During tea-time, Aunt Mary proposed a walk to the vicarage, as she wanted to ask Mr. Newlove's opinion of the state of poor Simmons, as well as to inquire after the welfare of some of her pensioners, whom she had not yet had time to visit since her return home. The proposal pleased Clara, with whom the gentle Newlove was an especial favourite; though Mabel had conceived a dislike that she could give no reason for, to this quiet, sensible, and affectionate girl.

It was with very different feelings that the cousins went upstairs to dress. Mabel, we must suppose, thought that as she was going to a clergyman's house, she should have to listen to a sermon; or if not that, to sit still, and say nothing, while the seniors talked about sick folks, and old men and women, till she should be quite wearied out; and this was certainly no pleasant prospect for a lively young lady. But Mabel said nothing of all this; as usual, her conversation turned on what she should wear.

'Are you not going to change your dress, Clara?' said her cousin; 'you are surely not going to the vicarage in that dowdy-looking frock? Why, it is only fit to wear in the mornings, or to go visiting to dirty cottages, such as we went to yesterday.'

'Now don't let us talk about dress,' said Clara; 'my frock is what Aunt Mary bought for me, and if she thinks it good enough for me to wear, I'm sure I do too. Besides, Mabel, you are very much mistaken if you think that Mr. or Mrs. Newlove would notice your dress, unless, indeed, it were a very smart one, such as I know they wouldn't like.'

'Then I shan't care for their likes, but I shall just put on what I like myself,' said the graceless girl, as she took from her drawer a very pretty printed muslin, and proceeded to array herself in it, finishing off by donning a little black hat with a white feather in it.

'Now, suppose it should rain,' suggested Clara, 'what becomes of your pretty frock and your white feather?'

'There is not the least likelihood of rain,' replied Mabel; 'I never saw a finer evening;' and away she ran downstairs, but taking care to avoid a meeting with her aunt until they were all ready to start.

It was indeed a lovely evening for a walk. It had been very hot at one time of the day, but there had been a thunder-shower in the afternoon, which had cooled the air, and given freshness of colouring to the surrounding vegetation, deepening the tints on flower and shrub and tree, while,

'The ling'ring sun seem'd loth to leave
Landskip so fair, to gentle eve.'

Aunt Mary, though of course she noticed the difference in the dresses of her nieces, said nothing about it; but kept up, as she usually did, a conversation both amusing and instructive. Even Mabel forgot her fine clothes in listening to her aunt, and for the present seemed to be thrown out of self. Such a charm is there in wise teaching.

Nor when they reached the pretty, secluded vicarage, and were heartily welcomed by its inmates, were the fears of Mabel at all likely to be realised, as instead of having to listen to a sermon, or details of old and sick people, she and Clara were walked off by Robert and Edith Newlove, to see the rabbits, and the ringdoves, and the poultry in their respective habitations.

'How beautiful they are—- how very beautiful!' said Clara, speaking of the ringdoves; 'and so gentle too—they don't fight and squabble like my hens do over a few grains of wheat.'

'Oh, they can peck one another sometimes,' said Edith; 'but they are not noisy about it like the fowls.'

'And my rabbits are not at all noisy either,' said Robert; 'but the buck can be very cruel, for if we don't take care he makes nothing of eating up one or two of the little ones.'

'Horrid creatures!' said Mabel. 'I shall never like rabbits again; it is quite shocking.'

'It would indeed be quite shocking if they knew better,' replied Robert; 'but they don't, so we must try to prevent them from acting cruelly. And after all,' he added, 'it is not half so bad as boys and girls doing wrong when they know better; yet we should not say of them that we should never like them again, should we, Miss Mabel?'

'No, I suppose not,' said the conscience stricken girl, as she found herself standing before the fowls' house, which was the very model of Clara's, and indeed had been made by the same industrious hands, namely those of poor Simmons, who was now, and had been for months, lying on the bed of languishing.

