Mabel had stolen to her mother's room to persuade herself that she slept, and stood for a moment watching her. The feeble light of the night lamp shone upon her features, and she trembled when she marked the sunken cheeks, and the countenance deeply traced and drawn down by care and pain. It seemed as if, in that moment, the conviction which she had so long defied, forced itself upon her mind, and she felt that that loved parent must die. Those only who have experienced that sudden belief can tell of the bitterness with which it comes. And it is sudden, for we may speak of death as possible, nay, even probable, with calmness; but this is not belief, not the feeling which comes when the varying color, the emaciated hand, or the hollow eye attracts our attention, and we feel the truth striking coldly on our hearts. Then, almost for the first time, the full power of fear and love is known. We long to arrest the hand of death by the vehemence of our passion; and, though we know such efforts are vain, yet how difficult is it to be resigned. Mabel turned from her mother's room with the choking sensation, of tears, that will not be suppressed. The cold, loud wind beat against the cottage, tossing dry leaves and broken sticks against the casement, then howling round, as if in derision of her grief. Amy was sleeping, the sweet, gentle, exhausted sleep, that sometimes follows pain; but Mabel knew that in a short while she would awake, and require refreshment, and she did not care to lie down, till she had made her comfortable. There was a letter lying upon the dressing-table, placed so as to catch her eye; the sight of it was a relief to her, and she took it and broke the seal, then shading the light from her sister, she sat down and read as follows:-- "DEAR MISS LESLY,