If I do not pass more rapidly over these early scenes, I shall never finish my book.

Book!—am I writing a book? No, indeed! This is only a record of my heart's life, written at random and carelessly thrown aside, sheet after sheet, sibylline leaves from the great book of fate. The wind may blow them away, a spark consume them. I may myself commit them to the flames. I am tempted to do so at this moment.

I once thought it a glorious thing to be an author,—to touch the electric wire of sentiment, and know that thousands would thrill at the shock,—to speak, and believe that unborn millions would hear the music of those echoing words,—to possess the wand of the enchanter, the ring of the genii, the magic key to the temple of temples, the pass-word to the universe of mind. I once had such visions as these, but they are passed.

To touch the electric wire, and feel the bolt scathing one's own brain,—to speak, to hear the dreary echo of one's voice return through the desert waste,—to enter the temple and find nothing but ruins and desolation,—to lay a sacrifice on the altar, and see no fire from heaven descend in token of acceptance,—to stand the priestess of a lonely shrine, uttering oracles to the unheeding wind,—is not such too often the doom of those who have looked to fame as their heritage, believing genius their dower?

Heaven save me from such a destiny. Better the daily task, the measured duty, the chained-down spirit, the girdled heart.

A year after Mrs. Linwood pointed out to me the path of duty, I began to walk in it. I have passed the winter in the city, but it was one of deep seclusion to me. I welcomed with rapture our return to the country, and had so far awakened from dream-life, as to prepare myself with steadiness of purpose for the realities of my destiny.

Edith rebelled against her mother's decision. There was no need of such a thing. I was too young, too delicate, too sensitive for so rough a task. There was a plenty of robust country girls to assist Mr. Regulus, if he wanted them to, without depriving her of her companion and sister. She appealed to Dr. Harlowe, in her sweet, bewitching way, which always seemed irresistible; but he only gave her a genial smile, called me "a brave little girl," and bade me "God speed." "I wish Richard Clyde were here," said she, in her own artless, half-childish manner, "I am sure he would be on my side. I wish brother Ernest would come home, he would decide the question. Oh, Gabriella, if you only knew brother Ernest!"

If I have not mentioned this brother Ernest before, it is not because I had not heard his name repeated a thousand times. He was the only son and brother of the family, who, having graduated with the first honors at the college of his native State, was completing his education in Germany, at the celebrated University of Gottingen. There was a picture of him in the library, taken just before he left the country, on which I had gazed, till it was to me a living being. It was a dark, fascinating face,—a face half of sunshine and half shadow, a face of mysterious meanings; as different from Edith's as night from morning. It reminded me of the head of Byron, but it expressed deeper sensibility, and the features were even more symmetrically handsome.

Edith, who was as frank and artless as a child, was always talking of her brother, of his brilliant talents, his genius, and peculiarities. She showed me his letters, which were written with extraordinary beauty and power, though the sentiments were somewhat obscured by a transcendental mistiness belonging to the atmosphere he breathed.

"Ernest never was like anybody else," said Edith; "he is the most singular, but the most fascinating of human beings. Oh Gabriella, I long to have him come back, that you may know and admire him."

Though I knew by ten thousand signs that this absent son was the first object of Mrs. Linwood's thoughts, she seldom talked of him to me. She often, when Edith was indulging in her enthusiastic descriptions of him, endeavored to change the conversation and turn my thoughts in other channels.

But why do I speak of Ernest Linwood here? It is premature. I was about to describe a little part of my experience as a village teacher.

Edith had a beautiful little pony, gentle as a lamb, yet very spirited withal, (for lame though she was, she was a graceful and fearless equestrian,) which it was arranged that I should ride every morning, escorted by a servant, who carried the pony back for Edith's use. Dr. Harlowe, who resided near the academy, said I was always to dine at his house, and walk home in the evening. They must not make too much of a fine lady of me. I must exercise, if I would gather the roses of health. Surely no young girl could begin the ordeal of duty under kinder, more favoring auspices.

After the first dreaded morning when Mr. Regulus, tall, stately, and imposing, ushered me into the apartment where I was to preside with delegated authority, led me up a low flight of steps and waved his hand towards a high magisterial arm-chair which was to be my future throne, I felt a degree of self-confidence that surprised and encouraged me. Every thing was so novel, so fresh, it imparted an elasticity to my spirits I had not felt in Mrs. Linwood's luxurious home. Then there was something self-sustaining, inspiring in the consciousness of intellectual exertion and moral courage, in the thought that I was doing some little good in the world, that I was securing the approbation of Mrs. Linwood and of the excellent Dr. Harlowe. The children, who had most of them been my fellow pupils, looked upon Gabriella Lynn, the protégée of the rich Mrs. Linwood, as a different being from Gabriella Lynn of the little gray cottage in the woods. I have no doubt they thought it very grand to ride on that beautiful pony, with its saddle-cloth of blue and silver, and glittering martingale, escorted by a servant too! Had they been disposed to rebel at my authority, they would not have dared to do so, for Mr. Regulus, jealous for my new dignity, watched over it with an eagle eye.

