“Oh! father, do not, do not compel me to give up my dearest—”
She stopped, for the frown on her father’s face grew darker at this involuntary betrayal of her preference for her early friends—
“Do not compel me to seem so ungrateful and proud to those, whose kindness made me what I am: let me at least write a few words to tell them of your wishes?”
“Mabel—I have already been sufficiently annoyed and displeased by your evident dislike to your new life, and your childish preference for your country home; rouse me no further by opposition, strive to overcome your early prejudices, and to remember you are an Earl’s daughter, and that you may be the wife—”
At this moment, Mabel uttered a faint cry of surprise and terror; then recollecting herself, she complained of feeling unwell, and begged her father’s permission to retire to her own apartment.
“Go, my daughter; but do not let a trifling indisposition prevent your being in readiness to accompany us this evening to the palace, for the king expressly requested me to bring you, and your mother has provided your toilette for the occasion: let me see my Mabel the gayest and happiest, as she will be the loveliest, in the proud assemblage?”
With a sad and heavy heart Mabel gained her own chamber, and there—seated on the floor, with her head buried in the velvet cushions of the luxurious divan, and her precious letters clasped to her bosom—she wept bitterly. Long did she sit thus, with her soft, black hair hanging like a veil around her, and her head bowed in that utter abandonment to grief, that only an impassioned nature can feel.
——
CHAPTER IV.
“Oh! her smile—it seems half holy,