"Yes," returned, Mrs. Lesly, rousing herself, "they had been more or less attached from childhood. There was always a kind of wayward goodness in Mabel, that was very attractive. She had generally her own way, but that way seemed so unselfish that I had neither the power nor the wish to complain. He admired this spirit, mixed with so much sweetness; nothing she did seemed wrong, and even when she was indiscreet, which I dare say she might have been very often--he said, it was because she was more pure-minded than other people." "Well, I do not see anything very sad in all this. I should have been highly flattered," said Mrs. Villars, "now my Selina is so like what you describe, she does the most indiscreet and pretty things imaginable sometimes." Mrs. Lesly continued silent for a few minutes, then again rousing herself she continued-- "He used to call Mabel his little wife, long before her papa died, and I used to think over it all, as you remember we used to talk of things a long time since." "I see," thought Mrs. Villars, "a case of jilt, very distressing, but an old story to those who know the world as well as I do." She felt a slight sensation of comfort at arriving at this idea, when she remembered her own unmarried daughters. "Well," continued, Mrs. Lesly, "whenever he came to the neighbourhood, which he often did, they were almost always together. Sometimes they would walk in the fields at the back of our house, Mabel leaning on his arm, whilst he carried Amy. But unfortunately when his father died he went to Paris, and staid there about a twelve-month. When he returned he was altered, how or why I could not tell, but it seemed as if the simplicity of his character was gone, though I tried hard to think him only more manly. Mabel was a beautiful girl when he returned, and it was soon easy to perceive that however changed he might be in other respects, his affection for her remained unaltered." Mrs. Lesly stopped to sip her lemonade, and then with some little effort continued--"His return," she said, "to which we looked forward so much, did not make us happier. He would persuade her to go out sometimes, but she always came back soon, and often looked as though she had been crying, though she never said any thing--I then noticed and watched him more carefully, and at length I found that he had not entered the church since his return from France, a practice he never before neglected. I then paid more attention to his conversation, and often brought up serious questions on purpose. Here I discovered the sad truth; he talked very seriously of virtue and moral responsibility, but if I spoke of religion in connexion with it, he changed the subject or looked at Mabel, and was silent.