"Gabriella, awake!"

"Mother, is the day dawning?"

"My child, the sun is near his setting; you have slumbered long."

I dreamed it was my mother's voice that awakened me,—then it seemed the voice of Richard Clyde, and I was lying under the great shadow of the oak, where he had found me years before half drowned in tears.

"Gabriella, my dear,—it is time to dress for the evening."

This time I recognized the accents of Mrs. Linwood, and I rose at once to a sitting position, wondering if it were the rising or the declining day that shone around me. Sleep had left its down on my harassed spirits, and its balm on my aching head. I felt languid, but tranquil; and when Mrs. Linwood affectionately but decidedly urged upon me the necessity of rising and preparing to descend to the drawing-room, I submissively obeyed. She must have seen that I had been in tears, but she made no allusion to them. Her manner was unusually kind and tender; but there was an expression in her serene but commanding eye, that bade me rise superior to the weakness that had subdued me. Had her son spoken of the cause of my emotion?

A few moments after, Edith entered, and her mother rejoined her friends below.

Edith held in her hand a fresh bouquet of the most exquisite green-house plants, among which the scarlet geranium exhibited its glowing blossoms. She held it towards me, turned it like a prism in various directions to catch the changing rays, while its odoriferous breath perfumed the whole apartment.

"I am glad you have another, Edith," I said, looking at the wilted flowers on my pillow. "These have fulfilled their mission most sweetly. I have no doubt they inspired soothing dreams, though I cannot remember them distinctly."

"Oh! these are yours," she answered, "sent by a friend who was quite distressed at your absence from the dinner-table. Cannot you guess the donor?"

"It will not require much acuteness," replied I, taking the flowers, and though I could not help admiring their beauty, and feeling grateful for the attention, a shade of regret clouded their welcome; "I have so few friends it is easy to conjecture who thus administers to my gratification."

"Well, who is it? You do not hazard the utterance of the name."

"No one but Richard Clyde would think of giving me a token like this. They are very, very sweet, and yet I wish he had not sent them."

"Ungrateful Gabriella! No one but Richard! A host of common beings melted into one, could not make the equal of the friend who made me the bearer of this charming offering. Is the gift of Ernest greeted with such indifference?"

"Ernest!" I repeated, and the blood bounded in my veins like a stream leaping over a mountain rock. "Is he indeed so kind?"

I bent my head over the beautiful messengers, to hide the joy too deep for words, the gratitude too intense for the gift. As I thus looked down into the heart of the flowers, I caught a glimpse of something white folded among the green leaves. Edith's back was turned as she smoothed the folds of an India muslin dress that lay upon the bed. I drew out the paper with a tremulous hand, and read these few pencilled words:—

"Sweet flower girl of the north! be not cast down. The most noxious wind changes not the purity of marble; neither can an idle breath shake the confidence born of unsullied innocence."

These words pencilled by his own hand, were addressed to me. They were embalmed in fragrance and imbedded in bloom, and henceforth they were engraven on tablets on which the hand of man had never before traced a character, which the whole world might not peruse.

Oh, what magic there was in those little words! Slander had lost its sting, and malice its venom, at least for the present hour. I put the talisman in my bosom and the flowers in water,—for they might fade.

There was no one in the room but Edith and myself. She sat on the side of the bed, a cloud of white fleecy drapery floating over her lap; a golden arrow, the very last in the day, God's quiver darted through the half-open blinds into the clusters of her fair ringlets. She was the most unaffected of human beings, and yet her every attitude was the perfection of grace, as if she sat as a model to the sculptor. I thought there was a shade of sadness on her brow. Perhaps she had seen me conceal the note, and imagined something clandestine and mysterious between me and her brother, that brother whose exclusive devotion had constituted the chief happiness of her life. Though it was a simple note, and the words were few, intended only to comfort and sustain, they were of such priceless value to me, I could not bear that even Edith's eye should become familiar with its contents. But her love and confidence were too dear to be sacrificed to a refinement of romance.

"Dear Edith," said I, putting the note in her hand, and an arm round her neck, "it was a gift of consolation you brought me;" and then I told her all that I had over-heard, and of the exceeding bitterness of my anguish.

