As soon as I reached my chamber, I threw myself on my bed, which seemed to roll beneath me with a billowy motion. Never had I felt so strangely, so wildly. Confused images crowded through my brain. I moved on an undulating surface. Now, it was the swelling and sinking of the blue gray waves of ocean,—then, the heaving green of the churchyard, billows of death, over which the wind blew damp and chill. I had left the lamp unextinguished, where its light reflected the rosy red of the curtains, and that became a fiery meteor shooting through crimson clouds, and leaving a lurid track behind it.

I sat up in bed; frightened at the wild confusion of my brain, I passed my hands over my eyes to remove the illusion, but in vain. The massy wardrobe changed to the rocky walls of the Rip Raps, and above it I saw the tall form of the white-locked chief. The carpet, with its clusters of mimic flowers, on a pale gray ground, was a waste of waters, covered with roses, among which St. James was swimming and trying to grasp them.

"What is the matter?" I cried, clasping my burning hands. "Am I asleep, and are these images but the visions of a feverish imagination?"

"You dream, my love," answered the low, deep voice of Ernest; "but my mother is coming to awaken you with a cold and icy hand. I have scattered roses over you while you slept, but her blighting touch has withered them."

Thus vision after vision succeeded each other, hurrying along like clouds in a tempestuous sky. I suppose I must have slept at last, but the morning found me in a state of utter exhaustion. Nervous excitement, sitting so long on the damp grass, and lingering out in the dewy evening air, brought on an illness which confined me to my bed many days. Dr. Harlowe threatened to put me in a strait-jacket and send me to a lunatic asylum, if I did not behave better in future.

"I must take you home with me," he said; "our quiet, humdrum mode of life is better for you, after all. Your little rocking chair stands exactly where you used to sit in it. I do not like to see any one else occupy it. I get in disgrace with my wife every day, now you are not by me to hang up my hat and remind me by a glance to shake the dust from my feet. Such a quick pulse as this will never do, my child."

For a week I was kept in a darkened room, and perfect quietude was commanded. The doctor came every day, and sometimes several times a day, with his smiling, sunny countenance, and anxious, affectionate heart. Mrs. Linwood and Edith stole gently in and out, with steps soft as falling snowflakes, and Margaret Melville was not permitted to enter at all. Every morning fresh flowers were laid upon my pillow, which I knew were gathered by the hand of Ernest, and they whispered to me of such sweet things my languid senses ached to hear them.

One day, while in this passive, languishing, dreamy condition, having fallen into tranquil slumbers, I was left a few moments alone. I was awakened by a stronger touch than that of Edith's fairy hand.

"Why, how do you do, darling? How do you do?" cried a hearty, gay voice, that echoed like a bugle in the stillness of the room. "The doctor said you were getting well, and I determined I would not be kept out any longer. What in the world do they banish me for? I am the best nurse in the universe, strong as a lion, and wakeful as an owl. What do they shut you up in this dark room for?—just to give you the blues!—It is all nonsense. I am going to put back these curtains, and let in some light,—you will become etiolated. I want to see how you look."

Dashing at the curtains, she tossed two of them back as high as she could throw them, letting in a flood of sunshine to my weak and dazzled eyes.

"Don't! don't!" I entreated, getting dreadfully nervous and agitated; "I cannot bear it,—indeed I cannot."

"Yes you can; you will be better in a moment,—it is only coming out of darkness into marvellous light,—a sudden change, that is all. You do look white,—white, delicate, and sweet as a water-lily. I have a great mind to invite Ernest up to see you, you look so interesting. He has been like a distracted man, a wandering Jew, an unlaid ghost, ever since you have been ill. And poor Richard Clyde comes every night to inquire after you, with such a woebegone countenance. And that great, ugly, magnificent creature of a teacher, he has been too,—you certainly are a consequential little lady."

Thus she rattled on, without dreaming of the martyrdom she was inflicting on my weakened nerves.

"I have no doubt you mean to be kind," said I, ready to cry from weakness and irritation; "but if you will only drop the curtains and leave me, I will be so very grateful."

"There—the curtains are down. I am not going to speak another word—I am a perfect lamb—I will bathe your head with cologne, and put you to sleep nicely."

