he
scene below. Mrs. Leslie reached her side unperceived. The moonlight
was exceedingly bright; and just beyond the garden, from which it was
separated but by a slight fence, lay the solitary churchyard of the
hamlet, with the slender spire of the holy edifice rising high and
tapering into the shining air. It was a calm and tranquillizing scene;
and so intent was Lady Vargrave's abstracted gaze, that Mrs. Leslie was
unwilling to disturb her revery.

At length Lady Vargrave turned; and there was that patient and pathetic
resignation written in her countenance which belongs to those whom the
world can deceive no more, and who have fixed their hearts in the life
beyond.

Mrs. Leslie, whatever she thought or felt, said nothing, except in
kindly remonstrance on the indiscretion of braving the night air. The
window was closed; they sat down to confer.

Mrs. Leslie repeated the invitation given to Evelyn, and urged the
advisability of accepting it. "It is cruel to separate you," said she;
"I feel it acutely. Why not, then, come with Evelyn? You shake your
head: why always avoid society? So young, yet you give yourself too much
to the past!"

Lady Vargrave rose, and walked to a cabinet at the end of the room; she
unlocked it, and beckoned to Mrs. Leslie to approach. In a drawer lay
carefully folded articles of female dress,--rude, homely, ragged,--the
dress of a peasant girl.

"Do these remind you of your first charity to me?" she said touchingly:
"they tell me that I have nothing to do with the world in which you and
yours, and Evelyn herself, should move."

"Too tender conscience!--your errors were but those of circumstances, of
youth;--how have they been redeemed! none even suspect them. Your past
history is known but to the good old Aubrey and myself. No breath, even
of rumour, tarnishes the name of Lady Vargrave."

"Mrs. Leslie," said Lady Vargrave, reclosing the cabinet, and again
seating herself, "my world lies around me; I cannot quit it. If I were
of use to Evelyn, then indeed I would sacrifice, brave all; but I only
cloud her spirits. I have no advice to give her, no instruction to
bestow. When she was a child I could watch over her; when she was sick,
I could nurse her; but now she requires an adviser, a guide; and I feel
too sensibly that this task is beyond my powers. I, a guide to youth
and innocence,--_I_! No, I have nothing to offer her, dear child! but my
love and my prayers. Let your daughter take her