I lingered after school was dismissed, to ask permission of Mr. Regulus to attend the commencement. It was Mrs. Linwood's wish, and of course a law to me.

"Will you release me one week before the session closes?" I asked, "Mrs. Linwood does not wish to leave me behind, but I do not care much to go."

"Of course I will release you, my child, but it will seem as if the flower season were past when you are gone. I wonder now, how I ever taught without your assistance. I wonder what I shall do when you leave me?"

"Mrs. Linwood wished me to say to you," said I, quite touched by his kind, affectionate manner, "that she does not wish me to renew our engagement. She will take me to town next winter, satisfied for the present with the discipline I have experienced under your guardian care."

"So soon!" he exclaimed, "I was not prepared for this."

"So soon, Mr. Regulus? I have been with you one long year."

"It may have seemed long to you, but it has been short as a dream to me. A very pleasant time has it been, too pleasant to last."

He took up his dark, formidable ferula, and leaned his forehead thoughtfully upon it.

"And it has been pleasant to me, Mr. Regulus. I dreaded it very much at first, but every step I have taken in the path of instruction has been made smooth and green beneath my feet. No dull, lagging hour has dragged me backward in my daily duties. The dear children have been good and affectionate, and you, my dear master, have crowned me with loving kindness from day to day. How shall I convince you of my gratitude, and what return can I make for your even parental care?"

I spoke earnestly, for my heart was in my words. His unvarying gentleness and tenderness to me, (since that one fiery shower that converted for a time the Castalian fountain into a Dead Sea,) had won my sincere and deep regard. He had seemed lately rather more reserved than usual, and I valued still more his undisguised expressions of interest and affection.

"You owe me nothing," said he, and I could not help noticing an unwonted trepidation in his manner, and on one sallow cheek a deep flush was spreading. "Long years of kindness, tenfold to mine, could not atone for the harshness and injustice of which I was once guilty. You will go into the world and blush like Waller's rose, to be so admired. You will be surrounded by new friends, new lovers, and look back to these walls as to a prison-house, and to me, as the grim jailer of your youth."

"No indeed, Mr. Regulus; you wrong yourself and me. Memory will hang many a sweet garland on these classic walls, and will turn gratefully to you, as the benefactor of my childhood, the mentor of my growing years."

My voice choked. A strange dread took possession of me, he looked so agitated, so little like himself. His hand trembled so that it dropped the ruler, that powerful hand, in whose strong grasp I had seen the pale delinquent writhe in terror. I hardly know what I dreaded, but the air seemed thick and oppressive, and I longed to escape into the open sunshine.

"Gabriella, my child," said he, "wait one moment. I did not think it would require so much courage to confess so much weakness. I have been indulging in dreams so wild, yet so sweet, that I fear to breathe them, knowing that I must wake to the cold realities of life. I know not how it is, but you have twined yourself about my heart so gradually, so gently, but so strongly, that I cannot separate you from it. A young and fragrant vine, you have covered it with beauty and freshness. You have diffused within it an atmosphere of spring. You thought the cold mathematician, the stern philosopher could not feel, but I tell thee, child, we are the very ones that can and do feel. There is as much difference between our love and the boyish passion which passes for love, as there is between the flash of the glowworm and the welding heat that fuses bars of steel. Oh! Gabriella, do not laugh at this confession, or deem it lightly made. I hope nothing,—I ask nothing; and yet if you could,—if you would trust your orphan youth to my keeping, I would guard it as the most sacred trust God ever gave to man."

He paused from intense emotion, and wiped the drops of perspiration from his forehead, while I stood ready to sink with shame and sorrow. No glow of triumph, no elation of grateful vanity warmed my heart, or exalted my pride. I felt humbled, depressed. Where I had been accustomed to look up with respect, I could not bear to look down in pity, it was so strange, so unexpected. I was stunned, bewildered. The mountain had lost its crown,—it had fallen in an avalanche at my feet.

"Oh, Mr. Regulus!" said I, when I at last liberated my imprisoned voice, "you honor me too much. I never dreamed of such a,—such a distinction. I am not worthy of it,—indeed I am not. It makes me very unhappy to think of your cherishing such feelings for me, who have looked up to you so long with so much veneration and respect. I will always esteem and revere you, dear Mr. Regulus,—always think of you with gratitude and affection; but do not, I entreat you, ever allude again to any other sentiment. You do not know how very miserable it makes me."

I tried to express myself in the gentlest manner possible, but the poor man had lost all command of his feelings. He had confined them in his breast so long, that the moment he released them, they swelled and rose like the genius liberated from the chest of the fisherman, and refused to return to the prison-house they had quitted. His brows contracted, his lips quivered, and turning aside with a spasmodic gesture, he covered his face with his handkerchief.

I could not bear this,—it quite broke my heart. I felt as remorseful as if every tear he was hiding was a drop of blood. Walking hastily to him, and laying my hand on his arm, I exclaimed,—

"Don't, my dear master!" and burst into tears myself.

How foolish we must have appeared to a bystander, who knew the cause of our tears,—one weeping that he loved too well, the other that she could not love in return. How ridiculous to an uninterested person would that tall, awkward, grave man seem, in love with a young girl so much his junior, so childlike and so unconscious of the influence she had acquired.

"How foolish this is!" cried he, as if participating in these sentiments. Then removing the handkerchief from his face, he ran his fingers vigorously through his hair, till it stood up frantically round his brow, drew the sleeves of his coat strenuously over his wrists, and straightening himself to his tall height, seemed resolved to be a man once more. I smiled afterwards, when I recollected his figure; but I did not then,—thank heaven, I did not smile then,—I would not have done it for "the crown the Bourbons lost."

