It was my office to gather and arrange the flowers, to adorn the mansion, in consequence of Edith's lameness. This I did every morning while they were sparkling with dew and the fragrance of night still imprisoned in their folded petals. I delighted in the task; but now I could not help feeling unusual solicitude about my floral mission. I rose earlier than usual, and made fearful havoc in the garden and the green-house. My apron dripped with blossoms every step I took, and the carpet was literally strewed with flowers. The fairest and sweetest were selected for the room not yet occupied; and though one day after another passed away and he came not, the scent of the blossoms lingered in the apartment, and diffusing in it an atmosphere of home love, prepared it for the wanderer's return.

Every afternoon the carriage was sent to the depot, which was several miles from Grandison Place, to meet the traveller, and again and again it returned empty.

"Let us go ourselves," said Mrs. Linwood, beginning to be restless and anxious. And they went—she and Edith. Though it was Saturday and I was free, I did not accompany them, for I felt that a stranger to him should not "intermeddle with their joy."

Partaking of the restlessness of baffled expectation, I could not fix my mind on any occupation. I seated myself in the window recess and began to read, but my eyes were constantly wandering to the road, watching for the dust cloud that would roll before the advancing carriage. Dissatisfied with myself, I strolled out on the lawn, and seating myself on the rustic bench with my back to the gate, resolutely fastened my eyes to the pages I had been vainly fluttering.

Shall I tell how foolish I had been? Though I said to myself a hundred times, "he will not look at me, or notice me at all," I had taken unusual pains with my dress, which though still characterized with the simplicity of mourning, was relieved of its severity of outline. A fall of lace softened the bands of the neck and arms, which were embellished by a necklace and bracelets, which I valued more than any earthly possession. They were the gift of Mrs. Linwood, who, having won from the grave a portion of my mother's beautiful dark hair, had it wrought with exquisite skill, and set in massy gold, as memorials of love stronger than death. Thus doubly precious, I cherished them as holy amulets, made sacred by the living as well as the dead. Edith had woven in my hair some scarlet geraniums, my favorite flower. Though not very elaborately adorned, I had an impression I was looking my best, and I could not help thinking while I sat half veiled by foliage, half gilded by light, how romantic it would be, if a magnificent stranger should suddenly approach and as suddenly draw back, on seeing my dark, waving hair, instead of the golden locks of Edith. I became so absorbed in painting this little scene, which enlarged and glowed under the pencil of imagination, that I did not hear the opening of the gate or footsteps crossing the lawn. I thought a shadow passed over the sunshine. The figure of a stranger stood between me and the glowing west. I started up with an irrepressible exclamation. I knew, at the first glance, that it was Ernest Linwood, the living embodiment of that haunting image, so long drawn on my youthful fancy. I should have known him in the farthest isles of the ocean, from the painting in the library, the descriptions of Edith, and the sketches of my own imagination. His complexion had the pale, transparent darkness of eastern climes, and his eye a kind of shadowy splendor, impossible to describe, but which reminded me at once of his mother's similitude of the "clouded star." He was not above the common height of man, yet he gave me an impression of power and dignity, such as mere physical force could never inspire.

"Is this Grandison Place? my home?" he asked, lifting his hat with gentlemanly grace from his brows. His voice, too, had that cultivated, well-modulated tone, which always marks the gentleman.

"It is, sir," I answered, trying to speak without embarrassment. "Mr. Linwood, I presume."

I thought I had made a mistake in his name, it sounded so strange. I had never heard him called any thing but Ernest Linwood, and Mr. Linwood had such a stiff, formal sound, I was quite disgusted with it.

He again bowed, and looked impatiently towards the house.

"I saw a young female and thought it might be my sister, or I should not have intruded. Shall I find her,—shall I find my mother within?"

"They have gone to meet you,—they have been looking for you these many days; I know not how you have missed them."

"By coming another road. I jumped from the carriage and walked on, too impatient to wait its slow motions in ascending the hill. And they have gone to meet me. They really wish to see me back again!"

He spoke with deep feeling. The home thoughts and affections of years thrilled from his tone. This seemed one of those self-evident truths, that required no confirmation, and I made no answer. I wondered if I ought to ask him to walk in,—him, the master and the heir; whether I should ask him to take a seat on the oaken settee, where he could watch the carriage, ascending the winding hill.

"Do not let me disturb you," he said, looking at me with a questioning, penetrating glance, then added, "am I guilty of the rudeness of not recognizing a former acquaintance, who has passed from childhood to youth, during my years of absence?"

"No, sir," I answered, again wondering if politeness required me to introduce myself. "I am a stranger to you, though for two years your mother's home has been mine. My name is Lynn,—Gabriella Lynn."

I was vexed with myself for this awkward introduction. I did not know what I ought to say, and painful blushes dyed my cheeks. I would not have mentioned my name at all, only, if his mother and sister delayed their coming, he might feel awkward himself, from not knowing what to call me.

"My mother's protégée!" said he, his countenance lightening as he spoke. "Edith has mentioned you in her letters; but I expected to see a little girl, not the young lady, whom I find presiding genius here."

My self-respect was gratified that he did not look upon me as a child, and there was something so graceful and unostentatious in his air and manner, my self-possession came back without an effort to recall it.

"Will you walk in?" I asked, now convinced it was right.

"Thank you; I am so weary of the confinement of the carriage, I like the freedom of the open air. I like this rich, velvet grass. How beautiful, how magnificent!" he exclaimed, his eye taking in the wide sweep of landscape, here and there darkened with shade, and at intervals literally blazing with the crimson sunlight,—then sweeping on over the swelling mountains, so grand in their purple drapery and golden crowns. "How exquisitely beautiful! My mother could not have selected a lovelier spot,—and these old granite walls! how antique, how classic they are!"

