"THE ANGEL-CHILD."LITTLE Mabel had no mother. She was slight, and sweet, and fragile, like her type, the lily of the valley. Her little hand, as you took it in yours, seemed almost to melt in your clasp. She had large, dark eyes, whose depths, with all your searching, you might fail to fathom. Her cheek was very pale, save when some powerful emotion lent it a passing flush; her fair, open brow might have defied an angel's scrutiny; her little foot-fall was noiseless as a falling snow-flake; and her voice was sweet and low as the last note of the bird ere it folds its head under its wing for nightly slumber. The house in which Mabel lived was large and splendid. You would
have hesitated to crush with your foot the bright flowers on the
thick, rich carpet. The rare old pictures on the walls were marred by
no envious cross-lights. Light and shade were artistically disposed.
Beautiful statues, which the sculptor, dream-inspired, had risen from
a feverish couch to finish, lay bathed in the rosy light which
streamed through the silken curtains. Obsequious servants glided in
and out, as if
taught by instinct to divine the unspoken wants of their mistress. I said the little Mabel had no mother; and yet there was a lady, fair and bright, of whose beautiful lip, and large, dark eyes, and graceful limbs, little Mabel's were the mimic counterpart. Poets, artists and sculptors had sung, and sketched, and modelled her charms. Nature had been most prodigal of adornment. There was only one little thing she had forgotten,—the Lady Mabel had no soul. Not that she forgot to deck little Mabel's limbs with costliest fabrics of most unique fashioning. Not that every shinging ringlet on that graceful little head was not arranged, by Mademoiselle Jennet, in strict obedience to orders; not that a large nursery was not fitted up luxuriously at the top of the house, filled with toys which its little owner never cared to look at; not that the Lady Mabel's silken robe did not sweep, once a week, with a queenly grace through the apartment, to see if the mimic wardrobe provided for its little mistress fitted becomingly, or needed replenishing, or was kept in order by the smart French maid. Still, as I said before, the little Mabel had no mother! See her, as she stands there by the nursery window, crushing her
bright ringlets in the palm of her tiny hand. Her large eyes glow;
her cheek flushes, then pales; now the little breast heaves; for the
gorgeous west is one sea
of molten gold. Each bright tint thrills her with strange rapture. She almost holds her breath, as they deepen, then fade and die away. And now the last bright beam disappears behind the hills, and the soft, gray twilight comes creeping on. Amid its deepening shadows, one bright star springs suddenly to its place in the heavens. Little Mabel cannot tell why the warm tears are coursing down her sweet face; or why her limbs tremble, and her heart beats so fast; or why she dreads left the shrill voice of Mademoiselle Jennet should break the spell. She longs to soar, like a bird, or a bright angel. She had a nurse once, who told her "there was a God." She wants to know if He holds that bright star in its place. She wants to know if heaven is a long way off, and if she shall ever be a bright angel; and she would like to say a little prayer, her heart is so full, if she only knew how; but, poor, sweet little Mabel,—she has no mother! |