"I know it,—mamma and I both know it,—brother told us. I did not speak of it, for you looked as if you had forgotten it after I came in, and I did not wish you to recall it. You must forget it, indeed you must. Such cruel insinuations can never alienate from you the friends who love you. They rather bind you closer to our hearts. Come, we have no time to lose. You know we must assist each other."

I insisted on being her handmaid first, and lingered over her toilet till she literally escaped from my hands and drew behind the lace curtains like a star behind a cloud. Our dresses were alike, as the generous Edith had willed. They were of the most exquisite India muslin, simply but elegantly decorated with the finest of lace. I had never before been arrayed for an evening party, and as the gauzy fulness of drapery fell so softly and redundantly over the form I had been accustomed to see in the sad-colored robes of mourning, I hardly recognized my own lineaments. There was something so light, so ethereal and graceful in the dress, my spirit caught its airiness and seemed borne upwards as on wings of down. I was about to clasp on my precious necklace and bracelets of hair, when observing Edith's beautiful pearl ornaments, corresponding so well with the delicacy and whiteness of her apparel, I laid them aside, resolving to wear no added decoration but the flowers, consecrated as the gift of Ernest.

"Come here, Gabriella, let me arrange that fall of lace behind," said Edith, extending a beautiful arm, on which the pearl-drops lay like dew on a lily. Both arms passed round my neck, and I found it encircled like her own with pearls. Then turning me round, she clasped first one arm, and then the other with fairy links of pearl, and then she flung a roseate of these ocean flowers round my head, smiling all the time and uttering exclamations of delighted admiration.

"Now don't cry, Gabriella dear. You look so cool—so fair—so like a snowdrop glittering with dew. And don't put your arms round my neck, beautiful as they are, quite so close. You will spoil my lace, darling. You must just wear and keep the pearls for the love of me. Mamma sanctions the gift, so you need have no scruples about accepting them. Remember, now, we must have no more diamonds, not one, though of the purest water and sparkling in heaven's own setting."

What could I say, in answer to such abounding kindness? In spite of her prohibition the diamonds would mingle with the pearls; but the sunbeams shone on them both.

What a day had this been to me! It seemed as if I had lived years in the short space of a few hours. I had never felt so utterly miserable, not even over my mother's new made grave. I had never felt so supremely happy,—so buoyant with hope and joy. The flowers of Ernest, the pearls of Edith, came to me with a message as gladdening as that which waked the silver harp-strings of the morning stars. I did not, I dared not misunderstand the meaning of the first. They were sent as balm to a wounded spirit; as breathers of hope to the ear of despair; but it was his hand that administered the balm; his spirit that inspired the strain.

"How radiant you look, Gabriella!" exclaimed Edith, her sweet blue eyes resting on me with affectionate delight. "I am so glad to see you come out of the cloud. Now you justify our pride as well as our affection."

"But I—but all of us look so earthly at your side, Edith"—

"Hush! flatterer—and yet, who would not prefer the beauty of earth, to the cold idealism of spirit loveliness? I have never sought the admiration of men. If I look lovely in the eyes of Ernest, it is all I desire. Perhaps all would not believe me; but you will. I yield you the empire of every heart but his. There, I would not willingly occupy the second place. A strange kind of jealousy, Gabriella; but I am just so weak."

She smiled, nay even laughed,—called herself very weak, very foolish, but said she could not help it. She believed she was the most selfish of human beings, and feared that this was the right hand to be cut off, the right eye to be plucked out. I was pained to hear her talk in this way; for I thought if any one ever gained the heart of Ernest, it would be dearly purchased by the sacrifice of Edith's friendship. But it was only a jesting way of expressing her exceeding love, after all. She was not selfish; she was all that was disinterested and kind.

I followed her down stairs into a blaze of light, that at first dazzled and bewildered me. The chandeliers with their myriad pendants of glittering crystal emitted thousands of brilliant coruscations, like wintry boughs loaded with icicles and sparkling in a noonday sun. While through the open windows, the departing twilight mingled its soft duskiness with the splendors of the mimic day.

