Amid the rainbows of the cataract, Edith's heart caught the first glowing tinge of romance.

We were wandering along the path that zones the beautiful island, whose name, unpoetic as it is, recalls one of the brilliant constellations of the zodiac; and Edith had seated herself on a rustic bench, under the massy dome of a spreading beech, and, taking off her bonnet, suffered her hair to float according to its own wild will on the rising breeze.

She did not observe a young man at a little distance, leaning back against an aged birch, on whose silvery bark the dark outlines of his figure were finely daguerreotyped. He was the beau ideal of an artist, with his long brown hair carelessly pushed back from his white temples, his portfolio in his left hand, his pencil in his right, and his dark, restless eyes glancing round him with the fervor of enthusiasm, while they beamed with the inspiration of genius. He was evidently sketching the scene, which with bold, rapid lines he was transferring to the paper. All at once his gaze was fixed on Edith, and he seemed spellbound. I did not wonder,—for a lovelier, more ethereal object never arrested the glance of admiration. Again his pencil moved, and I knew he was attempting to delineate her features. I was fearful lest she should move and dissolve the charm; but she sat as still as the tree, whose gray trunk formed an artistic background to her slight figure.

As soon as Ernest perceived the occupation of the young artist, he made a motion towards Edith, but I laid my hand on his arm.

"Do not," I said; "she will make such a beautiful picture."

"I do not like that a stranger should take so great a liberty," he replied, in an accent of displeasure.

"Forgive the artist," I pleaded, "for the sake of the temptation."

The young man, perceiving that he was observed, blushed with the most ingenuous modesty, took up his hat that was lying on the grass, put his paper and pencil in his portfolio, and walked away into the wilderness of stately and majestic trees, that rose dome within dome, pillar within pillar, like a grand cathedral. We followed slowly in the beaten path, through the dark green maples, the bright-leaved luxuriant beech trees, and the quivering aspens, whose trembling leaves seem instinct with human sensibility. And all the time we wandered through the magnificent aisles of the island, the deep roar of the cataract, like the symphony of a great organ, rolled solemnly through the leafy solitude, and mingled with the rustling of the forest boughs.

In the evening the young artist sought an introduction to our party. His name was Julian, and had the advantage of romantic association. I was glad that Ernest gave him a cordial reception, for I was extremely prepossessed in his favor. Even the wild idea that he might be my unknown brother, had entered my mind. I remembered Mrs. Linwood's advice too well to express it. I even tried to banish it, as absurd and irrational; but it would cling to me,—and gave an interest to the young stranger which, though I dared not manifest, I could not help feeling. Fortunately his undisguised admiration of Edith was a safeguard to me. He was too artless to conceal it, yet too modest to express it. It was evinced by the mute eloquence of eyes that gazed upon her, as on a celestial being; and the listening ear, that seemed to drink in the lowest sound of her sweet, low voice. He was asked to exhibit his sketches, which were pronounced bold, splendid, and masterly.

Edith was leaning on her brother's shoulder, when she recognized her own likeness, most faithfully and gracefully executed. She started, blushed, and looked towards young Julian, whose expressive eyes were riveted on her face, as if deprecating her displeasure. There were no traces of it on her lovely countenance; even a smile played on her lips, at the faint reflection of her own loveliness.

And thus commenced an acquaintance, or I might say an attachment, as sudden and romantic as is ever described in the pages of the novelist. As soon as the diffidence that veiled his first introduction wore away, he called forth his peculiar powers of pleasing, and Edith was not insensible to their fascination. Since her brother's marriage, she had felt a vacuum in her heart, which often involved her in a soft cloud of pensiveness. She was unthroned, and like an uncrowned queen she sighed over the remembrance of her former royalty. It was not strange that the devotion of Julian, the enthusiasm of his character, the fervor of his language, the ardor, the grace of his manner, should have captivated her imagination and touched her heart. I never saw any one so changed in so short a time. The contrast was almost as great, to her former self, as between a placid silver lake, and the foam of the torrent sparkling and flashing with rainbows. Her countenance had lost its air of divine repose, and varied with every emotion of her soul. She was a thousand times more beautiful, and I loved her far more than I had ever done before. There was something unnatural in her exclusive, jealous love of her brother, but now she acknowledged the supremacy of the great law of woman's destiny. Like a flower, suddenly shaken by a southern gale, and giving out the most delicious perfumes unknown before, her heart fluttered and expanded and yielded both its hidden sweetnesses.

"We must not encourage him," said Mrs. Linwood to her son. "We do not know who he is; we do not know his family or his lineage; we must withdraw Edith from the influence of his fascinations."

I did not blame her, but I felt the sting to my heart's core. She saw the wound she had unconsciously made, and hastened to apply a balm.