Stepping across the room, as she thought, very softly, but making more noise than Edith would in a week, she seized a bottle of cologne, and coming close to the bedside, bent over me, so that her great, black eyes almost touched mine. Had they been a pair of pistols, I could not have recoiled with greater terror.

"Don't!" again I murmured,—"I am very weak."

"Hush! I am going to put you to sleep."

Pouring the cologne in her hand, till it dripped all over the counterpane and pillow, she deluged my hair, and patted my forehead as she would a colt's that she wanted to stand still. In mute despair I submitted to her tender mercies, certain I should die, if some one did not come to my relief, when the door softly opened, and Mrs. Linwood entered.

"Heaven be praised," thought I,—I had not strength to say it. Tears of weariness and vexation were mingling with the drops with which she had saturated my hair.

"Margaret," said Mrs. Linwood, in a tone of serious displeasure, "what have you been doing? I left her in a sweet sleep, and now I find her wan, tearful, and agitated. You will worry her into a relapse."

"All she needs now is cheerful company, I am sure," she answered demurely; "you all make her so tender and baby-like, she never will have any strength again. I've been as soft as a cooing dove. Dr. Harlowe would have been delighted with me."

"You must go, Margaret, indeed you must. You may think yourself a dove, but others have a different opinion."

"Going, going, gone!" she cried, giving me a vehement kiss and vanishing.

The consequence of this energetic visit was a relapse; and Dr. Harlowe was as angry as his nature admitted when he learned the cause.

"That wild-cat must not remain here," said he, shaking his head. "She will kill my gentle patient. Where did you find her, Mrs. Linwood? From what menagerie has she broken loose?"

"She is the daughter of an early and very dear friend of mine," replied Mrs. Linwood, smiling; "a very original and independent young lady, I grant she is."

"What in the world did you bring her here for?" asked the doctor bluntly; "I intend to chain her, while my child is sick."

"She wished to make a visit in the country, and I thought her wild good-humor would be a counterpoise to the poetry and romance of Grandison Place."

"You have other more attractive and tractable guests. You will not object to my depriving you for a short time of her. May I invite her home with me?"

"Certainly,—but she will not accept the invitation. She is not acquainted with Mrs. Harlowe."

"That makes no difference,—she will go with me, I am positive."

They conversed in a low tone in one of the window recesses, but I heard what they said; and when Mrs. Linwood afterwards told me that Meg the Dauntless had gone off with the doctor in high glee, I was inexpressibly relieved, for I had conceived an unconquerable terror of her. There was other company in the house, as Edith had prophesied, but in a mansion so large and so admirably arranged, an invalid might be kept perfectly quiet without interfering with the social enjoyment of others.

I was slowly but surely recovering. At night Edith had her harp placed in the upper piazza, and sang and played some of her sweetest and most soothing strains. Another voice, too, mingled at times with the breeze-like swelling of the thrilling chords, and a hand whose master-touch my spirit recognized, swept the trembling strings.

How long it seemed since I had stood with him under the shade of the broad elm-tree! With what fluctuating emotions I looked forward to meeting him again!

At length the doctor pronounced me able to go down stairs.

"I am going to keep the wild-cat till you are a little stronger," he said. "She has made herself acquainted with the whole neighborhood, and keeps us in a state of perpetual mirth and excitement. What do you think she has done? She has actually made Mr. Regulus escort her on horseback into the country, and says she is resolved to captivate him."

I could not help laughing at the idea of my tall, awkward master, a knight-errant to this queen of the amazons.

"How would you like to be supplanted by her?" he mischievously asked.

"As an assistant teacher?"

"As an assistant for life. Poor Regulus! he was quite sick during your absence; and when I accused him of being in love, the simple-hearted creature confessed the fact and owned the soft impeachment. I really feel very sorry for him. He has a stupendous heart, and a magnificent brain. You ought to have treated him better. He would be to you a tower of strength in the day of trouble. Little girl, you ought to be proud of such a conquest."

"It filled me with sorrow and shame," I answered, "and had he not himself betrayed the secret, it never would have been known. It seemed too deep a humiliation for one whom I so much respected and revered, to bow a supplicant to me. You do not know how unhappy it made me."