He turned and examined them, with a pleased yet criticizing eye. He walked up and down the velvet lawn with a firm, yet restless step, stopping occasionally to measure with his glance the towering oaks and the gigantic elm. I began to be uneasy at the protracted absence of Mrs. Linwood, and kept my eyes fixed upon the road, whose dark, rich, slatish-colored surface, seen winding through green margins, resembled a stream of deep water, it was so smooth and uniform. I knew how full must be the heart of the traveller. I did not wish to interrupt his meditations even by a look.

We saw it coming,—the family carriage. I saw his pale cheek flush at my joyous exclamation. He moved rapidly towards the gate, while I ran into the house, up stairs and into my own room, that I might not intrude on moments too sacred for curiosity.

In a little while, I could hear the sound of their mingling voices coming up the long flight of marble steps, across the wide piazza, and then they came soft and muffled from the drawing-room below. At first, forgetful of self, I sympathized in their joy. I rejoiced for my benefactress, I rejoiced for the tender and affectionate Edith. But after sitting there a long time alone, and of course forgotten in the rapture of this family reunion, thoughts of self began to steal over and chill the ardor of my sympathetic emotions. I could not help feeling myself a mote in the dazzling sunshine of their happiness. I could not help experiencing, in all its bitterness, the isolation of my own destiny. I remembered the lamentation of the aged and solitary Indian, "that not a drop of his blood flowed in the veins of a living being." So it was with me. To my knowledge, I had not a living relative. Friends were kind,—some were more than kind; but oh! there are capacities for love friends can never fill. There are niches in the temple of the heart made for household gods, and if they are left vacant, no other images, though of the splendor of the Grecian statuary, can remove its desolation. Deep calleth unto deep, and when no answer cometh, the waves beat against the lonely strand and murmur themselves away.

I tried to check all selfish, repining feelings. I tried to keep from envying Edith, but I could not.

"O that I, too, had a brother!"

Was the cry of my craving heart, and it would not be stilled. I wiped away tear after tear, resolving each should be the last, but the fountain was full, and every heaving sigh made it overflow.

At length I heard the sound of Edith's crutches on the stairs, faint and muffled, but I knew it from all other sounds. She could mount and descend the stairs as lightly as a bird, in spite of her infirmity.

"Ah! truant!" she cried, as she opened the door, "you need not think to hide yourself here all night; we want you to come and help us to be happy, for I am so happy I know not what to do."

Her eyes sparkled most brilliantly through those drops of joy, as different to the tears I had been shedding as the morning dew is to December's wintry rain.

"But what are you doing, Gabriella?" she added, sitting down beside me and drawing my hand from my eyes. "In tears! I have been almost crying my eyes out; but you do not look happy. I thought you loved me so well, you would feel happy because I am so. Do you not?"

"You will hate me for my selfishness, dear Edith. I did think of you for a long time, and rejoice in your happiness. Then I began to think how lonely and unconnected I am, and I have been wicked enough to envy your treasures of affection for ever denied to me. I felt as if there was no one to love me in the wide world. But you have remembered me, Edith, even in the depth of your joy, ingrate that I am. Forgive me," said I, passing my arms round her beautiful white neck. "I will try to be good after this."

She kissed me, and told me to bathe my eyes and come right down, her mother said I must. Ernest had inquired what had become of me, and he would think it strange if I hid myself in this way.

"And you have seen him, Gabriella," she cried, and her tongue ran glibly while I plunged my face in a basin of cold water, ashamed of the traces of selfish sorrow. "You have seen my own dear brother Ernest. And only think of your getting the first glimpse of him! What did you think of him? What do you think of him now? Is he not handsome? Is there not something very striking, very attractive about him? Is he not different from any one you ever saw before?"

"There is something very striking in his appearance," I answered, smiling at the number and rapidity of her questions, "but I was so disconcerted, so foolish, I hardly dared to look him in the face. Has he changed since you saw him last?"

"Not much,—rather paler, I think; but perhaps it is only fatigue, or the languor following intense excitement. I feel myself as if all my strength were gone. I cannot describe my sensations when I saw him standing in the open gateway. I let mamma get out first. I thought it was her right to receive the first embrace of welcome; but when he turned to me, I threw myself on his neck, discarding my crutches, and clung to him, just as I used to do when a little, helpless, suffering child. And would you believe it, Gabriella? he actually shed tears. I did not expect so much sensibility. I feared the world had hardened him,—but it has not. Make haste and come down with me. I long to look at him again. Here, let me put back this scarlet geranium. You do not know how pretty it looks. Brother said—no—I will not tell you what he said. Yes, I will. He said he had no idea the charming young girl, with such a classic face and aristocratic bearing, was mother's little protégée."

"You asked him, Edith, I know you did."

"Supposing I did,—there was no harm in it. Come, I want you to see mamma; she looks so young and handsome. Joy is such a beautifier."

"I think it is," said I, as I gazed at her star-bright eyes and blush-rose cheeks. We entered the drawing-room together, where Ernest was seated on the sofa by his mother, with her hand clasped in his. Edith was right,—she did look younger and handsomer than I had ever seen her. She was usually pale and her face was calm. Now a breeze had stirred the waters, and the sunshine quivered on the rippling surface.

They rose as we entered, and came forward to meet us. My old trepidation returned. Would Mrs. Linwood introduce me,—and if she did, in what manner? Would there be any thing in her air or countenance to imply that I was a dependent on her bounty, rather than an adopted daughter of the household? Hush,—these proud whispers. Listen, how kindly she speaks.

"My dear Gabriella, this is my son, Ernest. You know it already, and he knows that you are the child of my adoption. Nevertheless, I must introduce you to each other."

Surprised and touched by the maternal kindness of her manner, (I ought not to have been surprised, for she was always kind,) I looked up, and I know that gratitude and sensibility passed from my heart to my eyes.

