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                                 MABEL.

                                A NOVEL,
                           BY EMMA WARBURTON.

                          _IN THREE VOLUMES._

                                VOL. I.


                                LONDON:

                    THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
                 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
                                 1854.




                                   TO
                         MISS EMMA TYLNEY LONG,
                           THIS WORK
                              IS INSCRIBED
                   AS A SLIGHT BUT SINCERE EXPRESSION
                               OF GRATEFUL ESTEEM.




                                 MABEL.




                               CHAPTER I.

     Oh, timely, happy, timely wise,
     Hearts that with rising morn arise,
     Eyes that the beam celestial view,
     Which evermore makes all things new.

     New every morning is the love,
     Our waking and uprising prove,
     Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
     Restored to life, and power, and thought.

                                                        KEEBLE.


One morning, early in the month of August, a few years since, the sun
rose lazily and luxuriously over the hills that bounded the little
village of Aston, which lay in one of the prettiest valleys of
Gloucestershire. The golden beams of that glorious luminary falling
first upon the ivy-covered tower of the little church, seemed, to the
eye of fancy, to linger with pleasure round the sacred edifice, as if
glad to recognize the altar of Him, who, from the beginning, had fixed
his daily course through the bright circle of the heavens, then pouring
a flood of brilliancy on the simple rectory, danced over the hills, and
played with the many windows of the old Manor House, which, situated at
a short distance from the church, formed one of the most striking
objects of the village.

Only here and there a thick volume of smoke rose from the cottages
scattered over the valley, while the only living object visible was a
young man, who thus early walked down the steep and winding path, which
led from the rectory, and strolled leisurely forward, as if attracted by
the beauties of the early morning. The slow pace with which he moved
seemed to betoken either indolence or fatigue, while his dress, which
was of the latest fashion, slightly contrasted with the ancient-looking
simplicity of the place.

Captain Clair, for such was his name, had quitted his regiment, then in
India, and returned to England, with the hope of recruiting his health,
which had been considerably impaired by his residence abroad.

On the preceding evening, he had arrived at the rectory, upon a visit to
his uncle, who wished him to try the bracing air of Gloucestershire as a
change from town, where he had been lingering for some little time since
his return to England.

In person, the young officer was slight and well made, with a becoming
military air; his countenance light and fresh, spite of Indian
suns, and, on the whole, prepossessing, though not untinged by certain
worldly characters, as if he had entered perhaps too thoughtlessly on a
world of sin and temptation.

There is, however, something still and holy in the early morning, when
the sin and folly of nature has slept, or seemed to sleep, and life
again awakes with