Then followed the burning desire to recover the lost papers; with renewed impatience she would return to the secretary—till wearied and worn out she would sink into her chair disappointed and spiritless.
"Ah, dearest Mamma," said Mabel, when having determined to remain at home, though the day was lovely, and favored a walk to the woods which had been agreed on, she entered the room, and found her seated, unoccupied, except by her own harassing thoughts. "You are unhappy, and will not tell me why. Is not this unkind?"
"Unkind," echoed Mrs. Lesly, vacantly, "yes, I have been very unkind to you both."
"No, no, dear Mamma, I do not mean that—not really unkind—only it vexes me to see you so sad."
"I am sad indeed, my dear," returned Mrs. Lesly, in the same absent tone, "but I cannot find them, though they are all here." She stopped and glanced at the secretary wistfully, as if its old-fashioned drawers could speak if they liked.
"What is lost?" said Mabel, "let me try and find it—I will look over all the papers if you will let me."
"No, no, what I have lost I ought to find, it is my own indolence which has done it."
"Yes, but do not think of that now, mamma, love, remember Doctor Parkinson said you were to be kept quite quiet, and now you are wandering about all day—only think how precious your health is to us, and how happy we all are when you are well."
"Mabel, you kill me by these words—I feel that I am dying, but do not kill me before the time appointed."