consent, they always left him to himself. He did not make his appearance again that evening; and when Caroline retired for the night, her chamber being above his, she could still hear the hasty tread up and down his room, which varied the dull silence which ever now and then preceded it; and next morning, when she woke, the first sound that greeted her ears, was the same hasty tread, resumed with the dawning light.

It was Sunday, and knowing that Hargrave would most likely absent himself, as usual, for the whole day, she resisted her disposition to take another nap, and got up, anxious not to lose the chance of seeing him, and, perhaps, having a tÊte-À-tÊte before breakfast.

Of all the days in the week, Sunday, in that house, was the least comfortable, particularly at breakfast time.

Every one was late, and never came down at any particular time—and somebody was sure to have a cold, and require breakfast sent up-stairs—joined, too, to all this, was the stiffness originating in the feeling that they were in Sunday costume, composed of dresses which required a great deal of care to be taken of them.

Caroline often secured to herself the pleasure of giving Hargrave a cup of tea before the others made their appearance; and Mabel, having, unluckily, made her entrÉe, one morning, at what she deemed so inopportune a period, avoided being early ever afterwards.

Caroline, having, this morning, been fortunate enough to secure her position, made a rather ostentatious display of her care for his comfort.

"There," she said, when he came in, "I have made you some toast—and your tea is quite ready—no, I mean your chocolate—for you must try that this morning—it is best quite hot—so I have got it in this little pot by the fire, for, see, I have been making it myself."

"Thank you," said Hargrave, in a sufficiently discouraging tone, as he accepted her services.

"You are a naughty boy," she returned; "you never say anything more than that sulky thank you."

"Because I am really sorry to give you so much trouble," said he, sincerely; "I am so accustomed to wait on myself, that—"

"Say no more, you sulky creature," cried she, with one of her blandest smiles; "'virtue is its own reward'—so I will give you your chocolate without any thanks. But I wish you would not go away to-day—do come with us to the Octagon?"

"No, thank you—I am engaged."

"Why, you are as punctual to your engagements, as if you were courting some country lass, in your Sunday's best. I am afraid you are doing no good. You are not going, I hope, to act the play of the lowly lady over again?"

"What was that?"

"Why, do you not remember the story of the young lord, pretending to be a country-man, or artist, or something of that kind, and so marrying a young lady—no, not a lady, a poor girl, I mean—and never telling her till he took her home to his grand house?"

"Oh, yes, I do, now you speak of it. Not a bad idea, upon my word—it would be something novel to be certain of exciting a disinterested affection."

Caroline's cheeks tingled—she had never got him so near the subject before.

"Are you one of the sceptics on that point, then?" she enquired.

"No—yes—well, I really do not know—but I am, at times, puzzled to think what makes women marry sometimes so badly, and often with so little consideration."

"Oftener for love than you suppose," said she, leaning over his shoulder, to put a tempting white nub of sugar in his chocolate, suspending it awhile as she held it.

"Perhaps so," he replied, attacking his plate of ham, which she had been thinly slicing for him, with very good appetite.

"I suppose," said she, "having Aston Manor, and its goodly acres, tacked to your other accomplishments, makes you suspicious?"

"Not unjustly so—no—no—I would soon contrive some test by which to try the woman I admired, if I doubted her. Thank you, no more chocolate, I am going."

So saying, he rose, and drew on his gloves, and wished her good morning—leaving her in a pleasing reverie.

"Ha, master Henry," she observed to herself; "you are not so deep, but you let out a secret, now and then. So you are testing me, are you—I understand."

As she indulged these thoughts, one by one of the breakfast party strolled in, and conversation was soon briskly engaged in on the bonnets, shawls, and gloves, which they intended wearing, interspersed by some hints from Caroline, on the agreeable nature of her morning's tÊte-À-tÊte. Before the meal was fully concluded, the bells from the different churches began to ring, but, somehow, they were not in harmony with the voices of the little party, as, one after another, they took up the same solemn tune, in different notes, all speaking the same language, but in such harsh tones, it seemed as if the sisters disliked them, for they rose up hastily, and hurried off to dress for church.

