"Miss Mabel shall not see them again," he said to himself; "I cannot give her much comfort—but I may spare her a little pain."
Mr. Ware and his sister had gone home, after affording all the comfort and assistance in their power.
Mrs. Lesly had been persuaded to lie down, for, terrified and ill, she needed repose, and Mabel, in grief, as in gladness, always took the lead.
Lucy, exhausted and spiritless, too weary to get up, and too irresolute to undress, had thrown herself upon her bed, and fallen asleep.
When she again opened her eyes, the noon-day light was streaming in upon her bed, and, to her great surprise, Mabel was standing by her; she was pale as the dead, and her countenance gave evidence of the agony of the last few hours—but there was a pale light in her eyes, and a still repose about her, that seemed to hallow the grief they concealed.
"I am glad you are awake," she said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper—"I feared you might be ill—you slept so long."
Lucy's eyes were swollen with weeping and watching, and she looked at her for a moment in despairing silence; at last she raised herself, and seizing Mabel's hand, grasped it eagerly.
"Oh, Mabel, Mabel," said she, "what have I done—where can I hide my face?"
And she sank again upon the bed, and buried her face in the pillow.
"You meant me no harm," replied her cousin—"at least, not much—and I forgive you from my heart. My grief is too heavy for resentment. But get up, Lucy, and do not distress me still more by giving way in this manner."