"The husband either exalts, or lowers, a wife to the position he occupies," said she, looking kindly at me. "She loses her own identity in his. Poverty would present no obstacle, for she has wealth sufficient to be disinterested,—but my daughter must take a stainless name, if she relinquish her own. But why do I speak thus? My poor, crippled child! She has disowned the thought of marriage. She has chosen voluntarily an unwedded lot. She does not, cannot, will not think with any peculiar interest of this young stranger. No, no,—my Edith is set apart by her misfortunes, as some enshrined and holy being, whom man must vainly love."

I had never seen Mrs. Linwood so much agitated. Her eyes glistened, her voice faltered with emotion. Ernest, too, seemed greatly troubled. They had both been accustomed to look upon Edith as consecrated to a vestal life; and as she had hitherto turned coldly and decidedly from the addresses of men, they believed her inaccessible to the vows of love and the bonds of wedlock. The young Julian was a poet as well as an artist; his pictures were considered masterpieces of genius in the painting galleries of the cities; he was, as report said, and as he himself modestly but decidedly affirmed, by birth and education a gentleman; he had the prestige of a rising fame,—but he was a stranger. I remembered my mother's history, and the youth of St. James seemed renewed in this interesting young man. I trembled for the future happiness of Edith, who, whatever might be her decision with regard to marriage, now unmistakably and romantically loved. Again I asked myself, "might not this young man be the son of the unfortunate TherÉsa, who under an assumed name was concealing the unhappy circumstances of his birth?"

"Let us leave this place," said Ernest, "and put a stop at once to the danger we dread. Are you willing, Gabriella, to quit these sublime Falls to-morrow?"

"I shall carry them with me," I answered, laughingly. "They are henceforth a part of my own being."

"They will prove rather an inconvenient accompaniment," replied he; "and if we turn our face on our return to the White Mountains, will you bring them back also?"

"Certainly. Take me the whole world over, and every thing of beauty and sublimity will cling to my soul inseparably and forever."

"Will you ask Edith, if she will be ready?"

She was in the room which she occupied with her mother, and there I sought her. She was reading what seemed to be a letter; but as I approached her I saw that it was poetry, and from her bright blushes, I imagined it an effusion of young Julian's. She did not conceal it, but looked up with such a radiant expression of joy beaming through a shade of bashfulness, I shrunk from the task imposed upon me.

"Dear Edith," said I, laying my hand on her beautiful hair, "your brother wishes to leave here to-morrow. Will you be ready?"

She started, trembled, then turned aside her face, but I could see the starting tear and the deepened blush.

"Of course I will," she answered, after a moment's pause. "It is far better that we should go,—I know it is,—but it would have been better still, had we never come."

"And why, my darling sister? You have seemed very happy."

"Too happy, Gabriella. All future life must pay the penalty due to a brief infatuation. I have discovered and betrayed the weakness, the madness of my heart. I know too well why Ernest has hastened our departure."

"Dearest Edith," said I, sitting down by her and taking her hand in both mine, "do not reproach yourself for a sensibility so natural, so innocent, nay more, so noble. Do not, from mistaken delicacy, sacrifice your own happiness, and that of another which is, I firmly believe, forever intertwined with it. Confide in your mother,—confide in your brother, who think you have made a solemn resolution to live a single life. They do not know this young man; but give them an opportunity of knowing him. Cast him not off, if you love him; for I would almost stake my life upon his integrity and honor."

"Blessings, Gabriella, for this generous confidence!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round me, with all the impulsiveness of childhood; "but it is all in vain. Do you think I would take advantage of Julian's uncalculating love, and entail upon him for life the support and guardianship of this frail, helpless form? Do you think I would hang a dead, dull weight on the wings of his young ambition? Oh, no! You do not know me, Gabriella."

"I know you have very wrong views of yourself," I answered; "and I fear you will do great wrong to others, if you do not change them. You are not helpless. No bird of the wild-wood wings their way more fearlessly and lightly than yourself. You are not frail now. Health glows on your cheek and beams in your eye. You cling to a resolution conceived in early youth, before you recovered from the effects of a painful malady. A dull weight! Why, Edith, you would rest like down on his mounting wings. You would give them a more heavenly flight. Do not, beloved Edith, indulge these morbid feelings. There is a love, stronger, deeper than a sister's affection. You feel it now. You forgive me for loving Ernest. You forgive him for loving me. I believe Julian worthy of your heart. Give him hope, give him time, and he will come erelong, crowned with laurels, and lay them smiling at your feet."

"Dear, inspiring Gabriella!" she exclaimed, "you infuse new life and joy into my inmost soul. I feel as if I could discard these crutches and walk on air. No; I am not helpless. If there was need, I could toil for him I loved with all a woman's zeal. These hands could minister to his necessities, this heart be a shield and buckler in the hour of danger. Thank Heaven, I am lifted above want, and how blest to share the gifts of fortune with one they would so nobly grace! But do you really think that I ought to indulge such dreams? Am not I a cripple? Has not God set a mark upon me?"

