not going to bed for an hour yet. I have to
recover a part for to-morrow night. Good
night, dear. I don't know how it is," continued
Mrs Walton, when Mabel had left the room,
"but it always seems to me that a letter from
Hazlehurst puts her out of spirits. And yet she
is very eager to get them, poor child."

"I think Aunt Earnshaw bothers her with
complaints; she was always selfish," said Jack:
who had never quite forgiven what he called
Mrs Philip's bad behaviour to his mother.

Mabel went into her own little chamber, and
shut the door of communication between it and
her aunt's room. The night was warm and soft,
and Mabel opened the little old-fashioned lattice
window that looked across a small flagged yard
into some gardens beyond, where a couple of
tall elms stood up dark against the sky. She
unbound and brushed out her hair, and prepared
herself for bed, glancing every now and then at
her letter. She had laid it on the little table
beside the looking-glass; but she did not open
it again, or read it, until she had finished her
toilet for the night. It seemed as though she
desired to devote herself very quietly to its
perusal; for when she was ready to step into
bed she wrapped a dressing-gown about her,
and seating herself at the table, took up the
letter. But even then she did not open it at
once, but sat stroking her forehead with the
cover in a musing irresolute way. At last, with
a decided movement, she took it out of its
envelope, and, beginning at the first page,
read it through steadily, once more.

Mrs Saxelby, as the reader knows by this
time, was not one of those people who can
"suffer and be strong." It was her nature and
her habit to cry out, when she was hurt in either
mind or body: not with any passionate or
unbecoming violence, but with a soft plaintive
lady-like bemoaning of her fate, and demand
for sympathy. And it was very difficult for
Mrs Saxelby to believe that people who didn't
cry out, suffered at all.

After the drive in Miss Charlewood's pony-
carriage, she had sat down to relieve her mind
by pouring out some portion of her own
melancholy and low spirits on Mabel. Not that
this was what she told herself she meant to do.
"Of course Mabel will like to hear the Hammerham
news. I must tell her of Augusta's engagement.
Oh dear me, dear me! No one knows what
an effort it is for me to write sometimes!"
That is what Mrs Saxelby said to herself.

So, Mabel read her mother's letter steadily
through. The first part related small particulars
of her own health and Dooley's, of their daily
life, and of the garden and orchard, and dumb
creatures—not forgetting the famous pig.
Then came the kernel, the real bitter almond
for whose envelopement all the husk of the
letter had been constructed. "On Tuesday,
Penelope Charlewood called in the forenoon,
and brought the pony-carnage, in which she
asked us to take a drive. I was a little
unwilling at first to go. But it was a fine day,
and I knew dear Julian would enjoy it, and
Miss Cliarlewood was very friendly and urgent,
so at last I consented. I had not seen any of
the family from Brarnley Manor for three weeks,
and Miss Charlewood excused and accounted
for their long absence by giving me a piece of
news. Augusta is going to be married very
shortly. Her fiance is a clergyman named
Dawson, belonging to an Irish family. But
Penelope said the young couple would live close
to Eastfield, which is (for rich people who do
not care what they spend in travelling) quite
like being in Hammerham. When my daughter
was in Eastfield it seemed a long way off. But
Mr Charlewood is one of the fortunate ones of
this world. Mrs Dawson—the mother of the
bridegroom elect—is staying at the Manor on a
visit. And also his cousin, a Miss O'Brien, an
Irish girl. Very handsome and dashing and
clever. She and Clement Charlewood take long
rides together. She is a splendid horsewoman.
And, from what Penelope said, I can see
very plainly that she is making violent love to
Clement. In fact, I infer that the whole thing is
as good as settled. I must say I felt very
downcast and wretched when I returned home
after the drive. It did seem as if everything
and everybody that I cared for were drifting,
drifting away from me. After all that has
passed I did think that Clement would not have
consoled himself so very soon. How fickle and
selfish men are! But I don't believe he can
care for this Miss O'Brien one quarter as much
as he did for you. He is just dazzled and
flattered, that is all. Mabel, Mabel! how I wish
sometimes that—but of course it is no use
wishing; I know that very well; and you, who have
new scenes, new faces, and new occupations,
can scarcely imagine how bitter my regrets are
sometimes. One thing is quite certain: marry
whom you will I shall never, never be able to
feel for him as I could have done for Clement
Charlewood. It is sometimes fairly incomprehensible
to me how you could help loving him. But I
suppose there is no accounting for these things,
and it is useless to try."

The letter rambled on in this strain for some
page and a half longer; but contained nothing
more which it imports the reader to know for
the understanding of my story, except the few
following words, added as a postscript:

"Walter joined his regiment a fortnight ago.
They say he will be sent to Dublin. I wonder
if you will chance to see him! He is to be at
the wedding, of course, if he can. get leave,
which they do not doubt."

Mabel re-folded the letter elaborately; taking
especial care to keep the paper in its original
creases, and pressing and smoothing them with
her hand. One would have thought, to watch
lier, that her attention was quite absorbed in
her task. But in truth she did not even see
what she was doing, except in a mechanical
way, from which her mind was absent.

"Poor mamma!" thought Mabel. "I am so
sorry for poor mamma!" Then her thoughts,—
like a flock of wild birds that wheel and turn
and hover round the spot to which their desires