Anxious to close a scene so painful, I approached the door though with a lingering, hesitating step. I wanted to say something, but knew not what to utter.

"You will let me be your friend still," said he, taking my hand in both his. "You will not think worse of me, for a weakness which has so much to excuse it. And, Gabriella, my dear child, should the time ever come, when you need a friend and counsellor, should the sky so bright now be darkened with clouds, remember there is one who would willingly die to save you from sorrow or evil. Will you remember this?"

"Oh, Mr. Regulus, how could I forget it?"

"There are those younger and more attractive," he continued, "who may profess more, and yet feel less. I would not, however, be unjust. God save me from the meanness of envy, the baseness of jealousy. I fear I did not do justice to young Clyde, when I warned you of his attentions. I believe he is a highly honorable young man. Ernest Linwood,"—he paused, and his shaded eyes sought mine, with a glance of penetrating power,—"is, I am told, a man of rare and fascinating qualities. He is rich beyond his need, and will occupy a splendid position in the social world. His mother will probably have very exalted views with regard to the connections he may form. Forgive me if I am trespassing on forbidden ground. I did not mean,—I have no right,"—

He stopped, for my confusion was contagious. My face crimsoned, even my fingers were suffused with the rosy hue of shame. Nor was it shame alone. Indignation mingled with it its deeper dye.

"If you suppose, Mr. Regulus," said I, in a wounded and excited tone, "that I have any aspirations, that would conflict with Mrs. Linwood's ambitious views, you wrong me very much. Oh! if I thought that he, that she, that you, or anybody in the world could believe such a thing"—

I could not utter another word. I remembered Mrs. Linwood's countenance when she entered the library. I remembered many things, which might corroborate my fears.

"You are as guileless as the unweaned lamb, Gabriella, and long, long may you remain so," he answered, with a gentleness that disarmed my anger. "Mine was an unprompted suggestion, about as wise, I perceive, as my remarks usually are. I am a sad blunderer. May heaven pardon the pain I have caused, for the sake of my pure intentions. I do not believe it possible for a designing thought to enter your mind, or a feeling to find admittance into your heart, that angels might not cherish. But you are so young and inexperienced, so unsuspecting and confiding;—but no matter, God bless you, and keep you forever under his most holy guardianship!"

Wringing my hand so hard that it ached long afterwards, he turned away, and descended the steps more rapidly than he had ever done before. In his excitement he forgot his hat, and was pursuing his way bareheaded, through the sunny atmosphere.

"He must not go through town in that way, for the boys to laugh at him," thought I, catching up his hat and running to the door.

"Mr. Regulus!" I cried, waving it above my head, to attract his attention.

He started, turned, saw the hat, run his fingers through his long hair, smiled, and came back. I met him more than half way.

"I did not know that I had left my head, as well as my heart behind," said he, with a sickly effort to be facetious; "thank you, God bless you once again."

With another iron pressure of my aching hand, he dashed his hat on his lion-like head and left me.

I walked home as one in a dream, wondering if this interview were real or ideal; wondering if the juice of the milk-white flower, "made purple by love's wand," had been squeezed by fairy fingers into the eyes of my preceptor, in his slumbering hours, to cause this strange passion; wondering why the spirit of love, like the summer wind, stealing softly through the whispering boughs, breathes where it listeth, and we cannot tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth; and wondering most of all if—but I cannot describe the thoughts that drifted through my mind, vague and changing as the clouds that went hurrying after each other over the deep blue ether.

Commencement day!—a day of feverish anxiety and excitement to the young student, who is to step forth before the public eye, a candidate for the laurels of fame;—a day of weariness and stiffness to the dignified professors, obliged to sit hour after hour, listening to the florid eloquence whose luxuriance they have in vain attempted to prune, or trying to listen while the spirit yawns and stretches itself to its drowsy length;—a day of intense interest to the young maiden, who sees among the youthful band of aspirants one who is the "bright particular star" round which her pure and trembling hopes revolve.

It was a day of excitement to me, for every thing was novel, and therefore interesting. It was the first time I had ever been in a dense crowd, and I felt the electric fluid, always collected where the great heart of humanity is throbbing, thrilling in my veins, and ready to flash at the master-stroke of eloquence. I was dazzled by the brilliant display of beauty and fashion that lighted up the classic walls as with living sunbeams. Such clusters of mimic blossoms and flowing ringlets wreathed together round fair, blooming faces; such a cloud of soft, airy drapery floating over lithe figures, swaying forward like light boughs agitated by the wind; such a fluttering of snowy fans, making the cool, pleasant sound of rain drops pattering among April leaves; such bright eager eyes, turned at every sounding step towards the open door,—I had never looked upon the like before. I sat in a dream of delight, without thinking that it might be thought vulgar to appear delighted, and still more to express undisguised admiration.

I dared not look to the platform, where the faculty and students were arranged in imposing ranks, for there was one pair of familiar, sparkling eyes, that were sure to beat mine back with their steadfast gaze. I did not like this persevering scrutiny, for I was sure it would attract the attention of others, and then draw it on myself. He had grown taller, Richard Clyde had, since I had seen him, his countenance was more manly, his manner more polished. He had been with us the evening before, but the room was crowded with company, and I was careful not to give him a moment's opportunity of speaking to me alone. But I read too well in his sincere and earnest eyes, that time had wrought no change in the fervor of his feelings, or the constancy of his attachment.

