It was my office to gather and arrange the flowers, to adorn the mansion, in consequence of Edith's lameness. This I did every morning while they were sparkling with dew and the fragrance of night still imprisoned in their folded petals. I delighted in the task; but now I could not help feeling unusual solicitude about my floral mission. I rose earlier than usual, and made fearful havoc in the garden and the green-house. My apron dripped with blossoms every step I took, and the carpet was literally strewed with flowers. The fairest and sweetest were selected for the room not yet occupied; and though one day after another passed away and he came not, the scent of the blossoms lingered in the apartment, and diffusing in it an atmosphere of home love, prepared it for the wanderer's return.

Every afternoon the carriage was sent to the depot, which was several miles from Grandison Place, to meet the traveller, and again and again it returned empty.

"Let us go ourselves," said Mrs. Linwood, beginning to be restless and anxious. And they went—she and Edith. Though it was Saturday and I was free, I did not accompany them, for I felt that a stranger to him should not "intermeddle with their joy."

Partaking of the restlessness of baffled expectation, I could not fix my mind on any occupation. I seated myself in the window recess and began to read, but my eyes were constantly wandering to the road, watching for the dust cloud that would roll before the advancing carriage. Dissatisfied with myself, I strolled out on the lawn, and seating myself on the rustic bench with my back to the gate, resolutely fastened my eyes to the pages I had been vainly fluttering.

Shall I tell how foolish I had been? Though I said to myself a hundred times, "he will not look at me, or notice me at all," I had taken unusual pains with my dress, which though still characterized with the simplicity of mourning, was relieved of its severity of outline. A fall of lace softened the bands of the neck and arms, which were embellished by a necklace and bracelets, which I valued more than any earthly possession. They were the gift of Mrs. Linwood, who, having won from the grave a portion of my mother's beautiful dark hair, had it wrought with exquisite skill, and set in massy gold, as memorials of love stronger than death. Thus doubly precious, I cherished them as holy amulets, made sacred by the living as well as the dead. Edith had woven in my hair some scarlet geraniums, my favorite flower. Though not very elaborately adorned, I had an impression I was looking my best, and I could not help thinking while I sat half veiled by foliage, half gilded by light, how romantic it would be, if a magnificent stranger should suddenly approach and as suddenly draw back, on seeing my dark, waving hair, instead of the golden locks of Edith. I became so absorbed in painting this little scene, which enlarged and glowed under the pencil of imagination, that I did not hear the opening of the gate or footsteps crossing the lawn. I thought a shadow passed over the sunshine. The figure of a stranger stood between me and the glowing west. I started up with an irrepressible exclamation. I knew, at the first glance, that it was Ernest Linwood, the living embodiment of that haunting image, so long drawn on my youthful fancy. I should have known him in the farthest isles of the ocean, from the painting in the library, the descriptions of Edith, and the sketches of my own imagination. His complexion had the pale, transparent darkness of eastern climes, and his eye a kind of shadowy splendor, impossible to describe, but which reminded me at once of his mother's similitude of the "clouded star." He was not above the common height of man, yet he gave me an impression of power and dignity, such as mere physical force could never inspire.

"Is this Grandison Place? my home?" he asked, lifting his hat with gentlemanly grace from his brows. His voice, too, had that cultivated, well-modulated tone, which always marks the gentleman.

"It is, sir," I answered, trying to speak without embarrassment. "Mr. Linwood, I presume."

I thought I had made a mistake in his name, it sounded so strange. I had never heard him called any thing but Ernest Linwood, and Mr. Linwood had such a stiff, formal sound, I was quite disgusted with it.

He again bowed, and looked impatiently towards the house.

"I saw a young female and thought it might be my sister, or I should not have intruded. Shall I find her,—shall I find my mother within?"

"They have gone to meet you,—they have been looking for you these many days; I know not how you have missed them."

"By coming another road. I jumped from the carriage and walked on, too impatient to wait its slow motions in ascending the hill. And they have gone to meet me. They really wish to see me back again!"