Neither did those bells seem to speak less harshly, when they intruded their voices into the quiet study; yet there was a sadness, too, about them, when they found Mr. Villars seated there, at his table, surrounded by books and papers—his inkstand, and letter-drawer, and scraps of his book—and wearing his dusty coat—and as his pen ran rapidly and unceasingly across and across the paper, they seemed to whisper, still in sadder, sadder tones—

Perhaps he heard that whisper, for he stopped, and listened, and laid his hand uneasily upon his aching brow; and when he went on again, trying to shut out their voices, something darker and darker stole upon his mind, and he stopped and listened again to the same sad tones—sadder, sadder still—as he heeded them more and more.

But merrily, merrily, merrily over the hills and green meadows—up from the busy town, and borne upon the rippling waters of the Avon, came those bells—when Mabel sat at her garret window, and looked out upon the small peep of blue sky, which was not shut out by the dark walls and tall chimney pots, which surrounded her—and as they fell upon her ear, they whispered—"We are glad sounds to those who listen for us as you do"—But back with those bells had her thoughts gone to the student, in his silent room—and the expression of her face grew more and more sad.

"I cannot leave him there," she said, to herself; "but what can I say to him? Oh, is there not enough. I will tell him how he is wasting himself week after week without rest. I will tell him, that knowledge so acquired is like the manna of the wilderness, which only turned to corruption, when gathered on the Sabbath. Yes, surely he will listen to me, for truth is so plain—I will go now."

The light of enthusiastic fervour brightened her saddened countenance—and once again stopping to take sweet counsel with the bells—she left her room full of strong resolve. But when she reached the study door, and laid her hand upon its lock, she paused, tremblingly. Often had she come before, on the same errand, and as often had retired, unheard, and disappointed at her own timidity. Now, her beautiful cheek flushed, and her heart beat so loudly, that she laid her hand upon it to still its beating; yet trembling, throbbing, uneasy, as was that heart, it was true to its purpose still.

She had sat in her garret room for more than an hour that morning, thinking of what she should say—she had listened to the Sabbath bells, as one after another they took up the same hallowed tone—and still she had found no words strong enough and meek enough to speak to him. Yet had she come.

Mr. Villars raised his head, as she entered, and, after a quick greeting, went on with his writing. Across and across the paper went the unwearying hand. She stood at the other side of the table, hoping he would look up and say something—but he still continued writing.

On went the bells—from the venerable and gray stoned Abbey belfry—from the good, old-fashioned, little church of Walcot—and, far as the ear could reach, from the ivy-covered tower on the hill—on they went—and Mr. Villars continued writing—and Mabel stood irresolute, for all her eloquence was gone; but, at length, she stammered forth—

"Uncle, will you come to church?"

He looked up—her very soul was in those few words—and in the tearful eyes which seconded her request.

On went the bells.

He laid down his pen, and looked at her—but her eyes were fixed upon the ground.

"Who is going?" he said, at length, looking more fixedly.

"Lucy and I."

"Very well then, make haste and put on your bonnet, for I hear the bells."

He did hear them indeed, for what a clatter they made, one after another, as if they would be heard.

Mabel ran away all joyousness—very soon she had her bonnet on, for that took little time, and then she was down with Lucy—getting her shawl, and finding her lost gloves, and her prayer-book, and then, all pleasant bustle, as if she feared he would change his mind, down again to her uncle's study, ready with the soft brush to smooth his sleek hat.

And then they were in the street, and taking their way, not to any of the fashionable places of worship, but down the shady part of the old town to a little church which seemed to hide itself from view, so small that the imagination could scarcely wander round its walls, from the voice of the venerable preacher, whose simple but well chosen language brought conviction with it. There too, the white-haired, aged clerk, in his stiff quaint reading desk, and the twelve old pensioners, nearly as old as himself. And then so few to listen they could not choose but hear.

Mabel felt tremblingly happy, for she had succeeded in her desire to get her uncle to break his bad habit of remaining shut up on a Sunday. She saw, too, that he was happier, as they walked home together, though he often looked, when he met any one he knew, as if he had been committing some crime. But however that might be, he himself proposed going in the evening, and gladly did she consent, and when they walked home again through the lighted streets, talking of what they had heard, alone, for Lucy was too delicate to venture in the evening air, she felt happy indeed. And when they reached home again no one was more ready to join in the conversation over the bright fire where the sisters sat, glad to welcome Hargrave back from his mysterious absence. And Mr. Villars too, as he went to bed that night, could scarcely understand why he felt such pleasant fatigue, not that fatigue which makes the very heart ache, and keep the eyes awake with uneasy watchfulness, but which closes them in light repose, and bids them open again in cheerful, buoyant hope to the light of day.