"I must claim the privilege of an adopted brother," said he, extending his hand, and I thought he smiled. Perhaps I was mistaken. His countenance had a way of suddenly lighting up, which I learned to compare to sunshine breaking through clouds. The hand in which he took mine was so white, so delicately moulded, it looked as if it might have belonged to a woman,—but he was a student, the heir of wealth, not the son of labor, the inheritor of the primeval curse. It is a trifle to mention,—the hand of an intellectual man,—but I had been so accustomed to the large, muscular fingers of Mr. Regulus, which seemed formed to wield the weapon of authority, that I could not but notice the contrast.

How pleasantly, how delightfully the evening passed away! I sat in my favorite recess, half shaded by the light drapery of the window; while Ernest took a seat at his mother's side, and Edith occupied a low ottoman at his feet. One arm was thrown across his lap, and her eyes were lifted to his face with an expression of the most idolizing affection. And all the while he was talking, his hand passed caressingly over her fair flaxen hair, or lingered amidst its glistering ringlets. It was a beautiful picture of sisterly and fraternal love,—the fairest I had ever seen. The fairest! it was the first, the only one. I had never realized before the exceeding beauty and holiness of this tender tie. As I looked upon Edith in her graceful, endearing attitude, so expressive of dependence and love, many a sentence descriptive of a brother's tenderness floated up to the surface of memory. I remembered part of a beautiful hymn,—

The Saviour of mankind called himself our brother,—stamping with the seal of divinity the dear relationship.

I had imagined I felt for Richard Clyde a sister's regard. No, no! Cold were my sentiments to those that beamed in Edith's upturned eyes.

Ernest described his travels, his life abroad, and dwelt on the peculiarities of German character, its high, imaginative traits, its mysticism and superstition, till his tongue warmed into enthusiasm,—and one of his hearers at least felt the inspiration of his eloquence. His mother had said he was reserved! I began to think I did not know the right meaning of the word. If he paused and seemed about to relapse into silence, Edith would draw a long breath, as if she had just been inhaling some exhilarating gas, and exclaim,—

"Oh! do go on, brother; it is so long since we have heard you talk; it is such a luxury to hear a person talk, who really says something."

"I never care about talking, unless I do have something to say," he answered, "but I think I have monopolized attention long enough. As a guest, I have a right to be entertained. Have you forgotten my love for music, Edith?"

"O no! I remember all your favorite airs, and have played them a thousand times at least. Do you wish to hear me now?"

"Certainly, I do; I have heard nothing so sweet as your voice, dear Edith, since I heard your last parting song."

He rose and moved the harp forward, and seated her at the instrument.

"Does not Miss Lynn play?" he asked, running his fingers carelessly over the glittering strings.

"Who is Miss Lynn?" repeated Edith, with a look of inquiry.

I laughed at her surprise and my own. It was the first time I had ever heard myself called so, and I looked round involuntarily to see who and where "Miss Lynn" was.

"Oh, Gabriella!" cried Edith, "I did not know whom you meant. I assure you, brother, there is no Miss Lynn here; it is Gabriella—our Gabriella—that is her name; you must not call her by any other."

"I shall be happy to avail myself of the privilege of uttering so charming a name. Does Miss Gabriella play?"

"No, no, that is not right yet, Ernest; you must drop the Miss. Do not answer him, Gabriella, till he knows his lesson better."

"Does Gabriella play?"

The name came gravely and melodiously from his tongue. The distance between us seemed wonderfully diminished by the mere breathing my Christian name.

"I do not," I answered, "but my love of music amounts to a passion. I am never so happy as when listening to Edith's voice and harp."

"She has never taken lessons," said Edith; "if she had, she would have made a splendid musician, I am confident she would. Dear mother, when we go to the city next winter, Gabriella must go with us, and she must have music-masters, and we will play and sing together. She has taught in that old academy long enough, I am sure she has."

"I think Gabriella has been taking some very important lessons herself, while teaching in the old academy, which chances to be quite new, at least her part of it," answered Mrs. Linwood; "but I have no intention of suffering her to remain there too long; she has borne the discipline admirably."

As I turned a grateful glance to Mrs. Linwood, my heart throbbing with delight at the prospect of emancipation, I met the eyes, the earnest, perusing eyes of her son. I drew back further into the shadow of the curtain, but the risen moon was shining upon my face, and silvering the lace drapery that floated round me. Edith whispered something to her brother, glancing towards me her smiling eyes, then sweeping her fingers lightly over the harp-strings, began one of the songs that Ernest loved.

Sweetly as she always sang, I had never heard her sing so sweetly before. It seemed indeed "Joy's ecstatic trial," so airily her fingers sparkled over the chords, so clearly and cheerily she warbled each animated note.

"I know you love sad songs best, Ernest, but I cannot sing them to-night," she said, pushing the instrument from her.

"There is a little German air, which I think I may recollect," said he, drawing the harp towards him.

"You, Ernest!" cried Edith and his mother in the same breath, "you play on the harp!"

He smiled at their astonishment.

"I took lessons while in Germany. A fellow-student taught me,—a glorious musician, and a native of the land of music,—Italy. There, the very atmosphere breathes of harmony."

The very first note he called forth, I felt a master's touch was on the chords, and leaning forward I held my breath to listen. The strains rose rich and murmuring like an ocean breeze, then died away soft as wave falls on wave in the moonlight night. He sang a simple, pathetic air, with such deep feeling, such tender, passionate emotion, that tears involuntarily moistened my eyes. All the slumbering music of my being responded. It was thus I could sing,—I could play,—I knew I could. And when he rose and resumed his seat by his mother, I could scarcely restrain myself from touching the same chords,—the chords still quivering from his magic hand.

"O brother!" exclaimed Edith, "what a charming surprise! I never heard any thing so thrillingly sweet! You do not know how happy you have made me. One more,—only one more,—Ernest."

"You forget your brother is from a long and weary journey, Edith, and we have many an evening before us, I trust, of domestic joy like this," said Mrs. Linwood, ringing for the night-lamps. "To-morrow is the hallowed rest-day of the Lord, and our hearts, so long restless from expectation, will feel the grateful calm of assured happiness. One who returns after a long journey to the bosom of home, in health and safety, has peculiar calls for gratitude and praise. He should bless the God of the traveller for having given his angels charge concerning him, and shielding him from unknown dangers. You feel all this, my son."