He spoke with deep feeling. The home thoughts and affections of years thrilled from his tone. This seemed one of those self-evident truths, that required no confirmation, and I made no answer. I wondered if I ought to ask him to walk in,—him, the master and the heir; whether I should ask him to take a seat on the oaken settee, where he could watch the carriage, ascending the winding hill.

"Do not let me disturb you," he said, looking at me with a questioning, penetrating glance, then added, "am I guilty of the rudeness of not recognizing a former acquaintance, who has passed from childhood to youth, during my years of absence?"

"No, sir," I answered, again wondering if politeness required me to introduce myself. "I am a stranger to you, though for two years your mother's home has been mine. My name is Lynn,—Gabriella Lynn."

I was vexed with myself for this awkward introduction. I did not know what I ought to say, and painful blushes dyed my cheeks. I would not have mentioned my name at all, only, if his mother and sister delayed their coming, he might feel awkward himself, from not knowing what to call me.

"My mother's protÉgÉe!" said he, his countenance lightening as he spoke. "Edith has mentioned you in her letters; but I expected to see a little girl, not the young lady, whom I find presiding genius here."

My self-respect was gratified that he did not look upon me as a child, and there was something so graceful and unostentatious in his air and manner, my self-possession came back without an effort to recall it.

"Will you walk in?" I asked, now convinced it was right.

"Thank you; I am so weary of the confinement of the carriage, I like the freedom of the open air. I like this rich, velvet grass. How beautiful, how magnificent!" he exclaimed, his eye taking in the wide sweep of landscape, here and there darkened with shade, and at intervals literally blazing with the crimson sunlight,—then sweeping on over the swelling mountains, so grand in their purple drapery and golden crowns. "How exquisitely beautiful! My mother could not have selected a lovelier spot,—and these old granite walls! how antique, how classic they are!"

He turned and examined them, with a pleased yet criticizing eye. He walked up and down the velvet lawn with a firm, yet restless step, stopping occasionally to measure with his glance the towering oaks and the gigantic elm. I began to be uneasy at the protracted absence of Mrs. Linwood, and kept my eyes fixed upon the road, whose dark, rich, slatish-colored surface, seen winding through green margins, resembled a stream of deep water, it was so smooth and uniform. I knew how full must be the heart of the traveller. I did not wish to interrupt his meditations even by a look.

We saw it coming,—the family carriage. I saw his pale cheek flush at my joyous exclamation. He moved rapidly towards the gate, while I ran into the house, up stairs and into my own room, that I might not intrude on moments too sacred for curiosity.

In a little while, I could hear the sound of their mingling voices coming up the long flight of marble steps, across the wide piazza, and then they came soft and muffled from the drawing-room below. At first, forgetful of self, I sympathized in their joy. I rejoiced for my benefactress, I rejoiced for the tender and affectionate Edith. But after sitting there a long time alone, and of course forgotten in the rapture of this family reunion, thoughts of self began to steal over and chill the ardor of my sympathetic emotions. I could not help feeling myself a mote in the dazzling sunshine of their happiness. I could not help experiencing, in all its bitterness, the isolation of my own destiny. I remembered the lamentation of the aged and solitary Indian, "that not a drop of his blood flowed in the veins of a living being." So it was with me. To my knowledge, I had not a living relative. Friends were kind,—some were more than kind; but oh! there are capacities for love friends can never fill. There are niches in the temple of the heart made for household gods, and if they are left vacant, no other images, though of the splendor of the Grecian statuary, can remove its desolation. Deep calleth unto deep, and when no answer cometh, the waves beat against the lonely strand and murmur themselves away.

I tried to check all selfish, repining feelings. I tried to keep from envying Edith, but I could not.

"O that I, too, had a brother!"

Was the cry of my craving heart, and it would not be stilled. I wiped away tear after tear, resolving each should be the last, but the fountain was full, and every heaving sigh made it overflow.

At length I heard the sound of Edith's crutches on the stairs, faint and muffled, but I knew it from all other sounds. She could mount and descend the stairs as lightly as a bird, in spite of her infirmity.

"Ah! truant!" she cried, as she opened the door, "you need not think to hide yourself here all night; we want you to come and help us to be happy, for I am so happy I know not what to do."

