“But it is a carriage,” said Mabel, going to the window, “I see the red liveries of the Dashleighs.” The sentence unconsciously escaped her lip, and she bit it with vexation at having thoughtlessly uttered the name; for the doctor started up from his seat so hastily, that he upset the chess-table before him. This created a little noise and confusion, in the midst of which Annabella suddenly entered the room unannounced, looking so haggard and ill, that her uncle involuntary exclaimed, “My dear Anna! has anything happened?” “Might I speak with you for a moment alone,” said the countess assuming with effort a forced calmness. The vicar, without reply, took her by the trembling hand, and led her to his own little study. “Dear me! how ill the countess looks!” exclaimed Cecilia. “Something serious has occurred, depend upon it,” said Mrs. Aumerle; and a variety of conjectures arose as to the cause of the lady’s strange visit, though most of the party present had the prudence to keep these conjectures to themselves. The vicar returned after rather a long absence, and his entrance caused a dead silence in the room, while every eye rested on him with a look of inquiry. He appeared very grave, and drawing his wife aside, said in a low tone of voice, “My dear, do you think that Ida could arrange to share Mabel’s apartment to-night, and give up her own to Annabella?” “Is the countess so unwell that she cannot return to her own home? The weather seems to be clearing,” said the vicar’s wife in a voice much more audible than that of her husband had been. “She does not wish to return,” replied Mr. Aumerle sadly; “we must all do our best to make her comfortable here, at least for the present.” In a few minutes Ida had glided out of the room, and was in the study at the side of her cousin, listening with wonder and pain to the passionate outpourings of a wounded spirit. Cecilia who delighted in anything mysterious, was endeavouring to draw from Mabel her opinion as to the cause of the countess’s distress, and Mrs. Aumerle was bustling about to “make things smooth,” as she said, in the household department, of which the arrangements had been so suddenly disturbed by the unexpected arrival. “Something wrong with Dashleigh, I fear,” observed Augustine half aloud. “Something wrong—everything wrong, I should say!” exclaimed the doctor who overheard him. “The case is clear enough to any one who has had a glimpse behind the scenes as I have had. The poor little thing is wretched at home, she has sold her happiness for a title, she has thrown herself away on the most proud, selfish, domineering—” “Dashleigh is my friend,” interrupted Augustine sternly. “I’d rather have him for my enemy than my friend!” muttered Bardon between his clenched teeth. CHAPTER XIII. THE FRIEND’S MISSION. “Oh, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence, A small unkindness is a great offence!” HANNAH MORE.