'Now, suppose it should rain,' suggested Clara, 'what becomes of your pretty frock and your white feather?'

'There is not the least likelihood of rain,' replied Mabel; 'I never saw a finer evening;' and away she ran downstairs, but taking care to avoid a meeting with her aunt until they were all ready to start.

It was indeed a lovely evening for a walk. It had been very hot at one time of the day, but there had been a thunder-shower in the afternoon, which had cooled the air, and given freshness of colouring to the surrounding vegetation, deepening the tints on flower and shrub and tree, while,

'The ling'ring sun seem'd loth to leave Landskip so fair, to gentle eve.'

Aunt Mary, though of course she noticed the difference in the dresses of her nieces, said nothing about it; but kept up, as she usually did, a conversation both amusing and instructive. Even Mabel forgot her fine clothes in listening to her aunt, and for the present seemed to be thrown out of self. Such a charm is there in wise teaching.

Nor when they reached the pretty, secluded vicarage, and were heartily welcomed by its inmates, were the fears of Mabel at all likely to be realised, as instead of having to listen to a sermon, or details of old and sick people, she and Clara were walked off by Robert and Edith Newlove, to see the rabbits, and the ringdoves, and the poultry in their respective habitations.

'How beautiful they are--- how very beautiful!' said Clara, speaking of the ringdoves; 'and so gentle too--they don't fight and squabble like my hens do over a few grains of wheat.'

'Oh, they can peck one another sometimes,' said Edith; 'but they are not noisy about it like the fowls.'

'And my rabbits are not at all noisy either,' said Robert; 'but the buck can be very cruel, for if we don't take care he makes nothing of eating up one or two of the little ones.'

'Horrid creatures!' said Mabel. 'I shall never like rabbits again; it is quite shocking.'

'It would indeed be quite shocking if they knew better,' replied Robert; 'but they don't, so we must try to prevent them from acting cruelly. And after all,' he added, 'it is not half so bad as boys and girls doing wrong when they know better; yet we should not say of them that we should never like them again, should we, Miss Mabel?'

'No, I suppose not,' said the conscience stricken girl, as she found herself standing before the fowls' house, which was the very model of Clara's, and indeed had been made by the same industrious hands, namely those of poor Simmons, who was now, and had been for months, lying on the bed of languishing.

'You see the fowls are all gone to roost,' said Edith; 'the dear little chicks are under their mother's wing. I do wish you could have seen them; there are ten such beauties!'

'Oh, I have got twelve,' cried Clara; 'and in a few days' time I expect we shall have twelve more, if Dame Partlet is as fortunate as Netty. Do come and see them, Edith dear, next week. Think what a family I, or rather Aunt, will have to provide for--twenty-four!'

This was indeed not only counting the chickens before they were hatched, but not counting on misfortunes to those that were already hatched, and Mabel did not feel at all comfortable at the turn the conversation had taken; she was not sorry, therefore, when the servant came to say that Miss Livesay thought it time to go home.

Of course the summons was immediately obeyed, and with very kind adieus, the friends, old and young, separated; Aunt Mary observing that 'they must walk rather quicker in returning home than they had in coming, as there were some stormy-looking clouds hanging overhead.'

The mention of clouds and showers turned Mabel's attention to her dress, which, to say the truth, she had forgotten; and no wonder, as no one had taken the slightest notice of it, though the foolish girl had been at such trouble to make herself attractive. The mention of clouds and rain brought back Mabel's thoughts to the delicate frock and the new hat. She and Clara were a little in advance of their aunt, who had stopped for a moment to place a trifle in Mr. Newlove's hand for a very poor parishioner of his, of whom they had been talking.

'Oh, do let us run!' cried Mabel, as she looked up, and noticed the gathering clouds; 'perhaps we may get home before it begins to rain, if we make haste.'

'But Aunt Mary can't run,' replied Clara, 'and I am sure I shall not leave her; so you will have to run by yourself, Mabel, if you do go.'