Her eyes sparkled most brilliantly through those drops of joy, as different to the tears I had been shedding as the morning dew is to December's wintry rain.

"But what are you doing, Gabriella?" she added, sitting down beside me and drawing my hand from my eyes. "In tears! I have been almost crying my eyes out; but you do not look happy. I thought you loved me so well, you would feel happy because I am so. Do you not?"

"You will hate me for my selfishness, dear Edith. I did think of you for a long time, and rejoice in your happiness. Then I began to think how lonely and unconnected I am, and I have been wicked enough to envy your treasures of affection for ever denied to me. I felt as if there was no one to love me in the wide world. But you have remembered me, Edith, even in the depth of your joy, ingrate that I am. Forgive me," said I, passing my arms round her beautiful white neck. "I will try to be good after this."

She kissed me, and told me to bathe my eyes and come right down, her mother said I must. Ernest had inquired what had become of me, and he would think it strange if I hid myself in this way.

"And you have seen him, Gabriella," she cried, and her tongue ran glibly while I plunged my face in a basin of cold water, ashamed of the traces of selfish sorrow. "You have seen my own dear brother Ernest. And only think of your getting the first glimpse of him! What did you think of him? What do you think of him now? Is he not handsome? Is there not something very striking, very attractive about him? Is he not different from any one you ever saw before?"

"There is something very striking in his appearance," I answered, smiling at the number and rapidity of her questions, "but I was so disconcerted, so foolish, I hardly dared to look him in the face. Has he changed since you saw him last?"

"Not much,—rather paler, I think; but perhaps it is only fatigue, or the languor following intense excitement. I feel myself as if all my strength were gone. I cannot describe my sensations when I saw him standing in the open gateway. I let mamma get out first. I thought it was her right to receive the first embrace of welcome; but when he turned to me, I threw myself on his neck, discarding my crutches, and clung to him, just as I used to do when a little, helpless, suffering child. And would you believe it, Gabriella? he actually shed tears. I did not expect so much sensibility. I feared the world had hardened him,—but it has not. Make haste and come down with me. I long to look at him again. Here, let me put back this scarlet geranium. You do not know how pretty it looks. Brother said—no—I will not tell you what he said. Yes, I will. He said he had no idea the charming young girl, with such a classic face and aristocratic bearing, was mother's little protÉgÉe."

"You asked him, Edith, I know you did."

"Supposing I did,—there was no harm in it. Come, I want you to see mamma; she looks so young and handsome. Joy is such a beautifier."

"I think it is," said I, as I gazed at her star-bright eyes and blush-rose cheeks. We entered the drawing-room together, where Ernest was seated on the sofa by his mother, with her hand clasped in his. Edith was right,—she did look younger and handsomer than I had ever seen her. She was usually pale and her face was calm. Now a breeze had stirred the waters, and the sunshine quivered on the rippling surface.

They rose as we entered, and came forward to meet us. My old trepidation returned. Would Mrs. Linwood introduce me,—and if she did, in what manner? Would there be any thing in her air or countenance to imply that I was a dependent on her bounty, rather than an adopted daughter of the household? Hush,—these proud whispers. Listen, how kindly she speaks.

"My dear Gabriella, this is my son, Ernest. You know it already, and he knows that you are the child of my adoption. Nevertheless, I must introduce you to each other."

Surprised and touched by the maternal kindness of her manner, (I ought not to have been surprised, for she was always kind,) I looked up, and I know that gratitude and sensibility passed from my heart to my eyes.

"I must claim the privilege of an adopted brother," said he, extending his hand, and I thought he smiled. Perhaps I was mistaken. His countenance had a way of suddenly lighting up, which I learned to compare to sunshine breaking through clouds. The hand in which he took mine was so white, so delicately moulded, it looked as if it might have belonged to a woman,—but he was a student, the heir of wealth, not the son of labor, the inheritor of the primeval curse. It is a trifle to mention,—the hand of an intellectual man,—but I had been so accustomed to the large, muscular fingers of Mr. Regulus, which seemed formed to wield the weapon of authority, that I could not but notice the contrast.

