I wish my father could have seen the home of my youth, when he first beheld it, in the greenness of spring or the bloom of summer; but white, cold, and dazzling was the lawn, and bleak, bare, and leafless the grand old elms and the stately brotherhood of oaks that guarded the avenue.

With pride, gratitude, joy, and a thousand mingling emotions, I introduced my father into a dwelling consecrated by so many recollections of happiness and woe. The cloud was removed from my birth, the stain from my lineage. I could now exult in my parentage and glory in my father.

Julian was there, and welcomed St. James with enthusiastic pleasure, who, on his part, seemed to cherish for him even parental affection. With joy and triumph beaming in his eyes and glowing on his cheek, Julian took the lovely Edith by the hand, and introduced her as his bride. Still occupying her usual place in her mother's home, in all her sweetness, simplicity, and spirituality, it was difficult to believe any change had come over her destiny. She had not waited for my presence, because she knew the bridal wreath woven for her would recall the blighted bloom of mine. She had no festal wedding. She could not, while her brother's fate was wrapped in uncertainty and gloom.

One Sunday evening, after Mr. Somerville had dismissed the congregation with the usual benediction, Julian led Edith to the altar, and her mother stood by her side till the solemn words were uttered that made them one. So simple and holy were the nuptial rites of the wealthy and beautiful heiress of Grandison Place.

My father spoke in exalted terms of the young artist, of his virtues and his genius, the singleness of his heart, the uprightness of his principles, and the warmth and purity of his affections. Had he, my father, needed any passport to the favor of Mrs. Linwood, he could not have had a surer one; but her noble nature instantaneously recognized his congenial and exalted worth. He had that in his air, his countenance, and manner, that distinguished him from the sons of men, as the planets are distinguished by their clear, intense, and steadfast lustre among the starry ranks of heaven.

I gave him the manuscript my mother had left me, and at his request pointed out the road and the diverging path that led to the spot where her grave was made. I did not ask to accompany him, for I felt his emotions were too sacred for even his daughter to witness. I mourned that the desolation of winter was added to the dreariness of death; that a pall of snow, white as her winding-sheet and cold as her clay, covered the churchyard. In summer, when the grass was of an emerald green and the willows waved their weeping branches with a gentle rustle against the clustering roses, whose breath perfumed and whose blossoms beautified the place of graves, it was sweet, though sad, to wander amid the ruins of life, and meditate on its departed joys.

The broken shaft, twined with a drooping wreath carved in bas-relief, which rose above my mother's ashes, and the marble stone which marked the grave of Peggy, were erected the year after their deaths. The money which rewarded my services in the academy had been thus appropriated, or rather a portion of it. The remainder had been given to the poor, as Mrs. Linwood always supplied my wardrobe, as she did Edith's, and left no want of my own to satisfy, not even a wish to indulge. I mention this here, because it occurred to my mind that I had not done Mrs. Linwood perfect justice with regard to the motives which induced her to discipline my character.

I did not see my father for hours after his return. He retired to his chamber, and did not join the family circle till the evening lamps were lighted. He looked excessively pale, even wan, and his countenance showed how much he had suffered. Edith was singing when he came in, and he made a motion for her to continue; for it was evident he did not wish to converse. I sat down by him without speaking; and putting his arm round me, he drew me closely to his side. The plaintive melody of Edith's voice harmonized with the melancholy tone of his feelings, and seemed to shed on his soul a balmy and delicious softness. His spirit was with my mother in the dreams of the past, rather than the hopes of the future; and the memory of its joys lived again in music's heavenly breath.

It is a blessed thing to be remembered in death as my mother was. Her image was enshrined in her husband's heart, in the bloom and freshness of unfaded youth, as he had last beheld her,—and such it would ever remain. He had not seen the mournful process of fading and decay. To him, she was the bride of immortality; and his love partook of her own freshness and youth and bloom. Genius is La fontaine de jouvence, in whose bright, deep waters the spirit bathes and renews its morning prime. It is the well-spring of the heart,—the Castaly of the soul. St. James had lived amid forms of ideal beauty, till his spirit was imbued with their loveliness as with the fragrance of flowers, and he breathed an atmosphere pure as the world's first spring. He was young, though past the meridian of life. There was but one mark of age upon his interesting and noble person, and that was the snowy shade that softened his raven hair,—foam of the waves of time, showing they had been lashed by the storms, or driven against breakers and reefs of destiny.