For many a long week, indeed, he had not welcomed Monday morning so pleasantly. The sun shone so brightly that the spendthrift might almost have been excused for being guided by the presence of the ill-fated swallow. The Spring air was light and warm, and the rich, pink blossom of the almond supplied the place of leaves and flowers.

Colonel Hargrave was as gay as the sunshine, as he stood joking with the little party lingering over the breakfast table.

"Pray, ladies," said he, "how do you mean to make the most of this lovely day?"

"By keeping you with us, for the first thing," said Caroline.

"You wicked creature," said her mamma, by way of adding point to the observation; the object of which, however, remained rigidly indifferent. Nobody could say he flirted; he withdrew from all approach to such a thing, with the rapidity of a frightened girl. Mrs. Villars tried to believe, though against her better judgment, that he was timid, yet he had received sufficient encouragement to have made a boy propose; but never by muttered word or tender look had he taken advantage of it, never had he been betrayed into a tÊte-À-tÊte walk—never had he offered Caroline a present which had not a fac-simile in one to each of her sisters. In short, he was the most impenetrable being possible.

"Oh, for a ride," said Mabel, "far off into the country—would it not be delightful—why do you not go?"

"The very thing," said Hargrave, "let us take the day while we have it. You will go, will you not," he said, referring the matter to Caroline.

She readily agreed, and after a short discussion about the horses, which he engaged to procure from the livery stables where his own horse was kept, she went to prepare for the ride, with her sisters, while Hargrave hurried off, full of sparkling good humour.

Mabel would willingly have joined them, but she had no riding dress, and she checked the expression of a regret, lest it might damp their pleasure, little thinking, poor girl, how little they cared for her; and though she sighed for the air of her own Cotswold hills, she took up her needle and tried to work cheerfully. But accustomed as she had been, to the bracing air of Gloucestershire, her health had begun to vary under the enervating influence of the Bath air. Added to which, she had lately endured much fatigue, varied only by the pleasures derived from the industrious workings of a happy spirit, and she now began to feel, what she had before only readily sympathized in, the seemingly causeless depression which weak health so often engenders. For this, however, she severely reproached herself, for so slow and imperceptible had become its progress, that, unconscious of bodily weakness, she attributed her mental depression to a faulty principle. And now she taxed herself, thinking she must have relaxed the reins of self-government, or she never could feel so slight a disappointment so acutely, for she felt the tears starting to her eyes, when her cousins entered, fully equipped. Caroline and Selina looked overpoweringly charming, in becoming hats of the very last fashion, and even Maria seemed determined to rival her sisters, and partly succeeded, by the air of fun and off-hand carelessness, which, as she had once explained, never left a person time to scan her features.

Presently, in Hargrave hurried, looking pleased, healthy, and doubly handsome; he could not refrain from complimenting the sisters, but he had hardly heard their smiling reply, before he perceived Mabel sitting by the window, and struggling to look indifferent.

"What!" said he, in a tone of pique, "are you not ready, Miss Lesly—was not the ride your own proposition?"

Mabel never knew how very easy it was to cry before, but with affected calmness she replied, as she tried to smile—

"I would willingly have accompanied you, but I have neither hat nor habit."

He looked at her for an instant, half angrily, but there was something so constrained in her smile, that it led him, for the first time, to observe that the color was waning on her cheek, and he looked earnestly at her as she hastily laid down her work and left the room.

"Selina," he said, gravely, for it was evident that something vexed him, "you said one day that you had two habits—cannot you lend her one?"

"It is so shabby that I did not like to offer it, and now it is too late—I am very sorry I did not think of it, but it is too late now you know," she said, seeing the gathering storm on Caroline's lowering brow. "We are keeping the horses waiting, come along," she added, hurrying to the door, "do come."

Hargrave quietly seated himself.

"I am not coming," he said, "I cannot go and leave that poor pale girl, at home."

"Oh, there are Lucy, and papa, and mamma," cried Maria, "I will ask mamma to take her to the Pump-room."

"Lucy never rides now," said Hargrave, "or we would not consent to leave her at home, either. The Pump-room on such a day as this—it makes my head ache to think of it." So saying, he threw down his gloves and whip, laid aside his hat, and took up the paper.