Ernest Linwood and Richard Clyde were standing near the entrance of the door to greet us. The former immediately advanced and gave me his arm, and Richard walked by the side of Edith. I heard him sigh as they fell behind us, and my heart echoed the sound. Yet how could he sigh with Edith at his side? As I walked through the illuminated drawing-room, escorted by one on whom the eyes of the fashionable world were eagerly bent, I could not help being conscious of the glances that darted on me from every direction. Ernest Linwood was the loadstar of the scene, and whoever he distinguished by his attention must be conspicuous by association. I felt this, but no embarrassment agitated my step or dyed my cheek with blushes. The deep waters were stirred, stirred to their inmost depths, but the surface was calm and unruffled. Mrs. Linwood was at the head of the room, the centre of an intellectual circle. She was dressed, as usual, in silver gray; but the texture of her dress was the richest satin, shaded by blonde. The effect was that of a cloud with a silver lining, and surely it was a fitting attire for one who knew how to give brightness to the darkest shadows of life.

As we approached her, her countenance lighted up with pride and pleasure. I saw she was gratified by my appearance; that she was not ashamed of her protÉgÉe. Yet as we came nearer, I observed an expression of the most tender anxiety, approaching to sadness, come over her brow. How proud she was of her son! She looked upon him with a glance that would have been idolatry, had not God said, "Thou shalt not make unto thyself idols, for I am a jealous God."

She took my hand, and I saw her eye follow the soft tracery of pearl-flowers that enwreathed neck, arms, and brow. She knew who had thus adorned me, and her approving smile sanctioned the gifts.

"I rejoice to see you look so well, my dear child," she said, "I feared you might lose the enjoyment of the evening; but I see no one who has a brighter prospect before them now."

She introduced me to the friends who surrounded her, and wished to give me a seat near her; but Ernest resisted the movement, and with a smiling bow passed on.

"I am not disposed to release you quite so soon," said he, passing out into the piazza. "I see very plainly that if I relinquish my position it will not be easy to secure it again. I am delighted. I am charmed, Gabriella, to see that you have the firmness to resist, as well as the sensibility to feel. I am delighted, too, to see you in the only livery youth and innocence should wear in a festal scene like this. I abhor the gaudy tinselry which loads the devotees of fashion, indicative of false tastes and false principles; but white and pearls remind me of every thing pure and holy in nature. In the Bible we read of the white robes of angels and saints. Who ever dreamed of clothing them, in imagination, in dark or party-colored garments? In mythology, the graces, the nymphs, and the muses are represented in snowy garments. In spotless white the bride is led to the marriage shrine, and in white she is prepared for the last sublime espousals. Do you know," added he, suddenly changing the theme, as if conscious he was touching upon something too solemn, "why I selected the scarlet geranium for one of the blossoms of your bouquet? The first time I saw you, it glowed in the darkness of your hair like coral in the ocean's heart."

While he was speaking he broke a sprig from the bouquet and placed it in a wave of my hair, behind the band of pearls.

"Earth and ocean bring you their tribute," said he, and "heaven too," he added; for as we passed by the pillars, a moon-beam glided in and laid its silver touch on my brow.

"It is Edith's hand that thus adorned me," I answered, unwilling he should believe I had been consulting my own ambitious taste. "Had I been left to myself, I should have sought no ornament but these beautiful flowers, doubly precious for the feelings of kindness and compassion that consecrated their mission."

"Compassion, Gabriella! I should as soon think of compassionating the star that shines brightest in the van of night. Compassion looks down; kindness implies an equal ground; admiration looks up with the gaze of the astronomer and the worship of the devotee."

"You forget I am but a simple, village rustic. Such exaggerated compliments would suit better the brilliant dames of the city. I would rather a thousand times you would say, 'Gabriella, I do feel kindly towards you,' than utter any thing so formal, and apparently so insincere."

I was really hurt. I thought he was mocking my credulity, or measuring the height and depth of my girlish vanity. I did not want to be compared to a star, a lone and distant star, nor to think of him as an astronomer gazing up at me with telescopic eye. My heart was overflowing with gentle, natural thoughts. I wanted human sympathy, not cold and glittering compliments.

