Mabel could scarcely allow herself to minister to so much selfishness, and it was with some appearance of reserve, that she placed the bouquet on the table, by her side, not choosing to subject it to a second rebuff.
But Caroline's good humour was now happily restored, for she had gained all she could by her violence. Not only obtaining possession of the desired object, but being entreated to accept it. She, therefore, rewarded the patience of her mother and sisters, by entering into the arrangements of the evening with renewed animation.
"Mabel," said Lucy, as passing her arm through hers, they walked up stairs together; "where did you get such an angelic temper?"
"Whatever good I do possess," said Mabel, gravely; "is not mine; but is borrowed from a treasure house, which is as free to you as to me."
"But, tell me," urged Lucy, stopping on the landing place; "do you not despise the weakness to which you minister."
"What right have I to do so," answered Mabel; "who knows how proud and self-willed I might have become, if I had not early suffered deprivation, sorrow, and humiliation, as I have done. And who can say, I shall be as strong to-morrow as I am to-day; when a thousand temptations surround us on every side; and we cannot tell under which we may fall, if we once lose sight of the true humility which alone brings strength and power. How, then, can I dare to despise the frailty of others. But, dearest, what is the matter, how can I have pained you."
"You have not pained me," replied Lucy, a momentary color banishing the pallor of her cheek; "but sometimes I feel as if there were something wanting in me, which I find in you—yet, if it has been purchased by suffering, I must not wish for it, for I have not courage for such an ordeal."
"But, only consider," replied Mabel; "how much more noble, how much more worthy—if any could be worthy—would be the offering, to heaven, of a young heart, in the midst of joy and prosperity—than the tearful tribute of the worn spirit, which can find no other refuge. It is only our own rebellion which makes sorrow needed."
"Beautiful words," said Lucy, mournfully, "and something within tells me that they are true;" she stopped for a moment, and looked down upon her own share of the beautiful flowers, which she held in her hand, and a tear hung upon the lash, which shrouded her bright blue eye; then turning again to her cousin, she said:—
"To-morrow, dearest, I will think: to-night, must be all mirth and gladness."