She looked at him with an anxious, questioning glance. She feared that the mysticism of Germany might have obscured the brightness of his Christian faith.

"I am grateful, my mother," he answered with deep seriousness, "grateful to God for the blessings of this hour. This has been one of the happiest evenings of my life. Surely it is worth years of absence to be welcomed to such a home, and by such pure, loving hearts,—hearts in which I can trust without hypocrisy and without guile."

"Believe all hearts true, my son, till you prove them false."

"Faith is a gift of heaven, not an act of human will," he replied. Then I remembered what Richard Clyde had said of him, and I thought of it again when alone in my chamber.

Edith peeped in through the door that divided our rooms.

"Have we not had a charming evening?" she asked.

"Yes, very," I answered.

"How fond you are of that little adverb very," she exclaimed with a laugh; "you make it sound so expressively. Well, is not Ernest very interesting?"

"Very."

"The most interesting person you ever saw?"

"You question me too closely, Edith. It will not do for me to speak as extravagantly as you do. I am not his sister, and the praise that falls so sweetly from your tongue, would sound bold and inappropriate from mine. I never knew before how strong a sister's love could be, Edith. Surely you can never feel a stronger passion."

"Never," she cried earnestly, and coming in, she sat down on the side of the bed and unbound the ribbon from her slender waist. "The misfortune that has set me apart from my youthful companions will prevent me from indulging in the dreams of love. I know my mother does not wish me to marry, and I have never thought of the possibility of leaving her. I would not dare to give this frail frame and too tenderly indulged heart into the keeping of one who could never, never bestow the love, the boundless love, which has surrounded me from infancy, like the firmament of heaven. I have been sought in marriage more than once, it might be for reputed wealth or for imagined charms; but when I compared my would-be lovers to Ernest, they faded into such utter insignificance, I could scarcely pardon their presumption. I do not think he has ever loved himself. I do not think he has ever seen one worthy of his love. I believe it would kill me, Gabriella, to know that he loved another better than myself."

For the first time I thought Edith selfish, and that she carried the romance of sisterly affection too far.

"You wish him, then, to be an old bachelor!" said I, smiling.

"Oh! don't apply to him such a horrid name. I did not think of that. Good night, darling. Mamma would scold me, if she knew I was up talking nonsense, instead of being in bed and asleep, like a good, obedient child." She kissed me and retired but it was long before I fell asleep.

The next morning, as I was coming up the steps with my white muslin apron fall of gathered flowers, I met Ernest Linwood. I was always an early riser. Dear, faithful Peggy had taught me this rural habit, and I have reason to bless her for it.

"I see where you get your roses," said he; I knew he did not mean the roses in my apron, and those to which he alluded grew brighter as he spoke.

"Am I indebted to you for the beautiful flowers in my own apartment?" he asked, as he turned back and entered the house with me, "or was it Edith's sisterly hand placed them there?"

"Are you pleased with them?" I said, with a childish delight. It seemed to me a great thing that he had noticed them at all. "As Edith is lame, she indulges me in carrying out her own sweet tastes. I assure you I esteem it an inestimable privilege."

"You love flowers, then?"

"O yes, passionately. I have almost an idolatrous love for them."

"And does it not make you sad to see them wither away, in spite of your passionate love?"

"Yes, but others bloom in their stead. 'T is but a change from blossom to blossom."

"You deceive yourself," he said, and there was something chilling in his tone, "it is not love you feel for them, for that is unchangeable, and admits but one object."

"I was not speaking of human love," I answered, busily arranging the flowers in their vases, in which I had already placed some icy cold water. He walked up and down the room, stopping occasionally to observe the process, and making some passing remark. I was astonished at finding myself so much at ease. I suppose the awe he inspired, like the fear of ghosts, subsided at the dawning of morning. There was something so exhilarating in the pure fresh air, in the dewy brightness of the hour, in the exercise of roaming through a wilderness of sweets, that my spirits were too elastic to be held down. He seemed to take an interest in watching me, and even altered the position of some white roses, which he said wanted a shading of green.

"And what are these beautiful clusters laid aside for?" he asked, taking up some which I had deposited on the table.

"I thought," I answered, after a slight hesitation, "that Edith would like them for your room."

"Then it is only to please Edith you place them there, not to please yourself?"

"I should not dare to do it to please myself," I hastily replied.

I thought I must have said something wrong, for he turned away with a peculiar smile. I colored with vexation, and was glad that Edith came in to divert his attention from me.

Nothing could be more gentle and affectionate than his greeting. He went up and kissed her, as if she were a little child, put his arm round her, and taking one of her crutches, made her lean on him for support. I understood something of the secret of her idolatry.

Where was the impenetrable reserve of which his mother had spoken?

I had not yet seen him in society. As he talked with Edith, his head slightly bent and his profile turned towards me, I could look at him unobserved, and I was struck even more than the evening before with the transparent paleness of his complexion. Dark, delicate, and smooth as alabaster, it gave an air of extreme refinement and sensibility to his face, without detracting from its manliness or intellectual power. It was a face to peruse, to study, to think of,—it was a baffling, haunting face. Hieroglyphics of thought were there, too mysterious for the common eye to interpret. It was a dark lantern, flashing light before it, itself all in shadow.

"It is a shame that you must leave us, Gabriella," said Edith, when after breakfast her pony was brought to the door. "Ernest," added she, turning to him, "I am so glad you are come. You must persuade mamma to lay her commands on Gabriella, and not permit her to make such a slave of herself. I feel guilty to be at home doing nothing and she toiling six long hours."

"It is Gabriella's own choice," cried Mrs. Linwood, a slight flush crossing her cheek. "Is it not, my child?"

"Your wisdom guided my choice, dear madam," I answered, "and I thank you for it."

