ma," cried Edith; "you know she will need new
dresses if she goes, and they will require some time to prepare."

"As Gabriella will not _come out_, as it is called, till next winter,"
replied Mrs. Linwood, "it is not a matter of so much consequence as you
imagine. Simplicity is much more charming than ornament in the dress of
a very young girl."

"I agree with you, mother," observed Ernest, without lifting his eyes
from his book, "especially where artificial ornaments are superfluous."

"I did not think you were listening to our remarks about dress," said
Edith. "This is something quite new, brother."

"I am _not_ listening, and yet I hear. So be very careful not to betray
yourself in my presence. But perhaps I had better retire to the library,
then you can discuss with more freedom the mysteries of the toilet and
the fascinations of dress."

"No,--no. We have nothing to say that you may not hear;" but he rose and
withdrew. Did he mean to imply that "artificial ornaments would be
superfluous" to me? No,--it was only a general remark, and it would be
vanity of vanities to apply it to myself.

"I want you to do one thing to gratify me, dear Gabriella," continued
Edith. "Please lay aside your mourning and assume a more cheerful garb.
You have worn it two long years. Only think how long! It will be so
refreshing to see you in white or delicate colors."

I looked down at my mourning garments, and all the sorrow typified by
their dark hue rolled back upon my heart. The awful scenes they
commemorated,--the throes of agony which rent away life from the strong,
the slow wasting of the feeble, the solemnity of death, the gloom of the
grave, the anguish of bereavement, the abandonment of desolation that
followed,--all came back. I lived them all over in one passing moment.

"I never, never wish to lay aside the badges of mourning," I exclaimed;
and, covering my face with my handkerchief, tears gushed unrestrainedly.
"I shall never cease to mourn for my mother."

"I did not mean to grieve you, Gabriella," cried Edith, putting her arms
round me with sympathizing tenderness. "I thought time had softened your
anguish, and that you could bear to speak of it now."

"And so she ought," said Mrs. Linwood, in a tone of mild rebuke. "Time
is God's ministering angel, commissioned to bind up the wounds of sorrow
and to heal the bleeding heart. The same natural law which bids flowers
to spring up and adorn the grave-sod causes the bl