The first time I took him into the library, he stopped before the picture of Ernest. I did not tell him whose it was. He gazed upon it long and earnestly.

"What a countenance!" he exclaimed. "I can see the lights and shades of feeling flashing and darkening over it. It has the troubled splendor of a tropic night, when clouds and moonbeams are struggling. Is it a portrait, or an ideal picture?"

"It is Ernest,—it is my husband," I answered; and it seemed to me as if all the ocean surges that rolled between us were pressing their cold weight on my heart.

"My poor girl! my beloved Gabriella! All your history is written there."

I threw myself in his arms, and wept. Had I seen Ernest dead at my feet, I could not have felt more bitter grief. I had never indulged it so unrestrainedly before in his presence, for I had always thought more of him than myself; and in trying to cheer him, I had found cheerfulness. Now I remembered only Ernest's idolatrous love, and his sorrows and sufferings, forgetting my own wrongs; and I felt there would always be an aching void which even a father's and brother's tenderness (for brother I still called Richard) could never fill.

"Oh, my father," I cried, "bear with my weakness,—bear with me a little while. There is comfort in weeping on a father's bosom, even for a loss like mine. I shall never see him again. He is dead, or if living, is dead to me. You cannot blame me, father. You see there a faint semblance of what he is,—splendid, fascinating, and haunting, though at times so dark and fearful. No words of mine can give an idea of the depth, the strength, the madness of his love. It has been the blessing and the bane, the joy and the terror, the angel and the demon of my life. I know it was sinful in its wild excess, and mine was sinful, too, in its blind idolatry, and I know the blessing of God could not hallow such a union. But how can I help feeling the dearth, the coldness, the weariness following such passionate emotions? How can I help feeling at times, that the sun of my existence is set, and a long, dark night before me?"

He did not answer,—he only pressed me convulsively to his heart, and I felt one hot tear, and then another and another falling on my brow.

Oh! it is cruel to wring tears from the strong heart of man; cruel, above all, to wring them from a father's heart,—that heart whose own sorrows had lately bled afresh. Every drop fell heavy and burning as molten lead on my conscience. I had been yielding to a selfish burst of grief, thoughtless of the agony I was inflicting.

"Forgive me, father!" I cried, "forgive me! On my knees, too, I will pray my Heavenly Father to forgive the rebel who dares to murmur at his chastisements, when new and priceless blessings gladden her life. I thought I had learned submission,—and I have, father, I have kissed in love and faith the Almighty hand that laid me low. This has been a dark moment, but it is passed."

I kissed his hand, and pressed it softly over my glistening eyes.

"Forgive you, my child!" he repeated, "for a sorrow so natural, so legitimate, and which has so much to justify it! I have wondered at your fortitude and disinterested interest in others,—I have wondered at your Christian submission, your unmurmuring resignation, and I wonder still. But you must not consider your destiny as inevitably sad and lonely. You have not had time yet to receive tidings from India. If, after the letter you have written, your husband does not return with a heart broken by penitence and remorse, and his dark and jealous passions slain by the sword of conviction, piercing two-edged and sharp to the very marrow of his spirit, he is not worthy of thee, my spotless, precious child; and the illusion of love will pass away, showing him to be selfish, tyrannical, and cruel, a being to be shunned and pitied, but no longer loved. Do not shudder at the picture I have drawn. The soul that speaks from those eyes of thousand meanings," added he, looking at the portrait that gazed upon us with powerful and thrilling glance, "must have some grand and redeeming qualities. I trust in God that it will rise above the ashes of passion, purified and regenerated. Then your happiness will have a new foundation, whose builder and maker is God."

"Oh! dear father!" was all I could utter. He spoke like one who had the gift of prophecy, and my spirit caught the inspiration of his words.

I have not spoken of Richard, for I had so much to say of my father, but I did not forget him. He accompanied us to Grandison Place, though he remained but a few days. I could not help feeling sad to see how the sparkling vivacity of his youth had passed away, the diamond brightness which reminded one of rippling waters in their sunbeams. But if less brilliant, he was far more interesting. Stronger, deeper, higher qualities were developed. The wind-shaken branches of thought stretched with a broader sweep. The roots of his growing energies, wrenched by the storm, struck firmer and deeper, and the wounded bark gave forth a pure and invigorating odor.