"It would seem more natural to think of Miss—of Gabriella—as a pupil, than a teacher," observed Ernest, "if youth is the criterion by which we judge."

"I am seventeen—in my eighteenth year," said I eagerly, urged by an unaccountable desire that he should not think me too young.

"A very grave and reverend age!" said he sarcastically.

I thought Mrs. Linwood looked unusually serious, and fearing I had said something wrong, I hastened to depart. Dearly as I loved my benefactress, it was not "that perfect love which casteth out fear." As her benevolence was warm, her justice was inflexible. Hers was the kind hand, but the firm nerves that could sustain a friend, while the knife of the surgeon entered the quivering flesh. She shrunk not from inflicting pain, if it was for another's good; but if she wounded with one hand, she strewed balm with the other. Her influence was strong, controlling, almost irresistible. Like the sunshine that forced the wind-blown traveller to throw aside his cloak, the warmth of her kindness penetrated, but it also compelled.

I had a growing conviction that though she called me her adopted child, she did not wish me to presume upon her kindness so far as to look upon her son in the familiar light of a brother. There was no fear of my transgressing her wishes in this respect. I had already lost my dread,—my awe was melting away, but I could no more approach him with familiarity than if fourfold bars of gold surrounded him. I had another conviction, that she encouraged and wished me to return the attachment of Richard Clyde. Her urgent advice had induced me to accept the proffered correspondence with him,—a compliance which I afterwards bitterly regretted. He professed to write only as a friend, according to the bond, but amid the evergreen wreath of friendship, he concealed the glowing flowers of love. He was to return home in a few weeks. The commencement was approaching, which was to liberate him from scholastic fetters and crown him with the honors of manhood.

"Why," thought I, "should Richard make me dread his return, when I would gladly welcome him with joy? Why in wishing to be more than a friend, does he make me desire that he should be less? And now Ernest Linwood is come back, of whom he so strangely warned me, methinks I dread him more than ever."

Mrs. Linwood would attend the commencement. I had heard her tell Richard so. I had heard her repeat her intention since her son's return. He, of course, would feel interested in meeting his old class mates and friends. They would all feel interested in seeing and hearing how Richard Clyde sustained his proud distinction.

"Gabriella, especially," said Edith with a smile, which, sweet as it was, I thought extremely silly. I blushed with vexation, when Ernest, lifting his grave eyes from his book, asked who was Richard Clyde.

"You have seen him when he was quite a youth," answered his mother, "but have probably forgotten him. He is a young man of great promise, and has been awarded the first honors of his class. I feel a deep interest in him for his own sake, and moreover I am indebted to him for my introduction to our own Gabriella."

"Indeed!" repeated her son, and glancing towards me, his countenance lighted up with a sudden look of intelligence.

Why need Mrs. Linwood have said that? Why need she have associated him so intimately and significantly with me? And why could I not keep down the rising crimson, which might be attributed to another source than embarrassment? I opened my lips to deny any interest in Richard beyond that of friendly acquaintanceship; but Mrs. Linwood's mild, serene, yet resolute eyes, beat mine down and choked my eager utterance.

Her eyes said as clearly as words could say, "what matters it to my son, how little or how great an interest you feel in Richard Clyde or any other person?"

"You must accompany us, Gabriella," she said, with great kindness. "You have never witnessed this gathering of the literati of our State, and I know of no one who would enjoy it more. It will be quite an intellectual banquet."

"I thank you, but I cannot accept the invitation," I answered, suppressing a sigh, not of disappointment at the necessity of refusal, but of mortification at the inference that would probably be drawn from this conversation. "My vacation does not begin till afterwards."

"I think I can intercede with Mr. Regulus to release you," said Mrs. Linwood.

"Thank you,—I do not wish to go,—indeed I would much rather not, unless," I added, fearful I had spoken too energetically, "you have an urgent desire that I should."

"I wish very much to make you happy, and I think you would enjoy far more than you now anticipate. But there is time enough to decide. There will be a fortnight hence."

"But the dresses, mamma," cried Edith; "you know she will need new dresses if she goes, and they will require some time to prepare."

"As Gabriella will not come out, as it is called, till next winter," replied Mrs. Linwood, "it is not a matter of so much consequence as you imagine. Simplicity is much more charming than ornament in the dress of a very young girl."

"I agree with you, mother," observed Ernest, without lifting his eyes from his book, "especially where artificial ornaments are superfluous."

"I did not think you were listening to our remarks about dress," said Edith. "This is something quite new, brother."

"I am not listening, and yet I hear. So be very careful not to betray yourself in my presence. But perhaps I had better retire to the library, then you can discuss with more freedom the mysteries of the toilet and the fascinations of dress."

"No,—no. We have nothing to say that you may not hear;" but he rose and withdrew. Did he mean to imply that "artificial ornaments would be superfluous" to me? No,—it was only a general remark, and it would be vanity of vanities to apply it to myself.

"I want you to do one thing to gratify me, dear Gabriella," continued Edith. "Please lay aside your mourning and assume a more cheerful garb. You have worn it two long years. Only think how long! It will be so refreshing to see you in white or delicate colors."

I looked down at my mourning garments, and all the sorrow typified by their dark hue rolled back upon my heart. The awful scenes they commemorated,—the throes of agony which rent away life from the strong, the slow wasting of the feeble, the solemnity of death, the gloom of the grave, the anguish of bereavement, the abandonment of desolation that followed,—all came back. I lived them all over in one passing moment.

"I never, never wish to lay aside the badges of mourning," I exclaimed; and, covering my face with my handkerchief, tears gushed unrestrainedly. "I shall never cease to mourn for my mother."

"I did not mean to grieve you, Gabriella," cried Edith, putting her arms round me with sympathizing tenderness. "I thought time had softened your anguish, and that you could bear to speak of it now."

