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