"And do you expect to hear the language of nature here, with the buzz of empty tongues and the echo of unmeaning laughs in the ear; where, if a word of sentiment were over-heard, it would be bandied from lip to lip with hollow mockery? Come with me into the garden, where the flowers blush in their folded leaves, beneath the love-light of yon gentle moon, where the stilly dews whisper sweet thoughts to the listening heart, and I will tell you what I have learned in Grandison Place, under the elm tree's shade, by the flower girl in the library, and from a thousand sources of which you have never dreamed."

He took the hand which rested lightly on his arm, and drawing it closer to his side led the way to the steps of the piazza. I had dreamed of a moment like this in the golden reveries of romance, and imagined it a foretaste of heaven, but now I trembled and hesitated like the fearful fluttering spirit before the opening gates of paradise. I dared not yield to the almost irresistible temptation. No figures were gliding along the solitary paths, no steps were brushing away the dew-stars that had fallen from the sky. We should be alone in the moonlight solitude; but the thoughts of Mrs. Linwood and of Edith would find us out.

"No, no!" I cried, shrinking from the gentle force that urged me forward; "do not ask me now. It would be better to remain where we are. Do you not think so?"

"Certainly, if you wish it," he said, and his voice had an altered tone, like that of a sweet instrument suddenly untuned; "but there is only one now, for those who fear to trust me, Gabriella."

"To trust you,—oh you cannot, do not misunderstand me thus!"

"Why else do you shrink, as if I were leading you to a path of thorns instead of one margined with flowers?"

"I fear the observations of the world, since the bitter lesson of the morning."

"Your fear! You attach more value to the passing remarks of strangers, than the feelings of one who was beginning to believe he had found one pure votary of nature and of truth. It is well. I have monopolized your attention too long."

Calmly and coldly he spoke, and the warm light of his eye went out like lightning, leaving the cloud gloom behind it. I was about to ask him to lead me back to his mother, in a tone as cold and altered as his own, when I saw her approaching us with a lady whom I had observed at the chapel; for her large, black eyes seemed magnetizing me, whenever I met their gaze. She was tall, beyond the usual height of her sex, finely formed, firm and compact as a marble pillar. A brow of bold expansion, features of the Roman contour, clearly cut and delicately marked; an expression of recklessness, independence, and self-reliance were the most striking characteristics of the young lady, whom Mrs. Linwood introduced as Miss Melville, the daughter of an early friend of hers.

"Miss Margaret Melville," she repeated, looking at her son, who stood, leaning with an air of stately indifference against a pillar of the piazza. I had withdrawn my hand from his arm, and felt as if the breadth of the frozen ocean was between us.

"Does Mr. Ernest Linwood forget his old friend so easily?" she asked, in a clear, ringing voice, extending a fair ungloved hand. "Do you not remember Madge Wildfire, or Meg the Dauntless, as the students used to call me? Or have I become so civilized and polished that you do not recognize me?"

"I did not indeed," said he, receiving the offered hand with more grace than eagerness, "but it is not so much the fault of my memory, as the marvellous change in yourself. I must not say improvement, as that would imply that there was a time when you were susceptible of it."

"You may say just what you please, for I like frankness and straightforwardness as well as I ever did; better,—a great deal better, for I know its value more. And you, Ernest, I cannot call you any thing else, you are another and yet the same. The same stately, statue-like being I used to try in vain to teaze and torment. It seems so long since we have met, I expected to have seen you quite bent and hoary with age. Do tell me something of your transatlantic experience."

While she was speaking in that peculiar tone of voice which reminded one of a distant clarion, Richard Clyde came to me on the other side, and seeing that she wished to engage the conversation of Ernest, which she probably thought I had engrossed too long, I took the offered arm of Richard and returned to the drawing-room. Seeing a table covered with engravings, I directed our steps there, that subjects of conversation might be suggested independent of ourselves.

"How exquisite these are!" I exclaimed, taking up the first within my reach and expatiating on its beauties, without really comprehending one with my preoccupied and distant thoughts. "These Italian landscapes are always charming."

"I believe that is a picture of the Boston Common," said he, smiling at my mistake; "but surely no Italian landscape can boast of such magnificent trees and such breadth of verdure. It is a whole casket of emeralds set in the granite heart of a great city. And see in the centre that pure, sparkling diamond, sending out such rays of coolness and delight,—I wonder you did not recognize it."