I walked with him, the evening before his departure, in the avenue from which the snow had been swept, leaving a smooth, wintry surface below. I was wrapped in furs, and the cold, frosty air braced me like a pair of strong arms.

I had so much to say to Richard, and now I was alone with him. I walked on in silence, feeling as if words had never been invented to express our ideas.

"You will never feel the want of a father's care and affection," at length I said. "My father could not love you better if you were his own son; and surely no own brother could be dearer, Richard, than you are and ever will be to me. You must not look mournfully on the past, but forward into a brightening future."

"I have but one object in life now," he answered, "and that is, to improve the talents God has given me for the benefit of mankind. I am not conscious of any personal hope or ambition, but a strong sense of duty acts upon me, and will save me from the corrosion of disappointment and the listlessness of despair."

"But you will not always feel so, Richard. You will experience a strong reaction soon, and new-born hopes and aspirations will shine gloriously to guide you upward and onward in your bright career. Think how young you are yet, Richard."

"The consciousness of youth does not always bring joy. It cannot, when youthful hopes are blighted, Gabriella. One cannot tear up at once the deep-rooted affections of years. Never was a love planted deeper, firmer than mine for you, before the soil of the heart had known the hardening winds of destiny. Start not, Gabriella, I am not going to utter one sentiment which, as a wife, you need blush to hear; but the parting hour, like that of death, is an honest one, and I must speak as I feel. May you never know or imagine my wretchedness when I believed you to be my sister, knowing that though innocent, I had been guilty, and that I could not love you merely with a brother's love. Thank heaven! you are my cousin. Ten thousand winning sweetnesses cluster round this dear relationship. The dearest, the strongest, the purest I have ever known."

"You will know a stronger, a dearer one, dear Richard,—you do not know yet how strong."

"I shall never think of my own happiness, Gabriella, till I am assured of yours."

"Then I will try to be happy for your sake."

"And if it should be that the ties severed by misfortune and distance are never renewed, you will remain with your father, and I will make my home with you, and it will be the business of both our lives to make you happy. No flower of the green-house was ever more tenderly cherished and guarded than you shall be, best beloved of so many hearts!"

"Thank you, oh, thank you, for all your tenderness, so far beyond my worth. Friend, brother, cousin, with you and such a father to love me, I ought to be the happiest and most grateful of human beings. But tell me one thing, dear Richard, before we part; do you forgive Ernest the wrong he has done you, freely and fully?"

"From the bottom of my heart I do."

"And should we ever meet again, may I tell him so?"

"Tell him I have nothing to forgive, for, believing as he did, vengeance could not wing a bolt of wrath too red, too deadly. But I would not recall the past. Your father beckons us,—he fears the frosty evening air for you, but it has given a glowing rose to your cheeks!"

My father stood on the threshold to greet us, with that benign smile, that beautiful, winning smile that had so long been slumbering on his face, but which grew brighter and brighter every time it beamed on my soul.

The last evening of Richard's stay was not sad. Dr. Harlowe and Mr. Somerville were with us; and though the events with which he had been associated had somewhat sobered the doctor's mirthful propensities, the geniality of his character was triumphant over every circumstance.

My father expressed to him the most fervent gratitude for his parental kindness to me, as well as for a deeper, holier debt.

"You owe me nothing," said Dr. Harlowe; "and even if you did, and were the debt ten times beyond your grateful appreciation of it, I should consider myself repaid by the privilege of calling you my friend."

No one could speak with more feeling or dignity than the doctor, when the right chord was touched. He told me he had never seen the man he admired so much as my father; and how proud and happy it made me to have him say so, and know that his words were true! No one who has not felt as I did, the mortification, the shame and anguish of believing myself the daughter of a convicted criminal, can understand the intense, the almost worshipping reverence with which I regarded my late-found parent. To feel pride instead of humiliation, exultation instead of shame, and love instead of abhorrence, how great the contrast, how unspeakable the relief, how sublime and holy the gratitude!