"He used to call Mabel his little wife, long before her papa died, and I used to think over it all, as you remember we used to talk of things a long time since."
"I see," thought Mrs. Villars, "a case of jilt, very distressing, but an old story to those who know the world as well as I do." She felt a slight sensation of comfort at arriving at this idea, when she remembered her own unmarried daughters.
"Well," continued, Mrs. Lesly, "whenever he came to the neighbourhood, which he often did, they were almost always together. Sometimes they would walk in the fields at the back of our house, Mabel leaning on his arm, whilst he carried Amy. But unfortunately when his father died he went to Paris, and staid there about a twelve-month. When he returned he was altered, how or why I could not tell, but it seemed as if the simplicity of his character was gone, though I tried hard to think him only more manly. Mabel was a beautiful girl when he returned, and it was soon easy to perceive that however changed he might be in other respects, his affection for her remained unaltered." Mrs. Lesly stopped to sip her lemonade, and then with some little effort continued--"His return," she said, "to which we looked forward so much, did not make us happier. He would persuade her to go out sometimes, but she always came back soon, and often looked as though she had been crying, though she never said any thing--I then noticed and watched him more carefully, and at length I found that he had not entered the church since his return from France, a practice he never before neglected. I then paid more attention to his conversation, and often brought up serious questions on purpose. Here I discovered the sad truth; he talked very seriously of virtue and moral responsibility, but if I spoke of religion in connexion with it, he changed the subject or looked at Mabel, and was silent.
"I was now quite puzzled, it seemed hard to find fault with one so good in every other respect, but in religion, which he spoke of as a curious and useful superstition, acting as a guide to vulgar minds. 'Mabel,' said I, one day, 'what does all this mean? What has come over him to make him think as he does?'
"You must know, Caroline, that indolent as my weak health has made me, and careless of imparting things, I used so much to value, I had not neglected my child in the most important of all points of knowledge; sickness had made me prize that, in proportion as every thing else lost interest; but I did fear for her when, with only my weak lessons she had, perhaps, to answer the arguments of a man of peculiar talent, and great though mistaken penetration, aided by the love, I was well aware, she felt for him."