'I'm not going to have my dress spoiled,' said the excited girl, as she gathered up her pretty skirt, and commenced to walk very rapidly at first; but as her fears increased from feeling, as she thought, a drop of rain, the rapid walking turned into a run, not quick enough, however, to bring her to the desired haven before the threatened shower descended, and, in spite of her exertion, seemed likely to drench her to the skin before she could arrive at Oak Villa. There had been trees in the way home, under which she might have found shelter if she had not been in such a violent hurry. Now it was too late for Mabel, though Clara and her aunt were actually at the time standing secure beneath the leafy screen; not certainly in a very comfortable state of mind, for Miss Livesay knew that her niece could not have reached home before the drenching shower descended, and she felt very uneasy on her account.

'I do hope that Bridget will take care that Mabel changes all her clothes,' said Aunt Mary; 'she must be wet through if she has been out in the rain. The showers are so very heavy, though they do not last long.'

'I think this shower is nearly over now; do you think we may venture to go, aunt?' inquired Clara, who partook of her aunt's anxiety respecting her cousin.

'Yes, dear; we have nothing on to spoil. A few drops will not do us any harm, and I fancy we shall have another downpour if we wait longer.'

This was Aunt Mary's decided opinion, and on the strength of it, the anxious pair set forward on their way home, which place they certainly would not have reached with dry clothing, had not careful Bridget suddenly made her appearance with cloaks and umbrellas.

This was rather an uncomfortable ending to a pleasant evening, but life has ever its ups and downs, its sunlight and its shadows, for the young as well as for the old. So it has ever been, and so it will ever be to the end of time.

It would have been well for Mabel Ellis if the spoiling of her dress had been the worst result of her foolish pride. And yet, perhaps, I ought not to say that it would not have been well had the trouble ended there.

Adversity is a _very stern_, but a _very wise_ teacher. We may not always see this to be so, and we may be very loth to acknowledge it, but it is a fact nevertheless. Aunt Mary's first thought, when she entered the house, was for Mabel, whom she found by the kitchen fire drying her petticoat, the muslin dress having been taken off, and hung over a chair.

'Have you changed shoes and stockings, my dear?' was the first question, which was answered in the negative. But we will leave further details for the next chapter.

CHAPTER XVII.

A SERIOUS ILLNESS.

As we have before stated, Mabel had only changed her upper garments.

Stockings and shoes, though soaked through in coming along the wet gra.s.s, she had not thought of, and her wet petticoat steamed and smoked as she stood drying it by the kitchen fire.

'Dear me! dear me!' exclaimed Aunt Mary; 'why did you not immediately take off all your wet clothes? Clara dear, go with Mabel upstairs, help her to undress and get into bed, and I will bring some warm tea up as soon as possible. I am quite distressed to see the state you are in, my dear,' she added.

Mabel, though of course obliged to obey, went off very reluctantly, declaring all the time that she should be no worse for the wetting, and feeling far more concerned about the spoiling of her dress and her hat, than fearful of any consequence that might ensue from keeping on her wet clothes.

The room in which the cousins slept opened into one that was occupied by their aunt, so that she could easily communicate with them if anything was the matter. Strict in requiring obedience to her commands, and in not permitting any of her rules to be disregarded, Miss Livesay was still a most loving and unselfish relative and friend, untiring in the kind attentions to the sick, ever glad and ready to relieve the needy, or to give a word of advice or sympathy when it was likely to be well received. All the household had retired to rest but herself; she had seen her dear children, as she often called Clara and Mabel, fast asleep in their separate little white beds, but she still felt anxiety on Mabel's account.

'Poor, foolish girl,' said the kind aunt to herself, 'I wonder whether I shall ever be able to convince her of her folly. I cannot change her heart, but I will pray that it may be changed; and I will do everything in my power, both by example and precept, to show her that "Wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness, and her paths peace."' As Miss Livesay said this, she once more went to look at the sleepers in the adjoining room. Clara lay pale, peaceful, and soundly asleep; but Mabel, though also asleep, looked flushed, and appeared restless.