Mrs. Linwood, though surrounded by friends of the most distinguished character, honored him by signal marks of attention. I was proud of him as a friend. Why did he wish to be more?

"What a fine young man Clyde is!" I heard some one remark who sat behind us. "It is said he is the most promising student in the university."

"Yes," was the reply. "I have heard that several wealthy gentlemen in Boston are going to send him to Europe to complete his education, as his own income will not allow him to incur the expense."

"That is a great compliment," observed the first voice, "and I have no doubt he deserves it. They say, too, that he is betrothed to a young girl in the country, very pretty, but in most indigent circumstances,—an early attachment,—children's romance."

Was it possible that village gossip had reached these venerable walls? But hark to the other voice.

"I have heard so, but they say she has been adopted by a rich lady, whose name I have forgotten. Her own mother was of very mysterious and disreputable character, I am told, whom no one visited or respected. Quite an outcast."

I started as if an arrow had passed through my ears, or rather entered them, for it seemed quivering there. Never before had I heard one sullying word breathed on the spotless snow of my mother's character. Is it strange that the cold, venomous tongue of slander, hissing at my very back, should make me shudder and recoil as if a serpent were there?

A hand touched my shoulder, lightly, gently, but I knew its touch, though never felt but once before. I looked up involuntarily, and met the eyes of Ernest Linwood, who was standing close to the seat I occupied. I did not know he was there. He had wedged the crowd silently, gradually, till he reached the spot he had quitted soon after our entrance, to greet his former class mates. I knew by his countenance that he had heard all, and a sick, deadly feeling came over me. He, to hear my mother's name made a byword and reproach, myself alluded to as the indigent daughter of an outcast,—he, who seemed already lifted as high above me on the eagle wings of fortune, as the eyry of the king-bird is above the nest of the swallow,—it was more than I could bear.

I said I knew by his countenance that he had heard all. I never saw such an expression as his face wore,—such burning indignation, such withering scorn. I trembled to think of the central fires from which such flames darted. As he caught my glance, an instantaneous change came over it. Compassion softened every lineament. Still his eye of power held me down. It said, "be quiet, be calm,—I am near, be not afraid."

"I wish I could get you a glass of water," said he, in a low voice, for I suppose I looked deadly pale; "but it would be impossible I fear in this crowd,—the aisles are impenetrable."

"Thank you," I answered, "there is no need,—but if I could only leave."

I looked despairingly at the masses of living beings on every side, crowding the pews, filling the aisles, standing on the window-sills, on the tops of the pews, leaning from the gallery,—and felt that I was a prisoner. The sultry air of August, confined in the chapel walls, and deprived of its vital principle by so many heaving lungs, weighed oppressively on mine. I could feel behind me the breathing of the lips of slander, and it literally seemed to scorch me. Ernest took my fan from my hand and fanned me without intermission, or I think I must have fainted.

As I sat with downcast eyes, whose drooping lashes were heavy with unshed tears, I saw a glass of water held before me by an unsteady hand. I looked up and saw Richard Clyde, his student's robe of flowing black silk gathered up by his left arm, who had literally forced his way through a triple row of men. We were very near the platform, there being but one row of pews between.

I drank the water eagerly, gratefully. Even before those blistering words were uttered, I had felt as if a glass of cold water would be worth all the gems of the East; now it was life itself.

"Are you ill, Gabriella?" whispered Mrs. Linwood, who with Edith sat directly in front, and whose eyes had watched anxiously the motions of Richard. "Ah! I see this heat is killing you."

"That is she, I do believe," hissed the serpent tongue behind me.

"Hush, she may hear you."

All was again still around me, the stillness of the multitudinous sea, for every wave of life heaved restlessly, producing a kind of murmur, like that of rustling leaves in an autumnal forest. Then a sound loud as the thunders of the roaring ocean came rushing on the air. It was the burst of acclamation which greeted Richard Clyde, first in honor though last in time. I bent my ear to listen, but the words blent confusedly together, forming one wave of utterance, that rolled on without leaving one idea behind. I knew he was eloquent, from the enthusiastic applause which occasionally interrupted him, but I had lost the power of perception; and had Demosthenes risen from his grave, it would scarcely have excited in me any emotion.

Was this my introduction to that world,—that great world, of which I had heard and thought and dreamed so much? How soon had my garlands faded,—my fine gold become dim! Could they not have spared me one day, me, who had never injured them? And yet they might aim their barbed darts at me. I would not care for that,—oh, no, it was not that. It was the blow that attacked an angel mother's fame. O my mother! could they not spare thee even in thy grave, where the wicked are said to cease from troubling and the weary are at rest? Could they not let thee sleep in peace, thou tempest-tost and weary hearted, even in the dark and narrow house, sacred from the footstep of the living?

Another thundering burst of applause called my spirit from the grass-grown sod, made damp and green by the willow's shade, to the crowded church and the bustle and confusion of life. Then followed the presentation of the parchment rolls and the ceremonies usual at the winding up of this time-honored day. It all seemed like unmeaning mummery to me. The majestic president, with his little flat black cap, set like a tile on the top of his head, was a man of pasteboard and springs, and even the beautiful figures that lighted up the walls had lost their coloring and life. There was, indeed, a wondrous change, independent of that within my own soul. The excessive heat had wilted these flowers of loveliness and faded their bright hues. Their uncurled ringlets hung dangling down their cheeks, whose roses were heightened to an unbecoming crimson, or withered to a sickly pallor; their gossamer drapery, deprived of its delicate stiffening, flapped like the loose sails of a vessel wet by the spray. Here and there was a blooming maiden, still as fair and cool as if sprinkled with dew, round whom the atmosphere seemed refreshed as by the sparkling of a jet d'eau. These, like myself, were novices, who had brought with them the dewy innocence of life's morning hours; but they had not, like me, heard the hissing of the adder among their roses.