Where were the chains, whose prophetic clanking had chilled my misgiving heart? They were transformed to flowery garlands, of daily renewing fragrance and bloom. My desk was literally covered with blossoms while their season lasted, and little fairy fingers were always twining with wreaths the dark hair they loved to arrange according to their own juvenile fancies.

My noon hours at Dr. Harlowe's, were pleasant episodes in my daily life. Mrs. Harlowe was an excellent woman. She was called by the villagers "a most superior woman,"—and so she was, if admirable housekeeping and devotion to her husband's interests entitled her to the praise. She was always busy; but the doctor, though he had a wide sweep of practice in the surrounding country, always seemed at leisure. There was something so cheerful, so encouraging about him, despondency fled from his presence and gave place to hope.

I love to recall this era of my life. If I have known deeper happiness, more exalted raptures, they were dearly purchased by the sacrifice of the peace, the salubrity of mind I then enjoyed. I had a little room of my own there, where I was as much at home as I was at Mrs. Linwood's. There was a place for my bonnet and parasol, a shelf for my books, a low rocking-chair placed at the pleasantest window for me; and, knowing Mrs. Harlowe's methodical habits, I was always careful to leave every thing, as I found it, in Quaker-like order. This was the smallest return I could make for her hospitality, and she appreciated it far beyond its merits. The good doctor, with all his virtues, tried the patience of his wife sometimes beyond its limits, by his excessive carelessness. He would forget to hang his hat in the hall, and toss it on the bright, polished mahogany table. He would forget to use the scraper by the steps, or the mat by the door, and leave tracks on the clean floor or nice carpet. These little things really worried her; I could see they did. She never said any thing; but she would get up, take up the hat, brush the table with her handkerchief, and hang the hat in its right place, or send the house-girl with the broom after his disfiguring tracks.

"Pardon me, my dear," he would say with imperturbable good-nature,—"really, I am too forgetful. I must have a self-regulating machine attached to my movements,—a portable duster and hat-catcher. But, the blessed freedom of home. It constitutes half its joy. Dear me! I would not exchange the privilege of doing as I please for the emperorship of the celestial realms."

But, pleasant as were my noon rests, my homeward walks were pleasanter still. The dream-girl, after being awake for long hours to the practical duties of life, loved to ramble alone, till she felt herself involved in the soft haziness of thought, which was to the soul what the blue mistiness was to the distant hills. I could wander then alone to the churchyard, and yield myself unmolested to the sacred influences of memory. Do you remember my asking Richard Clyde to plant a white rose by my mother's grave? He had done so, soon after her burial, and now, when rather more than a year had passed, it was putting forth fair buds and blossoms, and breathing of renovation over the ruins of life. I never saw this rose-tree without blessing the hand which planted it; and I loved to sit on the waving grass and listen to the soft summer wind stealing through it, rustling among the dry blades and whispering with the green ones.

There was one sentence that fell from my mother's dying lips which ever came to me in the sighs of the gale, fraught with mournful mystery. "Because man was false, I dared to think God was unjust." And had she not adjured me by every precious and every solemn consideration, "to forgive the living, if living he indeed was?"

I knew these words referred to my father; and what a history of wrong and sorrow was left for my imagination to fill up! Living!—my father living! Oh! there is no grave so deep as that dug by the hand of neglect or desertion! He had been dead to my mother,—he had been dead to me. I shuddered at the thought of breathing the same vital element. He who had broken a mother's heart must be a fiend, worthy of eternal abhorrence.

"If you live to years of womanhood," said my expiring mother, "and your heart awakens to love, as alas for woman's destiny it will, then read my life's sad experience, and be warned by my example."

Sad prophetess! Death has consecrated thy prediction, but it is yet unfulfilled. When will womanhood commence, on whose horizon the morning star of love is to rise in clouded lustre?

Surely I am invested with a woman's dignity, in that great arm-chair, behind the green-covered desk. I feel very much like a blown rose, surrounded by the rose-bud garland of childhood. Yet Dr. Harlowe calls me "little girl," and Mr. Regulus "my child," when the pupils are not by; then it is "Miss Gabriella." They forget that I am sixteen, and that I have grown taller and more womanly in the last year; but the awakening heart has not yet throbbed at its dawning destiny, the day-star of love has not risen on its slumbers.

"I wish you had a vacation too," said Richard Clyde, as we ascended together the winding hill.

"Then we should not have these pleasant walks," I answered.

"Why not?"

"Why, I should not be returning from school at this hour every day, and you would not happen to overtake me as you do now."

"How do you know it is accident, Gabriella? How do you know but I wander about the woods, a restless ghost, till glad ringing voices chiming together, announce that you are free, and that I am at liberty to play guardian and knight, as I did three or four years ago?"

