"Do you not think," she said, "that I had better tell him I heard what he said, and that I know that I do not deserve that he should think well of me." "By no means," replied Mabel; "I would strongly advise you to give up all thoughts of him at once, for you are convinced that he does not care for you, and you acknowledge that you have, in a great measure, brought this unhappy affair upon yourself. You must forgive him fully, for, from what you tell me, he certainly does not seem so much to blame as I supposed; and, if you took any unworthy means to obtain his good opinion, you certainly fully deserve to have lost it. I do not admire a prude, but I do think that no woman has a right to make the first advances, and, if she does so, she certainly must be prepared to take the consequences. But let me earnestly beg you, to spend this season of affliction in schooling your own heart against this and future temptations, and hasten to vindicate your character to yourself, and to him. Shew him, that if you have been wrong, you are changed. It will be very difficult, I own, to teach him thoroughly to respect you; nay, do not curl your lip at the mention of respect; there may be a time when you will learn, how valuable, how necessary, respect is to a woman's peace; and the calm dignity with which you can bear this disappointment may purchase it, even from the doubting Clair. A calm and composed behaviour you must aim at--do not assume total indifference, for that will soon be perceived--but submit, if possible, without complaint, and without resentment--you will find this the easiest way of bearing trials." Mabel secretly hoped, that, by following her advice, Lucy might not only reform her character, but also display it to advantage in the eyes of the man she loved--nor did she think it improbable, that, disappointed in his suit to herself, he might find in Lucy's altered behavior, a charm sufficiently strong to lure him to a real, instead of a feigned affection, and thus preserve her from the snares which surrounded her in her own home. With these thoughts she returned to the sick chamber, leaving Lucy to think over what she had said. During the last few weeks, she had allowed herself but little repose. Her time was spent alternately with her sister and mother, who in their separate rooms, each needed the refreshment of her presence. Her step was quick--her ready hand untiring--and her watchful eye always observant--yet, though no complaint had passed her lips since the sad night of Amy's accident, few could fail to observe how heavily she felt the sorrow by which she was subdued. The nights passed wearily, marked only by the hollow cough, which told her of her mother's failing health, and the loud wintry wind which whistled in the crevices of the house, or swept by it in loud blasts from the hills.