'You see the fowls are all gone to roost,' said Edith; 'the dear little chicks are under their mother's wing. I do wish you could have seen them; there are ten such beauties!'

'Oh, I have got twelve,' cried Clara; 'and in a few days' time I expect we shall have twelve more, if Dame Partlet is as fortunate as Netty. Do come and see them, Edith dear, next week. Think what a family I, or rather Aunt, will have to provide for—twenty-four!'

This was indeed not only counting the chickens before they were hatched, but not counting on misfortunes to those that were already hatched, and Mabel did not feel at all comfortable at the turn the conversation had taken; she was not sorry, therefore, when the servant came to say that Miss Livesay thought it time to go home.

Of course the summons was immediately obeyed, and with very kind adieus, the friends, old and young, separated; Aunt Mary observing that 'they must walk rather quicker in returning home than they had in coming, as there were some stormy-looking clouds hanging overhead.'

The mention of clouds and showers turned Mabel's attention to her dress, which, to say the truth, she had forgotten; and no wonder, as no one had taken the slightest notice of it, though the foolish girl had been at such trouble to make herself attractive. The mention of clouds and rain brought back Mabel's thoughts to the delicate frock and the new hat. She and Clara were a little in advance of their aunt, who had stopped for a moment to place a trifle in Mr. Newlove's hand for a very poor parishioner of his, of whom they had been talking.

'Oh, do let us run!' cried Mabel, as she looked up, and noticed the gathering clouds; 'perhaps we may get home before it begins to rain, if we make haste.'

'But Aunt Mary can't run,' replied Clara, 'and I am sure I shall not leave her; so you will have to run by yourself, Mabel, if you do go.'

'I'm not going to have my dress spoiled,' said the excited girl, as she gathered up her pretty skirt, and commenced to walk very rapidly at first; but as her fears increased from feeling, as she thought, a drop of rain, the rapid walking turned into a run, not quick enough, however, to bring her to the desired haven before the threatened shower descended, and, in spite of her exertion, seemed likely to drench her to the skin before she could arrive at Oak Villa. There had been trees in the way home, under which she might have found shelter if she had not been in such a violent hurry. Now it was too late for Mabel, though Clara and her aunt were actually at the time standing secure beneath the leafy screen; not certainly in a very comfortable state of mind, for Miss Livesay knew that her niece could not have reached home before the drenching shower descended, and she felt very uneasy on her account.

'I do hope that Bridget will take care that Mabel changes all her clothes,' said Aunt Mary; 'she must be wet through if she has been out in the rain. The showers are so very heavy, though they do not last long.'

'I think this shower is nearly over now; do you think we may venture to go, aunt?' inquired Clara, who partook of her aunt's anxiety respecting her cousin.

'Yes, dear; we have nothing on to spoil. A few drops will not do us any harm, and I fancy we shall have another downpour if we wait longer.'

This was Aunt Mary's decided opinion, and on the strength of it, the anxious pair set forward on their way home, which place they certainly would not have reached with dry clothing, had not careful Bridget suddenly made her appearance with cloaks and umbrellas.

This was rather an uncomfortable ending to a pleasant evening, but life has ever its ups and downs, its sunlight and its shadows, for the young as well as for the old. So it has ever been, and so it will ever be to the end of time.

It would have been well for Mabel Ellis if the spoiling of her dress had been the worst result of her foolish pride. And yet, perhaps, I ought not to say that it would not have been well had the trouble ended there. Adversity is a very stern, but a very wise teacher. We may not always see this to be so, and we may be very loth to acknowledge it, but it is a fact nevertheless. Aunt Mary's first thought, when she entered the house, was for Mabel, whom she found by the kitchen fire drying her petticoat, the muslin dress having been taken off, and hung over a chair.

'Have you changed shoes and stockings, my dear?' was the first question, which was answered in the negative. But we will leave further details for the next chapter.