The party were at a stand still. Hargrave looked seriously annoyed, and Caroline verging upon a storm.

"What shall I do?" said Selina, in a perplexed tone, looking from one to the other.

"Go and find your habit," said Hargrave.

"But it is so shabby," she said, looking fearfully at Caroline.

"You know Miss Lesly is above such trifles, besides, she can decide that."

"But there is no hat."

"There is one hanging up in the hall that looks like a lady's hat, for it has strings, try that."

"That old thing, covered with dust?"

"I dare say she will put up with it, if you will only find it, if not I am afraid we must stay at home."

"What shall I do?" she whispered to Caroline, in a trembling voice.

"Do as you like," she retorted, angrily, and aloud, as she turned to the window.

"Do come," said Selina, turning again to Hargrave, "Caroline never likes waiting with her hat on, it makes her head ache."

"I am sorry to hear it," replied the inexorable Hargrave, without moving.

"Well, here's a fix, all about nothing," cried Maria.

"I am sorry you think so," said Hargrave.

"Come, come, do not look like a methodist parson, while we are wasting all the sunshine. I have half a mind to gallop off by myself, and make the neighbours stare. Come, Selina, do go and get your habit, for I see Henry is determined to make Mabel a Guy—for the old hat is only fit for a bonfire. I did intend being charitable with it, on the last fifth of November, but I forgot it luckily."

Thus urged, Selina at length retreated to find her habit, which, when produced, was found to be in very good condition. But Maria's description of the hat had been more truthful, for the dust of repeated house-cleanings seemed to have settled on its unlucky beaver; and Maria, having climbed up to reach it from its peg in the hall, threw it down in disgust, raising a cloud of dust which threatened to soil her new habit.

Hargrave, however, who was now entirely restored to good humour, seized it as it fell, and began brushing it with great vigour.

As he did so, the door bell rang, and, before he had time to retreat, Mr. Stokes entered, whip in hand.

"Just in time, I hope, Colonel," he cried, "if I may be allowed to join your party—a ride—why it is the very thing—I see four side-saddles, and I am sure you cannot monopolise four ladies—may I go?"

Hargrave being in a compliant mood, replied gaily—

"You are welcome, I am sure—for I shall be glad to be relieved of half the burden. Ladies are troublesome creatures—particularly this one. Here, Maria, the hat will not hurt you now—run off with it—and try and persuade Miss Lesly to wear it, if you can."

"It has raised dust enough to make you doubt it, certainly," she replied, running gaily up-stairs, with her habit tucked over her arm.

There was some little difficulty to find Mabel, however, for she was gone to her own room, and no one was anxious to climb up to the top of the house to fetch her. At length, however, by dint of loud calls at the bottom of the stairs, she was made to know she was wanted.

When, by this means, she was brought down, she could hardly understand the combined movement which had so soon produced all that was required for her enjoyment of the ride—but putting on the habit as quickly as she could, and tying her black veil on the old hat, she hastened, without much question, to gratify the sisters, who scarcely allowed her time to snatch up her gloves, and tie on her hat, before they hurried her down stairs.

Maria could not check her desire to prevent her studying her appearance, since that might render her so much more charming in the eyes of her esquire—but she excused herself by thinking that she might get plenty of admirers without taking Mr. Stokes. Could she have guessed the powers of her own fascinations on his heart, Mabel might have aided her—but as she did not—nothing destroyed the faultless grace of her easy movements, which made everything suit her—however unlikely it seemed—and the look of pleasure and gratitude with which she regarded the party, was quite sufficient to nullify the foil of an ill-fitting habit, and a dust-worn and tumbled hat.

"Thank you," said Hargrave, as he passed her, to hand Caroline and Selina down.

And Mr. Stokes could scarcely withdraw his eyes from her, as he walked by her side to the hall, not talkative, as usual, but in silent observation.

"Now," said Hargrave, as the horses drew up, "I have only been able to hire three gentle horses. This beautiful creature is high-spirited, and very difficult to manage," he said, laying his hand on the neck of one of the horses, as he pawed the ground, in rather a threatening manner; "but I thought that you would not mind him, Caroline—for you care for nothing in horse-flesh."

Caroline, however, was perverse, and chose that day to be timid. Indeed, the idea of Mabel's sly rivalry, as she called it, haunted her like a phantom—and she thought it certain, that if one staid behind, it would be she, so that she insisted on choosing the very quietest horse. Maria was already mounted by Mr. Stokes, whose services she had demanded—and Selina was always timid.

