be sure that I earn my money honestly. I
don't express myself very clearly, dear Mabel,
but I dare say you will understand what I
mean. My poor child, how I cried over the
picture of you sitting up in that lonely garret
all the holiday time, studying Shakespeare!
By-the-by, your studying will be of hardly any
use to you, because the acting editions are
quite different. As to ourselves, you will see
by the date of this that we are in Ireland. I
have been settled here now for three seasons,
and Jack is engaged as second scene-painter,
and we are doing well and are very comfortable.
Dear me, I have not told you the great news of
all. We have spoken and thought of you so
constantly, that I forget how far apart you
have been in reality from me and mine all these
years. Polly is married! Married very well,
indeed, to a teacher of music here, and she has
one little girl, and is very happy. Janet is at
home with us still, and grown such a sweet
creature. Not pretty, Mabel—at least they
say not. I think she has the loveliest face in
the world. We have not let her do anything,
because, as perhaps you remember, she was
always rather delicate from a baby. But she is
such a comfort to her father! He often says
that he forgets his blindness, so thoroughly does
Janet make her eyes his own. Oh, Mabel, I
have covered eight pages, and have not yet said
half I wanted to say. I must, however, before
I conclude, explain that during the summer
vacation here we always go to Kilclare, in the
south of Ireland, for a short season. The
manager is an old acquaintance of ours, and we
think it would be a very favourable opportunity
for you to make a beginning. It's a little
out-of-the-way nook—very pretty, very pleasant,
and the people are so nice and kind. We
leave Dublin for Kilclare in about two months
from this date. But come to us as soon as you
can. There will be much to do, and many
things to settle. Of course you have no wardrobe
or anything of that sort; but—see how
luckily it falls out!—there are nearly all Polly's
stage dresses just as she left them. You won't
mind using them, dear, just at first. Give my
kind love to my sister-in-law, and Uncle John's
too. Kiss your dear little brother for me. My
dear child, I long to see you again. I suppose
I shall hardly know you. But whatever else
is changed, there will be our own Mabel's loving
heart; that, I found by your letter, is unaltered.

"Ever your affectionate Aunt,

"MARY WALTON EARNSHAW.

"P.S. The enclosed is to help your journey.
You won't scruple to take it from Uncle John.
He says you must consider that he stands in the
place of a father to you now. If you will let
us know when you are coming, Jack shall meet
you at Kingstown. I wish he could go across
and bring you all the way, but I'm afraid we
can't manage that.                          "M. W."

When Mabel first opened the letter, there had
dropped out of it a five-pound note.

CHAPTER X.

"MAMMA, mamma," said Mabel, after having
read the foregoing letter to Mrs. Saxelby on
the first evening of her return to Hazlehurst,
"do you believe there is such another lovable,
generous creature in all the world as Aunt
Mary?"

Poor Mrs. Saxelby could not be as enthusiastic
as her daughter. Every word of the letter
made plain to her mind that another and a
longer separation from her child was impending.
And there was a passing pang of jealousy in
her heart at the thought of those years in
which she had been nothing to Mabel, and
Mary Earnshaw had been everything. She
smiled faintly, and answered, "Your aunt is
very kind."

"Very kind, mamma? She is an angel. See
how she puts herself in the background. 'Your
uncle says this; your uncle sends you this
money.' Yes; but I know that it is all her
doing. Dear Uncle John is very good, but he
would not have the power to help me that
she has."

It was evident that nothing less than her
mother's authoritative prohibition would prevent
Mabel from embracing the chance thus held out
to her. And Mrs. Saxelby knew herself well
enough to be aware that she would be quite
unable to give a stern refusal to any prayer of
Mabel's. But Mabel knew instinctively that
what she had next to tell would cause her
mother a still more bitter disappointment.
Nevertheless, it must be told.

"Mamma," she said, "let me sit at your feet,
and lean my head on your knees, as I used to
do when I was a little girl. There, so."

Mrs. Saxelby stroked her soft hair in silence.
The caressing mother's touch suddenly broke
up the fountain of tears that had been frozen
for many days in the girl's breast by her proud
undemonstrative self-repression, and she sobbed
with her face hidden in her mother's lap; and
told her all.

"Oh, Mabel!" cried Mrs. Saxelby, almost in
a wail; "oh, Mabel!"

"I knew you would be grieved, mamma dear.
And that makes my grief the greater."

"He is so good, Mabel. So true, so highly
principled, so kind-hearted. He has been like
a son to me, and I feel as if he were almost as
dear to me as a son. You couldn't help loving
him if you did not purposely steel your heart
against him."

"It is over, mamma. He will be sorry for a
while, but then he will find some one who will
value and love him as he deserves, and whom
his family will be glad to welcome and make
much of."

They sat talking far into the night, until
Mrs. Saxelby was startled by the striking of
the hour from the belfry of the village church,
and hurriedly bade Mabel go to her bed, and
seek the rest she was so much in need of. But,
before they separated, Mabel had received her
mother's reluctant consent to accept her aunt's
offer.