"Be calm,—be courageous," said Ernest, in a scarcely audible tone, as bending down he gave the fan into my hand; "the arrow rebounds from an impenetrable surface."

As we turned to leave the church, I felt my hand drawn round the arm of Richard Clyde. How he had cleft the living mass so quickly I could not tell; but he had made his way where an arrow could hardly penetrate. I looked round for Edith,—but Ernest watched over her, like an earthly providence. My backward glance to her prevented my seeing the faces of those who were seated behind me. But what mattered it? They were strangers, and heaven grant that they would ever remain so.

"Are you entirely recovered?" asked Richard, in an anxious tone. "I never saw any one's countenance change so instantaneously as yours. You were as white as your cambric handkerchief. You are not accustomed to such stifling crowds, where we seem plunged in an exhausted receiver."

"I never wish to be in such another," I answered, with emphasis. "I never care to leave home again."

"I am sorry your first impressions should have been so disagreeable,—but I hope you have been interested in some small degree. You do not know what inspiration there was in your presence. At first, I thought I would rather be shot from the cannon's mouth than speak in your hearing; but after the first shock, you were like a fountain of living waters playing on my soul."

Poor Richard! how could I tell him that I had not heard understandingly one sentence that he uttered? or how could I explain the cause of my mental distraction? He had cast his pearls to the wind; his diamonds to the sand.

Mrs. Linwood was a guest of the president, who was an intimate and valued friend. I would have given worlds for a little solitary nook, where I could hide myself from every eye; for a seat beneath the wild oaks that girdled the cottage of my childhood; but the house was thronged with the literati of the State, and wherever I turned I met the gaze of strangers. If I could have seen Mrs. Linwood alone, or Edith alone, and told them how wantonly, how cruelly my feelings had been wounded, it would have relieved the fulness, the oppression of my heart. But that was impossible. Mrs. Linwood's commanding social position, her uncommon and varied powers of conversation, the excellence and dignity of her character, made her the cynosure of the literary circle. Edith, too, from her exquisite loveliness, the sweetness of her disposition, and her personal misfortune, which endeared her to her friends by the tenderness and sympathy it excited, was a universal favorite; and all these attractive qualities in both were gilded and enhanced by the wealth which enabled them to impart, even more than they received. They were at home here,—they were in the midst of friends, whose society was congenial to their tastes, and I resolved, whatever I might suffer, not to mar their enjoyment by my selfish griefs. Ernest had heard all,—perhaps he believed all. He did not know my mother. He had never seen that face of heavenly purity and holy sorrow. Why should he not believe?

One thing I could do. I could excuse myself from dinner and thus secure an hour's quietude. I gave no false plea, when I urged a violent headache as the reason for my seclusion. My temples ached and throbbed as if trying to burst from a metallic band, and the sun rays, though sifted through curtains of folding lace, fell like needle points on my shrinking eyes.

"Poor Gabriella!" said Edith, laying her cool soft hand on my hot brow, "I did not think you were such a tender, green-house plant. I cannot bear to leave you here, when you could enjoy such an intellectual banquet below. Let me stay with you. I fear you are really very ill. How unfortunate!"

"No, no, dear Edith; you must not think of such a thing. Just close those blinds, and give me that fan, and I shall be very comfortable here. If possible let no one come in. If I could sleep, this paroxysm will pass over."

"There, sleep if you can, dear Gabriella, and be bright for the evening party. You knew the dresses mamma gave us for the occasion, both alike. I could not think of wearing mine, unless you were with me,—and you look so charmingly in white!"

Edith had such a sweet, coaxing way with her, she magnetized pain and subdued self-distrust. The mere touch of her gentle hand had allayed the fever of my brain, and one glance of her loving blue eye tempered the anguish of my spirit. She lingered, unwilling to leave me,—drew the blinds together, making a soft twilight amid the glare of day, saturated my handkerchief with cologne and laid it on my temples, and placing a beautiful bouquet of flowers, an offering to herself, on my pillow, kissed me, and left me.

I watched the sound of her retreating footsteps, or rather of her crutches, till they were no longer heard; then burying my face in my pillow, the sultry anguish of my heart was drenched in tears. Oh! what a relieving shower! It was the thunder-shower of the tropics, not the slow, drizzling rain of colder climes. I wept till the pillow was as wet as the turf on which the heavens have been weeping. I clasped it to my bosom as a shield against invisible foes, but there was no sympathy in its downy softness. I sighed for a pillow beneath whose gentle heavings the heart of human kindness beats, I yearned to lay my head on a mother's breast. Yea, cold and breathless as it was now, beneath the clods of the valley, it would still be a sacred resting-place to me. The long pressure of the grave-sods could not crush out the impression of that love, stronger than death, deeper than the grave.

Had the time arrived when I might claim the manuscript, left as a hallowed legacy to the orphan, who had no other inheritance? Had I awakened to the knowledge of woman's destiny to love and suffer? Dare I ask myself this question? Through the morning twilight of my heart, was not a star trembling, whose silver rays would never be quenched, save in the nightshades of death? Was it not time to listen to the warning voice, whose accents, echoing from the tomb, must have the power and grandeur of prophecy? Yes! I would ask Mrs. Linwood for my mother's history, as soon as we returned to Grandison Place; and if I found the shadow of disgrace rested on the memory of her I so loved and worshipped, I would fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, to avoid that searching eye, which, next to the glance of Omnipotence, I would shun in guilt and shame.