"Because you would not waste your time so foolishly, and because I do not need a guardian now. I am in authority, you know, and no one molests or makes me afraid."

"Nevertheless, you need a guardian more than ever, and I shall remain true to my boyish allegiance."

Richard always had a gay, dashing way of talking, and his residence in college had certainly not subdued the gay spirit of chivalry that sparkled in his eye. He had grown much taller since I had seen him last, his face was more intellectual and altogether improved, and his dress was elegantly, though not foppishly, fashionable. He was an exceedingly agreeable companion. Even when I was most shy and sensitive, I felt at ease with him. When I say that I looked upon him something as an elder brother, I mean what I express,—not the sickly affectation with which young girls sometimes strive to hide a deeper feeling,—I remembered his steady school-boy friendship, his sympathy in the dark days of anguish and despair, and more than all, the rose, the sacred rose he had planted at my mother's grave.

I thanked him for this, with a choking voice and a moistened eye.

"Do not thank me," said he; "I had a mother once,—she, too, is gone. The world may contain for us many friends, but never but one mother, Gabriella. I was only ten years old when mine was taken from me, but her influence is around me still, a safeguard and a blessing."

Words so full of feeling and reverence were more impressive falling from lips usually sparkling with gaiety and wit. We walked in silence up the gradual ascent, till we came to a fine old elm, branching out by the way-side, and we paused to rest under its boughs. As we did so, we turned towards the valley we were leaving behind, and beheld it stretching, a magnificent panorama, to the east and the west, the north and the south, wearing every shade of green, from the deep, rich hue of the stately corn to the brighter emerald of the oat fields, and the dazzling verdure of the pasture-land; and over all this glowing landscape the golden glory of approaching sunset hung like a royal canopy, whose purple fringes rested on the distant mountains.

"How beautiful!" I exclaimed with enthusiasm.

"How beautiful!" he echoed with equal fervor.

"You are but mocking my words, Richard,—you are not looking at the enchanting prospect."

"Yes, I am,—a very enchanting one."

"How foolish!" I cried, for I could not but understand the emphasis of his smiling glance.

"Why am I more foolish in admiring one beautiful prospect than you another, Gabriella? You solicited my admiration for one charming view, while my eyes were riveted on another. If we are both sincere, we are equally wise."

"But it seems so unnecessary to take the pains to compliment me, when you know me so well, and when I know myself so well too."

"I doubt your self-knowledge very much. I do not believe, in the first place, that you are aware how wonderfully you are improved. You do not look the same girl you did a year ago. You have grown taller, fairer, brighter, Gabriella. I did not expect to see this, when I heard you had shut yourself up in the academy again, under the shadow of old Regulus's beetling brows."

"I am sure he is not old, Richard; he is in the very prime of manhood."

"Well, Professor Regulus, then. We boys have a habit of speaking of our teachers in this way. I know it is a bad one, but we all fall into it. All our college professors have a metaphorical name, with the venerable epithet attached to it, which you condemn.

"I do not like it at all; it sounds so disrespectful, and, pardon me for saying it, even coarse."

"You have a great respect for Mr. Regulus."

"I have; he is one of my best friends."

"I dare say he is; I should like to be in his place. You have another great friend, old Dr. Harlowe."

"There, again. Why, Dr. Harlowe is almost young, at least very far from being old. He is one of the finest looking men I ever saw, and one of the best. You college students must be a very presuming set of young men."

I spoke gravely, for I was really vexed that any one whom I esteemed as much as I did Richard, should adopt the vulgarisms he once despised.

"We are a barbarous, rude set," he answered with redeeming frankness. "We show exactly what a savage man is and would ever be, without the refining influence of women. If it were not for our vacations, we would soon get beyond the reach of civilization. Be not angry with my roughness, most gentle Gabriella. Pass over it your smoothing touch, and it shall have the polish of marble, without its coldness."

We had resumed our walk, and the granite walls of Grandison Place began to loom up above the surrounding shade.

"That is a noble mansion," said he. "How admirably such a residence must harmonize with your high, romantic thoughts. But there is one thing that impresses me with wonder,—that Mrs. Linwood, so rich, so liberal too, with only one daughter, should allow you, her adopted child, to devote your young hours to the drudgery of teaching. It seems so unnecessary, so inconsistent with her usual munificence of action."

The glow of wounded pride warmed my cheek. I had become happy in my vocation, but I could not bear to hear it depreciated, nor the motives of my benefactress misunderstood and misrepresented.

"Mrs. Linwood is as wise as she is kind," I answered, hastily. "It is my happiness and good she consults, not her own pleasure. Giving does not impoverish either her ample purse or her generous heart. She knows my nature, knows that I could not bear the stagnation of a life of luxurious ease."

"Edith can,—why not you?"

"We are so different. She was born for the position she occupies. She is one of the lilies of the valley, that toil not, neither do they spin, yet they fulfil a lovely mission. Do not try to make me discontented with a lot, so full of blessings, Richard. Surely no orphan girl was ever more tenderly cherished, more abundantly cared for."