How pleasantly, how delightfully the evening passed away! I sat in my favorite recess, half shaded by the light drapery of the window; while Ernest took a seat at his mother's side, and Edith occupied a low ottoman at his feet. One arm was thrown across his lap, and her eyes were lifted to his face with an expression of the most idolizing affection. And all the while he was talking, his hand passed caressingly over her fair flaxen hair, or lingered amidst its glistering ringlets. It was a beautiful picture of sisterly and fraternal love,—the fairest I had ever seen. The fairest! it was the first, the only one. I had never realized before the exceeding beauty and holiness of this tender tie. As I looked upon Edith in her graceful, endearing attitude, so expressive of dependence and love, many a sentence descriptive of a brother's tenderness floated up to the surface of memory. I remembered part of a beautiful hymn,—

The Saviour of mankind called himself our brother,—stamping with the seal of divinity the dear relationship.

I had imagined I felt for Richard Clyde a sister's regard. No, no! Cold were my sentiments to those that beamed in Edith's upturned eyes.

Ernest described his travels, his life abroad, and dwelt on the peculiarities of German character, its high, imaginative traits, its mysticism and superstition, till his tongue warmed into enthusiasm,—and one of his hearers at least felt the inspiration of his eloquence. His mother had said he was reserved! I began to think I did not know the right meaning of the word. If he paused and seemed about to relapse into silence, Edith would draw a long breath, as if she had just been inhaling some exhilarating gas, and exclaim,—

"Oh! do go on, brother; it is so long since we have heard you talk; it is such a luxury to hear a person talk, who really says something."

"I never care about talking, unless I do have something to say," he answered, "but I think I have monopolized attention long enough. As a guest, I have a right to be entertained. Have you forgotten my love for music, Edith?"

"O no! I remember all your favorite airs, and have played them a thousand times at least. Do you wish to hear me now?"

"Certainly, I do; I have heard nothing so sweet as your voice, dear Edith, since I heard your last parting song."

He rose and moved the harp forward, and seated her at the instrument.

"Does not Miss Lynn play?" he asked, running his fingers carelessly over the glittering strings.

"Who is Miss Lynn?" repeated Edith, with a look of inquiry.

I laughed at her surprise and my own. It was the first time I had ever heard myself called so, and I looked round involuntarily to see who and where "Miss Lynn" was.

"Oh, Gabriella!" cried Edith, "I did not know whom you meant. I assure you, brother, there is no Miss Lynn here; it is Gabriella—our Gabriella—that is her name; you must not call her by any other."

"I shall be happy to avail myself of the privilege of uttering so charming a name. Does Miss Gabriella play?"

"No, no, that is not right yet, Ernest; you must drop the Miss. Do not answer him, Gabriella, till he knows his lesson better."

"Does Gabriella play?"

The name came gravely and melodiously from his tongue. The distance between us seemed wonderfully diminished by the mere breathing my Christian name.

"I do not," I answered, "but my love of music amounts to a passion. I am never so happy as when listening to Edith's voice and harp."

"She has never taken lessons," said Edith; "if she had, she would have made a splendid musician, I am confident she would. Dear mother, when we go to the city next winter, Gabriella must go with us, and she must have music-masters, and we will play and sing together. She has taught in that old academy long enough, I am sure she has."

"I think Gabriella has been taking some very important lessons herself, while teaching in the old academy, which chances to be quite new, at least her part of it," answered Mrs. Linwood; "but I have no intention of suffering her to remain there too long; she has borne the discipline admirably."

As I turned a grateful glance to Mrs. Linwood, my heart throbbing with delight at the prospect of emancipation, I met the eyes, the earnest, perusing eyes of her son. I drew back further into the shadow of the curtain, but the risen moon was shining upon my face, and silvering the lace drapery that floated round me. Edith whispered something to her brother, glancing towards me her smiling eyes, then sweeping her fingers lightly over the harp-strings, began one of the songs that Ernest loved.

Sweetly as she always sang, I had never heard her sing so sweetly before. It seemed indeed "Joy's ecstatic trial," so airily her fingers sparkled over the chords, so clearly and cheerily she warbled each animated note.