"You must get hardened to these things, Gabriella. As you seem to be quite a dangerous young lady, destined to do great havoc in the world, it will not do to be too sensitive on the subject. But remember, you must not dispose of your heart without consulting me. And at any rate, wait three years longer for your judgment to mature."

The conscious color rose to my cheek. He took my hand, and placed his fingers on my throbbing pulse.

"Too quick, too quick," said he, looking gravely in my face. "This will never do. When I bring the wild-cat back, I mean to carry you off. It will do you good to stay a while with my good, methodical, unromantic wife. I can take you round to visit my patients with me. I have a new buggy, larger than the one in which we had such a famous ride together."

The associations connected with that ride were so sad, I wished he had not mentioned it; yet the conversation had done me good. It kept me from dwelling too exclusively on one engrossing subject.

"Now give me your arm," said the doctor, "and let me have the privilege of escorting you down stairs."

As we descended, he put his arm round me, for I was weaker than he thought I was, and my knees bent under me.

"We doctors ought not to have jealous wives, my dear, ought we? My dear, good woman has not one particle of jealousy in her composition. She never looks after my heart; but keeps a wonderfully sharp eye on my head and feet. A very sensible person, Mrs. Harlowe is."

There was intentional kindness in this apparent levity. He saw I was agitated, and wished to divert my thoughts. Perhaps he read more deeply than I imagined, for those who seem to glance lightly on the surface of feeling only, often penetrate to its depths.

The drawing-room was divided by folding doors, which were seldom closed, and in the four corners of each division were crimson lounges, of luxurious and graceful form. Company generally gathered in the front part, but the backroom was equally pleasant, as it opened into the flower-garden through a balcony shaded by vines.

"Come in here, and rest awhile," said the doctor, leading me into the back parlor; "it will be a pleasant surprise to Mrs. Linwood. I did not tell her I was going to bring you down."

As we entered, I saw Ernest Linwood half reclining on a lounge with a book in his hand, which hung listlessly at his side. As he looked up, his pale face lighted suddenly and brilliantly as burning gas. He rose, threw down his book, came hastily forward, took my hand, and drawing it from the doctor's arm, twined it round his own.

"How well you look!" he exclaimed. "Dr. Harlowe, we owe you ten thousand thanks."

"This is a strange way of showing it," said the doctor, looking round him with a comical expression, "to deprive me of my companion, and leave me as lonely as Simon Stylites on the top of his pillar."

Mrs. Linwood and Edith, who had seen our entrance, came forward and congratulated me on my convalescence. It was the first time I had ever been ill, and the pleasure of being released from durance was like that of a weary child let loose from school. I was grateful and happy. The assurance I received from the first glance of Ernest, that what his mother had promised to reveal had made no change in his feelings; that the love, which I had almost begun to think an illusion of my own brain, was a real existing passion, filled me with unspeakable joy. The warnings of Mrs. Linwood had no power to weaken my faith and hope. Had she not told me that her love had died? I felt that mine was immortal.

The impression made by my mother's sad history was still too fresh and deep, and too much of the languor of indisposition still clung to me to admit of my being gay; but it was pleasant to hear the cheerful laugh and lively conversation, showing that the tide of social life ran clear and high. Several new guests had arrived, whom I had not seen before, to whom I was introduced; but as Dr. Harlowe commanded me to be a good girl and remain quietly in a corner, a passing introduction limited the intercourse of the evening.

Just as the doctor was taking leave, a loud, merry ha, ha! came leaping up the steps, followed by the amazonian form of Madge Wildfire, leaning on the arm of Mr. Regulus.

"Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" exclaimed Ernest.

"Shade of Esculapius!" cried the doctor, recoiling from the threshold.

"Glad to see me? I know you are. Taken you all by storm. Found this gentleman wandering like a troubled spirit by the way-side, and pressed him into service. I shall make a gallant knight of him yet, My dear soul!" she cried, spying me out and rushing towards me, "I am so glad to see you here, escaped from the ruthless hands of the doctor. I never saw such a despot in my life, except one;" here she looked laughingly and defiantly at Ernest,—"he would out-Nero Nero himself, if he had the opportunity."

"If I were the autocrat of Russia I would certainly exercise the right of banishment," he answered quietly.

