It was the announcement of Lady Arlington’s death; which Mabel had seen in the English papers, accompanied by rumors of her father’s entire seclusion, that first induced her to return to her forsaken home. Then, too, she thought it would be better for her to avoid Walter and Evelyn, which she could not do, while any where within their reach, without awakening some suspicion in the latter’s mind. A thousand times since her return had she thanked God who had guided her through so many trials to the very place where she was most needed; yes, in her devoted heart there was no murmuring, though all that life could give she had renounced in resigning Walter’s love; even for that she thanked God, since it had been the means of leading her to be the comfort and the solace of her father’s lonely home; and Mabel saw, with a joy too deep for utterance, that her example, her words, and her constant influence were bringing her father back to the pure faith she had so nobly illustrated in her life. This was reward enough—quietly and peacefully their life glided along. Her father’s wealth was in Mabel’s hands an instrument of good to hundreds—she established schools, visited the poor and the sick, and was idolised by all the tenantry. She had told her father her whole history, and they often now talked together about Walter and Mr. Dacre. Lord Arlington confessed, with burning shame and sorrow, his having written that letter to prevent Mr. Dacre’s coming to London, and to destroy all friendship between them; and then he would look at Mabel so humbly, and ask her if she could forgive him, could love him after all the misery he had caused her. “Do not think of those things now, dearest father; you know I love you, and you make me so happy now, that I can almost forget the past.” * * * * * Two years have passed since Mabel’s return. It is a bright June day, and in a little cottage, covered almost by the clustering vines that peeped in at every window, a young, fair creature, with a heart as guileless as a child’s, was lying on a bed of death. In that sweet, infantine expression, in those soft, blue eyes and the cherub mouth, we recognize at once Evelyn Wentworth; but ah! how changed; those eyes were now sunken and dimmed; the cheeks, once so roseate, were deadly pale, and the blue veins could be distinctly traced through the transparent skin. Beside her sat Walter Lee, still young and handsome, though the struggle of life had cast a shade over his brow, and taken something from the calm, serene expression naturally his. A little girl lay in a cradle by the bedside, whose golden curls fell over shoulders white and round as a classic model; her face, though glowing with health, was strangely like her mother’s; the fairy’s name was Mabel.