marriage more than once, it might be
for reputed wealth or for imagined charms; but when I compared my
would-be lovers to Ernest, they faded into such utter insignificance, I
could scarcely pardon their presumption. I do not think he has ever
loved himself. I do not think he has ever seen one worthy of his love. I
believe it would kill me, Gabriella, to know that he loved another
better than myself."

For the first time I thought Edith selfish, and that she carried the
romance of sisterly affection too far.

"You wish him, then, to be an old bachelor!" said I, smiling.

"Oh! don't apply to him such a horrid name. I did not think of that.
Good night, darling. Mamma would scold me, if she knew I was up talking
nonsense, instead of being in bed and asleep, like a good, obedient
child." She kissed me and retired but it was long before I fell asleep.

CHAPTER XVII.

The next morning, as I was coming up the steps with my white muslin
apron fall of gathered flowers, I met Ernest Linwood. I was always an
early riser. Dear, faithful Peggy had taught me this rural habit, and I
have reason to bless her for it.

"I see where you get your roses," said he; I knew he did not mean the
roses in my apron, and those to which he alluded grew brighter as he
spoke.

"Am I indebted to you for the beautiful flowers in my own apartment?" he
asked, as he turned back and entered the house with me, "or was it
Edith's sisterly hand placed them there?"

"Are you pleased with them?" I said, with a childish delight. It seemed
to me a great thing that he had noticed them at all. "As Edith is lame,
she indulges me in carrying out her own sweet tastes. I assure you I
esteem it an inestimable privilege."

"You love flowers, then?"

"O yes, passionately. I have almost an idolatrous love for them."

"And does it not make you sad to see them wither away, in spite of your
passionate love?"

"Yes, but others bloom in their stead. 'T is but a change from blossom
to blossom."

"You deceive yourself," he said, and there was something chilling in his
tone, "it is not love you feel for them, for that is unchangeable, and
admits but one object."

"I was not speaking of human love," I answered, busily arranging the
flowers in their vases, in which I had already placed some icy cold
water. He walked up and down the room, stopping occasionally to observe
the process, and making some passing remark. I was astonished at finding
myself so much a