"And so she ought," said Mrs. Linwood, in a tone of mild rebuke. "Time is God's ministering angel, commissioned to bind up the wounds of sorrow and to heal the bleeding heart. The same natural law which bids flowers to spring up and adorn the grave-sod causes the blossoms of hope to bloom again in the bosom of bereavement. Memory should be immortal, but mourning should last but a season."

"I meant that I never should forget her," I cried, my tears flowing gently under her subduing accents. "Dear Mrs. Linwood, you have made it impossible for me always to mourn. Yet there are times, when her remembrance comes over me with such a power that I am borne down by it to the level of my first deep anguish. These are not frequent now. I some times fear there is danger of my being too happy after sustaining such a loss."

"Beware, my dear child, of cherishing the morbid sensibility which believes happiness inconsistent with the remembrance of departed friends. Life to your mother, since your recollection of her, was a sad boon. As she possessed the faith, and died the death of the Christian, you are authorized to believe that she now possesses an exceeding and eternal weight of glory. Can you take in the grandeur of the idea,—a weight of glory? Contrast it with the burden of care under which you saw her crushed, and you will then be willing to exchange mourning for the oil of joy, and the spirit of heaviness for the garment of praise."

"I am willing, dear Mrs. Linwood, my kindest friend, my second mother. I will in all things be guided by your counsel and moulded by your will. No, oh no, I would not for worlds rob my mother of the glorious inheritance purchased by a Saviour's blood. But tell me one thing,—must we all pass through tribulation before entering the kingdom of heaven? Must we all travel with bleeding feet the thorny path of suffering, before being admitted into the presence of God?"

"The Bible must answer you, my child. Do you remember, in the apocalyptic vision, when it was asked, 'What are these, which are arrayed in white robes? and whence come they?' It was answered, 'These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'"

"Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them."

I remembered them well.

"Go on," I said, "that is not all."

"They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat."

She paused, and her voice became tremulous from deep emotion.

"One verse more," I cried, "only one."

"For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe all tears from their eyes."

There was silence for a few moments. All words seemed vain and sacrilegious after this sublimest language of revelation.

At length I said,—

"Let me wear white, the livery of my mother, in heaven. 'T is a sin to mourn for her whose tears the hand of God has wiped away."

One week, and another week passed by, and every evening was as charming as the first of the return of Ernest Linwood. In that fortnight were compressed the social and intellectual joys of a lifetime. Music, reading, and conversation filled the measure of the evening hours. Such music, such reading, and such conversation as I never heard before. I had been accustomed to read aloud a great deal to my own dear mother, to Mrs. Linwood, and to my young pupils also, and I had reason to think I could read remarkably well; but I could not read like Ernest,—I never heard any one that could. He infused his own soul into the soul of the author, and brought out his deepest meanings. When he read poetry I sat like one entranced, bound by the double spell of genius and music. Mrs. Linwood could sew; Edith could sew or net, but I could do nothing but listen. I could feel the blood tingling to my finger ends, the veins throbbing in my temples, and the color coming and going in my cheek.

"You love poetry," said he once, pausing, and arresting my fascinated glance.

"Love it," I exclaimed, sighing in the fulness of delight, "it is the passion of my soul."

"You have three passions, music, flowers, and poetry," said he, with a smile that seemed to mock the extravagance of my language, "which is the regal one, the passion of passions?"

"I can hardly imagine the existence of one without the other," I answered, "their harmony is so entire; flowers are silent poetry, and poetry is written music."

"And music?" he asked.

"Is the breath of heaven, the language of angels. As the voice of Echo lingered in the woods, where she loved to wander, when her beauteous frame had vanished, so music remains to show the angel nature we have lost."

I blushed at having said so much, but the triune passion warmed my soul.

"Gabriella is a poetess herself," said Edith, "and may well speak of the magic of numbers. She has a portfolio, filled with papers written, like Ezekiel's scroll, within and without. I wish you would let me get it, Gabriella,—do."

"Impossible!" I answered, "I never wrote but one poem for exhibition, and the experience of that hour was sufficient for a lifetime."

"You were but a child then, Gabriella. Mr. Regulus would give it a very different reception now, I know he would," said Edith.

"If it is a child's story, will you not relate it?" asked Ernest; "you have excited my curiosity."

"Curiosity, brother, I thought you possessed none."

"Interest is a better word. If I understand aright, the buddings of Gabriella's genius met with an untimely blight."

I know not how it was, but I felt in an exceedingly ingenuous mood, and I related this episode in my childish history without reserve. I touched lightly on the championship of Richard Clyde, but I was obliged to introduce it. I had forgotten that he was associated with the narration, or I should have been silent.

"This youthful knight, and the hero of commencement day are one, then," observed Ernest. "He is a fortunate youth, with the myrtle and the laurel both entwining his brows; you must be proud of your champion."

"I am grateful to him," I replied, resolved to make a bold effort to remove the impression I knew he had received. Mrs. Linwood was not present, or I could not have spoken as I did. "He defended me because he thought I was oppressed; he befriended me because my friends were few. He has the generous spirit of chivalry which cannot see wrong without seeking to redress it, or suffering without wishing to relieve it. I am under unspeakable obligations to him, for he it was who spoke kindly of the obscure little girl to your mother and sister, and obtained for me the priceless blessing of their love."

"I dare say they feel very grateful to him, likewise," said he, in a tone of genuine feeling. "I acknowledge my share of the obligation. But is he so disinterested as to claim no recompense, or does he find that chivalry, like goodness, is its own exceeding great reward?"

"I thought I regarded him as a brother, till now Edith has convinced me I am mistaken."

"How so?" he asked, with so peculiar an expression, I forgot what I was going to say.

"How so?" he repeated, while Edith leaned towards him and laid her hand on his.

"By showing me how strong and fervent a sister's love can be."

His eyes flashed; they looked like fountains of light, full to overflowing. His arm involuntarily encircled Edith, and a smile, beautiful as a woman's, curled his lips.

"How he does love her!" thought I; "strong indeed must be the counter charm, that can rival hers."