During this sportive encounter, Mr. Regulus came up to greet me. I had not seen him since our memorable interview in the academy, and his sallow face glowed with embarrassment. I rose to meet him, anxious to show him every mark of respect and esteem. I asked him to take a seat on the sofa by me, and ventured to congratulate him on the exceedingly entertaining acquaintance he had made.

"A very extraordinary young lady," he cried, "amazingly merry, and somewhat bold. I had not the most remote idea of coming here, when I left home; but suddenly I found her arm linked in mine, and was told that I must escort her nolens volens."

"Indeed! I thought you came to inquire after my health, and was feeling so grateful!"

"I did not know I should have the pleasure of seeing you, and I did not hope you would welcome me with so much cordiality. I have made many inquiries after you; indeed, I have scarcely thought of any thing else since you were ill. You look pale, Gabriella. Are you sure you are quite well, my child?"

The old endearing epithet! It touched me.

"I do not feel strong enough to move Mount Atlas, but well enough to enjoy the society of my friends. I never appreciated it so highly before."

"You have no idea how I miss you," he said, taking my fan and drawing his thumb over it, as if he were feeling the edge of his ferula. "The season of summer lingers, but the flowers no longer bloom for me. The birds sing, but their notes have lost their melody. My perception of the beautiful has grown dim, but the remembrance of it can never fade. I never knew before what the pleasures of memory truly were."

"I recollect a copy you once set me, Mr. Regulus,—'Sweet is the memory of absent friends,'—I thought it such a charming one!"

"Do you remember that?" he asked, with a delighted countenance.

"Yes! I remember all the copies you ever set me. Teachers should be very careful what sentiments they write, for they are never forgotten. Don't you recollect how all the pupils once laughed at a mistake in punctuation of mine? The copy was, 'Hate not, but pity the wicked, as well as the poor.' As the line was not quite filled, you added Gabriella, after making a full period. I forgot the stop and wrote, 'Hate not, but pity the wicked, as well as the poor Gabriella.' The ridicule of the scholars taught me the importance of punctuation. Our mistakes are our best lessons, after all."

"And do you remember these trifles?" he repeated. "How strange! It shows you have the heart of a child still. I love to hear you recall them."

"I could fill a volume with these reminiscences. I believe I will write one, one of these days, and you shall be the hero."

A merry altercation at the door attracted our attention. Dr. Harlowe was endeavoring to persuade Madge to go back with him, but she strenuously refused.

"I never could stay more than ten days at a time in one place in my life. Besides, I have worn out my welcome, I know I have. Your house is not new. It jars too much when I walk. I saw Mrs. Harlowe looking ruefully at some cracked glass and china, and then at me, as much as to say, 'It is all your doings, you young romp.'"

"Very likely," cried the doctor, laughing heartily, "but it only makes me more anxious to secure you. You are a safety-valve in the house. All my misdemeanors escape unreproved in the presence of your superior recklessness."

I never saw any one enjoy a jest more than Dr. Harlowe. He really liked the dashing and untamable Madge. He was fond of young companions; and though his wife was such a superior woman, and such an incomparable housekeeper, there was nothing very exhilarating about her.

"I can't go," said Madge; "I must stay and take care of Gabriella."

"If you play any of your wild pranks on her again," said the doctor, "it were better for you that you had never been born."

With this threat he departed; and it seemed as if a dozen people had been added to the household in the person of the dauntless Meg. I never saw any one with such a flow of animal spirits, with so much oxygen in their composition. I should think the vital principle in such a constitution would burn out sooner than in others, like a flame fed by alcohol. She was older than myself, and yet had no more apparent reflection than a child of five years old. It was impossible to make her angry. The gravest rebuke, the most cutting sarcasm, were received with a merry twinkle of the eye or a rich swell of laughter. She was bold, masculine, wild, and free, and I feared her as much as I would the wild-cat, after whom the doctor had christened her,—yet there was something about her that I liked. It was probably the interest she professed in me, which must have been genuine. It was impossible for her to affect any thing.

Who would dream of any one sporting with such a man as Mr. Regulus? Yet she treated him exactly as if he were a great boy. He had paid us his parting salutations, and was half-way down the steps before she was aware of his intended departure.

