They were not unexpected, for Mabel was waiting their coming. She was sitting in the room which Hargrave had dedicated expressly to her, though with the reserve that it should not be termed her boudoir. Here were paintings of the most exquisite art, and books of the first authors in poetry, science, or the light literature of the most generally known of the modern languages, while the work-table, and the sweet toned cottage piano, were not forgotten--nor the harp, whose expensive music had been so long laid aside. On the table before her lay an open parcel of the last new books, from Town, which she had been attentively considering, and, at the window, which opened to the ground, stood Hargrave, sometimes looking out upon the sunny Italian garden, whose bright flowers bloomed in untiring loveliness, but oftener looking in upon his bride, who was to him the glad sunshine of everything on which his eyes rested. Laying aside the book, which had, for some time, occupied her, Mabel rose, and hurried to meet her friends, with that true, genuine warmth of manner, which at once told them, that all the affection they brought with them was entirely returned. And then, Hargrave was with them, welcoming all, with the frank-hearted cheerfulness which had so long been a stranger to him. They had so much to tell, that half that sultry afternoon slipped away before they were aware of it; and Hargrave, leading Mr. Ware out into the garden, told him how they had risen early that morning, and, before any idlers were stirring, had gone down to the church-yard to see the tomb of Mrs. Lesly and her child. "And how did she bear it?" enquired Mr. Ware. "Much better than I had expected--but not better than I might have hoped," replied Hargrave, with some emotion--"for she has, I am sure, nothing to regret, with regard to them; and remorse, after all, is often half the cause of our deepest griefs--nay, she must feel, that if they have any knowledge of her present fortunes, they would only rejoice with her; but it is a trial to her, at first, coming back here--and you cannot think how anxiously I have been watching her all the morning." "Nay, you have no cause for that," said Mr. Ware, kindly, as they turned again to the window; "if Mabel could make herself happy in adversity, do you think it possible that she would be unhappy with you?" Hargrave returned the compliment by a cheerful smile, which was altered to one of exquisite sweetness, when Mabel came out, beaming with delighted pleasure. "Look, love," she said, holding up a book to him, "see what I have found in the parcel--'The Merchant's Recollections!' my dear uncle's novel, published already. What a pleasure for dear Lucy--I am going to let her carry it away with her to look at first."