I had never seen his spirits so light as they were the remainder of the evening. They rose even to gaiety; and again I wondered what had become of the reserve and moodiness whose dark shadow had preceded his approach.

"We are so happy now," said Edith, when we were alone, "I dread the interruption of company. Ernest does not care for it, and if it be of an uncongenial kind, he wraps himself in a mantle of reserve, that neither sun nor wind can unfold. After commencement, our house will be overflowing with city friends. They will return with us, and we shall not probably be alone again for the whole summer."

She sighed at the anticipation, and I echoed the sound. I was somebody now; but what a nobody I should dwindle into, in comparison with the daughters of wealth and fashion who would gather at Grandison Place!

"Ernest must like you very much, Gabriella, or he would not show the interest he does in all that concerns you. You do not know what a compliment he pays you, because you have not seen him in company with other young girls. I have sometimes felt quite distressed at his indifference when they have been my guests. He has such a contempt for affectation and display, that he cannot entirely conceal it. He is not apt to express his opinion of any one, but there are indirect ways of discovering it. I found him this morning in the library, standing before that beautiful picture of the Italian flower girl, which you admire so much. He was so absorbed, that he did not perceive my entrance, till I stole behind him and laid my hand on his shoulder. 'Do you not see a likeness?' he asked. 'To whom?' 'To Gabriella.' 'To Gabriella!' I repeated. 'Yes, it is like her, but I never observed it before.' 'A very striking resemblance,' he said, 'only she has more mind in her face.'"

"That enchanting picture like me!" I exclaimed, "impossible! There is, there can be no likeness. It is nothing but association. He knows I am the flower-girl of the house, and that is the reason he thought of me."

I tried to speak with indifference, but my voice trembled with delight.

The next morning, when I came in from the garden, all laden with flowers, an irresistible impulse drew me to the library. It was very early. The hush of repose still lingered over the household, and that particular apartment, in which the silent eloquence of books, paintings, and statues hung like a solemn spell, seemed in such deep quietude, I started at the light echo of my own footsteps.

I stole with guilty consciousness towards the picture, in whose lineaments the fastidious eye of Ernest Linwood had traced a similitude to mine. They were all engraven on my memory, but now they possessed a new fascination; and I stood before it, gazing into the soft, dark depths of the eyes, in which innocent mildness and bashful tenderness were mingled like the clare-obscure of an Italian moonlight; gazing on the dawning smile that seemed to play over the beautiful and glowing lips, and the bright, rich, dark hair, so carelessly, gracefully arranged you could almost see the balmy breezes of her native clime rustling amid the silken tresses; on the charming contour of the head and neck, slightly turned as if about to look back and give a parting glance at the garden she had reluctantly quitted.

As I thus stood, with my hands loaded with blossoms, a flower basket suspended from my arm, and a straw hat such as shepherdesses wear, on my head,—my garden costume,—involuntarily imitating the attitude of the lovely flower girl, the door, which had been left ajar, silently opened, and Ernest Linwood entered.

Had I been detected in the act of stealing or counterfeiting money, I could not have felt more intense shame. He knew what brought me there. I saw it in his penetrating eye, his half-suppressed smile; and, ready to sink with mortification, I covered my face with the roses I held in my hands.

"Do you admire the picture?" he asked, advancing to where I stood; "do you perceive the resemblance?"

I shook my head without answering; I was too much disconcerted to speak. What would he think of my despicable vanity, my more than childish foolishness?

"I am glad to see we have congenial tastes," he said, with a smile in his voice. "I came on purpose to gaze on that charming representation of youth and innocence, without dreaming that its original was by it."

"Original!" I repeated. "Surely you do mock me,—'t is but a fancy sketch,—and in nought but youth and flowers resembles me."

"We cannot see ourselves, and it is well we cannot. The image reflected from the mirror is but a cold, faint shadow of the living, breathing soul. But why this deep confusion,—that averted face and downcast eye? Have I offended by my intrusion? Do you wish me to withdraw, and yield to you the privilege of solitary admiration?"

"It is I who am the intruder," I answered, looking wistfully towards the door, through which I was tempted to rush at once. "I thought you had not risen,—I thought,—I came"—

"And why did you come at this hour, Gabriella? and what has caused such excessive embarrassment? Will you not be ingenuous enough to tell me?"

"I will," answered I, calmed by the gentle composure of his manner, "if you will assert that you do not know already."

"I do not know, but I can imagine. Edith has betrayed my admiration of that picture. You came to justify my taste, and to establish beyond a doubt the truth of the likeness."

"No, indeed! I did not; I cannot explain the impulse which led me hither. I only wish I had resisted it as I ought."

I suppose I must have looked quite miserable, from the efforts he made to restore my self-complacency. He took the basket from my arm and placed it on the table, moved a chair forward for me, and another for himself, as if preparing for a morning tête à tête.

"What would Mrs. Linwood say, if she saw me here at this early hour alone with her son?" thought I, obeying his motion, and tossing my hat on the light stairs that were winding up behind me. I did not fell the possibility of declining the interview, for there was a power about him which overmastered without their knowing it the will of others.

"If you knew how much more pleasing is the innocent shame and artless sensibility you manifest, than the ease and assurance of the practised worldling, you would not blush for the impulse which drew you hither. To the sated taste and weary eye, simplicity and truth are refreshing as the spring-time of nature after its dreary winter. The cheek that blushes, the eye that moistens, and the heart that palpitates, are sureties of indwelling purity and candor. What a pity that they are as evanescent as the bloom of these flowers and the fragrance they exhale! You have never been in what is called the great world?"

"Never. I passed one winter in Boston; but I was in deep mourning and did not go into society. Besides, your mother thought me too young. It was more than a year ago."

"You will be considered old enough this winter. Do you not look forward with eager anticipations and bright hopes to the realization of youth's golden dreams?"

"I as often look forward with dread as hope. I am told they who see much of the world, lose their faith in human virtue, their belief in sincerity, their implicit trust in what seems good and fair. All the pleasures of the world would not be an equivalent for the loss of these."

