Sheridan Knowles.

Once again we must change the scene, and, for the last time, take a peep at the lovely village of Aston.

Two months had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter; and one busy year had gone its round since the time of Captain Clair's first visit to the rectory. He was now fully established there, with his cheerful little wife.

Miss Ware shook her head when she first heard of this intended arrangement; but no one approved of it more highly than she did now; for all the winning little graces, which had made Lucy the admired coquette of the ball-room, used, with a higher motive, made her the pet and pride of the home into which she had been adopted.

Miss Ware was perpetually discovering something new to love in her, which she always prided herself in being the first to perceive—nor did Arthur Clair ever seem disposed to contradict her—too glad to see his wife admired and loved.

In his aunt's eyes, indeed, no one could do anything so well—no one could feed the poultry with so much care and fondness for them, or arrange the flowers in the vases, or run about to the cottages, with such grace as did the little coquettish Lucy. And in all this Clair was well inclined to agree, for to him she was all that affection could be, looking up to him with half real and half sportive reverence; humouring his whims, and winning him from his faults. Sometimes she would come and seat herself on the sill of the open window, in the room where he was studying, and calling round her, from the yard, turkeys, ducks, chickens and pigeons, would feed them from the large, wooden bowl, which she held upon her lap, turning with a light laugh to to her husband, when anything occurred to excite her merriment. But when she saw this tired him, and he really wished to read quietly, she would run away with her motley group of followers, and then, escaping from them, would stroll back again, and, seating herself by his side, would take up a book and read in silence, till he himself proposed a change, and they would go out together.

On the day to which we must now call attention; they were all standing in the garden, prepared for a walk. Mr. Ware's hat had been smoothly brushed, gloves—always unwilling companions of his—were in his hand, while his sister displayed her best mantle and bonnet, and took his arm with an air of greater ceremony than was her wont, looking, now and then, at Lucy, who was as carefully, but more gaily dressed than herself. They were, in fact, upon their way to Aston Manor, to make the bridal visit, as Colonel and Mrs. Hargrave had returned the evening before.

As they strolled through the village, they found so many causes to make them linger, that they spent twice as much time as was needed on the way. Old Giles, whose new cottage lay the nearest to the Manor gates, could not help persuading them to come in and take a peep at his room, which was filled with every moderate comfort, to which he had ever been accustomed. "Which was a good return," he said, "for the foolish story he had told about himself and his young master, at the inn, little dreaming that that master was the most attentive of his listeners; and to think that he had come down that morning early, to tell him that he should always have a pension from the family, and never want for anything again. Was not that more than he deserved?" he asked, with tears in his eyes.

Heartily congratulating their old friend, the little party proceeded to the Manor.

They were not unexpected, for Mabel was waiting their coming. She was sitting in the room which Hargrave had dedicated expressly to her, though with the reserve that it should not be termed her boudoir. Here were paintings of the most exquisite art, and books of the first authors in poetry, science, or the light literature of the most generally known of the modern languages, while the work-table, and the sweet toned cottage piano, were not forgotten—nor the harp, whose expensive music had been so long laid aside. On the table before her lay an open parcel of the last new books, from Town, which she had been attentively considering, and, at the window, which opened to the ground, stood Hargrave, sometimes looking out upon the sunny Italian garden, whose bright flowers bloomed in untiring loveliness, but oftener looking in upon his bride, who was to him the glad sunshine of everything on which his eyes rested.

Laying aside the book, which had, for some time, occupied her, Mabel rose, and hurried to meet her friends, with that true, genuine warmth of manner, which at once told them, that all the affection they brought with them was entirely returned.

And then, Hargrave was with them, welcoming all, with the frank-hearted cheerfulness which had so long been a stranger to him.

They had so much to tell, that half that sultry afternoon slipped away before they were aware of it; and Hargrave, leading Mr. Ware out into the garden, told him how they had risen early that morning, and, before any idlers were stirring, had gone down to the church-yard to see the tomb of Mrs. Lesly and her child.

"And how did she bear it?" enquired Mr. Ware.

"Much better than I had expected—but not better than I might have hoped," replied Hargrave, with some emotion—"for she has, I am sure, nothing to regret, with regard to them; and remorse, after all, is often half the cause of our deepest griefs—nay, she must feel, that if they have any knowledge of her present fortunes, they would only rejoice with her; but it is a trial to her, at first, coming back here—and you cannot think how anxiously I have been watching her all the morning."

"Nay, you have no cause for that," said Mr. Ware, kindly, as they turned again to the window; "if Mabel could make herself happy in adversity, do you think it possible that she would be unhappy with you?"

Hargrave returned the compliment by a cheerful smile, which was altered to one of exquisite sweetness, when Mabel came out, beaming with delighted pleasure.

"Look, love," she said, holding up a book to him, "see what I have found in the parcel—'The Merchant's Recollections!' my dear uncle's novel, published already. What a pleasure for dear Lucy—I am going to let her carry it away with her to look at first."

"And yet you are dying to read it, all the while you are giving it away, my sweet wife; but give this copy to Lucy, and I will order another from town for you. Mabel has been talking of you, all the morning, my dear sir," he said, turning to Mr. Ware, "sending you, in imagination, the first papers, books, flowers, and fruit, and thinking how you will dream old times are come back again."

"Hush," said Mabel, "those were all to be surprises."

"Oh, I quite forgot that; but now you will be bound to carry your long dreams into reality; but one thing, remember, dear sir, that in all my wanderings, I have ever looked back, with the greatest regret, to the loss of your society, and I am selfishly anxious to secure as much of it now as possible."

"If I am a welcome guest," replied the good Rector cheerfully, "you will no doubt very often find me a ready one, for, though we have lived in seclusion so many years, I have not lost my taste for that society, which a house like yours ought to afford; indeed, without my friend Mabel, I scarcely know how I should long have got on without it."

"Thank you, thank you," returned Hargrave, "let me ever be the same to you as I was in sunny Italy, with no constraint between us, but that of self-respect; and now love," he said, turning to Mabel, "go and put on your bonnet, and we will shew our friends your beautiful Arab, and our intended improvements, and then we will walk to the village to see your two old servants; you had better go there at once, and then all fear of visiting the old place will be gone."

Mabel's pretty straw bonnet was soon put on, and she was walking with them through the gardens and pleasure grounds, giving her own happy tone of feeling to every thing they looked upon; for wherever she stirred, there, life, and industry, and comfort were sure to appear. She was now the half idolized mistress of a wide domain, and more well stored wealth than she could afford time to calculate, and, wide as her influence was likely to extend, would she spread abroad the sun-light principles of her own pure heart.

And, as she goes forth with Hargrave, leaning fondly on his arm, and bringing forward a hundred plans, which would call forth his energy, and bring a blessing on those around them—we will leave them, not sluggish and contented, as if the cares and exertions of life were ended, but happy in their restored love to begin it anew.

THE END.

T. C. Newby, Printer, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square.

In the Press.
TICONDEROGA:
AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE,
IN THREE VOLS.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES, Esq.

HOPE:
A STORY OF CHEQUERED LIFE.
BY ALFRED W. COLE,
Author of "The Cape and the Kaffirs," &c.

In the Press.
LISMORE.
A NOVEL.
By the Author of "The Lady of the Bed-Chamber,"
"The Double Marriage," &c., &c.

THE WORLD, AND HOW TO SQUARE IT.
BY HARRY HIEOVER,
Author of "Proper Conditions for all Horses,"
"Sporting Facts and Sporting Fancies," &c.