Mabel was silent, and stood looking at her mother with painful earnestness.
"Do not look at me so, sweet child. Well may you be surprised when I have ruined you both."
"Ruin! my own mother, what do you mean?"
"Ah, you may well wonder at me," replied Mrs. Lesly, much excited, "how could I be so silly as to injure my own children."
"Ah, now you are unkind," said Mabel, "why not tell me—is there a sorrow I have refused to bear—is it not my privilege to be sorrowful."
Tears rolled down her heated cheeks, and Mrs. Lesly continued to regard her in silence.
"Is it not unjust to me, your own child," continued Mabel, (for she had often before failed in obtaining her confidence,) "day after day you are wearying yourself with something you will not let me know, and injuring your health, which is more precious to us than any thing else—mamma—I did not know you could be so unkind."
"Dear child, do not talk in this way, my only thought is of my children, and oh!" said she, turning her head towards the secretary, "if I could but find them."
"What?"
"The papers."