"They say!" Who are they? who are the cowled monks, the hooded friars who glide with shrouded faces in the procession of life, muttering in an unknown tongue words of mysterious import? Who are they? the midnight assassins of reputation, who lurk in the by-lanes of society, with dagger tongues sharpened by invention and envenomed by malice, to draw the blood of innocence, and, hyena-like, banquet on the dead? Who are they? They are a multitude no man can number, black-stoled familiars of the inquisition of slander, searching for victims in every city, town, and village, wherever the heart of humanity throbs, or the ashes of mortality find rest.

Oh, coward, coward world—skulkers! Give me the bold brigand, who thunders along the highways with flashing weapon that cuts the sunbeams as well as the shades. Give me the pirate, who unfurls the black flag, emblem of his terrible trade, and shows the plank which your doomed feet must tread; but save me from the they-sayers of society, whose knives are hidden in a velvet sheath, whose bridge of death, is woven of flowers; and who spread, with invisible poison, even the spotless whiteness of the winding-sheet.

"Gabriella, awake!"

"Mother, is the day dawning?"

"My child, the sun is near his setting; you have slumbered long."

I dreamed it was my mother's voice that awakened me,—then it seemed the voice of Richard Clyde, and I was lying under the great shadow of the oak, where he had found me years before half drowned in tears.

"Gabriella, my dear,—it is time to dress for the evening."

This time I recognized the accents of Mrs. Linwood, and I rose at once to a sitting position, wondering if it were the rising or the declining day that shone around me. Sleep had left its down on my harassed spirits, and its balm on my aching head. I felt languid, but tranquil; and when Mrs. Linwood affectionately but decidedly urged upon me the necessity of rising and preparing to descend to the drawing-room, I submissively obeyed. She must have seen that I had been in tears, but she made no allusion to them. Her manner was unusually kind and tender; but there was an expression in her serene but commanding eye, that bade me rise superior to the weakness that had subdued me. Had her son spoken of the cause of my emotion?

A few moments after, Edith entered, and her mother rejoined her friends below.

Edith held in her hand a fresh bouquet of the most exquisite green-house plants, among which the scarlet geranium exhibited its glowing blossoms. She held it towards me, turned it like a prism in various directions to catch the changing rays, while its odoriferous breath perfumed the whole apartment.

"I am glad you have another, Edith," I said, looking at the wilted flowers on my pillow. "These have fulfilled their mission most sweetly. I have no doubt they inspired soothing dreams, though I cannot remember them distinctly."

"Oh! these are yours," she answered, "sent by a friend who was quite distressed at your absence from the dinner-table. Cannot you guess the donor?"

"It will not require much acuteness," replied I, taking the flowers, and though I could not help admiring their beauty, and feeling grateful for the attention, a shade of regret clouded their welcome; "I have so few friends it is easy to conjecture who thus administers to my gratification."

"Well, who is it? You do not hazard the utterance of the name."

"No one but Richard Clyde would think of giving me a token like this. They are very, very sweet, and yet I wish he had not sent them."

"Ungrateful Gabriella! No one but Richard! A host of common beings melted into one, could not make the equal of the friend who made me the bearer of this charming offering. Is the gift of Ernest greeted with such indifference?"

"Ernest!" I repeated, and the blood bounded in my veins like a stream leaping over a mountain rock. "Is he indeed so kind?"

I bent my head over the beautiful messengers, to hide the joy too deep for words, the gratitude too intense for the gift. As I thus looked down into the heart of the flowers, I caught a glimpse of something white folded among the green leaves. Edith's back was turned as she smoothed the folds of an India muslin dress that lay upon the bed. I drew out the paper with a tremulous hand, and read these few pencilled words:—

"Sweet flower girl of the north! be not cast down. The most noxious wind changes not the purity of marble; neither can an idle breath shake the confidence born of unsullied innocence."

These words pencilled by his own hand, were addressed to me. They were embalmed in fragrance and imbedded in bloom, and henceforth they were engraven on tablets on which the hand of man had never before traced a character, which the whole world might not peruse.

Oh, what magic there was in those little words! Slander had lost its sting, and malice its venom, at least for the present hour. I put the talisman in my bosom and the flowers in water,—for they might fade.

There was no one in the room but Edith and myself. She sat on the side of the bed, a cloud of white fleecy drapery floating over her lap; a golden arrow, the very last in the day, God's quiver darted through the half-open blinds into the clusters of her fair ringlets. She was the most unaffected of human beings, and yet her every attitude was the perfection of grace, as if she sat as a model to the sculptor. I thought there was a shade of sadness on her brow. Perhaps she had seen me conceal the note, and imagined something clandestine and mysterious between me and her brother, that brother whose exclusive devotion had constituted the chief happiness of her life. Though it was a simple note, and the words were few, intended only to comfort and sustain, they were of such priceless value to me, I could not bear that even Edith's eye should become familiar with its contents. But her love and confidence were too dear to be sacrificed to a refinement of romance.

"Dear Edith," said I, putting the note in her hand, and an arm round her neck, "it was a gift of consolation you brought me;" and then I told her all that I had over-heard, and of the exceeding bitterness of my anguish.

"I know it,—mamma and I both know it,—brother told us. I did not speak of it, for you looked as if you had forgotten it after I came in, and I did not wish you to recall it. You must forget it, indeed you must. Such cruel insinuations can never alienate from you the friends who love you. They rather bind you closer to our hearts. Come, we have no time to lose. You know we must assist each other."