"No,—you shall not call yourself one. You are only lifted above the gross earth, because you are more angelic than the rest of us. I hear your mother's coming footsteps; I will leave you together, that you may reveal to her all that is passing in your heart."

I left her; and as I passed Mrs. Linwood on the stairs, and met her anxious eyes, I said: "Edith has the heart of a woman. I know by my own experience how gently you will deal with it."

She kissed me without speaking; but I read in her expressive countenance that mingled look of grief and resignation with which we follow a friend to that bourne where we cannot follow them. Edith was lost to her. She was willing to forsake her mother for the stranger's home,—she who seemed bound to her by the dependence of childhood, as well as the close companionship of riper years. I read this in her saddened glance; but I did not deem her selfish. Other feelings, too, doubtless blended with her own personal regrets. She had no reason to look upon marriage as a state of perfect felicity. Her own had been unhappy. She knew the dark phantom that haunted our wedded hours; and what if the same hereditary curse should cling to Edith,—who might become morbidly sensitive on account of her personal misfortune?

Knowing it was the last evening of our stay, I felt as if every moment were lost, passed within doors. It seemed to me, now, as if I had literally seen nothing, so stupendously did images of beauty and grandeur grow upon my mind, and so consciously and surprisingly did my mind expand to receive them.

The hour of sunset approached,—the last sunset that I should behold, shining in golden glory on the sheeted foam of the Falls. And then I saw, what I never expect to witness again, till I see the eternal rainbows round about the throne of God,—three entire respondent circles, one glowing with seven-fold beams within the other, full, clear, distinct as the starry stripes of our country's banner,—no fracture in the smooth, majestic curves,—no dimness in the gorgeous dyes.

And moonlight,—moonlight on the Falls! I have read of moonlight on the ruins of the Coliseum; in the mouldering remains of Grecian elegance and Roman magnificence; but what is it compared to this? The eternal youth, the undecaying grandeur of nature, illumined by that celestial light which lends glory to ruins, and throws the illusion of beauty over the features of decay!

Edith wandered with Julian in the stilly moonlight, and their low voices were heard by each other amid the din of the roaring cataract.

Ernest was troubled. He was jealous even of a sister's love, and looked coldly on the aspiring Julian.

"He must prove himself worthy of Edith," he said. "He must not follow her to Grandison Place, till he can bring credentials, establishing his claims to confidence and regard."

Before we parted at night Edith drew me aside, and told me that her mother had consented to leave the decision of her destiny to time, which would either prove Julian's claims to her love, or convince her that he was unworthy of her regard. He was not permitted to accompany her home; but she was sure he would follow, with testimonials, such as a prince need not blush to own.

"How strange, how very strange it seems," she said, her eyes beaming with that soft and sunny light which comes from the day-spring of the heart, "for me to look forward to a future such as now I see, through a flowery vista of hope and love. How strange, that in so short a time so mighty a change should be wrought! Had Ernest remained single, my heart would have known no vacuum, so entirely did he fill, so exclusively did he occupy it. But since his marriage it has seemed a lonely temple with a deserted shrine. Julian has strewed flowers upon the altar, and their fragrance has perfumed my life. Even if they wither, their odor will remain and shed sweetness over my dying hour."

Sweet, angelic Edith! may no untimely blight fall on thy garland of love, no thorns be found with its glowing blossoms, no canker-worm of jealousy feed on their early bloom.

The morning of our departure, as I looked back where Julian stood, pale and agitated, following the receding form of Edith, with a glance of the most intense emotion, I saw a gentleman approach the pillar against which he was leaning, whose appearance riveted my attention. He was a stranger, who had probably arrived the evening before, and, preoccupied as Julian was, he extended his hand eagerly to meet the grasp of his. He was tall, much taller than Julian, and of a very stately mien. He looked as if he might be in the meridian of life, and yet his hair, originally black, was mingled with snowy locks around the temples, and on the crown of his head. I saw this as he lifted his hat on approaching Julian, with the firm, proud step which indicates intellectual power. What was there about this stranger that haunted me long after the thunders of the cataract had ceased to reverberate on the ear? Where had I seen a countenance and figure resembling his? Why did I feel an irresistible desire to check the rolling wheels that bore me every moment further from that stately form with its crown of living snow?

"How long will you remain in that uncomfortable position?" asked Ernest. The spell was broken. I turned, and met the glance that needed no explanation. This earnest scrutiny of a stranger excited his displeasure; and I did not wonder, when I thought of the strange fascination I had experienced. I blushed, and drew my veil over my face,—resolving henceforth to set a guard over my eyes as well as my lips. It was the first dark-flashing glance I had met since I had left Grandison Place. It was the last expiring gleam of a baleful flame. I knew it must be; and, leaning back in the carriage, I sunk into one of those reveries which I used to indulge in childhood,—when the gates of sunset opened to admit my wandering spirit, and the mysteries of cloud-land were revealed to the dream-girl's eye.