lowed by
reverence, invested him with the immortality of memory. It was as if he
had never been.

Thus mantled in mystery, his image assumed a sublimity and grandeur in
my imagination, dark and oppressive as night. I would sit and ponder
over his mystic attributes, till he seemed like those gods of mythology,
who, veiling their divinity in clouds, came down and wooed the daughters
of men. A being so lovely and good as my mother would never have loved a
common mortal. Perhaps he was some royal exile, who had found her in his
wanderings a beauteous flower, but dared not transplant her to the
garden of kings.

My mother little thought, when I sat in my simple calico dress, my
school-book open on my knees, conning my daily lessons, or seeming so to
do, what wild, absurd ideas were revelling in my brain. She little
thought how high the "aspiring blood" of mine mounted in that lowly,
woodland cottage.

I told her the history of my humiliation, passion, and flight,--of
Richard Clyde's brave defence and undaunted resolution,--of my sorrow on
his account,--of my shame and indignation on my own.

"My poor Gabriella!"

"You are not angry with me, my mother?"

"Angry! No, my child, it was a hard trial,--very hard for one so young.
I did not think Mr. Regulus capable of so much unkindness. He has
cancelled this day a debt of gratitude."

"My poor Gabriella," she again repeated, laying her delicate hand gently
on my head. "I fear you have a great deal to contend with in this rough
world. The flowers of poesy are sweet, but poverty is a barren soil, my
child. The dew that moistens it, is tears."

I felt a tear on my hand as she spoke. Child as I was, I thought that
tear more holy and precious than the dew of heaven. Flowers nurtured by
such moisture must be sweet.

"I will never write any more," I exclaimed, with desperate resolution.
"I will never more expose myself to ridicule and contempt."

"Write as you have hitherto done, for my gratification and your own.
Your simple strains have beguiled my lonely hours. But had I known your
purpose, I would have warned you of the consequences. The child who
attempts to soar above its companions is sure to be dragged down by the
hand of envy. Your teacher saw in your effusion an unpardonable effort
to rise above himself,--to diverge from the beaten track. You may have
indulged too much in the dreams of imagination. You may have neglected
your duties as a pupil. Lay your hand on yo