I insisted on being her handmaid first, and lingered over her toilet till she literally escaped from my hands and drew behind the lace curtains like a star behind a cloud. Our dresses were alike, as the generous Edith had willed. They were of the most exquisite India muslin, simply but elegantly decorated with the finest of lace. I had never before been arrayed for an evening party, and as the gauzy fulness of drapery fell so softly and redundantly over the form I had been accustomed to see in the sad-colored robes of mourning, I hardly recognized my own lineaments. There was something so light, so ethereal and graceful in the dress, my spirit caught its airiness and seemed borne upwards as on wings of down. I was about to clasp on my precious necklace and bracelets of hair, when observing Edith's beautiful pearl ornaments, corresponding so well with the delicacy and whiteness of her apparel, I laid them aside, resolving to wear no added decoration but the flowers, consecrated as the gift of Ernest.

"Come here, Gabriella, let me arrange that fall of lace behind," said Edith, extending a beautiful arm, on which the pearl-drops lay like dew on a lily. Both arms passed round my neck, and I found it encircled like her own with pearls. Then turning me round, she clasped first one arm, and then the other with fairy links of pearl, and then she flung a roseate of these ocean flowers round my head, smiling all the time and uttering exclamations of delighted admiration.

"Now don't cry, Gabriella dear. You look so cool—so fair—so like a snowdrop glittering with dew. And don't put your arms round my neck, beautiful as they are, quite so close. You will spoil my lace, darling. You must just wear and keep the pearls for the love of me. Mamma sanctions the gift, so you need have no scruples about accepting them. Remember, now, we must have no more diamonds, not one, though of the purest water and sparkling in heaven's own setting."

What could I say, in answer to such abounding kindness? In spite of her prohibition the diamonds would mingle with the pearls; but the sunbeams shone on them both.

What a day had this been to me! It seemed as if I had lived years in the short space of a few hours. I had never felt so utterly miserable, not even over my mother's new made grave. I had never felt so supremely happy,—so buoyant with hope and joy. The flowers of Ernest, the pearls of Edith, came to me with a message as gladdening as that which waked the silver harp-strings of the morning stars. I did not, I dared not misunderstand the meaning of the first. They were sent as balm to a wounded spirit; as breathers of hope to the ear of despair; but it was his hand that administered the balm; his spirit that inspired the strain.

"How radiant you look, Gabriella!" exclaimed Edith, her sweet blue eyes resting on me with affectionate delight. "I am so glad to see you come out of the cloud. Now you justify our pride as well as our affection."

"But I—but all of us look so earthly at your side, Edith"—

"Hush! flatterer—and yet, who would not prefer the beauty of earth, to the cold idealism of spirit loveliness? I have never sought the admiration of men. If I look lovely in the eyes of Ernest, it is all I desire. Perhaps all would not believe me; but you will. I yield you the empire of every heart but his. There, I would not willingly occupy the second place. A strange kind of jealousy, Gabriella; but I am just so weak."

She smiled, nay even laughed,—called herself very weak, very foolish, but said she could not help it. She believed she was the most selfish of human beings, and feared that this was the right hand to be cut off, the right eye to be plucked out. I was pained to hear her talk in this way; for I thought if any one ever gained the heart of Ernest, it would be dearly purchased by the sacrifice of Edith's friendship. But it was only a jesting way of expressing her exceeding love, after all. She was not selfish; she was all that was disinterested and kind.

I followed her down stairs into a blaze of light, that at first dazzled and bewildered me. The chandeliers with their myriad pendants of glittering crystal emitted thousands of brilliant coruscations, like wintry boughs loaded with icicles and sparkling in a noonday sun. While through the open windows, the departing twilight mingled its soft duskiness with the splendors of the mimic day.

Ernest Linwood and Richard Clyde were standing near the entrance of the door to greet us. The former immediately advanced and gave me his arm, and Richard walked by the side of Edith. I heard him sigh as they fell behind us, and my heart echoed the sound. Yet how could he sigh with Edith at his side? As I walked through the illuminated drawing-room, escorted by one on whom the eyes of the fashionable world were eagerly bent, I could not help being conscious of the glances that darted on me from every direction. Ernest Linwood was the loadstar of the scene, and whoever he distinguished by his attention must be conspicuous by association. I felt this, but no embarrassment agitated my step or dyed my cheek with blushes. The deep waters were stirred, stirred to their inmost depths, but the surface was calm and unruffled. Mrs. Linwood was at the head of the room, the centre of an intellectual circle. She was dressed, as usual, in silver gray; but the texture of her dress was the richest satin, shaded by blonde. The effect was that of a cloud with a silver lining, and surely it was a fitting attire for one who knew how to give brightness to the darkest shadows of life.

As we approached her, her countenance lighted up with pride and pleasure. I saw she was gratified by my appearance; that she was not ashamed of her protégée. Yet as we came nearer, I observed an expression of the most tender anxiety, approaching to sadness, come over her brow. How proud she was of her son! She looked upon him with a glance that would have been idolatry, had not God said, "Thou shalt not make unto thyself idols, for I am a jealous God."

She took my hand, and I saw her eye follow the soft tracery of pearl-flowers that enwreathed neck, arms, and brow. She knew who had thus adorned me, and her approving smile sanctioned the gifts.

"I rejoice to see you look so well, my dear child," she said, "I feared you might lose the enjoyment of the evening; but I see no one who has a brighter prospect before them now."

