CHAPTER II.
Life is before ye—from the fated road
Ye cannot turn; then take ye up your load,
Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way,
Ye must go o'er it, meet ye what ye may;
Gird up your souls within ye to the deed,
Angels and fellow spirits bid ye speed,
What tho' the brightness dim, the pleasure fade,
The glory wane—oh! not of these is made
The awful life that to your trust is given.
F. Butler.
Towards evening Mr. Ware repaired to the lodge. When he entered the small room he found his sister sitting near the window, while Mabel was still upon her knees by the bed-side.
"I cannot rouse her in the least," said Miss Ware, anxiously, as she met his eye, "this is a wretched place for her to stay in, and it will only do her harm."
Mr. Ware approached her, and repeating her name gently, waited for an answer, but receiving none, he laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, with attempted firmness—
"My child, your mother asks for you."
A heaving of the chest and a deep drawn sigh shewed that he was heard.
"Shall she ask in vain," he continued, "will you refuse to go to her, dear Mabel—will you not go and weep with her?"