It was fortunate for me that Margaret was absent during this exciting scene. When she returned, she was too much occupied with relating the pleasures she had enjoyed to think of what might have occurred in her absence.

"I am dying with impatience," she cried, "perfectly consuming with curiosity. Here is a letter from my mother, in which she says a gentleman, a particular friend of mine, is coming to the city, and that she has requested him to take charge of me back to Boston. She does not mention his name, and I have not the most remote idea who he is. She says she is very happy that her wild girl should be escorted by a person of so much dignity and worth. Dignity! I expect he is one of the ex-presidents or wise statesmen, whom Mrs. Linwood has recommended to my patronage. I have a great admiration for great men, large, tall men, men whose heads you can distinguish in a crowd and see in a distant procession. They look as if they could protect one in the day of trouble."

"Do you ever think of such a day, Margaret?"

"Sometimes I do. I think more than you give me credit for. I can think more in one minute than you slow folks can in a week. Who can this be? I remember a description I admire very much. It is in some old poem of Scott's, I believe,—

did something, looked like something, I have forgotten what. I know it was something grand, however."

"You must be thinking of Mr. Regulus," said I, laughing, as memory brought before me some of his inimitable quackeries. "He is the tallest gentleman I have ever seen, and though not very graceful, has a very imposing figure, especially in a crowd."

"I think Mr. Regulus one of the finest looking men I ever saw," cried Madge. "He has a head very much like Webster's, and his eyebrows are exactly like his. If he were in a conspicuous station, every one would be raving about his mountainous head and cavernous eyes and majestic figure. He is worth a dozen of some people, who shall be nameless. I have no doubt he will be president of the United States, one of these days."

"I never heard you make so sensible a remark, Margaret. I thought you were amusing yourself with my respected teacher. I am glad you appreciate his uncommon merits."

Madge laughed very loud, but she actually blushed. The first symptom of womanhood I had ever seen her exhibit! It was a strange phenomenon, and I marvelled what it could mean.

To my unutterable astonishment and delight, a few evenings after, my quondam preceptor was ushered into the parlor; and strangely looked his tall, large figure in the midst of the oriental lightness and splendor through which it moved. After greeting me with the most heart-felt feeling, and Madge with a half shy, half dignified manner, he gazed around him with the simplicity and wondering admiration of a child. He was probably comparing the beautiful drapery, that seemed like the azure robe of night with its stars of glory gleaming through, with the plain green curtains that shaded the windows of the academy, the graceful and luxurious divan with the high-backed chair which was my village throne.

"Beautiful, charming!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands slowly and gently. "You remind me of the queen of a fairy palace. I shall not dare to call you my child or little girl again. Scherezade or Fatima will seem more appropriate."

"Oh no, Mr. Regulus! I had rather hear you call me child, than any thing else in the world. It carries me back to the dear old academy, the village green, the elm trees' shade, and all the sweet memories of youth."

"One would think you had a long backward journey to take, from the saddened heights of experience," said Ernest; and there was that indescribable something in his voice and countenance, which I had learned too well to interpret, that told me he was not pleased with my remark. He did not want me to have a memory further back than my first meeting with him,—a hope with which he was not intertwined.

"You may call me child, Mr. Regulus, as much as you please," cried Madge, her eyes sparkling with unusual brilliancy. "I wish I were a little school-girl again, privileged to romp as much as I pleased. When I did any thing wrong then, it was always passed over. 'Oh! she's but a child, she will get sobered when she is grown.' Now if I laugh a little louder and longer than other people, they stare and lift up their eyes, and I have no doubt pray for me as a castaway from grace and favor."

"Margaret!" said I, reproachfully.

"There! exactly as I described. Every sportive word I utter, it is Margaret, or Madge, or Meg, in such a grave, rebuking tone!"

"Perhaps it is only when you jest on serious subjects, that you meet a kindly check," observed Mr. Regulus, with grave simplicity; "there are so many legitimate themes of mirth, so many light frameworks, round which the flowers of wit and fancy can twine, it is better to leave the majestic temple of religion, untouched by the hand of levity."

"I did not intend to speak profanely," said Margaret, hastily,—and the color visibly deepened on her cheek; "neither did I know that you were a religious character, Mr. Regulus. I thought you were a very good sort of man, and all that; but I did not think you had so much of the minister about you."

"It is a great pity, Miss Margaret, that interest in religion should be considered a minister's exclusive privilege. But I hope I have not said any thing wounding. It was far from my intention. I am a sad blunderer, however, as Gabriella knows full well."

I was charmed with my straightforward, simple, and excellent teacher. I had never seen him appear to such advantage. He had on an entirely new suit of the finest black broadcloth, that fitted him quite À la mode; a vest of the most dazzling whiteness; and his thick black hair had evidently been under the smoothing hands of a fashionable barber. His head seemed much reduced in size; while his massy, intellectual forehead displayed a bolder sweep of outline, relieved of the shadows that obscured its phrenological beauty.

