"I shall not believe you till you give me some good reason," said Lucy.
"You are too kind," replied Mabel, as her voice slightly trembled, "to seek to probe a wound only from the curiosity of seeing how deep it is—when you have no power to heal. I speak of myself now," she added, hastily; "lest in our future conversations, you may pain me without knowing it, and perhaps I might think you unkind when you were only seeking to amuse me. Oh, Lucy," said she, turning round with sudden energy, "I have suffered terribly, and still suffer, when I lose my self-command for a moment—do not then talk of my loving or needing love—do not tease me with the intention of pleasing—do not talk—" Mabel suddenly stopped and burst into tears—for a very long time, she had never spoken intimately with a young girl in her own station of life, and the novelty had surprised her. A few large drops rolled quickly down her crimson cheeks, but were soon brushed away, and half smiling, she begged her cousin's forgiveness for speaking so hastily—in a few more seconds, she was again gentle and submissive as a child.
"Then must I never speak of love at all?" said Lucy, fearing that all the most interesting of her stories would find an unwilling listener.
"Oh, you mistake me," said Mabel; "do not think me so selfish—talk as much as you like of yourself, and forget me; and you will, perhaps, find me a better listener, perhaps a better adviser, because I have altogether retired from the lists of conquest; and, be assured, the necessity of placing a guard over myself, and the difficulty of doing it effectually, only tells me how much I ought to feel for others. If you will always let me speak the truth, without being offended with me, I will take interest in your feelings at any time, only remember that mine are like 'The Arab's sealed fountain,' whose waters will never see the light again."
"You are a very strange girl, my sweet, new friend," said Lucy; "but I love you better for having a history, although I see I must not read it quite yet; at all events, not till I know you better, and you learn how well I can keep a secret."
"No, not even then," replied Mabel, "I cannot speak of myself without speaking of more than myself; so content yourself with what I have told you, and do not think of me again, or I shall repent having said anything."
"Well, it shall be quite as you like, I will do anything you wish, only you must tell me, that you love me very, very much indeed."
"I will tell you no such thing," said Mabel, laughing; "remember, I only met you yesterday morning."
"Well then, come and call at the rectory, and that will shew me you love me."