"I know you love sad songs best, Ernest, but I cannot sing them to-night," she said, pushing the instrument from her.

"There is a little German air, which I think I may recollect," said he, drawing the harp towards him.

"You, Ernest!" cried Edith and his mother in the same breath, "you play on the harp!"

He smiled at their astonishment.

"I took lessons while in Germany. A fellow-student taught me,—a glorious musician, and a native of the land of music,—Italy. There, the very atmosphere breathes of harmony."

The very first note he called forth, I felt a master's touch was on the chords, and leaning forward I held my breath to listen. The strains rose rich and murmuring like an ocean breeze, then died away soft as wave falls on wave in the moonlight night. He sang a simple, pathetic air, with such deep feeling, such tender, passionate emotion, that tears involuntarily moistened my eyes. All the slumbering music of my being responded. It was thus I could sing,—I could play,—I knew I could. And when he rose and resumed his seat by his mother, I could scarcely restrain myself from touching the same chords,—the chords still quivering from his magic hand.

"O brother!" exclaimed Edith, "what a charming surprise! I never heard any thing so thrillingly sweet! You do not know how happy you have made me. One more,—only one more,—Ernest."

"You forget your brother is from a long and weary journey, Edith, and we have many an evening before us, I trust, of domestic joy like this," said Mrs. Linwood, ringing for the night-lamps. "To-morrow is the hallowed rest-day of the Lord, and our hearts, so long restless from expectation, will feel the grateful calm of assured happiness. One who returns after a long journey to the bosom of home, in health and safety, has peculiar calls for gratitude and praise. He should bless the God of the traveller for having given his angels charge concerning him, and shielding him from unknown dangers. You feel all this, my son."

She looked at him with an anxious, questioning glance. She feared that the mysticism of Germany might have obscured the brightness of his Christian faith.

"I am grateful, my mother," he answered with deep seriousness, "grateful to God for the blessings of this hour. This has been one of the happiest evenings of my life. Surely it is worth years of absence to be welcomed to such a home, and by such pure, loving hearts,—hearts in which I can trust without hypocrisy and without guile."

"Believe all hearts true, my son, till you prove them false."

"Faith is a gift of heaven, not an act of human will," he replied. Then I remembered what Richard Clyde had said of him, and I thought of it again when alone in my chamber.

Edith peeped in through the door that divided our rooms.

"Have we not had a charming evening?" she asked.

"Yes, very," I answered.

"How fond you are of that little adverb very," she exclaimed with a laugh; "you make it sound so expressively. Well, is not Ernest very interesting?"

"Very."

"The most interesting person you ever saw?"

"You question me too closely, Edith. It will not do for me to speak as extravagantly as you do. I am not his sister, and the praise that falls so sweetly from your tongue, would sound bold and inappropriate from mine. I never knew before how strong a sister's love could be, Edith. Surely you can never feel a stronger passion."

"Never," she cried earnestly, and coming in, she sat down on the side of the bed and unbound the ribbon from her slender waist. "The misfortune that has set me apart from my youthful companions will prevent me from indulging in the dreams of love. I know my mother does not wish me to marry, and I have never thought of the possibility of leaving her. I would not dare to give this frail frame and too tenderly indulged heart into the keeping of one who could never, never bestow the love, the boundless love, which has surrounded me from infancy, like the firmament of heaven. I have been sought in marriage more than once, it might be for reputed wealth or for imagined charms; but when I compared my would-be lovers to Ernest, they faded into such utter insignificance, I could scarcely pardon their presumption. I do not think he has ever loved himself. I do not think he has ever seen one worthy of his love. I believe it would kill me, Gabriella, to know that he loved another better than myself."

For the first time I thought Edith selfish, and that she carried the romance of sisterly affection too far.

"You wish him, then, to be an old bachelor!" said I, smiling.

"Oh! don't apply to him such a horrid name. I did not think of that. Good night, darling. Mamma would scold me, if she knew I was up talking nonsense, instead of being in bed and asleep, like a good, obedient child." She kissed me and retired but it was long before I fell asleep.