"I have seen it only in winter, when the trees exhibited their wintry dreariness, and little boys were skating on the diamond surface of that frozen water. It looked very different then."

"Mr. Linwood could explain these engravings," said he, drawing forward some which indeed represented Italian ruins, grand and ivy mantled, where the owl might well assert her solitary domain. "He has two great advantages, an eye enlightened by travel, and a taste fastidious by nature."

"I do not admire fastidiousness," I answered; "I do not like to have defects pointed out to me, which my own ignorance does not discover. There is more pleasure in imagining beauties than in finding out faults."

"Will you think it a presuming question, a too inquisitive one," he said, holding up an engraving between himself and the light, "if I ask your candid opinion of Mr. Linwood? Is the world right in the character it has given? Has he all the peculiarities and fascinations it ascribes to him?"

He spoke in a careless manner, or rather tried to do so, but his eye burned with intense emotion. Had he asked me this question a short time previous, conscious blushes would have dyed my cheeks, for a "murderous guilt shows not itself more soon," than the feelings I attempt to conceal; but my sensibility had been wounded, my pride roused, and my heart chilled. I had discovered within myself a spirit which, like the ocean bark, rises with the rising wave.

"If Mr. Linwood had faults," I answered, and I could not help smiling at the attempted composure and real perturbation of his manner, "I would not speak of them. Peculiarities he may have, for they are inseparable from genius,—fascinations"—here their remembrance was too strong for my assumed indifference, and my sacred love of truth compelled me to utter,—"fascinations he certainly possesses."

"In what do they consist?" he asked. "Beyond an extremely gentlemanly exterior, I do not perceive any peculiar claims to admiration."

Hurt as I had been by Ernest's altered manner, I was disposed to do justice to his merits, and the more Richard seemed desirous to depreciate him, the more I was willing to exalt him. If he was capable of the meanness of envy, I was resolved to punish him. I did him injustice. He was not envious, but jealous; and it is impossible for jealousy and justice ever to go hand in hand.

"In what do they consist?" I repeated. At that moment I saw him through the window, standing just where I had left him, leaning with folded arms against the pillar, with the moonlight shining gloriously on his brow. Miss Melville stood near him, talking with great animation, emphasizing her words with quick, decided gesticulation, while he seemed a passive listener. I had seen handsomer gentlemen, perhaps,—but never one so perfectly elegant and refined in appearance. The pale transparency of his complexion had the purity and delicacy of alabaster without its whiteness, seen by that clear, silvery light.

"In what do they consist? In powers of conversation as rich as they are varied, in versatility of talents, in rare cultivation of mind and polish of manner. Let me see. I must give you a complete inventory of his accomplishments. He reads most charmingly, plays superbly, and sings divinely. Would you know his virtues? He is a most devoted son, a paragon of brothers, and a miracle of a host."

I believe there is a dash of coquetry in every woman's nature. There must have been in mine, or I could not have gone on, watching the red thermometer in Richard's cheek, rising higher and higher, though what I said was truth, unembellished by imagination. It was what they who run might read. I did not speak of those more subtle traits which, were invisible to the common eye, those characters which, like invisible writing, are brought out by a warm and glowing element.

"I am glad to hear you speak so openly in his praise," said Richard, with a brightening countenance; "even if I deserved such a tribute, I should not wish to know that you had paid it to me. I would prize more one silent glance, one conscious blush, than the most labored eulogium the most eloquent lips could utter."

"But I do praise you very much," I answered; "ask Mrs. Linwood, and Edith, and Mr. Regulus. Ask Mr. Linwood himself."

"Never speak of me to him, Gabriella. Let my feelings be sacred, if they are lonely. You know your power; use it gently, exert it kindly."

The smile of assumed gaiety faded from my lips, as his grave, earnest, sincere accents went down into my soul. Could I trifle even for a moment with an affection so true and constant?

Oh, wayward and unappreciating heart! Why could I not return this love, which might have made me so happy? Why was there no spirit-echo to his voice; no quickened pulsations at the sound of his coming footsteps?