"Discontented!" he exclaimed, "heaven forbid! I must be a wretched blunderer. I am saying something wrong all the time, with a heart full of most excellent intentions. Discontented! no, indeed; I have only the unfortunate habit of speaking before I think. I shall grow wiser as I grow older, I trust."

He reached up to a branch that bent over the way-side, and breaking it off, began to strip it of its green leaves and scatter them in the path.

"You do not think me angry, Richard?" I asked, catching some of the leaves, before they fell to the ground. "I once felt all that you express; and I was doubly wrong; I was guilty of ingratitude, you only of thoughtlessness."

"When does Mrs. Linwood expect her son?" he asked abruptly.

"Next summer, I believe; I do not exactly know."

"He will take strong hold of your poetic imagination. There is something 'grand, gloomy, and peculiar' about him; a mystery of reserve, which oft amounts to haughtiness. I am but very little acquainted with him, and probably never shall be. Should we chance to meet in society, we would be two parallel lines, never uniting, however near we might approach. Besides, he is a number of years older than myself."

"I suppose you call him old Mr. Linwood," said I, laughing.

We had now entered the gate, and met Mrs. Linwood and Edith walking in the avenue, if Edith could be said to walk, borne on as she was by her softly falling crutches. She looked so exceedingly lovely, I wondered that Richard did not burst forth in expressions of irrepressible admiration. I was never weary of gazing on her beauty. Even after an absence of a few hours, it dawned upon me with new lustre, like that of the rising day. I wondered that any one ever looked at any one else in her presence. As for myself, I felt annihilated by her dazzling fairness, as the little star is absorbed by the resplendent moon.

Strange, all beautiful as she was she did not attract, as one would suppose, the admiration of the other sex. Perhaps there was something cold and shadowy in the ethereality of her loveliness, a want of sympathy with man's more earthly, passionate nature. It is very certain, the beauty which woman most admires often falls coldly on the gaze of man. Edith had the face of an angel; but hers was not the darkening eye and changing cheek that "pale passion loves." Did the sons of God come down to earth, as they did in olden time, to woo the daughters of men, they might have sought her as their bride. She was not cold, however; she was not passionless. She had a woman's heart, formed to enshrine an idol of clay, believing it imperishable as its own love.

Mrs. Linwood gave Richard a cordial greeting. I had an unaccountable fear that she would not be pleased that he escorted me home so frequently, though this was the first time he had accompanied me to the lawn. She urged him to remain and pass the evening, or rather asked him, for he required no urging. I am sure it must have been a happy one to him. Edith played upon her harp, which had been newly strung. She seemed the very personification of one of Ossian's blue-eyed maids, with her white, rising hands, and long, floating locks.

I was passionately fond of music, and had my talent been early cultivated I would doubtless have excelled. I cared not much about the piano, but there was inspiration in the very sight of a harp. In imagination I was Corinna, improvising the impassioned strains of Italy, or a Sappho, breathing out my soul, like the dying swan, in strains of thrilling melody. Edith was a St. Cecilia. Had my hand swept the chords, the hearts of mortals would have vibrated at the touch; she touched the divine string, and "called angels down."

When I retired that night and saw the reflection of myself full length, in the large pier-glass, between the rosy folds of the sweeping damask, I could not help recalling what Richard Clyde had said of my personal improvement. Was he sincere, when with apparent enthusiasm he had applied to me the epithet, beautiful? No, he could not be; and yet his eyes had emphasized the language of his lips.

I was not vain. Few young girls ever thought less of their personal appearance. I lived so much in the world within, that I gave but little heed to the fashion of my outward form. It seemed so poor an expression of the glowing heart, the heaven-born soul.

For the first time I looked upon myself with reference to the eyes of others, and I tried to imagine the youthful figure on which I gazed as belonging to another, and not myself. Were the outlines softened by the dark-flowing sable, classic and graceful? Was there beauty in the oval cheek, now wearing the warm bloom of the brunette, or the dark, long-lashed eye, which drooped with the burden of unuttered thoughts?

As I asked myself these questions, I smiled at my folly; and as the image smiled back upon the original, there was such a light, such a glow, such a living soul passed before me, that for one moment a triumphant consciousness swelled my bosom, a new revelation beamed on my understanding,—the consciousness of woman's hitherto unknown power,—the revelation of woman's destiny.

And connected with this, there came the remembrance of that haunting face in the library, which I had only seen on canvas, but which was to me a breathing reality,—that face which, even on the cold, silent wall, had no repose; but dark, restless, and impassioned, was either a history of past disappointment, or a prophecy of future suffering.

The moment of triumph was brief. A pale shadow seemed to flit behind me and dim the bright image reflected in the mirror. It wore the sad, yet lovely lineaments of my departed mother.