"You are not going so soon, indeed you are not," she exclaimed, running after him, seizing his hat, and setting it jauntily on her own head. Her abundant hair prevented it from falling over her face. "I brought you here to stay all the evening; and stay you must and shall. What do you want to go back to your musty old bachelor's room for, when there is such delightful company here?"

Taking hold of his arm and whirling him briskly round, she led him back into the parlor, laughing and triumphant.

She looked so saucy, so jaunty, so full of nerve and adventure, with the large hat pitched on one side of her head, I could not help saying,—

"What a pity she were not a man!"

Mr. Regulus did not appear as awkward as might be supposed. There was a latent spark of fun and frolic in his large brain, to which her wild hand applied the match; and though I know he felt the disappointment of his affections sorely, deeply, he yielded himself to her assault with tolerable grace and readiness.

Supper was always an unceremonious meal, sent round on waiters, from a round table in the back parlor, at which Mrs. Linwood presided. Gentlemen took their cups standing or walking, just as it happened; and ladies, too, though they were generally seated. Ernest drew a light table to the lounge where I sat; and sitting by me, said, as I was an invalid, I should be peculiarly favored.

"Methinks she is not the only favored one," said the sweet voice of Edith, as she floated near.

"There is room for you, dear Edith," said I, moving closer to the arm of the sofa, and leaving a space for her between us.

"Room on the sofa, Edith," added he, moving towards me, and making a space for her on his right, "and tenfold room in my heart."

He took her hand and drew her down to his side.

"This is as it should be," he said, looking from one to the other with a radiant countenance. "Thus would I ever bind to my heart the two loveliest, dearest, best."

Edith bent her head, and kissed the hand which held hers. As she looked up I saw that her eyes were glistening.

"What would mamma say?" she asked, trying to conceal her emotion. "Surely there can be none dearer and better than she is."

"Nay, Edith," said he, passing his arm tenderly round her waist; "you might as well say, if I singled out two bright, especial stars from the firmament, that I did not think the moon fair or excellent. The love I bear my mother is so exalted by reverence, it stands apart by itself like the queen of night, serene and holy, moving in a distinct and lofty sphere. There is one glory of the sun, Edith, and another glory of the moon, and one star differeth from another in glory. Yet they are all glorious in themselves, and all proclaim the goodness and glory of the Creator."

"I have heard it said," observed Edith, in a low, tremulous tone, "that when love takes possession of the heart, the natural affections have comparatively little strength; that it is to them as is the ocean to its tributaries. I know nothing of it by experience, nor do I wish to, if it has power to diminish the filial and sisterly tenderness which constitutes my chief joy."

"My dear Edith, it is not so. Every pure and generous affection expands the heart, and gives it new capacities for loving. Have you not heard of heaven,—'the more angels the more room?' So it is with the human heart. It is elastic, and enlarges with every lawful claimant to be admitted into its sanctuary. It is true there is a love which admits of no rivalry;" here his eye turned involuntarily to me, "which enshrines but one object, which dwells in the inner temple, the angel of angels. But other affections do not become weaker in consequence of its strength. We may not see the fire-flame burn as brightly when the sun shines upon it, but the flame is burning still."

"Gabriella does not speak," said Edith, with an incredulous wave of her golden locks. "Tell me, Gabriella, are his words true?"

"I am not a very good metaphysician," I answered, "but I should think the heart very narrow, that could accommodate only those whom Nature placed in it. It seems to me but a refined species of selfishness."

The color crimsoned on Edith's fair cheek. I had forgotten what she had said to me of her own exclusive affection. I sympathized so entirely in his sentiments, expressed with such beautiful enthusiasm, I forgot every thing else. The moment I had spoken, memory rebuked my transient oblivion. She must believe it an intentional sarcasm. How could I be so careless of the feelings of one so gentle and so kind?

"I know I am selfish," she said. "I have told you my weakness,—sin it may be,—and I deserve the reproach."

"You cannot think I meant it as such. You know I could not. I had forgotten what I have heard you previously utter. I was thinking only of the present. Forgive me, Edith, for being so thoughtless and impulsive; for being so selfish myself."

"I am wrong," said Edith, ingenuously. "I suppose conscience applied the words. Brother, you, who are the cause of the offence, must make my peace."

"It is already made," answered I, holding out my hand to meet hers; "if you acquit me of intentional wrong, I ask no more."