"This is no place, Richard, to talk of ourselves, or I would try to convince you that I am incapable of speaking lightly of your feelings, or betraying them to a human being, even to Mrs. Linwood; but let us speak of something else now. Do you not feel very happy that you are free,—no more a slave to hours or rules; free to come and go, when and where you please, with the whole earth to roam in,

"No! I am sad. After being at anchor so long, to be suddenly set drifting, to be the sport of the winds of destiny, the cable chain of habit and association broken, one feels dizzy and bewildered. I never knew till now how strong the classmate bond of union is, how sacred the brotherhood, how binding the tie. We, who have been treading the same path for four long years, must now diverge, east, west, north, and south, the great cardinal points of life. In all human probability we shall never all meet again, till the mysterious problem of our destiny is solved."

He paused, impressed by the solemnity of this idea, then added, in his natural, animated manner.

"There is one hope, Gabriella, to which I have looked forward as the sheet-anchor of my soul; if that fails me, I do not care what becomes of me. Sometimes it has burned so brightly, it has been my morning and evening star, my rising, but unsetting sun. To-night the star is dim. Clouds of doubt and apprehension gather over it. Gabriella,—I cannot live in this suspense, and yet I could not bear the confirmation of my fears. Better to doubt than to despair."

"Richard, why will you persist in talking of what cannot be explained here? Shall we not meet hereafter, and have abundant opportunities for conversation, free and uninterrupted? Look around, and see how differently other people are conversing. How lightly and carelessly their words come and go, mingled with merry laughter! Edith is at the piano. Let us go where we can listen, we cannot do it here."

"I am very selfish!" said he, yielding to my suggestion. "I have promised my classmates to introduce them to you. I see some of them, bending reproachful glances this way. I must redeem my character, so as not to incur disgrace in the parting hour."

Then followed introductions pressing on each other, till I was weary of hearing my own name, Miss Lynn. I never did like to be called Miss. Still it was an unspeakable relief to me, to be released from the necessity of repressing the feelings of others, and guarding my own. It was a relief to hear those unmeaning sayings which are the current coin of society, and to utter without effort the first light thought that came floating on the surface. The rest of the evening I was surrounded by strangers, and the most exacting vanity might have been satisfied with the incense I received. I knew that the protection of Mrs. Linwood gave a prestige to me that would not otherwise have been mine, but I could not help perceiving that Edith, the heiress, all lovely as she was, was not half as much courted and admired as the daughter of the outcast. I was too young, too much of a novice, not to be pleased with the attention I attracted; but when the heart is awakened, vanity has but little power. It is a cold, vapory conceit, that vanishes before the inner warmth and light, which, like the sun in the firmament, "shineth brighter and brighter to the perfect day."

After Edith retired from the instrument there was a buzz, and a sensation, and Miss Melville, or Meg the Dauntless, as I could not help mentally calling her, was escorted to the piano by Ernest. What a contrast she presented to the soft, retiring, ethereal Edith, whose every motion suggested the idea of music! Though her arm was linked in that of Ernest, she walked independently of him, dashing through the company with a brave, military air, and taking a seat as if a flourish of trumpets had heralded her approach. At first I was startled by the loud crash of the keys, as she threw her hands upon them with all her force, laughing at the wild dissonance of the sound; but as she continued, harmony, if not sweetness, rose out of the chaos. She evidently understood the science of music, and enjoyed it too. She did not sing, and while she was playing the most brilliant polkas, waltzes, and variations with the most wonderful execution, she talked and laughed with those around the instrument, or looked round the apartment, and nodded to this one and that, her great black eyes flashing like chain lightning. Her playing seemed to have a magical effect. No one could keep their feet still. Even the dignified president patted his, marking the measure of her prancing fingers. I could have danced wildly myself, for I never heard any thing so inspiring to the animal spirits as those wizard strains. Every countenance was lighted with animation, save one, and that was Ernest's. He stood immovable, pale, cold, and self-involved, like a being from another sphere. I remembered how differently he looked when he wooed me to the garden's moonlight walks, and how the warm and gentle thoughts that then beamed in his eyes seemed frozen and dead, and I wondered if they were extinguished forever.