Hargrave bit his lip.

"Oh, I am not in the least frightened," said Mabel; "I never am timid."

"But you have not been on horseback so long," suggested Hargrave.

"No—but never mind me."

And before he had time to argue further, she had accepted Mr. Stokes's hand, and sprang lightly to her saddle.

"Well," said Hargrave, "it does not much signify—for I promised the man that I would hold one of his bridles."

Caroline no sooner perceived, that by her wish to disoblige her cousin, she had robbed herself of his constant attention during the ride, than she repented—and saying, that she knew she was very frightened, offered to change places with her—but it was too late—for Mabel, with guileless heart, did not see the hidden motive, and persisted on keeping her horse; and Caroline had nothing to do but to mount her own, and rue her perverseness.

How provoking to see him carefully adjust the reins, and placing one in Mabel's hand, take the other over his arm, looking, as he did it, so manly and handsome. Even Selina's constant smiles provoked her, when she saw her by her side, and knew that even Maria was better off, riding with Mr. Stokes behind, while she looked only like a chaperone to the party.

To Mabel, the feeling that she was again on horseback, afforded exquisite pleasure. The hysterical sensation had passed, leaving her only more sensitive to the pleasure which followed it, and her spirits rose with a buoyancy and lightness, which, for many months, had been strangers to her; she did not stop to analyse the various causes which contributed to her light-heartedness, while the air she breathed—the noble animal she rode—the blue sky—and the sparkling sun-light—everything around her seemed to reflect the gladdened likeness of her own thoughts. She seemed again the light-hearted being, whose gay smile and merry laugh had carried joy wherever they went—before clouds of sadness and trial had darkened her life's dream of happiness.

The veil which had been thrown over her beauty by the withering hand of grief, was, for awhile, withdrawn, and her eyes sparkled with dazzling brilliancy, brighter, far brighter, even than in days gone by, as she turned them on her companion, who was riding by her side in embarrassed silence, watching the fiery eye, or impatient toss of her steed, to which she seemed indifferent.

They had now left the town behind them, wrapped in its shadowy mist, and had entered on the country so peculiarly beautiful, in its vicinity.

"And is it to you that I owe this exquisite treat?" she enquired, checking the rapid canter into which they had broken, on perceiving how really apprehensive he appeared.

"I believe you owe it more to yourself," he replied, shaking off his embarrassed air; "since they all declared you would not wear that old hat."

"Then I owe it to your superior discrimination, that you knew I did not care for such a trifle, in comparison with a ride. It reminds me of old, happy old times—and I feel like a new being."

"Ah, I used, in my old days of lofty aspiration, to look on good temper as the virtue of second rate characters, and I believed that great minds must be fickle and changeable."

"And if you have altered your opinion, why do you not practise your new doctrine?" she said, archly.

"You allude to my getting out of temper at dinner on Saturday; but then you must own I instantly recovered myself."

"I do not mean then only; but I often see the flash which denotes the inward storm, though no thunder follows."

"What, am I to sit unmoved, and hear the best motives misjudged—self-devotion ridiculed—the mourner made to feel all the bitterness of grief—and the orphan without a friend?"

"If you speak of me," replied his companion, with a gay smile, "do not forget that I have some friends left still; but if I had none, no champion of mine should use the weapons I would not wield myself; and, remember, I can change my position when I like."

"How?"

"By changing dependence, if it be so—but I do not like to call it that—for independence."

And she leant forward, and patted her horse's impatient head, with a look of childish unconcern.

"Then how can you remain here if you have the power to leave?"

"You will think me vain if I tell you," she said, carefully smoothing back the mane, which would get on the wrong side.

"No, no—tell me why? for you make me curious."

"Well, then—I hoped Lucy had some real affection for me—and I thought I might influence her, as I hope I have done—and I was deeply interested in my uncle—for he has been so kind to me—and I like him so much. Besides, had I any right, without good cause, to cast off my aunt's protection, since it was a pledge which she had given to my dear mother. No, I should have had no right to do that, at first—and I could not, had I wished to do it—for I had not spirit then to leave the refuge of the lowest hovel, had it given me shelter. There were many discomforts here, which were yet preferable to being so entirely unprotected, as I soon shall be—we women shrink from the idea of being our own protectors. But I cannot stay much longer where I am unwelcome—a few more thoughts for Lucy—a few more efforts to make them all love me, and then I think I shall go."

