hours spent in her own room as the only hours
worth her living for.

With her dreams, too, mingled at times
bright prospects. Visions of fame, and of the
sweet incense of praise, and the triumphant
music of applause. She was but seventeen,
and in spite of all her practical sense and
severe repression of too sanguine hopes, there
were moments when her youth asserted its
rich privilege of building fairy castles in the
air. But the castles, however stately, were
always peopled by those she loved.

As the last days of the holidays drew nigh,
Mabel studied hard; making the most of the
few precious hours of freedom that remained to
her, before the weary round of school-life should
recommence. She had studied herself nearly
perfect in Juliet, and was in the habit of
reciting long passages from the play aloud
at night, until, in her enthusiasm, she would
be startled by the sound of her own voice raised
in passionate entreaty or vehement grief, and
ringing through the desolate house.

One night—the last before the girls came back
—she began, while undressing, to repeat the
long soliloquy that precedes Juliet's drinking
of the sleeping potion. As she spoke the thrilling
words in which the love-sick girl breathes out
the terrors that crowd upon her fancy, she
seemed to see the lofty antique chamber into
which darted one blue streak of bright Italian
moonlight, the dark shadow-haunted recesses
of the spacious room, the dagger with rich
handle and sharp blade, the little phial on whose
mysterious aid her fate depended. And then
she conjured up the appalling picture of the
silent stone-cold sepulchre,

      The horrible conceit of death and night,
      Together with the terror of the place,

and all the ghastly remnants of mortality. The
unquiet spirit of the murdered Tybalt glided
by, seeking Romeo, with an awful frown upon
its death-pale face; and with a stifled shriek
she raised the potion to her lips, and dashing
herself down, fell—not on Juliet's couch, but,
from the enchanted realms of poetry, down to
Mrs. Hatchett's establishment for young ladies
at Eastfield. With a heart yet beating fast,
and nerves all quivering with emotion, Juliet
transformed crept shivering into bed.

CHAPTER III. MRS. SAXELBY TAKES COUNSEL.

THE receipt of Mabel's letter threw Mrs.
Saxelby into a state of considerable agitation.
It did not come upon her with the shock of a
surprise. She had known, from the tone of
the very first letters from Eastfield, that her
child was unhappy in Mrs. Hatchett's house,
and that the school could not be of such a class
as to give any credentials worth having, to a
teacher coming out of it. Mrs. Saxelby was
weak and selfish, but she had her share of
maternal love—of that love which is inseparable
from self-sacrifice in some shape. Had it been
merely her desire set against Mabel's, she might
have yielded without a struggle. But she was a
woman whose opinions (if not her tastes) were
absolutely the echo of the opinions of those
around her. During the past five years she had
relied on Benjamin Saxelby's judgment, and had
adopted his views. And how unhesitatingly he
would have condemned such a scheme as Mabel's,
she well knew.

Oh for some one to advise her! By this, Mrs.
Saxelby meant, some one to say: "I command
you to do this thing;" or, "I tell you to abstain
from doing that." She read and re-read her
daughter's letter. "How nice it would be,"
she thought, "if dear Mabel could be rich and
happy and prosperous. Dear me, I've been
told that some actresses hold quite a
position in society. But, of course, if the thing
be wrong in itself, that ought not to weigh with
me. Yet, I can't feel sure that it is so very
wicked. Philip did not think so, and Mary
Walton made his brother an excellent wife.
But, then, Benjamin thought it most dangerous
and improper for Mabel to remain in her home;
not that I believe she ever learned anything but
good there. Oh dear, oh dear! I wish I knew
what to do. I suppose I cannot forbid her
writing to her aunt in any case. And perhaps,
after all, something may happen to prevent her
attempting this scheme."

It is no disparagement to Mrs. Saxelby to
admit that she certainly did feel the chance of
a comfortable home for herself, and education
for Dooley, twitching at her, as a strong temptation.
Her life at Hazlehurst was utterly dull
and colourless, and she missed Mabel every
hour.

The one day in the week that brought her a
glimpse of cheerfulness was Sunday. When the
weather did not make it absolutely impossible,
there was the morning walk to church with
Dooley (who had become quite a regular attendant
there, and had made the personal acquaintance
of the mild old clergyman in the silver-
rimmed spectacles). Then, on Sunday afternoons,
Clement Charlewood was a frequent
visitor. He walked or rode over to Hazlehurst
nearly every week, and Dooley never failed to
find in a certain outside pocket of his coat a
packet of sweetmeats, the discovery of which
occasioned ever new delight and surprise. Did
Mrs. Saxelby ever entertain any idea that
Clement's frequent visits were not made quite
disinterestedly? She used to maintain, afterwards,
that she had always suspected that he came
as much to hear of Mabel as to see herself.
But I am inclined to think that she was
mistaken there.

On the Sunday afternoon after the receipt of
Mabel's letter enclosing little Corda's note the
hoofs of Clement's horse were heard
clattering sharply on the hard frosty road. Dooley,
stationed at the parlour window with a big
illustrated Bible, the pictures in which formed
his Sunday diversion, announced that "Mr.
Tarlewood was tummin'," and ran to the door
to meet him.

"I am riding on to leave Duchess at the inn,