and within reach of your experience and counsel."

I tried to speak, and utter an assent to this wise and decided remark,
but I could not. I felt the tears gushing into my eyes, and hastily
rising, I left the room. I did not go out on the lawn, for I saw Edith's
white robes under the trees, and I knew the guests of the city were with
her. I ran up stairs to my own apartment, or that which was called mine,
and, sitting down in an embrasure of the window, drew aside the rosy
damask and gazed around me.

Do not judge me too harshly. I was ungrateful; I knew I was. My heart
rose against Mrs. Linwood for her cold decision. I forgot, for the
moment, her holy ministrations to my dying mother, her care and
protection of me, when left desolate and alone. I forgot that I had no
claims on her beyond what her compassion granted. I realized all at once
that I was poor and dependent, though basking in the sunshine of wealth.

In justice to myself I must say, that the bitterest tears I then shed
were caused by disappointment in Mrs. Linwood's exalted character. I had
imagined her "bounty as boundless as the sea, her love as deep." Now the
noble proportion of her virtues seemed dwarfed, their luxuriance
stinted, and withering too.

While I was thus cheating my benefactress of her fair perfections, she
came in with her usual quiet and stilly step, and sat down beside me.
The consciousness of what was passing in my mind, made the guilty blood
rush warm to my face.

"You have been weeping, Gabriella," she said, in gentle accents; "your
feelings are wounded, you think me cold, perhaps unkind."

"Oh, madam, what have I said?"

"Nothing, my dear child, and yet I have read every thing. Your ingenuous
countenance expressed on my entrance as plain as words could utter,
'Hate me, for I am an ingrate.'"

"You do, indeed, read very closely."

"Could you look as closely into my heart, Gabriella, were my face as
transparent as yours, you would understand at once my apparent coldness
as anxiety for your highest good. Did I consult my own pleasure, without
regard to that discipline by which the elements of character are wrought
into beauty and fitness, I should cherish no wish but to see you ever
near me as now, indulging the sweet dreams of youth, only the more
fascinating for being shadowed with melancholy. I would save you, if
possible, from becoming the victim of a diseased imagination, or too
morbid a sensibility."

I looked up, impre