O how vain were youth and beauty, if thus they faded and vanished away! How mournful was love thus wedded to sorrow! how mysterious the nature in which they were united!

A shower of tears washed away the vain emotions I blushed to have felt. But I could not be as though I had never known them. I could not recall the guileless simplicity of childhood, its sweet unconsciousness and contentment, in the present joy.

O foolish, foolish Gabriella! Art thou no longer a child?

Mr. Regulus still called me "child." We had quite a scene in the academy one day after the school was dismissed, and I was preparing as usual to return home.

"Will you give me a few moments' conversation, Miss Gabriella?" said he, clearing his throat with one of those hems which once sounded so awful. He looked awkward and disconcerted, while my face flushed with trepidation. Had I been guilty of any omitted duty or committed offence? Had I suffered an error on the blackboard to pass unnoticed, or allowed a mistake in grammar to be unconnected? What had I done?

I stood nervously pulling the fingers of my gloves, waiting for him to commence the conversation he had sought. Another hem!—then he moved the inkstand about a foot further from him, for he was standing close to his desk, as if to gather round him every imposing circumstance, then he took up the ruler and measured it with his eye, run his finger along the edge, as if it were of razor sharpness.

"Is he going to punish me?" thought I. "It looks ominous."

I would not assist him by one word; but maintaining a provoking silence, took up a pair of compasses and made a circle on the green cloth that covered the desk.

"Miss Gabriella," at length he said, "you must forgive me for taking the liberty of an old friend. Nothing but the most disinterested regard for your—your reputation—could induce me to mention a subject—so—so very—very peculiar."

"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed, "my reputation, Mr. Regulus?"

I felt the blood bubbling like boiling water, up into my cheek.

"I do not wish to alarm or distress you," he continued, becoming more self-possessed, as my agitation increased. "You know a young girl, left without her natural guardians, especially if she is so unfortunate as to be endowed with those charms which too often attract the shafts of envy and stir up the venom of malice,"—

"Mr. Regulus!" I interrupted, burning with impatience and indignation, "tell me what you mean. Has any one dared to slander me,—and for what?"

"No one would dare to breathe aught of evil against you in my presence," said he, with great dignity; "but the covert whisper may pass from lip to lip, and the meaning glance flash from eye to eye, when your friend and protector is not near to shield you from aspersion, and vindicate your fame."

"Stop," I exclaimed; "you terrify—you destroy me!"

The room spun round like a top. Every thing looked misty and black. I caught hold of Mr. Regulus's arm to keep me from falling. Foes in ambush, glittering tomahawks, deadly scalping-knives, were less terrible than my dark imaginings.

"Bless me," cried my master, seating me in his great arm-chair and fanning me with an atlas which he caught from his desk, "I did not mean to frighten you, my child. I wanted to advise, to counsel you, to prevent misconstruction and unkind remark. My motives are pure, indeed they are; you believe they are, do you not?"

"Certainly I do," I answered, passing my hand over my eyes, to clear away the dark specks that still floated over them; "but if you have any regard for my feelings, speak at once, plainly and openly. I will be grateful for any advice prompted by kindness, and expressed without mystery."

"I only thought," said he, becoming again visibly embarrassed, "that I would suggest the propriety of your not permitting young Clyde to accompany you home so often. The extraordinary interest he took in you as a boy, renders his present attentions more liable to remark. A young girl in your situation, my child, cannot be too particular, too much on her guard. College boys are wild fellows. They are not safe companions for innocence and simplicity like yours."

"And is this all?" I asked, drawing a long breath, and feeling as if Mont Blanc had rolled from my breast.

"It is."

"And you have heard no invidious remarks?"

"Not yet, Gabriella, but—"

"My dear master," said I, rising with a joyous spring from my chair. "I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your anxious care of my good name. But I am sure Mrs. Linwood would not have sanctioned an impropriety. I have always felt towards Richard as I imagine I would towards a brother, were I so blest as to have one. He has made my lonely walks very pleasant by his lively and intelligent conversation. Still, I do not care to have him accompany me so often. I would rather that he would not. I will tell him so. I dare say you are right, Mr. Regulus; I know you are. I know so little of the world, I may offend its rules without being aware of it."

I felt so unspeakably relieved, so happy that the mountain of slander which my imagination had piled up was reduced to an anticipated molehill, that my spirits rebounded even to gaiety. I laughed at the sight of my torn glove, for I had actually pulled off the fingers by my nervous twitches.

"I thought you were going to apply the spatula. I feared you thought me guilty of writing another poem, Mr. Regulus; what else could make you look so formidable?"

