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

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

"Why not?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How beautiful!" I exclaimed with enthusiasm.

"How beautiful!" he echoed with equal fervor.

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

"Yes, I am,—a very enchanting one."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Edith can,—why not you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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