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chosen by a sensible man from one of these. He will see in the quiet, thoughtful maiden, charms more potent, and at her shrine will he offer up the pure devotion of an honest heart."

Mrs. Hartley's visiter did not feel very well pleased with herself or her daughter for some days after this conversation. There was so much of truth about what had been said, and truth bearing upon her own conduct as a mother, that it made her uncomfortable. But it was too late for her to mend the evil was already done. The more she thought about the picture Mrs. Hartley had drawnof a puppet-woman, as she had chosen to call her, the more closely did she perceive that her own daughter resembled the sketch, until she felt half angry at what appeared almost too pointed an allusion.

The next time that Mrs. Fielding and daughter called upon Mrs. Hartley, the latter paid a much more respectful attention to Marien than she had ever before done. She was surprised to find, in one she had looked upon as a girl too young for her to associate with, a quiet dignity of manner and womanly tone of character beyond what she had dreamed existed. At first she rattled on with her in quite a patronizing way, but before she left, she was rather inclined to listen than to talk.

"While our mammas are talking, let us have some music," Jane said, during a pause in the conversation. "Are you fond of playing?"

"I am fond of music, and always like good playing. Come to the piano-you play well, I understand. I shall enjoy your performance very much."

Jane sat down to the piano, and rattled off several fashionable frivolities, in a kind of hap-hazard style. Marien was disappointed, and did not, for she could not, praise the young lady's playing. She had learned only to speak what she thought, and when she could not praise, and utter the truth, she said nothing.

"Play something else," she said.

Jane turned over the music books and selected an overture that required a brilliant performer to execute it with any thing like its true effect. On this she went to work, with might and main, and got through in about ten minutes, much to the relief of Marien, whose fine perception of musical harmonies was terribly outraged.

"Now you must play," said Jane, as she struck the last note, rising from the instrument.

Marien sat down and let her fingers fall upon the keys, that answered to their touch as if half conscious.

"You play divinely!" exclaimed Jane, after Marien had played a short piece of music with fine taste. "Do you sing?"

"Sometimes."

"Can you sing "The Banks of the Blue Moselle?"

"I believe so." Marien ran her fingers over the keys, and then warbled that sprightly song in a low, sweet voice, that really charmed her companion. The ease with which this was done surprised Jane. It seemed to cost Marien scarce an effort. Half a dozen other songs were named, and sung by Marien, who then asked Jane if she would not sing.

"Not after you," replied the young lady, taking a step back from the piano.

Marien did not know how to reply to such a remark, and so she said nothing. She could not lavish false compliments, nor did she wish to make any allusion to her own performance. She had sung to please her visiter, and had not a thought beyond that.

Mrs. Fielding was less self-satisfied than ever after this visit. She could not but acknowledge to herself, that she would much rather her daughter were more like Marien.

CHAPTER XIII.

A PAINFUL BEREAVEMENT.

THUS far in her maternal life, Mrs. Hartley had endured all the pains, cares, anxieties, hopes and fears of a mother, but neither sorrow nor bereavement. Her assiduous care had, thus far, been rewarded by the very best results. But now there came a heart-searching trial, which no act of hers could possibly prevent.

On the day that Mrs. Fielding and her daughter called upon Mrs. Hartley, Lillian did not seem very well. She drooped about, and was quite fretful, a thing with her very unusual. At night she fell off to sleep an hour earlier than usual. When Mr. Hartley came home, and inquired for his little pet, he was told that she was in bed. He loved the child with great tenderness, and missed her bright face and merry voice. Taking up a light, he went over to the chamber where she slept, and stood over her little bed for some time, looking down upon her sweet face. While doing so, Mrs. Hartley joined him.

"Dear little thing," she said, "she has not appeared well all day."

The father placed his hand upon her forehead. "Why, Anna," he said, "she has a high fever! And listen! how hard she breathes."

Mrs. Hartley laid her hand against the child's cheek, with a feeling of uneasiness. Her children had often been sick with fevers; but never, in the incipient stage of the disease, had she felt the peculiar sensation of uneasiness and oppression that followed the discovery that Lillian was really sick.

In a little while the tea bell rung, and the family gathered around the table to partake of their evening meal. The father and mother felt no appetite, and merely sipped their tea. Marien was silent from some cause. Henry and Fanny were the only ones who had any thing to say. On rising from the table, Mr. and Mrs. Hartley repaired to the chamber to look at Lillian again. The child's fever seemed higher, and she had become restless. She coughed occasionally, and there was much oppression on her chest.

"I think we had better call in the Doctor," said Mr. Hartley.

"It may only be a temporary indisposition, that will subside before morning," remarked the mother.

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