She introduced me to the friends who surrounded her, and wished to give me a seat near her; but Ernest resisted the movement, and with a smiling bow passed on.

"I am not disposed to release you quite so soon," said he, passing out into the piazza. "I see very plainly that if I relinquish my position it will not be easy to secure it again. I am delighted. I am charmed, Gabriella, to see that you have the firmness to resist, as well as the sensibility to feel. I am delighted, too, to see you in the only livery youth and innocence should wear in a festal scene like this. I abhor the gaudy tinselry which loads the devotees of fashion, indicative of false tastes and false principles; but white and pearls remind me of every thing pure and holy in nature. In the Bible we read of the white robes of angels and saints. Who ever dreamed of clothing them, in imagination, in dark or party-colored garments? In mythology, the graces, the nymphs, and the muses are represented in snowy garments. In spotless white the bride is led to the marriage shrine, and in white she is prepared for the last sublime espousals. Do you know," added he, suddenly changing the theme, as if conscious he was touching upon something too solemn, "why I selected the scarlet geranium for one of the blossoms of your bouquet? The first time I saw you, it glowed in the darkness of your hair like coral in the ocean's heart."

While he was speaking he broke a sprig from the bouquet and placed it in a wave of my hair, behind the band of pearls.

"Earth and ocean bring you their tribute," said he, and "heaven too," he added; for as we passed by the pillars, a moon-beam glided in and laid its silver touch on my brow.

"It is Edith's hand that thus adorned me," I answered, unwilling he should believe I had been consulting my own ambitious taste. "Had I been left to myself, I should have sought no ornament but these beautiful flowers, doubly precious for the feelings of kindness and compassion that consecrated their mission."

"Compassion, Gabriella! I should as soon think of compassionating the star that shines brightest in the van of night. Compassion looks down; kindness implies an equal ground; admiration looks up with the gaze of the astronomer and the worship of the devotee."

"You forget I am but a simple, village rustic. Such exaggerated compliments would suit better the brilliant dames of the city. I would rather a thousand times you would say, 'Gabriella, I do feel kindly towards you,' than utter any thing so formal, and apparently so insincere."

I was really hurt. I thought he was mocking my credulity, or measuring the height and depth of my girlish vanity. I did not want to be compared to a star, a lone and distant star, nor to think of him as an astronomer gazing up at me with telescopic eye. My heart was overflowing with gentle, natural thoughts. I wanted human sympathy, not cold and glittering compliments.

"And do you expect to hear the language of nature here, with the buzz of empty tongues and the echo of unmeaning laughs in the ear; where, if a word of sentiment were over-heard, it would be bandied from lip to lip with hollow mockery? Come with me into the garden, where the flowers blush in their folded leaves, beneath the love-light of yon gentle moon, where the stilly dews whisper sweet thoughts to the listening heart, and I will tell you what I have learned in Grandison Place, under the elm tree's shade, by the flower girl in the library, and from a thousand sources of which you have never dreamed."

He took the hand which rested lightly on his arm, and drawing it closer to his side led the way to the steps of the piazza. I had dreamed of a moment like this in the golden reveries of romance, and imagined it a foretaste of heaven, but now I trembled and hesitated like the fearful fluttering spirit before the opening gates of paradise. I dared not yield to the almost irresistible temptation. No figures were gliding along the solitary paths, no steps were brushing away the dew-stars that had fallen from the sky. We should be alone in the moonlight solitude; but the thoughts of Mrs. Linwood and of Edith would find us out.

"No, no!" I cried, shrinking from the gentle force that urged me forward; "do not ask me now. It would be better to remain where we are. Do you not think so?"

"Certainly, if you wish it," he said, and his voice had an altered tone, like that of a sweet instrument suddenly untuned; "but there is only one now, for those who fear to trust me, Gabriella."

"To trust you,—oh you cannot, do not misunderstand me thus!"

"Why else do you shrink, as if I were leading you to a path of thorns instead of one margined with flowers?"

"I fear the observations of the world, since the bitter lesson of the morning."

"Your fear! You attach more value to the passing remarks of strangers, than the feelings of one who was beginning to believe he had found one pure votary of nature and of truth. It is well. I have monopolized your attention too long."

Calmly and coldly he spoke, and the warm light of his eye went out like lightning, leaving the cloud gloom behind it. I was about to ask him to lead me back to his mother, in a tone as cold and altered as his own, when I saw her approaching us with a lady whom I had observed at the chapel; for her large, black eyes seemed magnetizing me, whenever I met their gaze. She was tall, beyond the usual height of her sex, finely formed, firm and compact as a marble pillar. A brow of bold expansion, features of the Roman contour, clearly cut and delicately marked; an expression of recklessness, independence, and self-reliance were the most striking characteristics of the young lady, whom Mrs. Linwood introduced as Miss Melville, the daughter of an early friend of hers.

"Miss Margaret Melville," she repeated, looking at her son, who stood, leaning with an air of stately indifference against a pillar of the piazza. I had withdrawn my hand from his arm, and felt as if the breadth of the frozen ocean was between us.

"Does Mr. Ernest Linwood forget his old friend so easily?" she asked, in a clear, ringing voice, extending a fair ungloved hand. "Do you not remember Madge Wildfire, or Meg the Dauntless, as the students used to call me? Or have I become so civilized and polished that you do not recognize me?"

"I did not indeed," said he, receiving the offered hand with more grace than eagerness, "but it is not so much the fault of my memory, as the marvellous change in yourself. I must not say improvement, as that would imply that there was a time when you were susceptible of it."