"How stupid!" exclaimed Miss Melville, suddenly stopping, and turning round on the pivot of the music stool till she commanded a full view of the drawing-room. "I thought you would all be dancing by this time. There is no use in playing to such inanimate mortals. And you," said she, suddenly turning to Ernest, "you remind me of the prince, the enchanted prince in the Arabian Nights, only he was half marble, you are a whole statue. You do not like music. I pity you."

"I have my own peculiar tastes," he answered quietly; "some nerves are more delicately strung than others."

"Do you imply that my playing is too loud for delicate nerves? Why, that is nothing to what I can do. That is my company music. When I am at home I give full scope to my powers."

"We are perfectly satisfied with the specimen we have heard," said he, smiling; how could he help it? and every one laughed, none more heartily than the gay musician herself. I never heard such a laugh before, so merry, so contagious; such a rich, round, ringing laugh; dying away one moment, then bursting out again in such a chorus!

All at once she fixed her eyes on me, and starting up, came directly to me, planting her tall, finely formed, firm-set figure in the midst of the group around me.

"Come, you must play and sing too. I have no doubt your style will suit Mr. Linwood's delicate nerves."

"I never play," I answered.

"Nor sing?"

"Only at home."

"You have a face of music, I am sure."

"Thank you. I have a heart to appreciate it; that is a great gift."

"But why don't you sing and play? How do you expect to pass current in society, without being able to hang on the instrument as I do, or creep over it with mouselike fingers as most young ladies do? I suppose you are very learned—very accomplished? How many languages do you speak?"

"Only two at present," I answered, excessively amused by her eccentricity, and falling into her vein with a facility that quite surprised myself. "I generally find the English tongue sufficient to express my ideas."

"I suppose one of the two is German. You will be considered a mere nobody here, if you do not understand German. It is the fashion; the paroxysm; German literature, German taste, and German transcendentalism; I have tried them all, but they will not do for me. I must have sunshine and open air. I must see where I am going, and understand what I am doing. I abhor mysticism, as I do deceit. Are you frank, Miss Gabriella? You have such a pretty name, I shall take the liberty of using it. Lynn is too short; it sounds like an abbreviation of Linwood."

"If you mean by frankness, a disposition to tell all I think and feel, I am not frank," I answered, without noticing her last remark, which created a smile in others.

"You do not like to hear people express all their thoughts, good, bad, or indifferent?"

"Indeed I do not. I like to have them winnowed before they are uttered."

"Then you will not like me, and I am sorry for it. I have taken an amazing fancy to you. Never mind; I shall take you by storm when we get to Grandison Place. Do you know I am going home with you? Are you not delighted?"

She burst into one of her great, rich laughs, at the sight of my dismayed countenance. I really felt annihilated at the thought. There was something so overpowering, so redundant about her, I expected to be weighed down,—overshadowed. She going to Grandison Place! Alas, what a transformation there would be! Adieu to the quiet walks, the evening readings, the morning flower gatherings; adieu to sentiment and tranquillity, to poetry and romance. Why had Mrs. Linwood invited so strange a guest? Perhaps she was self-invited.

"I tell you what I am going for," she said, bending her face to mine and speaking in a whisper that sounded like a whistle in my ear; "I am going to animate that man of stone. Why have not you done it, juxtaposited as you are? You do not make use of the fire-arms with which nature has supplied you. If I had such a pair of eyes, I would slay like David my tens of thousands every day."

"The difficulty would be in finding victims," I answered. "The inhabitants of the town where I reside do not number more than two or three thousand."

"Oh! I would make it populous. I would draw worshippers from the four points of the earth,—and yet it would be a greater triumph to subdue one proud, hitherto impregnable heart."

Her eyes flashed like gunpowder as she uttered this, sotto voce it is true, but still loud enough to be heard half across the room.

"Goodby," she suddenly exclaimed, "they are beckoning me; I must go; try to like me, precious creature; I shall be quite miserable if you do not."

Then passing her arm round me, an arm firm, polished, and white as ivory, she gave me a loud, emphatic kiss, laughed, and left me almost as much confused as if one of the other sex had taken the same liberty.

"Is she," thought I, "a young man in disguise?"