"Ah! Gabriella, let bygones be bygones. I was very harsh, very disagreeable then. I wonder you have ever forgiven me; I have never forgiven myself. I know not how it is, but it seems to me that a softening change has come over me. I feel more tenderly towards the young beings committed to my care, more indulgence for the weaknesses and errors of my kind. I did not mind, then, trampling on a flower, if it sprung up in my path; now I would stoop down and inhale its fragrance, and bless my Maker for shedding beauty and sweetness to gladden my way. The perception of the beautiful grows and strengthens in me. The love of nature, a new-born flower, blooms in my heart, and diffuses a sweet balminess unknown before. Even poetry, my child—do not laugh at me—has begun to unfold its mystic beauties to my imagination. I was reading the other evening that charming paraphrase of the nineteenth Psalm: 'The spacious firmament on high,' and I was exceedingly struck with its melodious rhythm; and when I looked up afterwards to the starry heavens, to the moon walking in her brightness, to the blue and boundless ether, they seemed to bend over me in love, to come nearer than they had ever done before. I could hear the whisper of that divine voice, which is heard in the rustling of the forest trees, the gurgling of the winding stream, and the rush of the mountain cataract; and every day," he added, with solemnity, "I love man more, because God has made him my brother."

He paused, and his countenance glowed with the fervor of his feelings. With an involuntary expression of reverence and tenderness, I held out my hand and exclaimed,—

"My dear master—"

"You forgive me, then," taking my hand in both his, and burying it in his large palms; "you do not think me officious and overbearing?"

"O no, sir, I have nothing to forgive, but much to be grateful for; thank you, I must go, for I have a long walk to take—alone."

With an emphasis on the last word I bade him adieu, ran down the steps, and went on musing so deeply on my singular interview with Mr. Regulus, that I attempted to walk through a tree by the way-side. A merry laugh rang close to my ear, and Richard Clyde sprang over the fence right before me.

"It should have opened and imprisoned you, as a truant dryad," said he. "Of what are you thinking, Gabriella, that you forget the impenetrability of matter, the opacity of bark and the incapability of flesh and blood to cleave asunder the ligneous fibres which oppose it, as the sonorous Johnson would have observed on a similar occasion."

"I was thinking of you, Richard," I answered with resolute frankness.

"Of me!" he exclaimed, while his eyes sparkled with animated pleasure. "Oh, walk through all the trees of Grandison Place, if you will honor me with one passing thought."

"You know you have always been like a brother to me, Richard."

"I don't know exactly how a brother feels. You have taken my fraternal regard for granted, but I am sure I have never professed any."

"Pardon me, if I have believed actions more expressive than words. I shall never commit a similar error."

With deeply wounded and indignant feelings, I walked rapidly on, without deigning to look at one so heartless and capricious. Mr. Regulus was right. He was not a proper companion. I would never allow him to walk with me again.

"Are you not familiar enough with my light, mocking way, Gabriella?" he cried, keeping pace with my accelerated steps. "Do not you know me well enough to understand when I am serious and when jesting? I have never professed fraternal regard, because I know a brother cannot feel half the—the interest for you that I do. I thought you knew it,—I dare not say more,—I cannot say less."

"No, no, do not say any more," said I, shrinking with indefinable dread; "I do not want any professions. I meant not to call them forth. If I alluded to you as a brother, it was because I wished to speak to you with the frankness of a sister. It is better that you should not walk with me from school,—it is not proper,—people will make remarks."

"Well, let them make them,—who cares?"

"I care, a great deal. I will not be the subject of village gossip."

"Who put this idea in your head, Gabriella? I know it did not originate there. You are too artless, too unsuspicious. Oh! I know," he added, with a heightened color and a raised tone, "you have been kept after school; you have had a lecture on propriety; you cannot deny it."

"I neither deny nor affirm any thing. It makes no difference who suggested it. My own judgment tells me it is right."

"The old fellow is jealous," said he with a laugh of derision, "but he cannot control my movements. The road is wide enough for us both, and the world is wider still."

"How can you say any thing so absurd and ridiculous?" I exclaimed; and vexed as I was, I could not help laughing at his preposterous suggestion.

"Because I know it is the truth. But I really thought you above the fear of village gossip, Gabriella. Why, it is more idle than the passing wind, lighter than the down of the gossamer. I thought you had a noble independence of character, incapable of being moved by a whiff of breath, a puff of empty air."

"I trust I have sufficient independence to do what is right and sufficient prudence to avoid, if possible, the imputation of wrong," I replied, with grave earnestness.

"Oh! upright judge!—oh! excellent young sage!" exclaimed Richard, with mock reverence. "Wisdom becometh thee so well, I shall be tempted to quarrel hereafter with thy smiles. But seriously, Gabriella, I crave permission to walk courteously home with you this evening, for it is the last of my vacation. To-morrow I leave you, and it will be months before we meet again."

"I might have spared you and myself this foolish scene, then," said I, deeply mortified at its result. "I have incurred your ridicule, perhaps your contempt, in vain. We might have parted friends, at least."

"No, by heavens! Gabriella, not friends; we must be something more, or less than friends. I did not think to say this now, but I can hold it back no longer. And why should I? 'All my faults perchance thou knowest.' As was the boy, as is the youth, so most likely will be the man. No! if you love me, Gabriella,—if I may look forward to the day when I shall be to you friend, brother, guardian, lover, all in one,—I shall have such a motive for excellence, such a spring to ambition, that I will show the world the pattern of a man, such as they never saw before."

