"There was no fire," said Mabel, as if thinking aloud. "No, you are right," said Mrs. Villars, colouring violently, for, from that moment, she saw she was suspected. "I meant to say she burnt them at the taper I had lighted to seal a letter. And now, you see, there has been a little mistake, which I am sorry for; had you spoken before, it might have been avoided; but, perhaps, you divined what is really the case, that if I wished to give you the money, I have not got it by me; and, therefore, I must take advantage of my poor dear sister's generosity." Mabel did not, for an instant, doubt her aunt's falsehood; but, immediately remembered that she had nothing to plead but her own assertion of her mother's words, unsupported by any evidence. On such proofs, to obtain her money, appeared at once, to be impossible, and no other reason would have led her to expose a relation, to the charge of the meanest subterfuge and falsehood; but, though she said nothing, her whole soul was in her face, and Mrs. Villars writhed under its expression. Hoping to arrange a compromise on good terms, she handed her five sovereigns, saying-- "There, my dear, ask me for more when you want it." "Thank you," said Mabel, pushing back the money, "I have sufficient for my present wants; but, as I shall be obliged to find a different situation from this," she added, taking up the letter, "I shall be glad if you will allow me to remain here a little while longer." "Certainly, my dear, certainly; and I should be glad if you could remain here altogether--that is, if you would not make yourself obnoxious to Caroline--that is, if you would not be quite so independent." "I have done nothing to offend either of my cousins," said Mabel, her bosom heaving with emotion. "I have not deserved the treatment I have received, either at their hands, or yours, and you know I have not." "If this is all the return your sainted pretensions can make," said her aunt, chafing herself into a passion, "for all my kindness to you--if you have not one word of thanks to offer me, you are but a poor companion for my daughters. I must make an example of you, and, therefore, I leave you to yourself. I care not what becomes of you. Go," she screamed, with shrill violence, as she herself advanced to the door, and, as if either satisfied or ashamed, burst from the room, as if it were contaminated. Mabel covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears; indignation and a sense of desolation, struggled within her, and sob after sob burst from her, with a violence which, though natural to her temper, was usually suppressed entirely. Suddenly she heard a step, and, before she could recover herself, Mr. Morley stood before her, coming as he did, in his customary shadowy manner. "Why do you weep," he said, in a tone of severity. "I have quarrelled with my aunt." "Well?" "And I wish to leave this house as soon as I can." "Have you done wrong?" "No." "Then what have you to fear?"