it fed upon.  The more she had the more she required; and all this was for the sake of imparting all she learned to Mabel.  She fancied that teachers might not be kind to this new-found idol; that she could transfer information more gently and continuously; that the relative was the best instructress; in short, the pent-up tenderness of her nature, the restrained torrent of affections that had so long lain dormant, were poured forth upon the little heiress, as she was already called; and captious and determined she was, as ever heiress could be; but withal of so loving a nature, and so guileless a heart, so confiding, so generous, and so playful, and overflowing with mirth and mischief, that it would have been impossible to fancy any living creature who had felt the sunshine of fourteen summers more charming or tormenting.

“I wish, dear aunt,” exclaimed Mabel, one morning, as she sat at her embroidery, the sun shining through the open window upon the abundant glories of her hair, while her aunt sat, as she always did, opposite to her, that she might, when she raised her eyes from off the Italian lesson she was conning for her especial edification, have the happiness of seeing her without an effort; “I wish, dear aunt, you would send that old spinnet out of the room; it looks so odd by the side of my beautiful piano.”

“My dear Mabel,” replied her aunt, “I have put as much new furniture as you wished into this room, but I cannot part with the old”—­

“Rubbish!” added Mabel, snapping her worsted with the impatience of the movement.

“It may be rubbish in your eyes, Mabel, but I have told you before that my dear father desired I should never part with the furniture of the room he died in.”

Mabel looked the truth—­“that she was not more inclined toward the old furniture on that account;” but she did not say so.  “Have you got the key of the old spinnet, aunt?  I should like to hear its tone.”

“I have never found the key, my dear, though I have often looked for it; I suppose my father lost it.  I have danced to its music before now to my mother’s playing; but I am sure it has not a tone left.”

“I wish you would dance now, dear aunt,” exclaimed Mabel, jumping up at the idea; “you never told me you could dance; I never, somehow, fancied you could dance, and I have been obliged to practise my quadrilles with two high-backed chairs and my embroidery frame.  Do, dear aunt; put by that book, and dance.”  It would be impossible to fancy a greater contrast than aunt and niece.  Sarah Bond’s erect and perfectly flat figure was surmounted by a long head and face, round which an abundance of gray hair was folded; for by no other term can I describe its peculiar dress; her cap plain, but white as snow; and a black silk gown, that had seen its best days, was pinned and primmed on, so as to sit as close as possible to a figure which would have been greatly improved by heavy and abundant drapery.  Mabel,