"On one condition," he replied, "that you will allow me to give you any thing I like in return; this, for instance," he continued in the same low key, glancing down significantly at the large strong hand which rested carelessly on the chess-board. "No no," said Mabel, blushing from her neck to her forehead; "I gave you the game, but I will never take any thing in return." The last few words were said with decision, and point, though covered by the appearance of jest, as she rose and left the table. Maria saw every thing, and marked well the expression of Mr. Stokes's face, so serious, so unlike his usual jocular tone. "It will be too late," she said to herself again and again, "if I do not take care, but I will trust to my wits still." Mr. Stokes soon afterwards took his leave. Before they went to rest, the mother and sisters found an opportunity of talking over Mabel's coquetry--and so far strengthened themselves in the idea of the necessity of removing her, that Mrs. Villars determined to do so, whatever came of it. CHAPTER VI. Mourn not the perishing of each fair toy, Ye were ordained to do, not to enjoy, To suffer, which is nobler than to dare; A sacred burthen is this life ye bear, Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly, Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly; Fall not for sorrow, falter not for sin, But onward, upward, till the goal ye win. F. BUTLER. The next day was unusually warm. Heavy clouds had been slowly rising up from behind the hills all the morning, till they covered the whole sky, and frowned darkly down upon the gay city--and the air was hushed with heavy silence. Mrs. Villars and her daughters were sitting in the drawing-room, at work; and Colonel Hargrave sat at a side table, near the window, touching up a sketch, which he had that morning finished, of the venerable abbey. Mr. Villars, too, walked into the room, for people love to be together when a storm is coming. He took up the paper, and sat down. Lucy looked fondly at him from her work--and then walked to the window to look at Hargrave's drawing, and to whisper him to come away, in case it lightened--for, between them, a friendship had sprung newly up--she had thanked him for all that had before offended her, and he was always ready with some little act, which shewed he felt a kindness for her. He told her he was finishing his sketch for her album--and she thanked him frankly, and not with the blush, as formerly, which is as often the tell-tale of a sinful, as of an innocent heart, and reminded him that he had promised her some lines for her album, as well, and she would go and fetch it. "Well," said he, when she returned with it; "bring me a pen, for I have just made an impromptu." She brought him a large goose quill, and, after carefully mending it, he wrote as the sky grew blacker and blacker, the following lines:--