Mabel had not stirred from her place--sat yet with her brother's
letter in her lap, her hands lying heavily upon it, although her
muslin dress was ghostly in the stream of moonlight flowing across
the chamber. She had wept her eyes dry, and her voice was
monotonous, but unfaltering.

"I am not really sick, aunt, but I have no appetite, and having a
great deal to think of, I preferred staying here to going to the
table," was her answer to Mrs Sutton's inquiries.

"Your hands are cold and lifeless as clay, my child. What is the
matter? It is not like you to be moping up here, alone in the dark."

"Won't you leave me to myself for a while, and keep Rosa
down-stairs?" asked Mabel, more patiently than peevishly. "Before
bed-time I will see you in your room, and we can talk of what has
disturbed me."

"My daughter," murmured the gentle-hearted chaperone, trying to draw
the erect head to her shoulder, as she stood by her niece.

Mabel resisted the kindly force.

"No, no, aunt. I cannot bear that yet. I have just begun to think
connectedly, and petting would unnerve me."

This was strange talk from the frank-hearted child she had reared
from babyhood, and while she desisted from further attempts at
consolation, Aunt Rachel took a very sober visage back to the