"You may say just what you please, for I like frankness and straightforwardness as well as I ever did; better,—a great deal better, for I know its value more. And you, Ernest, I cannot call you any thing else, you are another and yet the same. The same stately, statue-like being I used to try in vain to teaze and torment. It seems so long since we have met, I expected to have seen you quite bent and hoary with age. Do tell me something of your transatlantic experience."

While she was speaking in that peculiar tone of voice which reminded one of a distant clarion, Richard Clyde came to me on the other side, and seeing that she wished to engage the conversation of Ernest, which she probably thought I had engrossed too long, I took the offered arm of Richard and returned to the drawing-room. Seeing a table covered with engravings, I directed our steps there, that subjects of conversation might be suggested independent of ourselves.

"How exquisite these are!" I exclaimed, taking up the first within my reach and expatiating on its beauties, without really comprehending one with my preoccupied and distant thoughts. "These Italian landscapes are always charming."

"I believe that is a picture of the Boston Common," said he, smiling at my mistake; "but surely no Italian landscape can boast of such magnificent trees and such breadth of verdure. It is a whole casket of emeralds set in the granite heart of a great city. And see in the centre that pure, sparkling diamond, sending out such rays of coolness and delight,—I wonder you did not recognize it."

"I have seen it only in winter, when the trees exhibited their wintry dreariness, and little boys were skating on the diamond surface of that frozen water. It looked very different then."

"Mr. Linwood could explain these engravings," said he, drawing forward some which indeed represented Italian ruins, grand and ivy mantled, where the owl might well assert her solitary domain. "He has two great advantages, an eye enlightened by travel, and a taste fastidious by nature."

"I do not admire fastidiousness," I answered; "I do not like to have defects pointed out to me, which my own ignorance does not discover. There is more pleasure in imagining beauties than in finding out faults."

"Will you think it a presuming question, a too inquisitive one," he said, holding up an engraving between himself and the light, "if I ask your candid opinion of Mr. Linwood? Is the world right in the character it has given? Has he all the peculiarities and fascinations it ascribes to him?"

He spoke in a careless manner, or rather tried to do so, but his eye burned with intense emotion. Had he asked me this question a short time previous, conscious blushes would have dyed my cheeks, for a "murderous guilt shows not itself more soon," than the feelings I attempt to conceal; but my sensibility had been wounded, my pride roused, and my heart chilled. I had discovered within myself a spirit which, like the ocean bark, rises with the rising wave.

"If Mr. Linwood had faults," I answered, and I could not help smiling at the attempted composure and real perturbation of his manner, "I would not speak of them. Peculiarities he may have, for they are inseparable from genius,—fascinations"—here their remembrance was too strong for my assumed indifference, and my sacred love of truth compelled me to utter,—"fascinations he certainly possesses."

"In what do they consist?" he asked. "Beyond an extremely gentlemanly exterior, I do not perceive any peculiar claims to admiration."

Hurt as I had been by Ernest's altered manner, I was disposed to do justice to his merits, and the more Richard seemed desirous to depreciate him, the more I was willing to exalt him. If he was capable of the meanness of envy, I was resolved to punish him. I did him injustice. He was not envious, but jealous; and it is impossible for jealousy and justice ever to go hand in hand.

"In what do they consist?" I repeated. At that moment I saw him through the window, standing just where I had left him, leaning with folded arms against the pillar, with the moonlight shining gloriously on his brow. Miss Melville stood near him, talking with great animation, emphasizing her words with quick, decided gesticulation, while he seemed a passive listener. I had seen handsomer gentlemen, perhaps,—but never one so perfectly elegant and refined in appearance. The pale transparency of his complexion had the purity and delicacy of alabaster without its whiteness, seen by that clear, silvery light.

"In what do they consist? In powers of conversation as rich as they are varied, in versatility of talents, in rare cultivation of mind and polish of manner. Let me see. I must give you a complete inventory of his accomplishments. He reads most charmingly, plays superbly, and sings divinely. Would you know his virtues? He is a most devoted son, a paragon of brothers, and a miracle of a host."

I believe there is a dash of coquetry in every woman's nature. There must have been in mine, or I could not have gone on, watching the red thermometer in Richard's cheek, rising higher and higher, though what I said was truth, unembellished by imagination. It was what they who run might read. I did not speak of those more subtle traits which, were invisible to the common eye, those characters which, like invisible writing, are brought out by a warm and glowing element.

"I am glad to hear you speak so openly in his praise," said Richard, with a brightening countenance; "even if I deserved such a tribute, I should not wish to know that you had paid it to me. I would prize more one silent glance, one conscious blush, than the most labored eulogium the most eloquent lips could utter."

"But I do praise you very much," I answered; "ask Mrs. Linwood, and Edith, and Mr. Regulus. Ask Mr. Linwood himself."

"Never speak of me to him, Gabriella. Let my feelings be sacred, if they are lonely. You know your power; use it gently, exert it kindly."

The smile of assumed gaiety faded from my lips, as his grave, earnest, sincere accents went down into my soul. Could I trifle even for a moment with an affection so true and constant?

Oh, wayward and unappreciating heart! Why could I not return this love, which might have made me so happy? Why was there no spirit-echo to his voice; no quickened pulsations at the sound of his coming footsteps?

"This is no place, Richard, to talk of ourselves, or I would try to convince you that I am incapable of speaking lightly of your feelings, or betraying them to a human being, even to Mrs. Linwood; but let us speak of something else now. Do you not feel very happy that you are free,—no more a slave to hours or rules; free to come and go, when and where you please, with the whole earth to roam in,