blessing to be able to give; and I would give more, were I not fearful that it might injure you."

"Injure me, dear aunt, how?"

"Why, Mabel, my heart is greatly fixed upon seeing you a rich heiress, and, in time, suitably established."

"You have just been saying how much happier you were when you were all poor together, and yet you want to make me rich."

"People may be very happy in poverty before they have known riches; but having once been rich, it would, I think, be absurd to suppose we could ever be happy again in poverty."

"I saw," replied the girl, "two children pass the gate this morning while I was gathering flowers—bunches of the simple white jessamine you love so much, dear aunt—and they asked so hard for bread, that I sent them a shilling."

"Too much," interrupted Sarah Bond, habitually rather than from feeling; "too much, dear Mabel, to give to common beggars."

"There were two, you know, and they looked wan and hungry. About three hours after, I was cantering my pony down Swanbrook Lane—the grass there is so soft and green, that you cannot hear his feet, while I can hear every grasshopper that chirps—suddenly, I heard a child's voice singing a tune full of mirth, and I went softly, softly on; and there, under a tree, sat one of my morning acquaintances, making believe to sing through a stick, while the other danced with bare feet, and her very rags fluttered in time to the tune. They looked pale and hungry, though a thick crust of bread upon the grass proved that they were not the latter; but I never saw more joy in well-fed, well-clothed children, for they paused and laughed, and then began again. Poverty was no pain to them, at all events."

"My dear," said Sarah Bond, "you forget the crust of bread was their riches, for it was a superfluity."

"And is it not very shocking that in England a crust of bread should be a superfluity," inquired Mabel.

"Very, dear; but a shilling was a great deal to give at the gate," observed her aunt, adding, after a pause, "and yet it shows how little will make the poor happy. I am sure, if my father had looked abroad, instead of staying at home to watch his—his—money, he would have thought it right to share what he had. It is an unnatural thing to shut one's self up from the duties of life; one gets no interest for any other outlay to do the heart service; but though those poor children danced their rags in the sunshine, and felt not the stones they danced on, yet my dear Mabel could not dance with poverty as her companion—my blessed, blessed child!"

"I'd rather dance a jig with mirth than a minuet with melancholy," laughed the girl; "and yet it would take a great deal to make me miserable if I were with you, and you loved me, my dear aunt. Still, I own I like to be rich, so as to have everything I want, and give everybody what they want; and, aunt Sarah, you know very well I cannot finish this rose without the pale floss silk, and my maid forgot both that and to order the seed pearl."

Mabel's complaint was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who told Miss Bond that Mr. Cramp, her attorney, wished to see her.

"Show him in," said Miss Bond.

"He wishes to see you alone, ma'am."

"His wife is going to die, and he will want you to marry him!" exclaimed Mabel, heedless of the servant's presence. "Do, dear aunt, and let me be bride's-maid."

Sarah Bond changed colour; and then, while stooping to kiss her wayward niece, she called her "a foolish child."

CHAPTER III.

Mr. Cramp, whom we introduced at the conclusion of the last chapter, as Miss Bond's man of business, was a plain little man, skilled in the turnings and windings of the law, beside which he could not be said to know distinctly any other code of morals.

On this particular morning, after a few common-place observations, Mr. Cramp made a somewhat strange inquiry. "Had Miss Bond heard that Mr. Alfred Bond had come over to England?" No; she had not heard it. It was, Mr. Cramp insinuated (for he never said anything directly)—it was rather an awkward circumstance Mr. Alfred Bond's coming to England. He thought—he believed—he hoped it would make no difference to Miss Bond.

Miss Bond opened her wide eyes still more widely. She knew that Mr. Alfred Bond was the heir-at-law to the property bequeathed her father; but what of that? he had never, that she heard of, dreamed of disputing the will; and she had never felt one pang of insecurity as to the possessions which had of late grown so deeply into her heart. At this unexpected intimation she felt the blood rush through her veins in a wild untameable manner. In all her trials—and they had been many—in all her illnesses—not a few—she had never fainted, never fallen into that symptom of weak-mindedness, a fit of hysterics; but now she sat without power of speech, looking at Mr. Cramp's round face.

"My dear Miss Bond, you are not ill, I hope?" exclaimed Mr. Cramp. "I pray you to bear up; what has been said is doubtless wrong—must be wrong; a threat of the opposite party—an undefined threat, which we must prepare ourselves to meet in a lawyer-like way. Hope for the best, and prepare"—

"For what, sir?" inquired Miss Bond, gaspingly.

"For any—anything—that is my plan. Unfortunately, the only way to deal with the world, so as to meet it on equal terms, is to think every man a rogue. It is a deeply painful view to take of human nature, and it agonizes me to do so. Let me, however, entreat you to bear up"—

"Against what, sir?" said Sarah Bond abruptly, and almost fiercely, for now Mr. Cramp's face was reduced to its original size, and she had collected her ideas. "There are few things I could not bear up against, but I must know what I have to sustain."

"Your father's will, my dear lady, is safe; the document, leaving everything to you, that is safe, and all other documents are safe enough except Cornelius Bond Hobart's will—a will bequeathing the property to your uncle. Where is that will to be found? for if Alfred Bond proceeds, the veritable document must be produced."

"Why, so it can be, I suppose," said Sarah Bond, relapsing in some degree into agitation; "it was produced when my father inherited the property, as you know."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Bond," he answered; "certainly not as I know, for I had not the honour of being your father's legal adviser at that time. It was my master and subsequent partner. I had not the privilege of your father's confidence until after my colleague's death."

"No one," said Miss Bond, "ever had my father's confidence, properly so called; he was very close in all money transactions. The will, however, must be, I think, in Doctors' Commons! Go there immediately, Mr. Cramp; and—stay—I will go with you; there it is, and there are the names of the witnesses."

"My dear lady!" expostulated the attorney, in the softest tones of his soft voice, "I have been there already. I wished to spare a lady of your sensibility as much pain as possible; and so I went there myself, with Mr. Alfred Bond's man of business, whom I happened to know; and I was grieved—cut up, I may say, to the very heart's core, to hear what he said; and he examined the document very closely too—very closely; and, I assure you, spoke in the handsomest, I may say, the very handsomest manner of you, of your character, and usefulness, and generosity, and Christian qualities; he did indeed; but we have all our duties to perform in this world; paramount things are duties, Miss Bond, and his is a