He had seen Mrs. Linwood and Edith in Boston. They were both well, and looking anxiously forward to the summer reunion at Grandison Place. Dr. Harlowe sent me many characteristic messages,—telling me my little rocking-chair was waiting for me at my favorite window, and that he had not learned to rub his shoes on the mat, or to hang up his hat yet.

"Does he call me the wild-cat, still?" asked Madge.

"I believe so. He told me to say that he had his house repaired, so that you could visit him without endangering Mrs. Harlowe's china."

"The monster! Well, he shall give me a new name, when I see him again. But tell me, Mr. Regulus, who is the very dignified and excellent gentleman whom mamma says is coming to escort me home? I have been expiring with curiosity to know."

"I do not know of any one answering to that description, Miss Margaret," replied Mr. Regulus, blushing, and passing his hands over his knees. "I saw your mother at Mrs. Linwood's; and when she learned I was coming to this city, she said she would be very much obliged to me, if I would take charge of you, on my return."

"Then you did not come on purpose for me, Mr. Regulus," said Madge, with a saucy smile.

"Oh no,—I had business, and a very earnest desire to see my young friend, Gabriella. If I can, however, combine the useful with the agreeable, I shall be very well pleased."

"By the useful, you mean, seeing me safe in my mamma's arms," said Madge, demurely.

"Certainly, Miss Margaret."

Even Ernest laughed at this peculiar compliment; and Madge bit her lips, half in vexation, half in merriment. I hardly knew what to think of Margaret. She was certainly the most eccentric being I ever saw. She, who seemed to care for the opinion of no one,—reckless, defying, and apparently heartless, showed more deference for Mr. Regulus, more solicitude for his attention, than I had ever seen her manifest for another's. Was it possible that this strange, wild girl, was attracted by the pure, unvarnished qualities of this "great grown boy," as Dr. Harlowe called him? It is impossible to account for the fascination which one being exercises over another; and from the days of Desdemona to the present hour, we seldom hear of an approaching marriage, without hearing at the same time some one exclaim, "that it is strange,—most passing strange."

The moment I admitted the possibility of his exercising a secret influence over Madge, I looked upon him with new interest. He had the intense, deep-set eye, which is said to tame the wild beasts of the forest, and perhaps its glance had subdued the animal nature that triumphed over her more ethereal attributes. I hoped most devoutly that my supposition might be true; for genuine affection exalts both the giver and receiver, and opens ten thousand avenues to joy and good.

"You do not look quite so rosy as you did in the country," said he, looking earnestly at me. "The dissipation of a city life does not agree with our wild-wood flowers. They need a purer atmosphere."

"Gabriella is taken very good care of," cried Madge, looking significantly at Ernest. "She is not allowed to hurt herself by dissipation, I assure you."

"Do you imply that she needs a restraining influence to keep her from excess?" asked Ernest. He spoke lightly, but he never spoke without meaning something.

"No, indeed. She is the model wife of the nineteenth century. She is 'wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best.' Solomon must have seen her with prophetic eye, when he wrote the last chapter of Proverbs."

"Mock praise is the severest censure, Margaret," said I.

"No such thing. I mean every word I say. Show me a young and beautiful wife, almost bride, immuring herself as you do, and never seen in public but clinging to her husband's arm, shrinking from admiration and blushing at a glance, and I will show you another Solomon."

"Though you may speak in ridicule," said Ernest, with a contracted brow, "you have awarded her the most glorious meed woman can receive. The fashion that sanctions a wife in receiving the attentions of any gentleman but her husband, is the most corrupt and demoralizing in the world. It makes wedded vows a mockery, and marriage an unholy and heartless rite."

"Do you expect to revolutionize society?" she asked.

"No; but I expect to keep my wife unspotted from the world."

"I am glad she has so watchful a guardian," said Mr. Regulus, regarding me with his old-fashioned, earnest tenderness. "We hear very flattering accounts," he added, addressing me, "of our young friend, Richard Clyde. He will return next summer, after a year's absence, having acquired as much benefit as most young men do in two or three."

I could not help blushing, for I knew the eyes of Ernest were on me. He could never hear the name of Richard with indifference, and the prospect of his return was far from being a source of pleasure to him. Richard was very dear to me as a friend, and I was proud of his growing honors. Yet I dared not manifest the interest I felt.

Never had I been so supremely happy, as since my reconciliation with Ernest. I felt that he had something to forgive, much to forgive, and that he was magnanimous to do it, considering the weakness with which he struggled. Never had I loved him so entirely, or felt such confidence in my future happiness. Yet the moment the name of Richard Clyde was mentioned, it sounded like a prophecy of evil.

Oh that he would transfer to Edith the affections given to me, and then he could bind Ernest to his heart by the sacred bonds of fraternity!