of the sweeping damask,
I could not help recalling what Richard Clyde had said of my personal
improvement. Was he sincere, when with apparent enthusiasm he had
applied to me the epithet, _beautiful_? No, he could not be; and yet his
eyes had emphasized the language of his lips.

I was not vain. Few young girls ever thought less of their personal
appearance. I lived so much in the world within, that I gave but little
heed to the fashion of my outward form. It seemed so poor an expression
of the glowing heart, the heaven-born soul.

For the first time I looked upon myself with reference to the eyes of
others, and I tried to imagine the youthful figure on which I gazed as
belonging to another, and not myself. Were the outlines softened by the
dark-flowing sable, classic and graceful? Was there beauty in the oval
cheek, now wearing the warm bloom of the brunette, or the dark,
long-lashed eye, which drooped with the burden of unuttered thoughts?

As I asked myself these questions, I smiled at my folly; and as the
image smiled back upon the original, there was such a light, such a
glow, such a living soul passed before me, that for one moment a
triumphant consciousness swelled my bosom, a new revelation beamed on my
understanding,--the consciousness of woman's hitherto unknown
power,--the revelation of woman's destiny.

And connected with this, there came the remembrance of that haunting
face in the library, which I had only seen on canvas, but which was to
me a breathing reality,--that face which, even on the cold, silent wall,
had no repose; but dark, restless, and impassioned, was either a history
of past disappointment, or a prophecy of future suffering.

The moment of triumph was brief. A pale shadow seemed to flit behind me
and dim the bright image reflected in the mirror. It wore the sad, yet
lovely lineaments of my departed mother.

O how vain were youth and beauty, if thus they faded and vanished away!
How mournful was love thus wedded to sorrow! how mysterious the nature
in which they were united!

A shower of tears washed away the vain emotions I blushed to have felt.
But I could not be as though I had never known them. I could not recall
the guileless simplicity of childhood, its sweet unconsciousness and
contentment, in the present joy.

O foolish, foolish Gabriella! Art thou no longer a child?

CHAPTER XIV.

Mr. Regulus still called me "child." We had quite a scene in the academy
one day aft