This, Aunt Mary thought, might arise from the hurry and agitation of running home so quickly; she did not wish to meet evils half-way, yet, on retiring from the room, she made up her mind to take another look at the sleeping girl during the night. This she accordingly did, but observing no fresh symptoms for alarm, she lay down again, and only waked when Clara came to tell her that Mabel complained of great pains in her limbs. This sad news completely awed the kind aunt, for she dreaded an attack of rheumatic fever, as Mabel's mamma had been a dreadful sufferer two years before from that very serious malady. As soon as possible, the doctor was sent for. Aunt Mary was no alarmist, and could herself have dealt with any ordinary complaint; but she wished to have the doctor's opinion, and, if possible, his decision, on the real nature of the illness from which her niece was suffering, in order that she might act with befitting caution, if there were any likelihood of infection.

Clara sat disconsolate by the side of the pretty white bed, where her poor cousin lay with feverish head and aching limbs. The stricken girl was very quiet, except when she made an attempt to move, and then the pain caused her to utter a faint cry, which thrilled through Clara's kind heart; for she had never before been called upon to watch by a sick-bed.

'Oh, dear Mabel, I am so sorry for you,' said the affectionate child-nurse; 'I wish I could do anything to give you relief from your pains.'

'Thank you, dear Clara,' said the poor girl, in a quiet, subdued tone, very unlike that of the preceding day; even in this short time reflection had been at work, conscience had not been inactive, for retribution seemed to have come so suddenly as a necessary consequence of wrongdoing.

But the doctor is here now; we must not keep him waiting. A kind, fatherly, benevolent-looking man stands beside the bed of pain, on one side, and the loving, anxious aunt and cousin on the other.

'You are quite right in your idea as to the nature of the complaint, dear madam,' said Dr. Madox. 'Your niece is suffering from an attack of rheumatic fever; a very sharp attack it appears to be, but it need not on that account be a long one, though, just now, it is impossible to predict. However, we will do all we can for her,' added the doctor, cheerfully; 'in the meantime, you know, of course, that there is no danger of infection, though I should advise the patient to be kept perfectly quiet.'

This was indeed a very painful trial for all parties; but Aunt Mary felt that the hand that afflicts can also sustain. She knew, also, that pain and suffering and sorrow are often antidotes to the much more serious evils of pride and vanity and sinful tempers, and that, when they are submitted to patiently, they bring forth excellent fruits.

'Let me nurse dear Mabel myself, aunt,' said Clara; 'I will do everything I can do for her night and day. Oh, I do hope she will soon be well again!'

'And I _hope_ so too, my dear Clara,' replied her aunt; 'but you must not think that you can attend to your cousin without help. You may of course remain with her for company; and this need not perhaps hinder your lessons, unless she should become very impatient, as is often the case with sufferers in this severe malady. But health, your health, my child, must be attended to; you must have air and exercise. And I fear that we shall all be required to lend a helping hand to the poor invalid should the fever greatly increase. I am just going to write to my sister, Mabel's mamma. I must be careful not to alarm her, in her weak state, as she is very nervous. You can return now to your cousin,'

continued Aunt Mary, 'and be sure you do not leave her alone until I come to you. Ring for anything that is wanted.'

And now for weeks and weeks, this same selfish, self-willed girl, Mabel Ellis, lay on the bed of pain and languishing, and I may add, I am rejoiced to say, on the bed of sincere repentance. Yes, the salutary lessons of adversity had not been taught in vain, for they were not transitory ones, they had taken deep root; while the Divine precepts and heavenly counsels, which she had heard daily from her most loving and tender nurses, sank deep into a heart out of which had been weeded, to make room for them, the rank and bitter weeds of pride and pa.s.sion.

Mabel Ellis was indeed an altered character, when able once more to sit up in the arm-chair; though so weak that she could scarcely speak above her breath, her looks of love and thankfulness, and the soft eyes often filled with glad tears, spoke most expressively to the hearts of her aunt and cousin, for they felt that their labour of love had not been in vain; and though all Aunt Mary's usual routine had been put aside, and for a time a new phase of life had been set before her, in this trial she could feel thankful.

'The seeds of affliction and pain, When the soil has been moistened with rain That flow'd from a penitent heart, Into beauty, and fragrance will start.