As our hands united before him, he clasped them both in one of his own.

"A triune band," said he, earnestly, "that never must be broken. Edith, Gabriella, remember this. Love each other now, love each other forever, even as I love ye both."

I was sensitive and childish from recent indisposition, or I should have had more self-control. I could not prevent the tears from rushing to my eyes and stealing down my cheeks. As we were sitting by ourselves, in a part of the room less brilliantly lighted than the rest, and as we all conversed in a low voice, this little scene was not conspicuous, though it might have possibly been observed.

Those in the front room seemed exceedingly merry. Madge had placed a table before herself and Mr. Regulus, in imitation of Ernest, and had piled his plate with quantities of cake, as high as a pyramid. A gay group surrounded the table, that seemed floating on a tide of laughter; or rather making an eddy, in 'which their spirits were whirling.'

As soon as supper was over, she told Mr. Regulus to lead her to the piano, as she was literally dying to play. There was no instrument at Dr. Harlowe's but a jew's-harp, and the tongue of that was broken. As she seated herself at the piano, Mr. Regulus reached forward and took up a violin which was lying upon it.

"Do you play?" she asked eagerly.

"I used to play a good deal when a boy, but that was a long time ago," he answered, drawing the bow across the strings with no unskilful hand.

"Delightful, charming!" she exclaimed. "Can you play 'Come, haste to the wedding?'"

He replied by giving the inspiring air, which she accompanied in her wild, exciting manner, laughing and shaking her head with irrepressible glee. I was astonished to see my dignified tutor thus lending himself for the amusement of the evening. I should have thought as soon of Jupiter playing a dancing tune, as Mr. Regulus. But he not only played well, he seemed to enjoy it. I was prepared now, to see him on the floor dancing with Madge, though I sincerely hoped he would not permit himself to be exhibited in that manner. Madge was resolved upon this triumph, and called loudly to Edith to come and take her place at the instrument, and play the liveliest waltz in the universe for her and Mr. Regulus.

"Thank you, Miss Melville," said he, laying down his violin and resuming his usual grave and dignified manner, "I am no dancing bear."

"Come, Mr. Regulus, I have no doubt you dance as charmingly as you play. Besides, you would not be so ungallant as to refuse a lady's request."

"Not a lady-like request," he answered, with a shrewd cast of the eye under his beetling brows.

This sarcasm was received with acclamation; but Meg lifted her brow as dauntless as ever and laughed as loudly.

I began to feel weary of mirth in which I could not sympathize. Mrs. Linwood came to me, and saying I looked pale and wan, insisted upon my retiring. To this I gladly assented. The little misunderstanding between Edith and myself weighed heavily on my spirits, and I longed to be alone.

Just as we were crossing the hall of entrance, Richard Clyde came in. He greeted me with so much feeling, such earnest, unaffected pleasure, yet a pleasure so chastened by sensibility, I realized, perhaps for the first time, the value of the heart I had rejected.

"You have been ill, Gabriella," said he, retaining for a moment the hand he had taken. "You look pale and languid. You do not know how much your friends have suffered on your account, or how grateful they feel for your convalesence."

"I did not think I was of so much consequence," I replied. "It is well to be sick now and then, so as to be able to appreciate the kindness of friends."

"You must suffer us to go now, Richard," said Mrs. Linwood moving towards the staircase; "you will find merry company in the parlor ready to entertain you. As Gabriella is no longer a prisoner, you will have future opportunities of seeing her."

"I must embrace them soon," said he, sadly. "I expect to leave this place before long,—my friends, and my country."

"You, Richard?" I exclaimed. Then I remembered the remarks I had heard on commencement day, of his being sent to Europe to complete his education. I regretted to lose the champion of my childhood, the friend of my youth, and my countenance expressed my emotion.

"I have a great deal to say to you, Gabriella," said he, in a low tone. "May I see you to-morrow?"

"Certainly,—that is, I think, I hope so." A glance that flashed on me from the doorway arrested my stammering tongue. Ernest was standing there, observing the interview, and the dark passion of which his mother had warned me clouded his brow. Snatching my hand from Richard, I bade him a hasty good-night, and ascended the stairs, with a prophetic heart.

Yet, while I felt the shadow on his brow stealing darkly over me, I repeated to myself,—