As he would never do again! “My darling! my darling!” she cried aloud. Then the grief-drops came in a flood. CHAPTER V. -- CLEAN HANDS. The servant who summoned Mabel to supper brought down word that she was not feeling well, and did not wish any. “Not well! Bless me!” exclaimed Mrs. Sutton, starting up. “Rosa, love, excuse me for three seconds, please. I must see what is the matter. I do hope there is no bad news from--” (arrested by the recollection that there were servants in the room, she substituted for the name upon her lips)--“in her letters.” “I don't think she's much sick ma'am,” said the maid. “She is a-settin' in the window.” “Where I left her with her letters, an hour and more ago,” observed Rosa. “Don't hurry back if she needs you, Aunt Rachel. I will make myself at home; shall not mind eating alone for once.” Not withstanding the array of dainties before her, she only nibbled the edge of a cream biscuit with her little white teeth, and crumbled the rest of it upon her plate in listlessness or profound and active reverie, while the hostess was away. She, too, had her conjectures and her anxieties--a knotty problem to work out, and the longer she pondered the more confident was she that she had grasped at least one filament of the clue leading to elucidation. 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 supper-room with her, and as little appetite as Rosa had manifested. The meal was quickly over, and by way of obeying the second part of Mabel's behest, the innocent diplomatist begged Rosa to go to the piano. “I always enjoy your delightful music, my dear. It makes the house more lively.”