"But where will you go?"

"Oh, I have thought of that. There is a school friend of mine—a very dear friend, too, though I have not seen her for many years—she is now, poor thing, a widow—and, young as she is, has a family of six children, almost unprovided for, while she herself is in weak health. Now, I am thinking of offering to go, and live with her, and take charge of her children's education; for, you must know, that my aunt has more than six hundred pounds, which belong to me, the interest of which will furnish all I need, and enable me to do without a salary."

"Your aunt has your money, you say—how is that?"

"Why, mamma lent it to her, at different times, when she so warmly promised a home for us; but then, unfortunately, my dear mamma lost the written promise to repay it, which she had for the money; but then, that makes no difference between relations—a debt of honor must be binding; only I am uncomfortable about asking for the money, as my aunt would find it difficult to get such a large sum, I fear. And this is another reason which has kept me so passive."

"You were not once so unsuspicious," said Hargrave, "as to think a debt of honor as good as a security."

"No; but then I had those to care for who made me feel as cautious as a man. Once more, I am a weak woman. But what do you think of my plan?"

"I think it a very good one, if you can get your money, but private security is always bad, and you have not even that. Do you consider to what a life you are dooming yourself."

"Not so bad as thousands, for, remember, I shall confer, as well as receive a benefit, for my friend cannot afford a governess, and is too unwell to educate her children herself. So I shall place her under a slight obligation."

"And doom yourself to a life of drudgery."

"Be quiet," said she, raising her whip playfully, "you ought to inspirit, and not discourage me—you should speak of the advantages of such a situation, of the influence it affords—of, in short, any thing but what you are talking of."

"You are a strange girl, Mabel," he said, looking steadily down upon her glowing face, "were I you, I should be rebelling, proud, or grovelling in despair."

"I am afraid you might."

"Why do you think so," he returned, in a tone of pique; "have you charity for all, and none for me?"

"Because," said she, almost sadly, "I should be so, if, like you, I trusted solely to my own strength."

He was silent for a few minutes, and then he said, thoughtfully.

"I am afraid there is no one like you."

"Yes, thousands, who have shewn in the world far more brilliant examples of the truth of what I believe, who have died unheeded and unrewarded on earth."

They were here interrupted by Caroline, who trotted up to them, leaving poor Selina by herself.

"I wish," she said to Mabel, "you would let me have a canter on that horse; mine is such a stupid animal."

Mabel looked puzzled.

"How dull you are," said Caroline, in a voice which she believed only reached her ear. "Cannot you see that Henry wanted a tÊte-À-tÊte with me; did he not say as much, though I was not going to let him have me whenever he liked."

"Yes, that was true," thought Mabel, "he had said he meant the horse for her, and for how long after had he been sad and thoughtful." She felt a choking sensation of pain, "had she then so thoughtlessly been keeping them asunder, while she only talked of her own affairs. Were not these almost the only kind words he had addressed to her, since she had entered the house—how wrong she had been to prize them so highly." As these quick thoughts passed through her mind, withering as they did the effects of the glad sunshine which had preceded them, she turned her eyes timidly and almost apologetically to Hargrave. There was a look of deep seated annoyance on his face. "Ah, he thinks I shall still refuse to take the hint"—she thought—and laying her hand lightly on the pommel, she quickly disengaged herself from the saddle, and jumped down before Hargrave had time to prevent her.

"Now then," cried Caroline, in delight; "come Henry and help me to mount."

Hargrave descended as slowly as possible, and, as sulkily as he well could, gave his assistance to both, then slowly mounting his own steed, he took the bridle and rode on in silence.

In vain Caroline tried to get something beyond a monosyllable—she was quite unsuccessful; Hargrave fenced himself in one of his most bearish humours, and, when they entered the town again, he called to Mr. Stokes, and begged him to take the rein he held, and take every charge of Miss Villars; and when he found him nothing loath to shew his horsemanship, he politely gave up his place by his fair cousin's side, and, turning his horse's head, urged him back again. At first the horse was obstinate, and would not part company so easily; but Hargrave tried the power of his spurs, with more success than he had done that of his whip, and they started off at a furious gallop, and were soon out of sight.