"Get up, Gabriella,—you must not lie here on the damp ground. Get up,—it is almost night. What will your mother say? what will she think has become of you?"

I started up, bewildered and alarmed, passing my hands dreamily over my swollen eyelids. Heavy shadows hung over the woods. Night was indeed approaching. I had fallen into a deep sleep, and knew it not.

It was Richard Clyde who awakened me. His schoolmaster called him Dick, but I thought it sounded vulgar, and he was always Richard to me. A boy of fifteen, the hardest student in the academy, and, next to my mother and Peggy, the best friend I had in the world. I had no brother, and many a time had he acted a brother's part, when I had needed a manly champion. Yet my mother had enjoined on me such strict reserve in my intercourse with the boy pupils, and my disposition was so shy, our acquaintance had never approached familiarity.

"I did not mean to shake you so hard," said he, stepping back a few paces as he spoke, "but I never knew any one sleep so like a log before. I feared for a moment that you were dead."

"It would not be much matter if I were," I answered, hardly knowing what I said, for a dull weight pressed on my brain, and despondency had succeeded excitement.

"Oh, Gabriella! is it not wicked to say that?"

"If you had been treated as badly as I have, you would feel like saying it too."

"Yes!" he exclaimed, energetically, "you have been treated badly, shamefully, and I told the master so to his face."

"You! You did not, Richard. You only thought so. You would not have told him so for all the world."

"But I did, though! As soon as you ran out of school, it seemed as if he made but one step to the door, and his face looked as black as night. I thought if he overtook you, he might,—I did not know what he would do, he was so angry. I sat near the door, and I jumped right up and faced him on the threshold. 'Don't, sir, don't! I cried; she is a little girl, and you a great strong man.'

"'What is that to you, sirrah?' he exclaimed, and the forked lightning ran out of his eye right down my backbone. It aches yet, Gabriella.

"'It is a great deal, Sir,' I answered, as bold as a lion. 'You have treated her cruelly enough already. It would be cowardly to pursue her.'"

"Oh, Richard! how dared you say that? Did he not strike you?"

"He lifted his hand; but instead of flinching, I made myself as tall as I could, and looked at him right steadfastly. You do not know how pale he looked, when I stopped him on the threshold. His very lips turned white—I declare there is something grand in a great passion. It makes one look somehow so different from common folks. Well, now, as soon as he raised his hand to strike me, a red flush shot into his face, like the blaze of an inward fire. It was shame,—anger made him white—but shame turned him as red as blood. His arm dropped down to his side,—then he laid his hand on the top of his head,—'Stay after school,' said he, 'I must talk with you.'"

"And did you?" I asked, hanging with breathless interest on his words.

"Yes; I have just left him."

"He has not expelled you, Richard?"

"No; but he says I must ask his pardon before the whole school to-morrow. It amounts to the same thing. I will never do it."

"I am so sorry this has happened," said I. "Oh! that I had never written that foolish, foolish poetry. It has done so much mischief."

"You are not to blame, Gabriella. He had no business to laugh at it; it was beautiful—all the boys say so. I have no doubt you will be a great poetess one of these days. He ought to have been proud of it, instead of making fun of you. It was so mean."

"But you must go back to school, Richard. You are the best scholar. The master is proud of you, and will not give you up. I would not have it said that I was the cause of your leaving, for twice your weight in solid gold."

"Would you not despise me if I asked pardon, when I have done no wrong; to appear ashamed of what I glory in; to act the part of a coward, after publicly proclaiming him to be one?"

"It is hard," said I, "but—"

We were walking homeward all the while we were talking, and at every step my spirits sank lower and lower. How different every thing seemed now, from what it did an hour ago. True, I had been treated with harshness, but I had no right to rebel as I had done. Had I kissed the rod, it would have lost its sting,—had I borne the smart with patience and gentleness, my companions would have sympathized with and pitied me; it would not have been known beyond the walls of the academy. But now, it would be blazoned through the whole town. The expulsion of so distinguished a scholar as Richard Clyde would be the nine days' gossip, the village wonder. And I should be pointed out as the presumptuous child, whose disappointed vanity, irascibility, and passion had created rebellion and strife in a hitherto peaceful seminary. I, the recipient of the master's favors, an ingrate and a wretch! My mother would know this—my gentle, pale-faced mother.

Our little cottage was now visible, with its low walls of grayish white, and vine-encircled windows.

"Richard," said I, walking as slowly as possible, though it was growing darker every moment, "I feel very unhappy. I will go and see the master in the morning and ask him to punish me for both. I will humble myself for your sake, for you have been my champion, and I never will forget it as long as I live. I was wrong to rush out of school as I did,—wrong to tear the paper from his hands,—and I am willing to tell him so now. It shall all be right yet, Richard,—indeed it shall."

"You shall not humble yourself for me, Gabriella; I like a girl of spirit."

We had now reached the little gate that opened into our own green yard. I could see my mother looking from the window for her truant child. My heart began to palpitate, for no Catholic ever made more faithful confessions to his absolving priest, than I to my only parent. Were I capable of concealing any thing from her, I should have thought myself false and deceitful. With feelings of love and reverence kindred to those with which I regarded my Heavenly Father, I looked up to her, the incarnate angel of my life. This expression has been so often used it does not seem to mean much; but when I say it, I mean all the filial heart is capable of feeling. I was poor in fortune, but in her goodness rich. I was a lonely child, but sad and pensive as she was, she was a fountain of social joy to me. Then, she was so beautiful—so very, very lovely!

I caught the light of her pensive smile through the dimness of the hour. She was so accustomed to my roaming in the woods, she had suffered no alarm.

"If my mother thinks it right, you will not object to my going to see Mr. Regulus," said I, as Richard lifted the gate-latch for me to enter.

"For yourself, no; but not for me. I can take care of myself, Gabriella."

He spoke proudly. He did not quite come up to my childish idea of a boy hero, but I admired his self-reliance and bravery. I did not want him to despise me or my lack of spirit. I began to waver in my good resolution.

My mother called me, in that soft, gentle tone, so full of music and of love.

In ten minutes I had told her all.