"I wish you had not said this," I answered, averting from his bright and earnest eye my confused and troubled glance. "We should be so much happier as friends. We are so young, too. It will be time enough years hence to talk of such things."

"Too young to love! We are in the very spring-time of our life,—the season of blossoms and fragrance, music and love,—oh, daughter of poetry! is it you who utter such a thought? Would you wait for the sultry summer, the dry autumn, to cultivate the morning flower of Paradise?"

"I did not dream you had so much hidden romance," said I, smiling at his metaphorical language, and endeavoring to turn the conversation in a new channel. "I thought you mocked at sentiment and poetic raptures."

"Love works miracles, Gabriella. You do not answer. You evade the subject on which all my life's future depends. Is there no chord in your heart that vibrates in harmony with mine? Are there no memories associated with the oak trees of the wood, the mossy stone at the fountain, the sacred rose of the grave, propitious to my early and ever-growing love?"

He spoke with a depth of feeling of which I had never thought him possessed. Sincerity and truth dignified every look and tone. Yes! there were undying memories, now wakened in all their strength, of the youthful champion of my injured rights, the sympathizing companion of my darkest hours; the friend, who stood by me when other friends were unknown. There was many a responsive chord that thrilled at his voice, and there was another note, a sweet triumphant note never struck before. The new-born consciousness of woman's power, the joy of being beloved, the regal sense of newly acquired dominion swelled in my bosom and flashed from my eye. But the master-chord was silent. I knew, I felt even then, that there was a golden string, down in the very depths of my heart, too deep for his hand to touch.

I felt grieved and glad. Grieved that I could not give a full response to his generous offering,—glad that I had capacities of loving, he, with all his excellences, could never fill. I tried to tell him what I felt, to express friendship, gratitude, and esteem; but he would not hear me,—he would not let me go on.

"No, no; say nothing now," said he impetuously. "I have been premature. You do not know your own heart. You do love me,—you will love me. You must not, you shall not deny me the privilege of hope. I will maintain the vantage ground on which I stand,—first friend, first lover, and even Ernest Linwood cannot drive me from it."

"Ernest Linwood!" I exclaimed, startled and indignant. "You know he can never be any thing to me. You know my immeasurable obligations to his mother. His name shall be sacred from levity."

"It is. He is the last person whom I would lightly name. He has brilliant talents and a splendid position; but woe to the woman who places her happiness in his keeping. He confides in no one,—so the world describes him,—is jealous and suspicious even in friendship;—what would he be in love?"

"I know not. I care not,—only for his mother's and Edith's sake. Again I say, he is nothing to me. Richard, you trouble me very much by your strange way of talking. You have no idea how you have made my head ache. Please speak of common subjects, for I would not meet Mrs. Linwood so troubled, so agitated, for any consideration. See how beautiful the sunlight falls is the lawn! How graceful that white cloud floats down the golden west! As Wilson says:—

"Yes! the sunlight is very beautiful, and the cloud is very graceful, and you are beautiful and graceful in your dawning coquetry, the more so because you know it not. Well—obedience to-day, reward to-morrow, Gabriella. That was one of my old copies at the academy."

"I remember another, which was a favorite of Mr. Regulus—

A few more light repartees, and we were at Mrs. Linwood's gate.

"You will not come in?" said I, half asserting, half interrogating.

"To be sure I will. Edith promised me some of her angelic harp music. I come like Saul to have the evil spirit of discontent subdued by its divine influence."

Richard was a favorite of Mrs. Linwood. Whether it was that by a woman's intuition she discovered the state of feeling existing between us, or whether it was his approaching departure, she was especially kind to him this evening; she expressed a more than usual interest in his future prospects.

"This is your last year in college," I heard her say to him. "In a few months you will feel the dignity and responsibility of manhood. You will come out from the seclusion of college life into the wide, wide world, and of its myriad paths, so intricate, yet so trodden, you must choose one. You are looking forward now, eagerly, impatiently, but then you will pause and tremble. I pity the young man when he first girds himself for the real duties of life. The change from thought to action, from dreams to realities, from hope to fruition or disappointment, is so sudden, so great, he requires the wisdom which is only bought by experience, the strength gained only by exercise. But it is well," she added, with great expression, "it is well as it is. If youth could command the experience of age, it would lose the enthusiasm and zeal necessary for the conception of great designs; it would lose the brightness, the energy of hope, and nothing would be attempted, because every thing would be thought in vain. I did not mean to give you an essay," she said, smiling at her own earnestness, "but a young friend on the threshold of manhood is deeply interesting to me. I feel constrained to give him my best counsels, my fervent prayers."