"And do you possess all these now?"

"I think I do. I am sure I ought. I have never yet been deceived. I should doubt that the setting sun would rise again, as soon as the truth of those who have professed to love me. Your mother, Edith—and"—

"Richard Clyde," he added, with a smile, and that truth-searching glance which often brought unbidden words to my lips.

"Yes; I have perfect reliance in his friendship."

"And in his love," he added; "why not finish the sentence?"

"Because I have no right to betray his confidence,—even supposing your assertion to be true. I have spoken of the only feeling, whose existence I am willing to admit, and even that was drawn from me. What if I turn inquisitor?" said I, suddenly emboldened to look in his face. "Have you, who have seen so much more of life, experienced the chilling influences which you deprecate for me?"

"I am naturally suspicious and distrustful," he answered. "Have you never been told so?"

"If I have, it required your own assertion to make me believe it."

"Do you not see the shadow on my brow? It has been there since my cradle hours. It was born with me, and is a part of myself,—just as much as the shadow I cast upon the sunshine. I can no more remove it than I could the thunder-cloud from Jehovah's arch."

I trembled at the strength of his language, and it seemed as if the shadow were stealing over my own soul. His employment was prophetic. He was pulling the rose-leaves from my basket, and scattering them unconsciously on the floor.

"See what I have done," said he, looking down on the wreck.

"So the roses of confidence are scattered and destroyed by the cruel hand of mistrust," cried I, stooping to gather the fallen petals.

"Let them be," said he, sadly, "you cannot restore them."

"I know it; but I can remove the ruins."

I was quite distressed at the turn the conversation had taken. I could not bear to think that one to whom the Creator had been so bountiful of his gifts, should appreciate so little the blessings given. He, to talk of shadows, in the blazing noonday of fortune; to pant with thirst, when wave swelling after wave of pure crystal water wooed with refreshing coolness his meeting lips.

Oh, starver in the midst of God's plenty! think of the wretched sons of famine, and be wise.

"You must have a strange power over me," said he, rising and walking to one of the alcoves, in which the books were arranged. "Seldom indeed do I allude to my own individuality. Forget it. I have been very happy lately. My soul, like a high mountain, lifts itself into the sunshine, leaving the vapors and clouds rolling below. I have been breathing an atmosphere pure and fresh as the world's first morning, redolent with the fragrance of Eden's virgin blossoms."

He paused a moment, then approaching his own portrait, glanced from it to the flower girl, and back again from the flower girl to his own image.

"Clouds and sunshine," he exclaimed, "flowers and thorns; such is the union nature loves. And is it not well? Clouds temper the dazzle of the sunbeams,—thorns protect the tender flowers. Have you read many of these books?" he asked, with a sudden transition.

"A great many," I answered, unspeakably relieved to hear him resume his natural tone and manner; "too many for my mind's good."

"How so? These are all select works,—golden sheaves of knowledge, gathered from the chaff and bound by the reaping hand."

"I mean that I cannot read with moderation. My rapid eye takes in more than my judgment can criticize or my memory retain. That is one reason why I like to hear another read. Sound does not travel with the rapidity of light, and then the echo lingers in the ear."

"Yes. It is charming when the eye of one and the ear of another dwell in sympathy on the same inspiring sentiments; when the reader, glowing with enthusiasm, turns from the page before him to a living page, printed by the hand of God, in fair, divine characters. It is like looking from the shining heavens to a clear, crystallized stream, and seeing its glories reflected there, and our own image likewise, tremulously bright."

"Oh!" thought I, "how many times have I thus listened; but has he ever thus read?"

I wish I could recollect all the conversation of the morning,—it was so rich and varied. I sat, unconscious of the fading flowers and the passing moments; unconscious of the faint vibration of that deep, under chord, which breathes in low, passionate strains, life's tender and pathetic mirror.

"I am glad you like this room," he continued. "Here you can sit, queen of the past, surrounded by beings more glorious than those that walk the earth or dwell in air or sea. You travel not, yet the wonders of earth's various climes are around and about you. Buried cities are exhumed at your bidding, and their dim palaces glitter once more with burning gold. And here, above all the Eleusinian mysteries of the human heart are laid bare, without the necessity of revealing your own. But I am detaining you too long. Your languid blossoms reproach me. When you come here again, do not forget that we have here thought and felt in unison."

Just as he was leaving the library, Mrs. Linwood entered. She started on seeing him, and her eye rested on me with an anxious, troubled look.

"You are become an early riser, my son," she said.

"You encourage so excellent a habit, do you not, my mother?"

"Certainly; but it seems to me a walk in the fresh morning air would be more health-giving than a seat within walls, damp with the mould of antiquity."

"We have brought the dewy morning within doors," said he; while I, gathering flowers, basket, and hat, waited for Mrs. Linwood to move, that I might leave the room. She stood between me and the threshold, and for the first time I noticed in her face a resemblance to her son. It might be because a slight cloud rested on her brow.

"You will not have time to arrange your flowers this morning," she gravely observed to me. "It is almost the breakfast hour, and you are still in your garden costume."

My eyes bowed beneath her mildly rebuking glance, and the fear of her displeasure chilled the warm rapture which had left its glow upon my cheek.

"Let me assist you," he cried, in an animated tone. "It was I who encroached on your time, and must bear the blame, if blame indeed there be. There is a homely proverb, that 'many hands make light work.' Come, let us prove its truth."

I thought Mrs. Linwood sighed, as he followed me into the drawing-room, and with quick, graceful fingers, made ample amends for the negligence be had caused. His light, careless manner restored me to ease, and at breakfast Mrs. Linwood's countenance wore its usual expression of calm benevolence.

Had I done wrong? I had sought no clandestine interview. Why should I? It was foolish to wish to look at the beautiful flower girl; but it was a natural, innocent wish, born of something purer and better than vanity and self-love.