"Thank you, dear Madam, a thousand times," he answered his countenance lighted up with grateful pleasure; "you do not know what inspiration there is in the conviction that we are cared for by the pure and the good. Selfish as we are, there are few of us who strive to excel for ourselves alone. We must feel that there are some hearts, who bear us in remembrance, who will exult in our successes, and be made happier by our virtues."

He forgot himself, and though he addressed Mrs. Linwood, his eye sought mine, while uttering the closing words. I was foolish enough to blush at his glance, and still more at the placid, intelligent smile of Mrs. Linwood. It seemed to say,

"I understand it all; it is all right, just as it should be. There is no danger of Richard's being forgotten."

I was provoked by her smile, his glance, and my own foolish blush. As for him, he really did seem inspired. He talked of the profession he had chosen as the noblest and the best, a profession which had commanded the most exalted talents and most magnificent geniuses in the world. He was not holy enough for the ministry; he had too great reverence and regard for human life to be a physician; but he believed nature had created him for a lawyer, for that much abused, yet glorious being, an honest lawyer.

I suppose I must have been nervous, in consequence of the exciting scenes through which I had passed, but there was something in his florid eloquence, animated gestures, and evident desire to make a grand impression, that strangely affected my risibles; I had always thought him so natural before. I tried to keep from laughing; I compressed my lips, and turning my head, looked steadily from the window, but a sudden stammering, then a pause, showed that my unconquerable rudeness was observed. I was sobered at once, but dared not look round, lest I should meet Mrs. Linwood's reproving glance. He soon after asked Edith for a parting song, and while listening to her sweet voice, as it mingled with the breezy strains of the harp, my excited spirit recovered its equilibrium. I thought with regret and pain, of the levity, so unwonted in me, which had wounded a heart so frank and true, and found as much difficulty in keeping back my tears, as a moment before I had done my laughter.

As soon as Edith had finished her song, he rose to take leave. He came to me last, to the little recess in the window where I stood, and extended his hand as he had done to Mrs. Linwood and Edith. He looked hurt rather than angry, disappointed rather than sad.

"Forgive me," said I, in a low voice; "I value your friendship too much to lose it without an effort."

The tears were in my eyes; I could not help it. I was sorry, for they expressed far more than I meant to convey. I knew it at once by the altered, beaming expression of his countenance.

"Give me smiles or tears, dear Gabriella," he answered, in the same undertone; "only do not forget me, only think of me as I wish to be remembered."

He pressed my hand warmly, energetically, while uttering these words; then, without giving me time to reply, bowed again to Mrs. Linwood and left the room.

"A very fine, promising young man," said Mrs. Linwood, with emphasis.

"A most intelligent, agreeable companion," added the gentle Edith, looking smilingly at me, as if expecting me to say something.

"Very," responded I, in a constrained manner.

"Is that all?" she asked, laying her soft, white hand on my shoulders, and looking archly in my face; "is that all, Gabriella?"

"Indeed, you are mistaken," said I, hastily; "he is nothing more,—and yet I am wrong to say that,—he has been,—he is like a brother to me, Edith, and never will be any thing more."

"Oh, these brother friends!" she exclaimed, with a burst of musical laughter, "how very near they seem! But wait, Gabriella, till you see my brother,—he is one to boast of."

"Edith!" said her mother. Edith turned her blue eyes from me to her mother, with a look of innocent surprise. The tone seemed intended to check her,—yet what had she said?

"You should not raise expectations in Gabriella which will not be realized," observed Mrs. Linwood, in that quiet tone of hers which had so much power. "Ernest, however dear he may be to us as a son and brother, has peculiar traits which sometimes repel the admiration of strangers. His impenetrable reserve chills the warmth of enthusiasm, while the fitfulness of his morals produces constant inquietude. He was born under a clouded star, and the horoscope of his destiny is darkened by its influence."

"I love him better for his lights and shadows," said Edith, "he keeps one always thinking of him."

"When would this shadowy, flashing being appear, who kept one always thinking of him?"

As I had made an engagement with Mr. Regulus for one year, I remained with Dr. Harlowe's family during the winter months, while Mrs. Linwood and Edith returned to the city.

The only novelty of that wintry season was the first correspondence of my life. Could any thing prove more strikingly my isolated position in the world than this single fact? It was quite an era in my existence when I received Mrs. Linwood's and Edith's first letters; and when I answered them, it seemed to me my heart was flowing out in a gushing stream of expression, that had long sought vent. I knew they must have smiled at my exuberance of language, for the young enthusiast always luxuriates under epistolary influences. I had another correspondent, a very unexpected one, Richard Clyde, who, sanctioned by Mrs. Linwood, begged permission to write to me as a friend. How could I refuse, when Mrs. Linwood said it would be a source of intellectual improvement as well as pleasure? These letters occupied much of my leisure time, and were escape-pipes to an imagination of the high-pressure kind. My old love of rhyming, too, rose from the ashes of former humiliation, and I wove many a garland of poesy, though no one but myself inhaled their fragrance or admired their bloom.